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Jill McCallister always knew when she entered “the zone,” that moment when her fingers skated across the keyboard and nothing else in the world mattered. Not the snowfall outside her window, not the whining of her roommate’s cat from the apartment corner, not the looming stack of mail waiting to be sorted. Jill could easily tune out those distractions and step straight into the story she was tapping out, where the characters, the setting, and the scenes all became her vivid reality. When people asked what it felt like, to write a novel and disappear into the story, “euphoric” was the most accurate word Jill could find.
If only she could find that euphoria again.
Fingers hovering above the keyboard, Jill stared at the cursor and blinked back with a generous sigh.
“Not today, apparently.” She balled her fingers into fists then shut the laptop with a frustrated click.
It had been four months since she’d felt the spark of any significant creative idea, eight months since her literary agent had begun harassing her (“Where’s the new book?”), and twelve months since she’d published her last novel, killing off her main character and officially closing out her popular series. Jill had grown tired of writing murder mysteries and wanted to pivot to a fresh project. But months of brainstorming had produced... nothing.
Has the well finally run dry?
Jill pushed down the familiar panic and eased backward into the sofa’s cushion as she stared blankly toward her living room walls, which were decorated with serene nature photos and motivational posters. Her eyes drifted down to the bookshelf, which held, among other books, all four of the novels in her published series. There they sat, perched together in order, seeming to mock her and to ask whether future books would ever join them on the shelf.
Jill stood up and circled the couch, threading her fingers through her chestnut hair and massaging her scalp, attempting to ward off a headache. She needed a distraction, something else to work on. As she came around to her spot on the couch again, an idea hit. It wouldn’t be the grand solution for a new novel, but at least it would keep her writing muscles flexed and intact.
Jill grabbed up her phone and tapped the screen for Miranda’s New York number.
“Jill! I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon,” Miranda told her.
“Not a bad thing, I hope?”
“Of course not.”
“Listen, I was wondering if you could give me another piece to write. Human interest or maybe travel?”
“An excuse to get you out of a writing rut?” Miranda asked.
Jill shifted her weight. “Sort of. I need to restart my brain, shift gears.”
“I totally get it. Let me see if I have anything for you...” Her voice trailed off, and Jill imagined her clicking through her ongoing, endless list of article topics.
Miranda Jenkins was Jill’s college roommate from twelve years before. After graduation, she’d created an online magazine that had quickly blossomed into a savvy place for readers to find book reviews, fashion tips, human-interest stories, and travel pieces. Jill had been one of Miranda’s first freelance writers and had continued to write occasional articles for the magazine throughout the years. When Jill’s first novel was published and she’d found some actual success—and started receiving enough royalties to live on—Miranda had begged her to keep writing occasional pieces for the magazine. “You’re the only writer I have who can find the ‘heart’ of a piece,” she’d said.
Jill’s most recent article, a piece about a wounded veteran named James, whose therapy dog was hit by a car, had been published last month. The community had reached out and ended up paying for two surgeries, and the dog had survived. The focus of Jill’s story, though, had evolved into the special bond between dog and human. The moment James told her, “This dog saved me, so I had to save him,” Jill knew she’d found the article’s heartbeat.
“Okay,” Miranda said into the phone. “I think I’ve got one for you. How does genealogy strike you?”
Honestly, it didn’t strike Jill at all. She was glad they weren’t on FaceTime together, so Miranda couldn’t see the lines of her frown. “You mean, family trees, heritage, that sort of thing?”
“I know you’re not big on fads and trends, but genealogy is hot right now,” Miranda explained. “People are searching for their roots, their history. You could do something really new and fresh with this. Find an interesting angle or make it personal. But I’d need this piece by Christmas day, no later. Or I’d have to give it to another writer...”
