A car horn wailed outside…two long blasts. Then silence. Then another long blast.

My eyelids lifted until my eyes were half open. The room was dim, with just a slice of light peeking from beneath the window shade. I turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but every muscle hurt and my head ached.

Margaritas.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.

Margaritas.

A clump of hair was stuck to my forehead, a few strands glued to the corner of my mouth.

A chair. Someone was standing on a chair, yelling.

I pulled the hair away.

It was me on the chair. Oh, God.

People were cheering. People were raising their glasses. To me. I was standing on a chair, pointing to some guys playing darts.

Some guys playing…

Ohhh.

My stomach swerved like a planet veering off its orbital path.

There was a hundred-dollar bill and a hole in Ben Franklin’s nose and a bet and I threw darts and Roy threw darts and…

Roy.

He was there. I remembered now. We threw darts and we danced a two-step and talked about Trimmy Taylor with the face-lifts and the frame and we ate meat loaf and Skip kept giving us drinks and Roy drove me home and kissed—

Hold on a minute.

My eyes burst open as I recalled my purse falling over and everything tumbling onto the floor of Roy’s truck. And then he was waving an envelope at me. The envelope with my grandmother’s letter in it. He thought I was going to sue him. And his name was Cummings. And he was trying to kiss me.

Outside my room, the horn went off again, and I wanted to run to the window and yell, And they say New Yorkers are rude! but it would have required too much effort.

I put the pillow over my head and moaned. Thank God it didn’t happen. I must have been really drunk. Was I somehow seduced by his ability to use a nail gun or run PVC pipe? He’d been horrible to me. Just plain rude. Where did he come up with the idea that I was going to sue him? And all that talk about big-city lawyers. Please…

I turned to look at the alarm clock. The numbers burned with a painful brightness: ten  thirty. How could it already be ten thirty? And what day was it? It took me a minute to figure out it was Thursday. And I had planned to be up at seven.

My head felt heavy as I righted myself to a sitting position, sat for a moment, and then eased my way into the bathroom. The sight in the mirror was frightening, especially under the yellow-green glow of the ceiling light. Large, dark smudges of makeup lay caked under my eyes. Had I looked that way last night?

I scrubbed the makeup off my face, swore off liquor, and then got dressed. Taking my cell phone into the bathroom, I put down the toilet seat and dialed Hayden’s office. His secretary, Janice, told me he was in a long meeting. Disappointed, I hung up and listened to the two voice-mail messages my mother left while I was at the Antler. Did you drop off the letter yet? What happened? When are you coming back?

I started to dial the house number and then thought better of it. I couldn’t handle a long, tangled conversation with her right now, and if I was worried about her sixth sense kicking in yesterday I really needed to worry today. She’d know before I said hello that something was wrong. I texted her another message: All is well. Haven’t connected with Mr. C but going to try again now. Leaving today for sure. Will call soon. XOX.

I hope that will appease her, I thought as I grabbed my purse and car keys from the bureau. I’d be able to give her a full report soon. I walked down the two flights of stairs and through the lobby, where Paula was deep in conversation with a man holding a tub faucet and a wrench. She gave me a little nod as I went by.

The front seat of the car was warm. I put down the windows and was about to turn on the GPS when I realized I didn’t need it. I knew the way to Chet Cummings’s house. It wasn’t long before I turned onto his street and pulled into the driveway behind the green Audi, which was still in the same place.

No one answered when I knocked on the door. I waited a minute and knocked again, but there was still no response. I peeked in a couple of windows, but didn’t see any signs of activity. Where did this man go every day? Did he have a job? I wondered if there was a McDonald’s around somewhere. I heard they hired a lot of elderly people.

From my purse, I pulled out the envelope with my grandmother’s letter in it. I ran my finger over the name—MR. CUMMINGS—as I stood on his front porch trying to decide what to do. All right, I thought, you just have to leave the letter here. You’ve got to leave it, check out of the inn, and get on the road. You’ve come as far as you can with this. Gran would understand.

