Juliet and Henry never met. Yet their lives resonate across generations when Juliet finds a photo with an urgent message in her uncle Henryâs final belongings.
Juliet Barton is reeling from a devasting divorce and her career in shambles. Then sheâs rocked by her motherâs sudden death. Buried in grief as she sorts her motherâs effects, Juliet discovers the final belongings of her uncle Henry, who died tragically in Italy in 1971.
Hidden among Henryâs effects is a Polaroid of a mausoleum with a mysterious note scrawled on the back. As Juliet unearths more details that reveal her and Henryâs uncanny similarities, she feels compelled to go to Italy to locate the crypt, convinced it contains something Henry wanted to be found.
But as she tracks down clues to her twenty-something uncleâs cutting-edge filmmaking in Hollywood, renowned coverage of the Vietnam War, and link to a 1960s rock icon, Juliet uncovers a haunting truth that pushes her into the line of danger.
Will unraveling Henryâs hidden past put Julietâs own future at risk?
In this brilliantly compelling, suspenseful tale, Final Belongings navigates the trauma of estrangement, the secrets we bury, and the things we try to escape at any cost.
Juliet and Henry never met. Yet their lives resonate across generations when Juliet finds a photo with an urgent message in her uncle Henryâs final belongings.
Juliet Barton is reeling from a devasting divorce and her career in shambles. Then sheâs rocked by her motherâs sudden death. Buried in grief as she sorts her motherâs effects, Juliet discovers the final belongings of her uncle Henry, who died tragically in Italy in 1971.
Hidden among Henryâs effects is a Polaroid of a mausoleum with a mysterious note scrawled on the back. As Juliet unearths more details that reveal her and Henryâs uncanny similarities, she feels compelled to go to Italy to locate the crypt, convinced it contains something Henry wanted to be found.
But as she tracks down clues to her twenty-something uncleâs cutting-edge filmmaking in Hollywood, renowned coverage of the Vietnam War, and link to a 1960s rock icon, Juliet uncovers a haunting truth that pushes her into the line of danger.
Will unraveling Henryâs hidden past put Julietâs own future at risk?
In this brilliantly compelling, suspenseful tale, Final Belongings navigates the trauma of estrangement, the secrets we bury, and the things we try to escape at any cost.
My job interview is at one oâclock, so I need to start sobering up by noon. I glance at my phone. Eleven-thirty. Thereâs still time for another Bloody, as long as I cut the vodka back by half. Just a little something to take the edge off my nerves, to hone my focus. Like those business-class passengers Iâd see on early flights when Matt and I used to travel. Important people doing important work. Sipping an icy screwdriver to temper their steaming coffee, their laptops open with DocuSigns and emails and Slack threads awaiting their decisions. If they can enjoy a morning bracer, why not me? Plus, Iâm not even drunk right now. Iâm just in that perfect warm zone where I feel alive again.Â
I roll back from the antique desk in our study, maneuvering around its titanic leg just in time before I stand up. After six months of bashing my knee almost daily on this walnut graduation gift from Mom, I finally learned my lesson. Youâd think the regular dose of blinding pain wouldâve been enough to spark a clever idea to write about. Or, really, any idea at all.Â
Youâd think.Â
I go to the kitchen, yank open the freezer door, and unscrew the Grey Goose. The vodka clouds the tomato juice into plasma as I stir. Snippets of my old life stare at me, held fast under fridge magnets. There we are, Matt and me outside that retro ski lodge in Tahoe; sitting with plates scraped clean in that euphoric Anthony Bourdain recommendation in Thailand; tearing open our stocking gag gifts on Christmas morning. Mattâs eyes, clear and assured, fixed on me. The safety and warmth of that steady gaze.  Â
But then I remember. My stomach lurches like itâs drowning in sea water. Briny, bitter cold. Boundless.Â
I whisk my drink off the countertop and into the living room where our stuff sits in respective piles on the floorâhis and hers. This room, our entire home, was once my sanctuary. But now itâs just another place I canât wait to escape. To where, though, I have no idea yet.Â
Was. Is there a more poisonous word? See, Iâve learned that the expanse between was and is is so much greater than I couldâve ever imagined. Think about the inevitable we all face: âI was young, now Iâm old. I was beautiful, now Iâm just another monochrome face in the background. I was in love, now I dread each time I hear the key turn in the lock.âÂ
On the list of terminal illnesses, was ranks up there with the worst of them. That moment you realize youâve moved from one state of being to the next without your permission. When you notice youâre a stranger in your own skin. Itâs staggering, really. The unfairness of it all. If youâre lucky, itâll smack you all at once. You wonât feel it slipping away little by little, like I did.Â
Downing the rest of my drink, I drop onto the West Elm sofa I decided Iâm taking with me to my next abode, wherever that may be. Iâve only got two more weeks to find an apartment. So far, every option in my price range is roughly the size of a placemat and sits two feet from a roaring freeway. The damn couch probably wonât fit anyhow.
