Prologue
August, 1953
I climbed the rope ladder, up to where my cousin Will balanced on a platform in the crook of the old tree. The coarse strands of rope pricked my skin. I barely noticed. Why had I agreed to help him? When I stood beside him, he handed me two white handkerchiefs. I edged closer and tied one over his eyes. He was eleven, a year older than me, but I was a bit taller, so I could do what he’d asked.
The summer sun, filtering through the leaves, made lacy shadows. We were hidden by the trees at the edge of the woods, far from the house.
“Tighter,” he urged. “I can still see a little.”
As I worked at the knot, my fingers caught strands of hair where his crewcut had grown into a shaggy brush. He put his hands together behind his back, waiting. My heart tumbled in my chest. It was a hot August day, but my skin felt clammy. I tied his wrists with the second handkerchief.
“Get the noose,” he whispered. “Come on, Cricket. You promised!”
I picked up the looped end of the coil of rope at his feet. He had tied the other end around a thick tree branch. I eased the loop over his head and around his neck, my hands shaking. Sweat beaded my forehead and dripped into my eyes.
It was my last chance to stop him. “Wait a minute,” I said, touching his shoulder.
“I’m ready!” His voice was hushed. “You have to count with me.”
“Will, stop! It’s too risky. You could get hurt.”
“I’ll do it myself if you won’t help me. And it will be your fault if I get killed.”
He was a summer intruder who had claimed the role of leader, a leader who lured me into more and more dangerous games, trying to prove he was braver.
A tapping from somewhere above our heads startled me. A woodpecker. I shivered. “What if the rope’s too short?”
“I measured it twice.” He sounded impatient. “I knew you’d chicken out! Girls are sissies. I’m not scared.” But he was. His whole body was trembling.
“The knot might be too tight,” I said.
“It’s not.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Ten, nine, eight…”
At “one,” he leapt from the platform.
My throat closed as the loops uncoiled behind him. I closed my eyes, barely breathing.
A dull thump. My legs went weak. I grabbed an overhanging limb, waiting. Why didn’t he say something, or groan, or laugh? The seconds stretched out. The air was hot and thick around me. There was only the faint stirring of leaves, and silence.
Panic flooded my body. I clambered down the ladder, shrieking his name. He dangled, head limp against the tree, bare feet invisible in the high grass. I ran to where he lay, his face pale and expressionless. I ripped the handkerchief from his eyes. The lids were closed, with only a faint sliver of eyeball showing.
I shook his shoulders, screaming, “Will! Will!”
Chapter 1
July, 1953 – one month earlier
Alone in the forest, charging through the underbrush, I was Joan of Arc chasing the English soldiers. My white stallion reared beneath me. My sword sliced through the air with a whistling sound. The scarlet cross on my armor protected me. I was fearless, a holy warrior about to strike down the enemy without pity.
The hum of a motor stopped me. I froze, sword held high. My other hand raised aloft a small wooden crucifix, attached to the rosary I usually wore like a necklace.
I dropped my sharp stick, replaced the rosary around my neck, and ran toward my treehouse. I climbed the rope ladder to stand on the platform, a lookout deck at the front of the sturdy wooden fort. My brother Danny had built it several years ago at the edge of the woods, high up and hidden by branches.
A long, green car was jouncing along the curves of the dirt road, dust rising behind it, heading right up to our big white house. We never had much company, so the sight was enough to bring me down from my perch. The hot July sun slanted through the trees. I ran along the deer path, slipped through the hedges, and crossed the wide lawn. I hid in my favorite spot, behind a clump of lilac bushes at the front of the house.
The long, shiny sedan pulled past the milk house and the carriage house and parked beside our wood-paneled station wagon. The driver’s door opened, and a tall, bald man in dark pants and a white shirt unfolded like a praying mantis. His head was small on his tall body, his limbs long and lanky. He stretched and looked around, moving in a slow, careful way as if he was somebody important. I edged closer to study him.
His thick eyebrows, the right one more arched than the left, his gray eyes, his strong nose—they were all almost the same as Daddy’s. He was staring at our farmhouse. Mommy called it a Victorian because of how it was built, with big porches and fancy trim. She often complained that, except for electricity and the telephone, it was the same as when Daddy’s great-grandparents had built it.