Less than five weeks away. That translated into a few precious weeks of valid excuses to push her novel-writing aside, and to become rejuvenated in the process, or so she hoped. Plus, Jill was scheduled to speak at a huge writer’s conference immediately after the holidays and had been struggling to come up with a strong topic for her session. If nothing else, she could use this article as a current piece of writing to discuss with the participants.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
“Perfect. I’m glad you called today. Listen, gotta run,” Miranda told her. “Have a great Thanksgiving. We’ll stay in touch.”
After they rang off, Jill sat on the couch again and propped her socked feet onto the table then reached for her pen and legal pad. Handed a new purpose, she stared hard at the mustard-colored page and scribbled “genealogy” in its center. Have I even spelled it correctly? She squinted at the word, tapping the pen against her thigh, realizing she knew next to nothing about this topic. It would require some in-depth research.
A scuffling noise and raised voices at the front door told Jill that someone was about to knock. She recognized her roommate’s voice. Lindsey was probably struggling to find her key again. Jill abandoned her notepad and headed swiftly for the door, watching Lindsey’s skittish cat, Hercules, scamper off to the bedroom.
Opening the door, Jill braced herself for the inevitable burst of brittle-cold Colorado air then watched a tiny cyclone of snowflakes swirl at her feet.
“Hey!” Lindsey said, facing backward, crooking her neck. She struggled to hold the tip of a tree, while her boyfriend, Charlie, carried the base from a few feet away.
“A Christmas tree? Already?” Jill opened the door wider, watching Lindsey take awkward steps backward into the apartment.
“I know, I know. Gripe at me later. This thing is heavy.”
“How can I help?” Jill offered.
“Guide me,” Lindsey said, still stumbling into the living room, her petite stature dwarfed by the tree. “I’m headed toward that corner by the window.”
“Keep walking straight back.” Jill leaned over to shove aside the coffee table seconds before Lindsey could bash her knee into it.
Charlie shut the door with his foot and paused. “I’ve got it now.”
He grunted then moved his tall frame to grab the center of the tree and ease it away from Lindsey, who stepped aside to stand with Jill. In one graceful movement, Charlie lifted the tree, brushing the ceiling with the tip of it, and carried it to the designated corner. The fresh smell of pine instantly permeated the room.
Lindsey removed her scarf and pushed out a long breath. “I’m exhausted,” she told Jill. “Up two flights of stairs. My legs feel like jelly.” She placed a hand on the crook of Jill’s arm. “I know we didn’t talk about it yet, getting a tree. But Charlie had first pick—his uncle runs that tree lot, remember?—and so we took the nicest one. Pretty, don’t you think?”
Lindsey beamed toward the tree, which was tucked cozily into the corner of the room, as though it had been specifically designed to stand in that space.
A perfect fit. “It’s beautiful,” Jill admitted.
“We can decorate it tonight!” Lindsey insisted. “It’ll be even more beautiful then!”
Charlie had joined them, brushing the pine needles off his gloved hands. He and Lindsey had been dating for over a year, and Lindsey was hoping for an engagement ring as a Christmas present. Although Jill would be ecstatic for her—they were one of those couples she could picture together decades in the future—she was also selfishly saddened by the prospect. It would mean finding a new roommate.
Jill had met Lindsey two years before at a local Denver writers’ group. Lindsey was struggling with her children’s book idea, and Jill had been asked to visit the group as a guest speaker. The two went for coffee after the session, where Lindsey peppered her with curious questions about the writing and publishing processes. The conversation had glided easily onto other topics, and as their personalities clicked and they realized they had similar tastes in music and books, they knew the seeds of a genuine friendship had sprouted that night. Weeks later, when Lindsey told her she was looking for a new apartment, Jill offered up her guest room, and they had been roommates ever since.
“Hey, I’m starved. Wanna get some food before the decorating starts?” Charlie suggested.
Jill’s evening had changed with her call to Miranda—she was hoping to get started on the new article. But she knew she couldn’t do it properly on an empty stomach.
