Rita was probably right, good news wouldn’t come if Hannah just sat and waited. Today was the eighth day Riley had been gone—eight days and not a word except from the police who reported that the girl vanished once she’d reached the mainland. No taxi or shuttle drivers recalled seeing Riley, no people in Shuckers or Fishmonger’s restaurants reported seeing a teenager with a backpack who was traveling alone.
It didn’t make sense because it wasn’t summer yet and tourists were still sparse. It didn’t make sense because surely Riley would not have known where she was going, she would have had to ask directions to … where? San Antonio?
Or was it possible someone had picked Riley up?
Hannah stayed at the table next to the phone, her thoughts whirling together with no beginning and no end, or none that made sense. She no longer had John Arthur to think about, to distract her from real issues that needed her attention. It was right, she knew, but it was not comfortable.
She looked at the new spiral-bound notebook that sat on the counter. It was the same kind of notebook she used in planning her lessons: The kids wouldn’t read it if they thought it was schoolwork.
She turned back the cover and stared at the blank, white sheet. She glanced again at the phone that stood mute on the wall. Then, with a sigh, Hannah picked up a pen. And without further thought, she began to write.
Mother, she wrote, because now was the time, I hate you. I hate what you did. I know you were angry because what McNally did would hurt me, but I hate it that you pulled apart our lives. I hate it that you made me run away from everything and everyone I once loved. Including you.
A muscle seemed to squeeze around Hannah’s heart. She fought off the discomfort and she kept writing.
Things turned out okay for me. I married Evan. She hesitated; she thought about the recent smell of pot and wondered what it would mean for the future. Then she reminded herself that it didn’t matter. Less and less seemed to matter every day.
I have three children, each one different from the next. Riley, the oldest, looks like you, though I’ve never told anyone. She’s fourteen now. But maybe you know that already.
You’d think that with all I now have, I wouldn’t hate you still.
But I was so embarrassed and ashamed. And I was so helpless, the way I am right now. I hate you because my daughter has run away and I’m afraid she’s gone to find you and I don’t know what will happen if she does.
I can only say that if you upset her or make her cry, I will personally want to kill you, the way you killed McNally. What with the breast cancer I have, there’s probably not much for me to lose.
Hannah rested her pen on the edge of the notebook. She reread the entry and wondered if she should share it at the meeting tonight. It wasn’t as if she could send it to her mother. She didn’t, after all, have a clue where Betty Barnes was now.
Lowering her aching, tired, hairless head, Hannah let her teardrops fall onto the page.
If reconciliation had a face, it would have been Greg’s; if it had a place, it would have been Sedona. They spent hours and days forgiving one another: Faye forgiving Greg, Greg forgiving Faye, Joe forgiving Faye, Faye forgiving … yes, Faye forgiving Joe. They spoke about Dana in good, happy ways.
How she loved sailing, Faye exclaimed, before she even learned to swim.
And looking for wampum, Joe added.
Claire still wears the ring Dana made for her.
But what about the skunks! Greg said with a laugh. Man, she loved to tease them. Remember when one sprayed the side of the house?
That was Dana’s fault?
We thought it was you!
Joe had already told Greg about her first bout with breast cancer. She did not tell either one of them about the second.
In the mornings they took leisurely walks; in the afternoons Faye napped at Greg’s, while Joe went to his own house to do the same; in the evenings she and Joe went to Crawdaddies, where Greg and his staff treated them to delectable offerings each night.
Cajun Rattlesnake? Why not? Faye responded with unbridled gusto. She wondered how it happened that inner peace opened all possibilities, and that loving life made no task seem like a risk and no burden too heavy to fear.
For the first time in a long time, Faye wanted to live.
On the morning of the sixth day, reality returned.
She decided to check her messages: maybe Claire had returned from her most recent jaunt; maybe the fact that Faye had found Greg would give her and her sister a new starting point, too.
Four messages awaited, but not one from Claire.
Faye? Hi. It’s R.J. Browne. I wondered if you wanted to join my friend and me for dinner. We’re at Mayfield House until Wednesday. Give me a call.
Beep. She frowned a tiny bit, pleased that she’d not been there. A dinner date with R.J. and his ladyfriend would not be very cheerful.
Hi, Faye, this is Katie. I guess I’m okay and so is the baby, but I’m in the hospital. Doc says I have to stay in bed for the rest of my pregnancy. How the heck will I do that? Anyway, if you’re around, I’d love to see you. I’m so bored! Bye.
Beep. Katie. What had happened? Was she truly okay? Katie seemed so positive, so spirited, so like Dana had been. Did Joleen have any idea how lucky she was?
This is Rita Rollins from the group. Pause. I wanted you to know that we’re meeting at Joleen’s tonight instead of at the hospital.
Beep.
Beep.
Faye, it’s Hannah.
The voice was so strained that it was hard to believe it belonged to the kindly woman.
I don’t know what to do, Faye. My Riley has run away. A long pause was followed by several sniffles. Oh, God, I don’t even know why I’m calling you. I know you lost your child … oh, never mind. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll be fine, I’m sure.
Despite the desert sun that drenched the wall of glass in Greg’s living room, Faye felt a chill rise from her toes.
Hannah’s daughter had run away? But she was just a child …
“Mom?” The question came so suddenly it shook her from her thoughts. It had been so many years since anyone had called her Mom.
“Dad’s not going to join us this morning for our walk.”
With a smile, Faye shrugged. “That’s okay, honey. I’m sure you’ll protect me from snakes and coyotes.” But instead of heading for the door, Greg sat on the overstuffed chair beside her.
“Mom, do you know about Grace?”
Faye frowned. “Grace? No, I don’t know anyone named Grace.” Grace? But Greg was gay. Had that somehow changed?