Abby, my older sister, stepped out from the kitchen, where she’d been helping Mommy make the noonday meal. Suzie-Q, six weeks past her first birthday, sat straddled on one of Abby’s hips. Two-year-old Timmy toddled behind, clinging to her apron.
I moved out from behind the lilac bushes to stand next to her. “Who is it?” I whispered, clutching her arm.
She shrugged me off as two children, a boy and a girl, climbed from the back seat of the car. The girl was about the same age as Abby, thirteen, with a hint of breasts and rounded hips. The boy looked close to my age, ten, and wore glasses with heavy black frames. They stood quietly by the car, as if they were afraid to move.
“Hello, there!” the man called in a hearty voice. “I’m your daddy’s brother, Uncle Blair. Come say hello to your cousins!”
I knew Daddy had a brother who lived in New York. They had grown up together on our Pennsylvania farm. There were pictures of them as kids in the family album, and some of him with his wife, Aunt Claudine, and their kids when they were little. I couldn’t remember them ever visiting before.
Abby stepped closer, smiling. I stayed still, ready to run as he walked up the stone path.
“You must be Abigail?” he asked.
She nodded.
“And Caroline?”
I peered at him through my lashes. “Cricket,” I murmured, too quiet to be heard.
At school I was Caroline, a name that felt like a too-big, scratchy dress. Saint Caroline, the saint I’d been named for, was boring—she’d done nothing but found a convent. I wished I’d been named for a braver saint. At home I was Cricket. When I was little, my brother Danny had said I chirped like a cricket, and the nickname had stuck.
The man went on, “And these two little ones?”
“Timmy”—Abby pointed to our little brother—“and Suzie-Q.”
“How many of you are there now?”
Something in his voice made me squeeze Timmy’s hand.
“Five.” Abby sounded proud. “Danny, me, Cricket, and these two babies.”
Yes, he was as tall and thin as Daddy. But Daddy’s face was sunburned and wind-rough; Uncle Blair’s was as white as a peeled radish. Daddy had thick brown hair; Uncle Blair’s head was bald. His eyes, the same gray as Daddy’s, were cold and flat.
He put his soft hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, William.”
William was pale, delicate-looking, shorter than me. He stood as stiff as a toy soldier.
“And this”—Uncle Blair put an arm around the girl, who shrank back as he pushed her toward us—“this is my princess, Rosemary.”
Rosemary was wearing a frilly pink and white dress that reminded me of a birthday cake. Her hair was as silky and golden as the hair of the porcelain angel that perched on our Christmas tree. Her skin, too, was pink and white. Her eyes, cornflower blue, big as the buttons on my winter coat, swept over me. A smirk tugged at her pink lips. She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen, but she was fixing me with a disgusted expression.
Will followed her gaze. Like his father, he wore a white shirt and dark pants. He acted even more suspicious than his sister.
Both children were so clean and polished that I suddenly noticed how I was dressed—worn and dirty dungarees belted with a piece of twine, stained tee-shirt, short-cropped hair. I’d hated braiding my thick black hair every morning, so I’d chopped it off with Mommy’s shears on the first day of vacation. She’d been upset, but mostly she allowed me to run wild during the summer.
Feeling even shyer than usual, I scratched a mosquito bite on my knee.
“Where’s your father?” Uncle Blair asked.
Abby waved in the direction of the fields, where cornstalks and wheat covered the rolling hills. The crops weren’t as tall or as ripe as usual this summer because there hadn’t been much rain. I’d heard Daddy say he wouldn’t be able to sell anything if there was a real drought.
“He’s working,” Abby said, “behind the old barn. Want me to call Mommy?”
Abby’s eyes were a darker blue than the cousins’ and her hair was brown, but she was pretty, with round cheeks. And both Suzy-Q and Timmy looked like her.
Uncle Blair took us all in, from the top of Abby’s head down to my toes in the dust. Ignoring me, he spoke to Abby. “We’ll go on to the house. Maybe that one”—he indicated me with a jerk of his chin—“can run to the field and let Luther know we’re here.”