“I can get us some Italian,” Charlie suggested, making his pitch even more irresistible. Jill wouldn’t even have to leave the apartment and brace the cold. Charlie knew their orders by heart—the Italian restaurant down the street was a place they either visited or ordered from once a week. When everyone agreed, Charlie gave Lindsey a quick peck on the cheek then headed out the door.
“You guys are cute,” Jill told Lindsey.
“But not obnoxiously cute, right? Not the sit-on-the-same-side-of-the-booth type.” She rolled her eyes at the image.
Jill chuckled. “Nope, you’re adorable-cute. Very tolerable.”
As Lindsey moved toward the tree, beaming up at it and probably mentally decorating it, Jill noticed Hercules peeking his furry head around the corner of the hallway then disappearing again when he saw the tree.
“I can’t believe Thanksgiving is tomorrow,” Lindsey said, slipping off her coat, the collar brushing against her short dark hair. “I think you’ll like my family. They’re loud, but they’re welcoming.”
The week before, knowing that Jill had no plans for the holiday, Lindsey had invited her to the big family celebration. At first, Jill had politely protested, saying she wouldn’t be alone—like the year before, she’d planned to volunteer at a soup kitchen, surrounded by lots of people. But Lindsey was insistent and finally wore Jill down.
Jill joined Lindsey at the tree and touched one of the needled branches with her fingertips. “Can’t wait.”
* * *
DROPPING SOFT PILLOWS of marshmallows onto the sweet potato casserole, Jill doubted whether anything could be more Thanksgivingy. The kitchen bustled with activity around her: three women overlapping in boisterous conversation, two eager dogs waiting for crumbs to fall, and one middle-aged man retrieving a soda from the fridge. Across the room, a toddler cried out for “More! More!” as he tugged on his mother’s pants leg. Muffled cheers drifted in from the living room as the men watched a ball game on TV. An oven timer beeped its final announcement that the chestnut stuffing was ready.
Anyone peeking in on this domestic holiday scene might assume it was a Norman Rockwall painting come to life, an average American Thanksgiving. And that might have been true for most all the participants. But even as welcoming as Lindsey’s family had been, with wide smiles and friendly greetings from the moment the door had opened, Jill still struggled to find her place in the gathering, to locate her comfort zone.
“That looks lovely!” proclaimed Lindsey’s mother, peering toward Jill’s sweet potato masterpiece.
“Thanks. I was trying to be creative,” she admitted, tilting her head with a shrug. Jill had dotted the casserole with a slanted diamond pattern of marshmallows.
Jill wadded up the empty bag. “What else can I do?”
“I can’t think of anything. We’ve got it mostly under control. Take a break and rest your feet. You’ve been hard at work.” Lindsey’s mother turned to the crowd. “Dinner’s almost ready! Ten minutes!”
This news didn’t seem to have the desired effect. No conversations paused, and no TVs clicked off.
“Oh! I meant to tell you. Lindsey gave me your book for my birthday... the first one, I think. In Harm’s Way?”
“That’s the one,” Jill confirmed.
“Well, I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. But I will,” she assured Jill. “I don’t seem to have time to read anymore. And now, with another grandbaby on the way...”
“I totally understand.”
With a sparkle in her eye, Lindsey’s mother added, “It must be exciting to be a famous author.” Although phrased as a statement, it was clearly a question Jill was meant to answer.
Exciting wasn’t the word Jill would use, not anymore. Fame was a funny thing, like a puff of smoke, tangible for a fleeting moment, but then disappearing as though it had never happened. Years before, two of Jill’s books had hit the New York Times best-seller list for a few glorious weeks, and there had been considerable buzz surrounding her third and fourth releases. Jill McCallister was being hailed as “the next Sue Grafton” by certain smitten critics. But those next releases were met with lukewarm reception, and she knew she’d been dialing in the plots, which had led to her ultimate decision to end the series. Her heart wasn’t in that character or that genre anymore. The books actually continued to sell at a steady rate, though, and Jill still considered herself a fairly successful midlist author.