A car pulled into the driveway next door—the neighbor with the white Volvo. I gave her a little wave, but she didn’t wave back. She got out of her car and began walking across Mr. Cummings’s lawn. She was wearing a black tank top and skinny white jeans, and I noticed that she had a nice figure. She strode right up onto the front porch and put her hands on her hips as though she owned the place.

“Are you looking for somebody?” she asked, crinkling her forehead, bearing down at me with dark brown eyes.

I was so surprised I could barely speak. “I’m looking for Mr. Cummings,” I finally stammered.

She glanced at the envelope in my hand. “And what business do you have with him?”

This was too much. I couldn’t believe how nosy she was. “My business with Mr. Cummings is my business,” I said.

She leaned in and I caught the scent of a spicy perfume. “Well, I’m his neighbor…and his friend. I look out for him.”

“That’s very nice,” I said, hearing my voice take on an edge. “But this is a personal matter and I prefer not to discuss it with anyone else.”

I put the envelope back in my handbag and marched down the porch steps. Who did she think she was? I look out for him. There was no way I would leave the letter there now. I could just see her holding it over a teakettle, steaming it open, reading it. I’d mail it from the Beacon post office or drop it in a mailbox on my way out of town, but I would never leave it on his door.

  

Back at the inn, I packed all my clothes in my overnight bag. In the bathroom, I assembled my toiletries, pulled the cell phone charger and laptop cord from the outlet over the sink, and checked my makeup in the mirror.

I took a final look around the room, noticing a little hairline crack in the china pitcher on the bureau. Funny I hadn’t seen that until now. I peeked into the bathroom once more to make sure I’d taken everything. The last thing I noticed was the print of the sailboat coming into harbor at dusk. I had never bothered to look at the name of the boat, but now I did. On the hull, in blue script, were the words JE REVIENS. I return. I closed the door to the room and walked downstairs.

The dining room was doing a brisk lunch service when I passed. Paula came through the swinging door from the kitchen.

“You leaving us?” she said, glancing at my overnight bag.

“Yes,” I said, feeling bad that I hadn’t fulfilled my mission. Not the way my grandmother had intended, anyway. “It’s time for me to go.”

I followed Paula to the desk and signed my name in the book under a column marked DEPARTING GUESTS. Then she ran my credit card.

“Hope our little town wasn’t too dull for you,” she said as I slung the strap to my laptop case over my shoulder. I saw the glimmer of a smile on her face, like a spark about to ignite.

“No. It was fine.”

She picked up a pen and put it behind her ear. “Well, maybe you’ll be back sometime.”

I shrugged and tried to smile. “I think my business here is over.” I rolled my bag out the door, closing it behind me.

  

The air was cool, and I cracked the car windows to get a breeze. I set the GPS for home and chose the scenic route. I drove past green fields, pine trees, and yards where children played tag and, as I drove, I imagined how I would photograph each scene if I had my camera. I went by blueberry farms where roadside stands sold baskets topped high with berries and where fresh flowers were arranged in colorful bouquets on tables. I thought about Gran and her blueberry muffins and how she was able to make the tops just a little bit crunchy while the insides were perfectly moist. Just the thought of those muffins made my stomach rumble from hunger.

After fifteen minutes I came to a stone wall on the left. It seemed to go on forever, but I occasionally caught a glimpse of a field on the other side. Faded NO TRESPASSING signs appeared at seemingly random intervals, their once-red letters now pink. The field continued and the wall accompanied it, stray boulders and rocks lying by the side. “Good fences make good neighbors,” I said aloud, recalling the line from the Robert Frost poem.

Then the wall ended and houses began to reappear. I passed a driveway smeared with the blues and pinks of hopscotch chalk, and then a sign that told me the highway was straight ahead.