“Why don’t you sit on the front porch, and I’ll find Mommy.” Abby was using Mommy’s company voice.
She escorted our visitors to the big swings under the grape arbor. Suzie-Q pulled her thumb from her mouth and reached slobbery fingers toward Uncle Blair. He drew back. Timmy hid behind Abby, curious but shy, peeking out for a moment and then hiding his face. I squeezed his hand again.
“It’s real hot,” Abby said. “I’ll bring you some cold lemonade.”
Mommy hated to be surprised by unexpected visitors. Warned by the sound of the engine, she would be rushing around right now, making everything nice.
Uncle Blair walked toward the house, slowly, as though he were wading through the thick air. He paused to point at me. “Is she retarded or just deaf?” he asked.
Cheeks burning, I ran away, hatless under the July sun, sending grasshoppers and crickets whirring before my thudding feet.
I found Daddy and Danny picking sweet corn, husking as they went, throwing the thin yellow ears into baskets. “It’s Uncle Blair!” I gasped. “He came in a big green car and brought his kids!”
Daddy frowned, annoyed to be interrupted. He kept tossing the ears until his basket was overflowing. Then he thumped the heavy bushel hard to settle the corn, lifted it to his shoulder, and strode toward the house. Danny lumbered behind him through the thin, drying stalks.
I ran past them both and raced up the hill to my fort in the woods. I pulled the rope ladder up behind me. I’d hide until the visitors left. I liked to play alone, lost in my games and fantasies. The commotion of strangers in the house made my muscles twitch. The treehouse was my sanctuary, the only place I could be alone. Whenever I was stuck in the house, I felt as trapped and miserable as a caged fox.
I stood on the platform for a while before I crawled through the doorway. Inside, it was big enough for four people, with a wooden bench and shelves nailed to the walls. Danny had built a storage box where I kept a pillow and some old quilts. I kept my special treasures, a glow-in-the-dark statue of the Virgin Mary and the holy cards I’d won in school, on a narrow ledge above the big window. Here they were safe from Timmy and Suzie-Q.
I also had a special chest for my favorite book, an illustrated Lives of the Saints, which I’d rescued from the bookcase in the front parlor. Taking books outside was against Mommy’s rules, but I couldn’t resist. So far she hadn’t missed it. I knew I’d be in trouble if she did. I’d stored the book in the chest to protect it from the weather, but even so, damp had caused the pages to swell. I felt guilty now whenever I picked it up. Still, it was my favorite treasure. Each section featured the life of a saint, with illustrations painted in bright, beautiful colors. A shiver of joy ran through me every time I opened the book’s rich maroon cover and turned the gold-trimmed pages.
Earlier I had loved fairytales about princesses, giants, brave adventurers. Then, in second grade, Sister Justina had told exciting stories about the saints and given us beautiful holy cards with their pictures. They had quickly replaced my imaginary heroes. These were people who’d grown up as ordinary children and faced great dangers. They’d performed amazing feats, even miracles—and eventually they were all swept up to Heaven to live forever. I wanted to join them more than anything. I longed for their adventurous lives, and for their bravery—like Saint George, who battled the snarling dragon, or Saint Catherine, whose faith broke the breaking wheel. My favorite of all was Joan of Arc, who had fought the English and died so bravely, burnt at the stake.
I’d never done anything more courageous than milk Starfire, our meanest cow, who kicked when you touched her flank. But I felt sure that I only needed a chance to show my courage—a way to prove how brave I could be. Sometimes I stepped on sharp stones or stuck my hand into nettles; once I held perfectly still when a wasp landed on my arm. I longed for a much harder test.
Today, though, I decided to hide in my fort until Uncle Blair and my sneering cousins left.
Chapter 2
My stomach growled as the sun set. I imagined the roast chicken or juicy pork chops that Mommy would have cooked for a company supper. I peered through the leaves. The green car still sat in the driveway. A breeze carried the scent of new-mown hay and sweet clover blossoms. I settled on the bench. The sounds of evening rose like soft music—the chirps of katydids, the croaks of bullfrogs, the whine of a mosquito drifting through the air. The sky grew dark, and fireflies began to flicker. Stars twinkled, a pale moon rose.
