If there is magic on this planet,

it is contained in water.

—Loren Eisely
(left by Kat and Rhee, gal pals on a girlfriend weekend in Cabin 3)

Chapter 11

When I woke in the morning, a solitary loon was singing to the rising sun. In the misty hinterland of sleep-waking, I realized I was baking alive under my pile of quilts, thanks to last night’s load of firewood and the new handy-dandy electric heater, which wouldn’t have to remain a freebie now that Roger had returned my wallet. Throwing off the covers, I peeled my pajamas away from my sweaty skin. Outside the window, the pile of firewood was just visible, and with it came a warm feeling that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. It really was nice of Blaine to bring the firewood and dig up an electric heater for me while we were gone to Ruth’s . . . thoughtful.

Now, did I want to admit that to him, or not?

I pictured him giving me that wickedly confident smile—overconfident, really—those big, boyish eyes twinkling. How many times, while slaving over the high-school-yearbook layout, had I dreamed of those eyes? I gave Blaine the prime spots on every page—in the feature about the guys who had lettered in more than one sport, in the article cataloging debate team awards, on the page with the homecoming court, and the section about the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. He became the poster child on the page listing football stats. I added him and his Hampshire hog to the feature about the county fair, bumping some other kid and some other pig, who had actually won the blue ribbon.

I wondered if Blaine ever noticed that he was the center of yearbook fame that year, if he knew who was behind it, or if he was even aware that the quiet girl in the dark clothes worked on the yearbook. I was only in the journalism class because I had to be somewhere, and it was a good place to hide out. Journalism was during the athletics period. The room was filled with nerds and misfits who didn’t talk to anyone. It was a fairly comfortable way to spend the hour, and I could moon over pictures of all the kids to whom I was invisible. I could fantasize that, because I’d put them in the yearbook, they would suddenly decide to invite me to their secret parties at Blue Moon Bay and ask me to share lab tables in chemistry class.

There was no end to the rock-star status of Blaine Underhill back then. He was always the center of a crowd, cracking jokes and handing out high fives. Too cool for someone like me. Too self-important to even look my way. Could it be that, all that time, he really was a genuinely nice guy, and I was the one with the attitude problem? Had I been largely the cause of my year of Moses Lake High School misery—the big, fat chip on my shoulder and the secrets at home causing me to reject everyone before they could reject me?

Was I still doing it?

Was that why my life was stuck in the same place? Was I really still the girl who lived in the shadows, coming home and locking myself in my room so that I would never again become close to anyone, because people could be gone in a heartbeat? Had I forgotten Richard’s birthday, maintained unusually long lag times between our dates, resisted calling him on nights when I actually could have . . . because I was trying to establish a certain separation? Was it all a subconscious effort to keep my distance, even as I fantasized about engagement rings and told myself I wanted a life with him?

Was I really that big of a coward? That much of a mess?

Sighing, I rested my elbows on my knees and combed a mop of tangles from my face. I felt like my hair looked—twisted up, tied in knots. Either the heat in the cottage or this place, Moses Lake, was making me insane.

The towel and yesterday’s clothes stacked nearby on a wooden chest caught my eye, breaking the morning reverie. It looked harmless enough, an innocent still life of sloppy housekeeping. But through the white terrycloth, Clay’s cell phone flashed lazily, and of course, I knew what else was wrapped in the towel. Evidence. Hints of something terrible.

The reality descended on me, heavy and hard to manage so early in the day, like a death you forget about overnight, and for the first few glorious moments of waking, it doesn’t exist. Then your mind engages, and it hits you like a slap, turning life upside down again.

There was no way I could leave Moses Lake now—not considering what I’d found in Clay’s pockets last night. I had to get to the bottom of things, make sure my brother received whatever help he needed. I’d have to call Mel and let him know I’d walked into a family crisis. I would need a few more days.

Just a few? What if it took longer? I couldn’t imagine hopping a plane and going home without proof that my brother was all right, but part of me wanted to run, to retreat to my own life. Anything could happen with the Itega project next week. Beyond that, the problems here, this issue with Clay, were far beyond the scope of my experience, far beyond my control.

Back home in Seattle, life was structured, manageable. In Seattle, I didn’t wake up freezing, or sweating under a pile of quilts that smelled like old fabric and humidity off the lake. I didn’t find strange things in people’s pockets. My apartment was a peaceful shrine to furniture designed by some of the masters and procured from eBay. There were no dusty corners or leaky windows plugged with wads of Kleenex, or people doing things that were unpredictable, dangerous, impossible to face.

I loved my life in Seattle. I loved my apartment. I’d always loved that apartment. It was modern, clean, spacious, located in a concept building I’d helped design. There were retail stores on the bottom, then two floors of income-assisted apartments designed to help homeless families get back on their feet. From there on up, the higher you went, the nicer the apartments got. I was about three-quarters of the way to the top. Not bad for a girl only thirty-four years old.