Another hundred yards down the road I saw a small store. The sign said EDDY’S FOOD MART, although the R was gone from MART. You  could see the outline of where it had been, though. Mat, I said to myself. Eddy’s Food Mat. It sounded the way someone from Maine would say it. A single antique red-and-white gas pump stood in front of the store. I glanced at my gas gauge, saw that I was down to a quarter of a tank, and pulled in. A teenage boy with freckles and red hair ambled over to the car.

“Fill it?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked at me.

“Yes, thanks.” I turned off the engine. “I’m going into the store for a minute, okay?”

The boy gave me a suit yourself shrug.

The store was cool and dark, and its four small aisles were crammed with boxes and cans, juices and cereals, vegetables and breads, milk, eggs, magazines. The floorboards creaked as I walked toward the refrigerators in the back. I didn’t find any Perrier, but something else caught my eye: Higgins Root Beer. The label said BOTTLED IN MAINE FOR THAT DISTINCTLY MAINE FLAVOR, whatever that meant. I picked up two bottles, walked to the cash register, and put the bottles on the oaken counter. The wood was yellowed and scarred with pen engravings. CHARLIE AND JUNE. FITZ WAS HERE. LISA T. PETE RONIN IS A CREEP.

The girl behind the counter looked at me with a round moon face and sleepy eyes. “Is that it?”

“That’s it.” I took out my wallet and pulled out a wad of bills. At the bottom of the pile I found my folded hundred-dollar bill wrapped around five twenties—my winnings from Roy. I put it all back and pulled out a twenty from the top of the pile instead.

The cashier was placing the sodas in a paper bag. I was thinking of the drive home, hoping I wouldn’t get stuck in any traffic jams, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me.”

I turned to see a woman in red pants and a blue blouse standing behind me, holding a box of frozen broccoli. It was Arlen Fletch, from the town clerk’s office.

She leaned over. “I was hoping I’d run into you,” she whispered, as though we were sharing a confidence. “Remember me? From the town hall?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, smiling, as I reached for my bag. “We discussed the IRS.”

Arlen cringed like a vampire facing a silver cross. Then her face softened. “You left this in our office.”

She handed me a little scrap of paper on which I had written FRANK AND DOROTHY GODDARD, the names of my grandmother’s parents—the names I had been searching for in the land records. It was something I’d meant to throw out. How odd that this woman would not only keep it but walk around with it. And people thought New Yorkers were weird.

“Thanks for…keeping it for me,” I said, forcing a smile as I took the paper from her. “And for your help the other day.” I began walking toward the door.

But Arlen followed me, past the bushels of fresh corn and tomatoes. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, dodging the stacks of canned peas piled at the end of an aisle. “I thought I might see you again. Sometimes things just work out that way.”

“Yes, well, thanks again,” I said, pushing open the door and walking outside.

I paid the boy with the freckles for my gas and was heading toward my car when I realized Arlen was still following me, the box of broccoli in her hand. I stopped at my car and pulled the keys from my purse. “Is there something I can do for you?”

A smile sprouted on Arlen’s little pug face. “I found it.”

“Yes, I know.” I lifted the scrap of paper so she could see I still had it. Was she expecting a reward?

She cocked her head and squinted. “No, you’re looking at the wrong side.” She waved her hand. “I found the house. I found your grandmother’s house. See? It says BRADLEY G. PORTER AND SUSAN H. PORTER. They’re the current owners.”

I looked at the paper and saw the names she’d written on the back. I saw the address. 14 COMSTOCK DRIVE. “You found my grandmother’s house?”

Arlen gave a little shrug. “Yes-sir-ee.”

“But I looked through all the indexes from nineteen hundred and—oh, I don’t know, but I looked through everything and I didn’t find them.”

Arlen leaned in closer again. “Well, you must have missed something, because I found it.” She winked at me.