I shivered as the air turned cool, and wrapped myself in an old quilt that Grammy Reed had pieced in a pretty design. When I stroked my cheek with a velvet square, the faint smell of lavender comforted me. I missed the warmth and light of the house. It would be a test of my courage to stay put until the car was gone.
It was only then that I remembered the conversation I had heard several nights before. Mommy had given the phone to Daddy, and after he hung up, they’d had an unusual argument.
Mommy had sounded upset. “I don’t want that man in my home,” she said. “Out of the blue—and he wants us to take them for how long?”
“The kids aren’t to blame.” Daddy’s tone was firm.
“I’m not blaming them. I’m sorry for them. But I can’t change my life at his whim! He knows this is a Catholic home, and if he’s…”
Daddy’s answer had been too low for me to hear. He never quoted from the Bible or spoke to us about God the way Mommy did. Once, he told us that he became a Catholic so that Mommy would marry him. She quickly hushed him.
I tried to remember if I’d heard them say anything else. The crackle of tension between them had made a hard knot in my stomach. I turned their words over in my mind. It seemed clear now that they must have been talking about Uncle Blair.
In the fading light I could still see the pictures in my book: beautiful Saint Sebastian pierced with arrows, his face turned up toward God; Saint Theresa wearing a crown of roses and holding a crucifix in her bouquet of lilies. Lives of the Saints was one of the books Mommy had brought with her to the farm when she married Daddy. The other was the Bible. She read that every Sunday.
An owl hooted. The whirr of beating wings and the shriek of a small animal made my heart thump. I took a deep breath. Something was moving below. I imagined a copperhead, thick as my wrist, slithering up the tree. Or a wolf with dripping fangs. I blinked hard to chase the scary pictures away. Daddy said wolves didn’t roam the Pennsylvania hills. Raccoons made lots of noise, but they weren’t dangerous. Danny had seen a bear with cubs in the spring, though, and we sometimes heard the shriek of a wildcat in the night. I prayed to Saint Joan to make me brave.
I knew I’d missed my chores, and supper too. I was allowed to roam during the day, but I was expected to come home for supper and family prayers. “The family that prays together stays together,” Mommy often reminded us. We would kneel in a circle on the hard wooden floor, each holding a rosary. My knobby knees always ached, and sometimes it was hard to kneel straight. I would distract myself by thinking of the real tortures my favorite saints had suffered.
Only Daddy was allowed to skip prayers. Mommy would say he was busy with barn chores, but we knew it was because he hadn’t been raised Catholic like her. Lately, Danny had started to miss prayers too.
Tonight no one came to call me inside. Something important must be going on in the house. Had they all forgotten about me? What if Uncle Blair and the cousins planned to stay all night? It was getting late. Abby shared a bedroom with me, so she would notice I was missing, for sure. On summer nights we sometimes slept on quilts on the back porch, but I’d never slept outside alone. I kept my eyes on the kitchen door, wishing the visitors would go.
Finally the porch lights flashed on and Uncle Blair came out—with his children, my parents, Danny, and Abby all trailing after him like geese. Everyone clustered around the car. Uncle Blair opened the trunk and lifted two large suitcases out. He gave each of his kids a hug, and then he got into his car and drove off.
The family moved back to the house with the cousins following. Where would they sleep? The house was already crowded.
The lights in the kitchen blinked off, followed by the upstairs lights.
Then I heard Danny’s voice calling: “Cricket! Where are you, Cricket?” Mommy must have sent him to find me. His voice got closer.
This was a chance to prove I wasn’t scared of snakes or wild animals lurking in the dark. I climbed down the ladder and scampered down the wooded hill, fighting off panic.
Danny was hurrying across the lawn, holding a lantern. He grinned at me. “Somebody’s going to be in big trouble.”
We walked back to the house together. He opened the kitchen door and stepped inside. I slipped in after him. He blew out the flame, hung the lantern on its peg, and went upstairs, leaving me behind.