I sigh and let my eyes close. I just need a minute to rest. Before I know it, my phone trumpets from somewhere in the house. What time is it? Did I fall asleep? I prop myself up on my elbow, squinting and disoriented, cold with the creeping panic of something Iâve forgotten. Then it hits meâthe job interview.Â
I leap up and run to the study, stabbing at my phone to silence the alarm while opening my laptop. Of course, it takes forever, and I curse the little rainbow spinning wheel to the fiery depths of hell. Scooting into my chair, I smooth my hair and swipe at my eyes, praying I can pass for a functioning adult. Maybe this guy will be just as casual as me.  Â
To my dismay, an impeccable man in his fifties appears on screen with a tight smile. The room sways around me, and I realize that in addition to being late for the interview, Iâm more drunk than I thought. For a second, I consider clicking off and going back to sleep. Would it really matter?
âJuliet?â he says.Â
âHi, Scott, sorry Iâm running behind.â I feed him the line about how itâs the weirdest thing; today technology just doesnât want to work.Â
âNo worries,â he says. âLetâs just dive in.â Â
I straighten. âSure.â
He recaps the essence of the job, which is a remote position managing communications for a law firm marketing agency. And this is the least bleak of the three job interviews I managed to snag.Â
âYour resumeâs solid, and so is your deck,â he says, referring to my work portfolio I sent him. âIt looks like most of your stuff is from your time at Hummingbird, right? Thatâs a marketing agency?âÂ
âYes. They mainly do branding and content for tech start-ups. But other industries, too.âÂ
âMm. Any experience with law firms?â he says. You mean besides currently paying them thousands of dollars to finalize my divorce?
âNot directly, no. But Iâm really well-versed in agency life. You know, switching gears fast, juggling multiple projects, interfacing with all types of clients. That kind of thing.âÂ
Oh, God. I want to crucify myself for using interfacing. The only thing worse I couldâve said is synergizing. Better yet, synergizing industry verticals. I wish I could pinpoint exactly where, along my line of grave missteps, I turned into someone who talks like this.Â
âGreat. Weâre looking for that. Agency life isnât for everyone, you know.âÂ
âRight,â I say. I squash down the little voice screaming inside me that I belong to that very group of folks.Â
âCan I ask, then, why you left Hummingbird?âÂ
I pause, hoping the heat in my face isnât visible âWell, actually, I was laid off.âÂ
âReally?â His eyebrows shoot to his manicured hairline. âIâd think thereâd be no shortage of work when it comes to tech start-ups.â True, but it turns out there is a shortage of work for people who hate working for tech start-ups.Â
The last project I worked on before I got laid off was for this dating site thatâs in beta called FoMo. Let me describe it like this: If you combined all the worst traits of humanity and put them into words, youâd have something that still stood head and shoulders above FoMo. Some twenty-year-old jackass in Palo Alto thought it would be awesome if an algorithm could complete your entire dating profile for you, just by uploading your photo. No need to waste thought describing oneself. If you have a certain kind of smile, for example, the program already knows youâre an extrovert. Or if youâve got brown hair, youâre more likely to be sensitive. It actually worked most of the time. But that wonât cut it with venture capitalists. FoMo hired Hummingbird to help with content, and thatâs where I came in. Day in and out, I wrote hollow copy that could fill in the programâs gaps so kids could get laid. Not exactly curing malaria, but damn close.Â
After a few more questions that illustrate just how mind-numbingly dull this job will be, Scott asks me if I have any of my own.Â