I wanted to hug her. I wanted to pick her up and twirl her around. I wanted to kiss her little pug face. This would really make the trip worthwhile. I settled for just thanking her again.

“I’ll put the address in my GPS and head right over there,” I told her.

“Your GPS?” She shrank back. “You don’t need one of those to find it. It’s practically around the corner.” She proceeded to recite a lengthy set of directions that included four turns, a fork, and a stream. Maybe she saw me go pale.

“You look a little confused,” she said. “Hold on.”

Arlen went to her car and came back with a street map, folded in thirds. Oh, God, I thought, just let me use my GPS.

The map was yellowed and smelled like a damp basement. Arlen blew off a little film of dust. Then she opened the map and laid it on the hood of someone’s Toyota.

“It’s right there. That’s Comstock Drive.” She took a pink pen and circled something.

“You go on Route Fifty-five and along here, go left there, right on Algonquin, and you turn here, on Verrick, then go across the stream here and left at the fork.” She traced the route for me with her pen. “Then you’ll come to Kenlyn Farm. Big stone wall. Can’t miss it. You pass the farm and it’s just a few streets down on the right.”

My head was beginning to buzz. I picked up the map, ignoring everything except the spelling of the name Comstock so I could program the GPS.

“Kenlyn Farm?” I asked.

Arlen gave me a dismissive wave. “It’s an old blueberry farm. They don’t grow anything on it anymore, though. It’s just a big piece of land, but you can’t miss it. Stone wall on all sides.”

I was pretty sure she was talking about the place I’d just driven by.

“Here, you take this,” Arlen said, nudging me with the map.

I thanked her again, got into the car, and collapsed against the seat. She found the house. She found it. I wanted to see it and touch it and smell it. I wanted to stand at the front door, where my grandmother had stood. I wanted to trace the steps she had taken and steep myself in the wood and the nails and the plaster.

I opened one of the bottles of root beer and let the icy liquid run down my throat, and I thought again about the house and what it might look like. But this time I felt only good things. It would be small and cozy, with slanted floors and steep stairs and little rooms with ceilings that pitched downward. There would be narrow hallways and old glass doorknobs and mahogany trim stained and polished to a rich glow. And I would feel my grandmother in the rafters and in the plaster and in the layers of paint.

I threw the map on the passenger seat and programmed 14 Comstock Drive into the GPS. It showed a list of roads in the area with the name Comstock in them. There was Comstock Lane in Louderville and Comstock Circle in Tolland, but there was no Comstock Drive anywhere, including Beacon. With a sigh, I reached over for Arlen’s map and tried to make sense of the route she had traced.

Then I pulled out of the parking lot and soon I was driving by the stone wall again. Kenlyn Farm, I thought. At the third street past the farm, I turned onto Comstock.

Number 14 was a New England–style home on a street of similar houses—a white clapboard two-story structure with a wraparound porch bounded by a white wooden railing. Dormers peeked out of the upper floor. A maple tree stood in the front yard, a wooden swing hanging from one of its branches. A woman in her early thirties, dressed in denim shorts and a green Dartmouth sweatshirt, pushed a little girl, who looked about seven, on the swing.

I parked and walked toward them. “Hi,” I said, waving. “I’m Ellen Branford.” I extended my hand to the woman. “I’m from New York, but I’m visiting Beacon. My grandmother grew up here.”

“Oh, really?” The woman shook my hand. “Susan Porter. That’s my daughter, Katy.”

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but the reason why I stopped here is because…well, my grandmother didn’t just grow up in Beacon, she grew up right here.” I nodded toward the house.

“In our house?” Susan’s eyes sparkled. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head. “No. I got the address from the town clerk. Here’s the thing…I was wondering…”

“Would you like to see it?” she asked as she took Katy’s hand.

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, please.” I followed them across the lawn toward the house, the sun warming the back of my neck as I thought about Gran taking that same walk. Long ago, memories of my grandmother had settled within the walls of this house. I hoped the house would share some of them with me.