The big kitchen was dark with only the moonlight shining through the windows. Lady, our gentle old collie, stirred from her spot behind the wood-burning stove and padded over. She sniffed at me, and I knelt to stroke her silky head. Then I pumped water into the sink and washed my hands with a bar of brown soap. The linoleum floor felt cool under my bare feet. Shadows loomed from the clothes hanging on pegs near the back door.
I wolfed down bits of a peach cobbler that I found in a tin on the counter, digging out the sweet doughy mixture with my fingers. I washed it down with a glass of milk, cold from the icebox.
Then I tiptoed upstairs, past my parents’ room. Their door was closed, the light off, but I could hear their low voices. It sounded like another argument.
In the bedroom that Abby and I shared, the moonlight made it bright enough for me to see without turning on a lamp. I was surprised to find an army cot squeezed into the room. Abby was asleep on it, and Rosemary lay sprawled on our big bed.
I found my pajamas and put them on. Then I took my rosary from around my neck and wrapped it around my hand before crawling into the empty space beside Rosemary.
Immediately she sprang up. Her eyes flashed in the moonlit room. “Get out of my bed!” she shrieked, arms hitting and feet kicking. “Get out! You get out!”
Fear flashed through me. I leapt from the bed, dropping my rosary. At once Rosemary lay down again, curled into a ball, and slipped back into sleep.
Heart thumping, I looked toward the doorway, expecting Mommy to come rushing in. But silence settled over the room.
I knelt on the floor to find my rosary. After a few moments, I decided to make the best of things and squeezed into the cot beside Abby, who hadn’t stirred. She slept through the loudest thunderstorms. I kissed the crucifix, fingered the beads, and whispered the familiar prayer, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” as I lay awake in the dark.
—
Author’s Statement
This novel explores the lives of two young people who have been raised with totally conflicting beliefs and values, tracing the ways in which they influence and change one another during one short summer.
The year is 1953. Ten-year-old Caroline “Cricket” Reed anticipates a typical summer on her family’s Pennsylvania farm, doing chores, tending her younger siblings, and escaping to her treehouse. Alone, she pores over her illustrated Lives of the Saints, dreaming of performing heroic deeds like those of Joan of Arc. Events take a dramatic turn, however, when her sinister Uncle Blair, an undertaker, arrives from New York to deposit his children, eleven-year-old William and thirteen-year-old Rosemary, for “a summer in the country.” A confirmed atheist, Blair instructs Cricket’s parents that his children are not to be exposed to any aspect of the family’s fervent Catholic faith.
Cricket befriends William, an intense boy with morbid preoccupations who has been raised to believe that all religion is a hoax. His favorite pursuits are creating a cemetery for small animals and planning his own “spectacular” funeral. Cricket is also fascinated by her beautiful cousin Rosemary, despite Rosemary’s obvious disdain for life on the farm and for Cricket in particular. Rosemary’s delicate silver charm bracelet and her red leather diary ignite Cricket’s imagination and curiosity.
Trust between William and Cricket develops throughout the summer. After swearing her to secrecy, he confides that his mother disappeared a month before their arrival. He believes that his father murdered her and buried her body. Obsessed with death, he lures Cricket into dangerous games. Cricket, in an attempt to assuage Will’s grief, secretly—and against orders—shares her belief in heaven and a glorious afterlife.
The season’s events propel Cricket from a world of childlike fantasy into one demanding complicated choices and true courage. SUMMER OF SECRETS traces Cricket’s evolving moral awareness and her growing maturity as she journeys beyond the limited certainties that have defined her young life.
Joanne Weck is a novelist, playwright, and short-story author who lives in Fort Lee, New Jersey. She is inspired by family history, and many of her stories are set in rural northeastern Pennsylvania, where she grew up. She also draws on her experiences as an actress, director, and teacher. Her plays have been featured in New Jersey and Pennsylvania theaters, and her work has been published in Scholastic magazine and other print and online journals. Her Pocono Mountain mystery series and her Starshine Diner mystery series, as well as a collection of her stories and plays called Fateful Encounters, are available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other venues.
Embark, Issue 25, October 2026