Since it was too challenging to explain all of that in one polite sentence, Jill responded, “Well, thanks. I don’t think of myself as ‘famous,’ but I’m happy with how things are going.” In an effort to change the subject, she cleared her throat and asked, “Where’s the powder room?”
“Around that corner.” She pointed. “You can use the bathroom in the master.”
On her way out of the kitchen, Jill passed behind one of Lindsey’s aunts, who was discussing the “unacceptable behavior” of Hayden’s preschool teacher, then rounded the corner and caught Lindsey’s eye from the living room as she snuggled on the deep sofa next to Charlie. Jill gave her friend a reassuring wave. I’m having a great time, the wave said. Glad you invited me.
As Jill moved down the tiled hallway, she heard clicking and clacking behind her. She pivoted and saw that one of the dogs, a shaggy sheepdog, had followed her. She leaned down to scratch his head as he grinned up at her, wagging his tail and blinking behind all that fur.
“Happy Thanksgiving, boy,” she told him. “I didn’t bring any food with me. Go on back to the kitchen. I’m sure they’ll sneak some for you...”
He gave a whine as she patted him one last time then straightened up to enter the master bedroom at the end of the hall. She closed the door, still aware of the activities going on in the house. A collective shout from the men erupted, no doubt praising an incredible play made by their favorite team.
Jill stepped farther inside the room and noticed the pristinely made bed, the cozy chair near the window, and the shelves lined with important-looking medical books owned by Lindsey’s father, an anesthesiologist. As she walked deeper into the space, she noticed something else, a dresser topped with at least a couple dozen family photos in various frames. Hoping no one would walk in and catch her snooping, Jill moved toward the photos for a closer look. Some were older, black and white with stern faces peering out, while others were more modern and colorful with people wearing smiles and wild seventies fashion. Front and center was a recent photo of Lindsey with her arms lovingly wrapped around Charlie.
Jill wondered if she would have walked right past the photos had it not been for her new genealogy assignment. That always happened—whenever she had a new article or novel to research, the topic captivated her, seeping into almost everything else she did. She often became quietly obsessed with an idea, and this one was no different. She’d barely had time for a Google search the night before, but as she stared at the photos, she realized her research had officially begun.
Genealogy. Right here, on top of a dresser tucked inside someone’s bedroom.
The photos symbolized more than cardstock inside pretty frames. They declared a rich history, a deep heritage, each photo telling the same story of nurtured relationships and lifetime bonds connected by one obvious element: family.
Jill couldn’t help but personalize it, feeling a small ache inside as she remembered the sincerity in her mother’s voice from their phone call last week: “Next year, honey. We’ll spend the holidays together. I promise.” But Jill knew it wouldn’t happen next year, either. Her mother was a wanderer, a drifter, and had been ever since Jill’s father passed away many years ago. They hadn’t spent a single holiday together since Jill had graduated from college.
A particular photo caught Jill’s eye, a recent family portrait with all twenty-something of the Lombardi clan smiling brightly for the camera. There were grandparents, parents, siblings, cousins, young children, and even a couple of dogs. Jill wondered if they knew how fortunate they were to have each other on a day like Thanksgiving—and every other day too.
Hearing another cheer raised from the living room, Jill resumed her mission and found the bathroom. She rinsed her fingertips of the sticky marshmallow film, dried her hands, then peered into the mirror and wiped away a smudge of mascara at the corner of her eye. Her hair, straightened in a hurry this morning, delicately grazed her shoulders. Staring at her reflection, she widened her brown eyes, puffed out a deep sigh, and willed herself to make it through the rest of the afternoon.
Passing by the photos again without a second glance, Jill opened the bedroom door to find the shaggy dog lying in the hall, waiting for her.
“Hey, boy.” She squatted then scratched the fur under his chin. “That’s a noisy kitchen. Are you taking a break from things too?”
He blinked his response.