We walked up the front porch steps, and Susan led me to a sunlit living room, where a breeze floated through open windows. I admired a fieldstone fireplace, and she told me it was original to the house. I tried to imagine my grandmother in that room as a young girl, but I couldn’t make the connection.

She showed me the family room, where toys and stuffed animals lay scattered on the floor like land mines. I followed her into the kitchen and into the dining room, which had built-in cabinets with glass doors.

“I think those are also original,” Susan said, pointing to the cabinets. Touching the mahogany wood, I tried to feel Gran’s presence, but couldn’t do it.

A narrow flight of stairs led to the second floor. I thought I caught a faint scent of lavender when we reached the landing. Susan led the way through a pale green master bedroom, a nursery trimmed in pink gingham, and a guest room of sorts with a futon in the corner.

It was an old house and a pretty house. But that was all. Whatever I had expected to see or feel wasn’t there. Whatever glimpse of my grandmother’s life I thought I would divine had not materialized.

We stood in the upstairs hallway. “Thank you,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “You have a beautiful home and I appreciate your giving me the tour.” I looked down the hall. “I’m trying to imagine my grandmother here.”

“How long ago was that?” Susan asked.

“Over sixty years,” I said. “The Goddards lived here back when—”

Susan’s eyes went wide. She put her hand on my arm. “The Goddards?”

I nodded. “Yes, my grandmother’s maiden name was Ruth Goddard.”

“Ruth Goddard?” she asked. “She was your grandmother?”

I took a step back, a little surprised by her exuberance. “Yes,” I said tentatively. “Why? Have you heard of her?”

“Come with me,” she said. “You have to see this.”

Susan opened a doorway in the hall, and she and Katy led me up a set of steep, narrow steps. I could feel the trapped summer heat as we reached the attic.

“We’re doing some work in here,” she said, “so don’t mind the mess. Brad’s turning it into a home office.”

I looked around at a huge square room with dormers on two sides. The windows were covered with old vertical blinds with thin metal slats. The slats were halfway open and sunlight poured in, leaving geometric patterns on the dark floor. Dust motes floated around us. A circular saw and a pile of other hand tools rested near stacks of drywall.

In one area of the room the old drywall had been stripped off the walls and the studs were visible. In an adjacent section I could see what appeared to be two layers—drywall and plaster underneath.

“Somebody put the drywall right over the plaster?” I asked. “Why would they do that?”

Susan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the plaster was in bad shape and they wanted to do a quick fix.”

She stepped to one corner of the room, where the light was dim. “What I want you to see is this.” She pointed to something on the wall.

It looked like a painting. It was about three feet high and four feet wide. I took a step closer. A young man and a young woman stood facing one another, holding hands. In the background, carefully composed, stood a lone oak tree in front of a small grove of oaks, and a weathered red barn.

The young woman wore a long green gown, the color of moss. The young man wore trousers and a shirt of earthen brown. They were surrounded by wild plants and flowers and an azure sky. There was something almost mystical about the scene, as if the man and woman had both sprung from nature themselves.

I reached out to touch the veins of a large green leaf. The paint was warm and cool at the same time, rough and smooth. The leaf seemed to come alive under my touch. I could almost feel its energy.

“What is this?” I asked.

“We found it when we ripped off the old drywall. It was painted on the plaster,” Susan said.

“It’s unusual,” I said. “Unusual and beautiful.”

She nodded. “Can you read the writing? You need to look up there.” She pointed. “There are names above the people, and the artist signed the bottom right corner.”

I gazed upward and saw that there were indeed names just over the heads of the two people. Above the young man, the name Chet had been printed in tiny, exacting letters, and above the young woman, the name Ruth appeared. And in the bottom right corner of the painting there was, as Susan said, a signature. I read the name, written in the up-and-down, peak-and-valley strokes that had become so familiar to me: Ruth Goddard.