Juliet decided she would write a book about Mother--just as she had written that story for history class about Lofty John and the poisoned apple. It would not be fiction--it would be the true account of Mother's early years--from the time she came to New Moon until she went away to Shrewsbury to live with Aunt Ruth. She modelled it on Laura Ingalls Wilder's marvelous Little House book, the first of which had come out earlier that year. Juliet relied totally on Mother's diaries and Jimmy-books and character sketches, and on old stories she had heard over the years, told by Aunt Ilse and Uncle Perry and Uncle Dean.
She would call it Emily of New Moon.
The book was written in six weeks, and Juliet finished it one sunny afternoon and felt suddenly bereft. What to do now? She could show it to Mother--or she could type it up, and send it off to a publisher. The thought hit her suddenly like a ton of bricks, and another door of possibility opened up. That's exactly what she would do! For another week Juliet labored over an old type-writer in her room, typing each page out perfectly. When it was done she bundled up her manuscript and typed a short letter.
Dear Sirs,
I have here a manuscript which recounts my mother's life as a small girl on a Canadian farm at the turn of the century. I do hope that you will read it and give it consideration--I hope you won't mind me saying it, but you have very few books aimed at inspiring young girls. It is a gap in the market that sorely needs to be filled. Also, perhaps some of my mother's readers would enjoying hearing about her when she was a young girl? It is my first book, but I hope that you enjoy it, at least, a little.
Yours very sincerely,
Juliet Starr Kent
It was a very stilted letter, but Juliet had never done this before, and it was the best she could do, under the circumstances.
"I suppose now I sit back and wait," she mused, after braving another encounter with Mrs. Drew at the post-office to send it off. Mrs. Drew, judging from the size and heft of the package, knew right away it was a book--and it was addressed to Warehams, who had published so many of Emily Starr's books over the years. The biggest and best publishing house in the United States--my, my! Oh, well--like Mother, like daughter, she supposed. It was just like the Starrs to sit around penning novels when there was real work to be done.
* * *
Juliet came in from a party one balmy night in late August, picked up her pen, and wrote her old chum Trudy Ford a letter.
Dear Tru, she wrote,
How glad I am that we're speaking again! These past months have been bad without you--there was a dull ache that wouldn't go away and the terrible feeling that I did wrong and ought to apologize but was too stubborn to. When I finally did--what a weight off my chest! That's how you can tell if you're wrong or not--if you apologize, and there's a weight off, then you were. And just when we got on good terms you had to go visit your Aunt Persis in New York! I'm writing this to remind you to have a wonderful timewell, that's one of the reasons. Friend of my heart, I'm glad we're speaking again, because I have news. Tonight, 20 August 1946, at Alice Bell's party, at nine-thirty P.M., John Andrew Lester proposed marriage to one very shocked and surprised Juliet Kent.
Oh, Trudy, we have been spending a lot of time together, me and John. He's a wonderful chap--did I ever not like him? Did I say his ears stick out? They don't. He is perfectly interesting and funny and he never laughs at his own jokes and his ears lay flat against his head in the most bewitching way. Yes, I love even his ears. But do I love him? Mother asked me this and I said, "I think so."
"There is no think with love," Mother said, like some kind of perverse Descartes.
"I think I'm afraid to admit it, Mother, because of--because of--" And then I let my words trail off. But I'll finish them for you now, as you've no doubt already done. Because of Allan.
No, not Allan. John. I have given up on Allan and have almost learned how not to love him anymore. And Trudy, I've gotten so much better! When I'm with John I can think of John and how I love the way his black hair curls over his collar, and how I love the way his eyes sparkle and snap, and how dark and chocolate-y brown they are, and how I love the way he's content to spend an evening sitting on the porch, staring up at the stars--and how I may or may not love him. That's what we were doing tonight when he proposed: staring up at the stars and picking our favorites out of the bunch. I always pick Vega of the Lyre because of that old story about Mother and Father. John always picks the North Star--because it is best and biggest and brightest.
"You are my North Starr," he grinned, making a pun on my name. "You guide my way and keep me on the right path. Juliet, wouldn't you like a star more than anything on earth--to be able to reach up and pluck one out of the sky and wear it like a diamond?"
"Yes," I said, thrilling at the thought.
John pulled a little velvet box from his jacket pocket and opened it for me.
"This was the best I could do," he said, showing what was inside to me.
Trudy, it was the biggest diamond I have ever seen! It would have dwarfed my poor hand if I'd put it on. But I didn't. I covered my face with my hands and began --to my horror--to cry. I was thinking about the other two proposals I've had--one from Allan and one from Blair. I'd never had this heart-heavy feeling before. But then, the others hadn't worked out. Maybe this was a sign all was right? I thought about how it would feel to say yes to John--to wear his ring--the look on Allan's face when someone told him the news. The look on Allan's face. How much I love his darling face. The whole while I was thinking I was crying and John was looking at me in consternation.
I shall never have Allan. I know that. And I do care deeply for John. So I said,
"I could never marry you, John, until I was finally over Allan Miller. And I still feel--as if I hardly know you. I had my whole life to get to know Allan, you see--a few months with you seem like so little."
"I know that," John said. "We can wait--as long as you like."
"I'd want to graduate from college, too," I said regretfully, poised to hand the ring back to him. So many men don't think college is important for women but I do.
"I know," John said again. "I'd want you to, too. You're brilliant, Juliet--it's part of the reason why I want you as my wife."
There was a word on my tongue and I ached to say it. Can you guess what it was? But on a whim I decided to go with the opposite of what my heart said.
Trudy, I said yes. I'm going to marry John Lester next year. Mother and Father are pretending to be happy for me but Aunt Ilse cried and Uncle Perry was very angry. I called Doug and he was confused--I've forgotten to tell him anything about John Lester at all! So I had to fill him in. I wrote Greta today, too--and Alice--but I can't muster the strength to ring Bea. That would make it too real. I'll do it later. I'm not sure exactly how I feel but I really care for John so I want to feel glad.
Tru, write me back and let me know if you think I've done the right thing. Oh, but please, please don't let me know if you think I've done the wrong!
Your friend (who will love you forevermore),
JULIET