My days in Seattle were mine to manage, mine to control, mine to schedule. Here in Moses Lake, the days tacked back and forth with the whimsy of a poorly-rigged catamaran, buffeted by the winds and the water, propelled by forces I could neither anticipate nor direct. This place, my family, made me crazy. Challenged everything I knew about myself.

Crawling to the edge of the bed, I leaned across and reached for Clay’s cell phone. In an hour or so, I could call Mel and try to beg off for a longer stay. Mel was always in a better mood first thing in the morning, before the office came to life. Not a good mood, especially lately, but he was slightly less likely to breathe fire and render me to ashes.

The phone was cool in my hand, chilled by its proximity to the window, where the war of hot and cold air had formed diamond-like patterns of frost on the glass—tiny masterpieces that caught the morning sun in a dazzling array of facets. The surface felt grainy beneath my fingertip, the frost slowly melting, a dewy hole forming.

A memory struck me, old, and misty like the frost. Dad and I were studying the crystals on a windowpane, watching the sun illuminate its intricate designs. I was fascinated by their complexity, their beauty, their geometric structure. That so much detail could be laced into something so small, so insignificant as frost on a windowpane stretched my mind, pulled me toward a belief my father shared that day, in his quiet, unassuming way. The very proof of God’s infinite power was in the details of life—those things we often looked past. His work was everywhere. In people. In nature. In the sensations that traveled through human contact, in the pleasantness of a loved one’s voice.

We sometimes don’t see God because we’re so busy looking for something more complicated than frost on glass, my father had told me that day. If God could put that much effort into something that only lasts a few hours in this world, think about how much He pondered you.

A sigh pressed my throat. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d studied the frost on a windowpane—given it, or God, any real thought. These days, I got up on Easter and Christmas and went to church because it was something I’d always done with my dad. I was afraid he’d be disappointed in me if I didn’t, and showing up at church a few times a year was a way of apologizing for the wretch I’d been before he died.

Last Christmas, Richard and I had even gone to midnight mass at one of the historic churches downtown, but that was about as deep as my thoughts went. Most days I had enough on my mind. I was running on too little sleep and too much caffeine. The rush of daily existence didn’t leave time for contemplating frost. But sitting here in Moses Lake, I felt the lack of connection in my life, the lack of contemplation of something larger. In the years of working for Mel, of trying to earn my stripes under his tutelage, I’d become like Mel. Mel had no life. His wife had left him. His kids never called. He was living in a big house. Alone.

At the very least, I had to be sure that my family was all right before I left Moses Lake. At the very most, I might find some of what was missing inside me. A connection. But how could I explain that to Mel? Spirituality and emotion meant nothing to him. Family was not a permissible excuse for lack of work performance. A day or two extension of this trip was bad enough, but a potentially open-ended leave to see to the care of a brother who might be struggling with a drug problem? There was no way.

If I wanted to keep my career intact, I had to find a solution to my family issues—and quickly. The real estate papers that had been so important a day ago hardly seemed to matter now. That issue paled in comparison to my little brother’s future.

Setting the phone back on the windowsill, I decided to opt for a detailed email later that morning. I exhaled a warm breath to create a fog on the glass, drew a little heart in it with my fingertip. Somehow everything would work out. It had to work out. . . .

Please, God, show me how all of this works out . . .

A movement on the porch pulled me close to the glass again. Barely visible in the bottom corner of the window, a blond tail lay curled over a rubbery black nose.

Roger was sleeping on my doormat?

The chill of morning slipped over my legs as I found my slippers and crossed the cottage to the other side, to look out the kitchen window toward the house. It was awfully cold last night; not very nice of Clay to leave his dog outside.

Rolling my eyes, I went to the front door, opened it, and surprised Roger, causing him to scramble on the icy decking. The tips of his fur were covered with frost, and miniature icicles clung to the ends of his whiskers.

“What are you doing out here?” I whispered.

With a soulful look my way, Roger walked past me into the cottage like he owned the place.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I muttered as Clay’s dog proceeded to investigate the living room, his tail sweeping and swatting various pieces of furniture, stirring up dust moats.

“Where’s Clay?”

Roger paused to look at me again, both brows lifting, as in, Search me?

Crossing the room to the cabinet filled with free promotional mugs and treasures from estate sales, I took down a ’40s-era jelly glass with yellow flowers and a picket fence painted on it. It reminded me of my grandmother. She’d had an entire collection in the house at the farm. I loved to look at the various designs. Grandma was, in general, particular about her things, but she always let me select my own glass, even the ones from her good china. She was trying to build a rapport with me, I understood now, but in general, I resisted her offers to teach me how to crochet or can pickles or bake nut bread. I’d heard countless arguments between my parents about visits to that house with that woman. I knew I wasn’t supposed to like it there.