Rocking on her heels, she clasped her hands together at her knees and looked him deep in the eyes. “Well, it’s time to get back out there and join the party. This is Thanksgiving, and we have a lot to be grateful for, don’t we?”
The dog gave her hand a hesitant lick then followed her back to the warm kitchen.
* * *
JILL ENTERED HER APARTMENT to the spicy scent of cinnamon and the soft tones of Bing Crosby crooning about Christmas. In fact, as she scanned the room and nudged the door closed with her elbow, she noticed that Christmas was everywhere, with miniature Santas and elves on tables, mistletoe overhead, a nativity scene on the coffee table, thick garland along the mantel, and a string of fairy lights framing the kitchen island. Lindsey had apparently awakened that morning with a singular mission: decorate everything in sight.
“Still snowing?” Lindsey asked from her favorite spot—on the floor, cross-legged, with her elbows propped on the coffee table while she graded math questions or cut shapes out of colored cardboard. As a second-grade teacher, Lindsey’s workday usually extended well into after-work hours at home or even into the holidays.
Jill plopped her shopping bags onto the sofa then unraveled her scarf. “I think it’s worse than this morning,” she confirmed. “Traffic was a nightmare. I thought you were going to a late lunch with Charlie.”
“He had to cancel. A work thing.” Lindsey made a pouty face. “Wanna order Chinese later?” Consumed with her latest project, she barely glanced up as she spoke.
“Sure.” Jill wriggled out of her coat and slung it across the back of the chair then headed toward the table to join Lindsey. Hercules was stretched out on the carpet nearby, intently focused on the flashing Christmas tree lights and likely plotting out which ornament to attack first.
“What are we working on?” Jill tried to make sense of the multitude of supplies spread out on the table: multicolored construction paper, glue bottles, glitter packages, cotton balls, markers, and popsicle sticks.
“Here. Grab a marker. It’s a project for Monday. The theme is the Star of Bethlehem. I’m creating examples for the students. They can choose between drawing the shepherds, wise men, or angels. We can add cotton balls and glitter on the angel wings for some sparkle.”
“Sounds exciting.”
Lindsey grinned. “Well, at least this will keep them occupied for an hour or so. Those first days back from Thanksgiving promise to be crazy. I’m bracing myself. It will take the kids all next week to come down from the high of the holiday.”
“Eighteen kids, at that age. I seriously don’t know how you do it.” Jill uncapped a marker and reached for a purple piece of construction paper.
Lindsey snickered. “Neither do I, most days. But I can’t imagine doing anything else.” She paused her coloring and looked across at Jill. “Teaching is the hardest job on Earth. But at the end of the most exhausting day, where everything has gone wrong—Matthew has put glue in Tabitha’s hair, or Andrew has been in time-out because he won’t stop using a curse word—I can still get into my car and know that I’ve accomplished something. That maybe, someday, these children will benefit from what I’ve modeled, whether it’s how to handle a conflict or how to be loving to an unlovable classmate. Or maybe I’ve sparked an interest about science or reading that will affect their career choice down the road. It sounds dumb, saying it out loud—a total cliché. But teaching sort of... fills me up.”
Jill understood completely. Teaching was Lindsey’s zone, the thing that made her happiest.
“What is it?” Lindsey had paused her project. “You look... contemplative.”
“I like hearing you talk about teaching. You really are making a difference.”
“And what about you? That article last month, on the veteran and his dog. I was in tears by the end of it.”
“Thanks. Yeah, that one was amazing to write. I wish all my writing could be that easy, though. I’m struggling with this new article, trying to find my focus.”
“The genealogy topic?” Lindsey resumed her pasting of shredded cotton balls to an angel’s wings. “I peeked at your notes...”
