Rosemary Kennedy Diary Novels & Stories

Even the stones wait to see how the story ends. She comes bearing roses stolen from sacred ground. My father's theft from the garden, the single bloom he'd brought me while his hands still shook from whatever encounter had provided our family's salvation. The rose I'd pressed between the pages of my diary, where it remained fresh as the day it was picked despite the weeks that had passed. The rose that had started everything.

I replied with a sigh. A few minutes later, Raymond returned. He sat down beside me, taking my hand in his. "What's going on, Noah?" "Owen found Josie's diary," I said, my voice trembling. "Apparently, it explains a lot. He’s on his way now." “Some good news at last,” Raymond replied. He planted a soft kiss on my forehead. “You’ve been so brave through it all, Noah. I couldn’t be more proud of the woman I married.” I blushed at his loving words.

Kenny held her hand and sat softly, “Don’t be like that. Your birthday is my phone’s passport.” Rosy rolled her eyes and pulled her hand away. Before she could turn away, Kenny caught a glimpse of a smile on her lips. Shaking his head, he pulled up the phone’s recent messages. The inbox was empty. Then he took out his phone and dialed the number that messaged Darren before but the black phone in his hand didn’t ring.

Greta left me a plate of food I barely touched and returned to whatever she'd been doing before, and I stayed on that library floor until the light through the windows turned gold, then gray, then gone entirely. I found the folder by accident. Reaching for another box of documents on the lowest shelf, my hand brushed against something that wasn't shipping contracts. A plain manila folder, tucked behind the same row of books where the sketchbook had been. I pulled it out without thinking much about it. My name sat typed across the tab. Rosa Park — Observations. My stomach tightened immediately. I told myself to put it back, that some things deserved privacy, that I'd already crossed this line

I looked at the candle. And under the table, my left hand in my lap, I pressed my fingers together — the fingers that had held the rosemary, that had carried the smell of it through the whole afternoon, that had pressed the sprig in my pocket through the west beds and the kitchen and the window seat and the changing and the stairs. The smell was almost gone now. Almost.

"You remind me of her, you know. Rosemary Alvarez. The stunning red hair. She delivered six tines." "No. She miscarried five times and...." The man gave a small laugh, then pointed to the dates attached to the woman I was showing him. "What do you think those are?" "That is what I came to find out. Why are these dates attached to them, and what are those fanily names? Why is there even a diary of women? What is the real purpose of this establishment?" He raised his head and took in a deep breath. "They are dates." "Of what?" I asked, my patience running thin.

Or was all that just a product of my imagination and his scent? Cedarwood and the deep, smoky aroma of burning embers. It was dark and aromatic, but soothing and refreshing at the same time. It felt sickening, but I couldn't at the same time deny that it was nice. Grabbing his arm, I removed it slowly, shuffling out of bed and sliding onto the floor. Creeping towards the table, I held the drawer handle, pushing it back to reveal the diary. I'm sure it must have belonged to Marcella.

But this news… this is NEWS. I reread the note lying on the kitchen counter and a shudder passes through me. What is this, hide and seek? “Rosie, you said my mom wanted to show you something?” Alas, the one and only Alpha Dominic Lockwood has spoken. I want to say something sassy since it’s very obvious I’ve repeated this twice already, but I bite back my backhanded comment. “Yes, the missing pages from Christopher’s diary entry,” I reply flatly.

She would watch him for a long time before leaning closer and resting her cheek against his shoulder. - Inside the study at Verdant Manor, Dario lay in bed. Outside, the sky gradually grew dark. His consigliere stood at the doorway without entering. Dario stared at the fading light outside. He recalled the first time Daisy entered the manor. She had on a white dress and stood in the living room. He recalled her taking the pills without ever asking why. He recalled her kneeling before him and trembling all over but never crying. He recalled her in a white wedding gown saying, "I do."

I thought about the specific and early morning visits to the Carter garden, the particular and necessary practice of a woman who had kept herself connected to what she loved through the regular and private act of going to it. I thought about the documentation. I thought about the twenty-three-year-old version of myself sitting in the office of the foundation she was building, filing the photographs of the estate assets with the specific and careful attention of a woman who understood that accurate records were the particular and only protection available to her, not knowing, in that specific and early moment, what the records would eventually be used for, what the particular and future perso