Greg turned his gaze toward the red-rock canyon. “She’s a local artist here in Sedona. Silver jewelry; it’s really very pretty.”
He was trying to say something; what on earth was it?
“Greg?” she asked, because Greg, the little boy, had sometimes needed to be prodded.
He sighed. “Dad’s known her about a year or so,” he said and that was all, but that was all that was needed.
Oh. It wasn’t about Greg. It was about Dad.
Faye waited for the flutter of hurt that would start in her stomach and move up to her throat, the way that it had when she’d been confronted with the facts of Joe’s other women. This time, however, the flutter didn’t come. “Your father’s a free man,” she said, “there’s no need to apologize for him.”
“He never thought you’d come back to him.”
Faye took his hand, her son’s long, smooth hand. And her life and its purpose became crystal clear. “I didn’t ‘come back to him,’ Greg. I came to find you. I didn’t even know your father was here. In fact, if I had known, I might have chosen not to come.”
Greg lifted his blue eyes—Claire’s eyes—up to her. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “These past days have been wonderful for the three of us to be together, but I never had any intention of anything more between your father and me.”
“Lots of times he’s a jerk,” Greg announced, and Faye let out a laugh.
“Don’t say that about your father!”
Greg smiled and shrugged. “Well, he means well. Most of the time. He had a hard time at first, about Mike and me.” His words trailed off.
“I’ve known since you were very young,” Faye said. “I know that you are gay.”
At first he didn’t say anything, then he asked, “And that’s okay with you?”
She patted his hand. “You are my son. I only want you to be happy. You seem happy with Mike.”
He smiled. He took her hand in both of his.
“I have a question,” she asked abruptly. “Do you think you could stand it if I was around more often?” She had not, until this moment, known what she would do. And all she knew now was that she wanted—no, needed—to spend her time, whatever was left, near her son.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe it’s time I turned the business over to Gwen. Maybe it’s time to sell the Vineyard house. You’re settled here; only bad memories remain back there for you.”
Greg didn’t respond.
“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “I understand, truly I do. Besides, I’m sure it would be healthier away from that mildewy old island.”
She thought that he might laugh, but he did not. Instead, he ran his hands through his thick hair. His blue eyes shimmered. “For years my therapist tried to get me to go back. More than once I almost did. But in the end I was too scared.” His voice was poised on the edge of quavering. “Mom, let me go back with you. Let me go back with you and, if you still want, I’ll help you sell the house.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, “but the restaurant …”
“I have assistants. And Dad can supervise. Just for a few weeks, Mom. Please?”
“What about Mike?”
Greg smiled. “We’ve been together for years now. We know the importance of sometimes being apart.”
Faye put her thin arms around her son, and drew him close to her. Then she said yes, he could come home if he wanted; he could help her sell the house.
There would be time later to tell him the rest.
When Rita arrived back at the hospital, Katie was sitting on the side of the bed, swinging her feet as if she were ten. The act made Rita think about Mindy, and how youth might be stolen but the spirit could still thrive.
“Remember, straight to bed,” Doc warned Katie as his last instructions, “and ice under that arm.”
That’s when Rita noticed the padding wrapped under Katie’s right arm. Katie shrugged it off. “Lymph node biopsy,” she explained. “Doc’s making sure I get my money’s worth.”
Rita glanced at Doc. “Just a precaution,” he said, and helped Katie into the wheelchair. “Results in three days.”
“Precaution,” Katie said. “I’m so sick of that word. I’m surprised Doc didn’t expect me to leave on a gurney, just as a precaution.”
Rita laughed and Doc shook his head and Katie adjusted her sunglasses and sun hat that Joleen had left, and then Rita and Katie set off down the corridor to “Freedom!” Katie cried.
They went out through the Emergency Room because it was closest to the car. As Rita steered the wheelchair through the double doors, a flash of light nearly blinded her. The sun? Another flash. A glint off the windshields of cars in the lot?
“Go away!” Katie screeched.
Rita threw up her hands.
“Rita!” Katie screamed. “Get me out of here!”
Another flash. It wasn’t the sun. It was the flash from a camera. In the middle of the day.
Rita whirled the wheelchair around and shoved it inside the door. She pushed Katie into the triage room, then took off on her well-sneakered feet, bolting back through the door, out into the daylight, charging after the asshole who had dared to take pictures of Katie in a moment not meant for the world.
Pumping her arms and kicking up her legs, Rita saw that her prey was a man in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a navy-blue baseball cap, which described about two-thirds of the men on the Vineyard at any given time.
“Goddamnit! Get back here, you slimy son of a bitch!” Rita shouted as she crossed the lot, her sneakers barely touching asphalt, her pulse thumping, her mind thanking God that she no longer wore stilettos, had not worn stilettos since she’d become pregnant with the twins.
“You son of a bitch!” She kept screaming, chasing the figure that still carried the camera and was now racing across the street toward the water where a rental Jeep waited. He leapt inside the Jeep, then turned over the ignition just as Rita reached him, banged on the back door, and shouted “You son of a bitch!” one more time, before the Jeep roared away.
Sand and gravel spit at her from under the wheels, and Rita was left standing there with only the baseball cap that had flown from the man’s head and was now upside down on the ground.
Rita put her hands on her hips and bent forward, panting, trying to catch her breath, wishing she’d been faster, or at least that she’d been smart enough to look at the goddamn license plate.
But she wasn’t faster and she wasn’t smarter, so all Rita had was a great sense of failure and two huge questions:
Who the hell had told the press Katie was in the hospital, hiding out on the Vineyard?
And how soon would it be before the whole world found out?
Rita picked up the dusty baseball cap. It had a Yankees logo on the front, which ruled out most every man from there to Boston and back.