Jill threw a backward glance toward the cluttered mess of papers and spiral-bound notebooks she’d left on the sofa in frustration the night before. After coming home from Lindsey’s parents’ house, Jill had stayed up late, brainstorming, scribbling notes, researching online, and emailing a couple of professors at local universities, even though she knew they were on holiday break. On a piece of paper, she’d written why? then branched out possible reasons people would conduct genealogy searches in the first place: medical history information, bragging rights (searches for famous people), strong interest in history, seeking a connection to the past, school projects, sheer curiosity. But even after all that thought and effort, Jill didn’t have a true starting point to work with.
“I thought I’d had a breakthrough,” Jill admitted, “but it didn’t work out. So I took today off. Ran errands, paid bills, the boring stuff.”
“You piddled.”
Jill lifted her marker into the air then paused and smirked. “Piddling is a vital part of the writing process. And I actually prefer the word ‘lollygagging.’”
“Great word! I need to teach my students that one. Lollygag.”
Jill resumed her coloring. “I was hoping to come back to the article fresh tonight, maybe be handed some inspiration on a silver platter.”
“Oh, that’s how it works.”
“Sometimes, it actually does,” Jill mused, capping her marker and reaching for another. “I only wish the gaps between inspiration weren’t so long and frustrating.”
Lindsey had pressed down on her angel’s wings to secure the cotton. She kept her fingertips there but looked up at Jill suddenly with raised eyebrows. “Hey, I have an idea about the article. Why don’t you experiment with it yourself?”
“What do you mean?” Jill hovered the marker in place, more interested in Lindsey’s idea than the construction-paper project.
“With your own genealogy. Didn’t your mom send you a subscription a while back to one of those ancestry websites?”
Jill’s mother was notorious for buying quirky gifts, usually ones Jill couldn’t hold or unwrap, such as subscriptions to online sites, stocks and bonds, or a notification that she’d had a star named after her. Jill could see where Lindsey was going and felt a rush of recognition.
“Yes. She did! It was months ago.” Jill abandoned her marker then pushed aside the mess of papers and sat on the sofa, brought her laptop to her knees, and cracked it open. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I even created an account and put in some information. But then I never bothered to go back and check it.”
She did a quick search of her inbox and skimmed the results. And there it was, the original gifted subscription from MyGenealogy.com.
“You already know most of my heritage,” her mother had told Jill, trying to explain her gift over the phone. “French-Italian—but we don’t know much about your father’s family history. So I bought you a year’s subscription. Let me know what you find out!”
Jill had forgotten the password ages ago, so she clicked the link to reset it then paused. “I’m not sure about this, though,” she told Lindsey. “I don’t write articles about myself. That’s the fun of writing for the magazine. The same is true for my novels. I get to explore other people.”
“You mean hide behind them.” Lindsey grinned.
“True. I guess it’s easier that way. Safer.”
Lindsey clicked off Bing’s song and joined Jill on the couch, peering curiously at the screen with her.
As Jill typed in the updated password, she considered the new possible angle. Why can’t I write about my personal experience? Or at least explore my own genealogy to get an idea of what the search actually feels like for someone else? Jill had been doing her research all wrong. She had been tackling the project from the outside in, as someone who didn’t particularly care about the topic of genealogy. Until now, the word had meant very little in her own life—it always evoked shady images of strangers buried deep in the past, of ghostly figures she had never met and never could meet. She couldn’t fathom what good it would do to dredge up the past or what relevance it would have to her daily life. But as she recalled that dresser full of photos at Lindsey’s family home, Jill realized Lindsey was right. In order to find the heart of it, the article had to be personal. There was no other way.
“You’re in!” Lindsey proclaimed as the site accepted the new password.
Excitement grew as Jill clicked on her account information. She vaguely recalled, months before, having entered only her father’s name and his parents’ names, which was as far back as she could remember. As she watched the site generate its report, Jill tempered her expectations. What information could the site possibly glean from only three names and some basic information about them? But when the report appeared on her screen, she saw a significant family tree that traced her father’s lineage backward for four generations.
“Look at that,” Lindsey whispered.