âYes, about compensation,â I say, âthe post just said âcompetitive.â Can you give me a range?â
He tells me, and my gut turns to ice. I force my expression to stay neutral as I swallow an expletive. Way less than I made at Hummingbird, and definitely not enough to justify this positionâs level of responsibility. Even worse, the abysmal pay is exactly in line with the other jobs I interviewed for. Iâm doomed.Â
âSounds good,â I horrify myself by saying. He says heâll let me know about next steps, and we say our goodbyes.Â
 Iâve barely had a minute to process this conversation with Scott when my phone rings. I throw it a weary glance. Mom. Who else would it be? If you were to scroll through my call history, hers is the only name there. I know sheâs only trying to help with her daily check-ins. But I have no energy to dodge questions about why and how my life is tanking, especially after our last blow-up where I told her that she, like all tenured history PhDs, is a pompous elitist. Iâd pointed out how I would never have been that way, had I gotten my professorship.Â
The call ends and my phone screen goes black. Guilt scuttles across my chest. Itâs fine, Iâll call her later. But as soon as I get out of my chair to refresh my drink, she rings again. Huffing, I grab the phone and hit decline. But thereâs something else behind my adrenaline surge, an uncanny needling at the back of my mind. Itâs not like her to call twice in a row. I stare at the phone. Nothing.Â
I move two steps toward the kitchen before the phone rings again. My hands tingle. I slowly turn back and pick it up.
âJuliet.â Itâs a strangely flat voice that doesnât belong to my mother, and I immediately know everything is wrong. It takes a second for the voice of Momâs closest friend to register in my mind.Â
âColette, is that you? Whatâs going on?â The words sound viscous and slow to me through the roaring thatâs begun in my ears.Â
 âIâm at your momâs house,â she says. Then sheâs going on about how she doesnât know how to say this and asks if Iâm sitting down and I hear walkie talkies in the background and all the other cliched, disembodied noises of despair fill my head until I think Iâll never hear anything else again.Â
And there it is, just like that: I was a daughter, and now I am not.
Juliet Barton is going through a rough patch. She's recently divorced, unemployed at the moment, and drinking at times when she shouldn't. Her life is falling apart and is compounded by her mother's sudden death. When she finally gets brave enough to visit her mother's house to find some photographs to display at the funeral, she stumbles upon an envelope containing the final belongings of her Uncle Henry, who had died in a strange accident in Italy. As she pokes through the package, she finds a photo of a mausoleum with an odd description on the reverse. The photo sets off a slow-building mystery as Juliet tries to figure out the meaning of it and how this ties into the circumstances of her Uncle's death.
This novel had such lovely prose that drew me quickly into the story and kept me reading. It has great flow in the narrative and the characters are well-drawn, so you want to know what happens to them. Why did her Mother distance herself so much from the past? What was Henry really doing when he so suddenly lost his life? And what was he searching for in Italy?
I am a mystery fanatic and would say that it is my most-read genre. However, I wasn't able to predict what was going to happen in the plot, which kept this a suspenseful read throughout. To enhance the story, Sarah Beauchemin uses a dual storyline, which brings greater insight into Uncle Henry's life. She handles the changes in timelines with ease so that the reader doesn't get lost at all when switching back and forth between time periods.
All in all, this was an impressive debut novel, and I am definitely putting Sarah Beauchemin on my list of authors to read more of in future. Definitely recommended.