Jill wanted to slow down and take everything in. The moment felt suddenly weighty, and she needed to absorb it. She saw her own name perched at the top of the family tree: Jill McCallister. She followed the line downward and recognized the first two names: Nicholas, her father, then her grandmother, Amelia Sandifer McCallister, where the family tree continued to branch off. Past that, Jill had been totally clueless about her history. But not anymore.
The next branch led to her great-grandfather, Cody Sandifer, born in 1920. Jill had hoped for a coordinating photo or link, but none was available. A couple of “cousin” branches splintered off, but Jill was most interested in the direct lineage, so she followed the main branch further down toward Cody’s parents—Richard Sandifer and Morgan (Stout) Sandifer. No photos or links, unfortunately.
The tree branch halted noticeably at Morgan’s father.
“Alfred J. Stout,” Jill said aloud.
“Your great-great-grandfather.”
“Add one more ‘great,’” Jill said.
“Oh. Right.”
Curious, Jill clicked on the black-and-white photo of Mr. Stout, born 1858, which expanded to a grainy family portrait of an unsmiling man with a bushy beard and piercing eyes, a willowy-looking wife, also unsmiling, and a little girl with ringlets, who wore a drop-waisted dress with lace-up boots. She was grinning ear-to-ear, which made Jill return the grin, there on her apartment sofa, over a century after the photo had been taken.
“My great-great-grandmother,” she whispered to the photo.
“She looks like you,” Lindsey confirmed softly, as though the discovery deserved some quiet reverence. “It’s the eyes.”
Jill saw it, too, that familiarity, that connection. Pulse racing, she clicked back to her family tree, finally understanding what all the fuss was about. Jill realized she was interested in knowing where she got her wide brown eyes, and especially, her unruly, naturally curly hair. But the biggest thrill of the search was the invisible unlocking of doors, of mysteries being solved before her very eyes, of history taking shape and filling in the gaps of her past. Jill had just opened a portal in time and was reaching inside, shaking the hand of someone she shared DNA with, someone she’d never met before.
“Is that a link? On Alfred’s name?” Lindsey pointed at the screen.
“Looks like it...” Jill clicked it and was immediately taken to a website: Morgan’s Grove, Texas: The Most Beautiful Town You’ve Never Heard Of!
“That doesn’t seem right,” Jill murmured with a frown. She scanned the main page and its photo of a charming town square filled with shops and a center courthouse decorated in festive lights. People walked, children played, shoppers shopped. It was small-town America in all its glory.
“What does a town in Texas have to do with Alfred J.?” she wondered aloud. Perhaps it was an incorrect link—one wrong letter in a URL address could make all the difference.
“Wait,” Lindsey said. “Morgan. That was the name of Alfred’s daughter...” She pointed at the town’s About link. “Try that page.”
Jill clicked, and there it was—that stern, now-familiar face of Alfred J. Stout. And beneath the name was a caption: Founder of Morgan’s Grove.
“You’ve struck gold,” Lindsey said, gently grabbing Jill’s sleeve. Her excitement was contagious. “Keep reading...”
Jill read the blurb aloud. “Alfred J. Stout was a billionaire from New York, NY who gained his wealth from his business ingenuity, building several textile mills after the Industrial Revolution. He married a small-town Indiana girl then moved her to Central Texas in 1908, where he built a luxurious mansion for her. Shortly after, Stout purchased the derelict town nearby then rebuilt it with loving care. He named the town after his young daughter, Morgan.”
When she finished the paragraph, Jill realized the screen had turned blurry because of unexpected tears. She had no idea that clicking on a family tree would draw out so many emotions in only a few minutes. She was gazing at her heritage, pieces of history from her father’s background. The reminder of him could still prick a place inside Jill’s heart, even years later. She wished her father could have been there, sitting beside her, discovering the new revelations right along with her.
Realizing Lindsey was still quietly clinging to her sleeve, Jill wiped a falling tear and smiled toward her friend, glad she had someone to share the moment with.
Lindsey whispered, “I think you found your story,” then leaned in to rest her head against Jill’s. After a beat, Lindsey pushed away with a small gasp and stared at Jill. “You should go.”
“Go?”
“There!” She pointed at the screen. “To Morgan’s Grove. Find out more, do some on-site research, stay awhile. A new place to write, a fresh environment. It would be good for you.”
Jill tilted her head, allowing the idea to take shape. “I’ve never been to Texas,” she mused.
“I’m shocked! I assumed you’d lived in all fifty states by now,” Lindsey teased.
She knew all about Jill’s childhood—how, after her father passed away, her mother had moved them nearly every single year afterward. New apartments, new schools, new jobs. This habit had followed Jill into adulthood, and since college, she’d lived in a few different places herself. In fact, for a thirty-year-old, Jill had accumulated remarkably few possessions. Much of the apartment’s furniture, including the couch they were sitting on, was Lindsey’s. Jill always tried to keep her life simple and clutter-free. “Transportable,” some might say...
“Seriously,” Lindsey continued. “Visiting Morgan’s Grove might be inspiring. You could even end up writing a whole book about this journey—a search for your heritage, and how you basically own a whole town.”
“I do not own a whole town.” Jill snickered, glad for a lighter moment. She slid the open laptop toward the table. “Besides, you’re talking about nonfiction. I write fiction. I get to pretend, to create storylines and whole worlds from thin air. I don’t have to be chained to facts.”
“Well, okay. Then forget your book for now and focus on the article. How can a town square like that not be inspiring? Especially at Christmastime, all decorated. It’s charming and cozy, like a painting.”
“It’s probably Photoshopped.” Jill smirked. “Too good to be true.”
“You won’t know until you get there!” She leaned forward to click another page on the website. “Let’s see... there’s a visitors’ page. Horseback riding, shopping, nature hikes, hay rides, and ‘other seasonal activities.’ And look.” She clicked a new link. “Here’s Alfred J. Stout’s mansion, the one he built for his wife. I’d go there first, if I were you. Hey, you might not own the town, but you could claim ownership of the mansion!”
Jill shook her head. “You’ve been watching too many Hallmark movies. Things don’t work that way in real life.” Still, she stared deeper into the photo and saw the pointed gables, the grand front porch, and the manicured lawn, and she imagined herself there...
“And look”—Lindsey pointed to the caption beneath the town’s name—“this is located ‘on the outskirts of Austin.’ A teacher-friend of mine went there last year—Austin has this big social scene, clubs and restaurants, live music, and a huge university. Very metropolitan. You could take a couple of side trips to the city if you got bored.”
“That’s true...” Jill entered Morgan’s Grove in her mind, walking deep inside a mansion that her great-great-great-grandfather had built. She pictured browsing the quaint shops, staying at some cute B&B, riding horses, and driving to Austin on a side trip or two. Plus, the weather in Texas would surely be warmer and milder than Denver, which in itself was incredibly appealing.
And even more, she wondered whether a research trip could be a hiatus from her writer’s block, as Lindsey had suggested, a retreat away from the pressure and madness of forcing herself to invent new characters, creative settings, and fresh storylines. The more Jill seemed to focus on grasping desperately for ideas, the more they flitted further away from her as if they were teasing, playing a game. So maybe she should gain the upper hand again, turn her back deliberately on the Muse for a while, and let her trip to Texas be a much-needed escape.
Suddenly, the seed of an idea had blossomed into a tangible plan. Jill knew she couldn’t resist. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“I’ll help you pack!” Lindsey pushed off the sofa and clapped her hands.
“Now? But I thought I’d wait a couple of days, keep researching online, book a flight and a hotel, check weather reports—”
“I can do all that for you.” Lindsey waved away her friend’s concerns. “No time like the present, right?”
Jill stood to join her roommate and puffed out a nervous sigh. “Looks like I’m going to Texas!”