Filling the jelly glass with water, I poured some in a bowl and put it down for Roger, and he drank like he was dying of thirst. Either his water dish at the house was empty again, or it was frozen over. Poor thing. Maybe even he didn’t feel like traversing the frozen mud at the edge of the lake to get a drink. I was tempted to take Roger’s water dish, march it into the big house, and put it in bed with Clay. If he was going to be out until all hours of the night, the least he could do was to make sure someone looked out for Roger. . . .

Headlights pressed through the murky fog on the driveway, slowly growing brighter in the mist. I watched as they drifted closer, cutting the fog, disappearing into the low area where the driveway crossed a small watershed, then appearing again. Who would be visiting so early? Grabbing a dish towel, I wiped the condensation from the window and leaned close to gain a view of the parking area beside the house, where the family cars were kept. The approaching vehicle looked like Amy’s, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. I watched as the passenger door opened, and Clay climbed out. He stood talking a moment, his hand on the doorframe, then he leaned in one more time, like he was going for a good-bye kiss before closing the door.

A blush traveled down my neck. I felt like a voyeur.

He stood in the driveway watching as the car made the loop and retreated into the fog, then he tiptoed toward the house and, of all things, stole down the cellar stairs like some sort of miscreant. I wanted to go up there, catch him sneaking in, and smack him. Twenty-seven, and he was staying out all night, then slipping through the cellar door? How involved were he and Amy, anyway? Did she have any idea that he had ziplock bags and unmarked vials hidden in his pockets?

Another possibility entered my logic stream, and the data byte was disturbing in a new way. How could she not know, if she and Clay were spending this much time together? What if it was okay with her? Surely, whatever he was into, they weren’t into together. She didn’t seem the type. She had a job, a decent car. For a girl barely out of high school, she seemed fairly stable, living somewhere in that hinterland between childhood and adulthood, still in her parents’ house, doing what people from Gnadenfeld did if they weren’t headed to college—working for Proxica, where there was decent pay and health insurance. How did Amy’s parents feel about her staying out all night with a guy who was eight or nine years older and worldly, in comparison to her?

Theories buzzed in my head, landing just long enough for me to swish them away and dismiss them. It couldn’t be true—but there was only one way to know for sure. Clay, and probably my mother, held the answers to these questions, and I needed those answers. I had to know what I was dealing with. If Clay did have a substance-related problem—it was hard to even think those words in conjunction with my brother—I couldn’t leave him with my mother. Her friends smoked weed in the name of inspiration, and she seemed to have no problem with that. There were good treatment facilities around Seattle. I could take Clay home with me and work with him to find the right kind of program. If he did need help, Moses Lake, a teenage girlfriend, and my mother weren’t the solution.

The issues tumbled in my mind as I showered, dressed in jeans and one of my new Moses Lake sweatshirts, and mentally prepared for a trip up the hill and a conversation about Clay’s issues. Roger was scratching and whining in the entryway, ready to be let out as I took one last look at the towel with the vials wrapped inside, then grabbed my coat, tucked Clay’s cell phone and wallet into a pocket, and proceeded to the front door.

My wristwatch caught a thread on the coat, hemming me in momentarily as I attempted to knee Roger out of the way and work my arm loose at the same time. “Roger, quit.” For whatever reason, he was determined to dig his way out rather than moving, and finally the sacrifice of a few threads or the wristwatch seemed worth it in order to grab the collar and manhandle the dog. “Move out of the . . . Come . . . on . . .”

The moment the gap was wide enough, Roger lurched forward, taking the collar and my fingers with him. We staggered out the door in a tangle, each growling for different reasons, and the door slammed shut behind us. Canine momentum carried us halfway down the porch before I found my feet and brought the situation under control. Roger, intent on something near the corner of the cottage, continued straining as I leaned over, catching a glimpse of the dull, wintery shadow of a crape myrtle tree shifting and the branches snapping against the house, as if someone had just brushed by. Fine hairs rose on my skin, and I felt a prickle that had nothing to do with the cold. Just like last night, I had the feeling that someone was nearby.

“Clay?” I whispered. Maybe he’d seen me in the window and realized I’d noticed him coming home in the early morning hours.

No answer. Roger sniffed the air, his throat rumbling.

“Is someone there?” Pulling Roger along, I crept across the porch and down the steps. I couldn’t see anyone in the yard, along the shore, or near the barn. Nothing out there but the quiet morning shadows and the waters of Moses Lake, blue-gray in this light, lapping at a ribbon of ice along the shore. A flock of mallards circled, honking and chattering, in search of a landing place.

Roger stopped growling and turned his attention to the birds, yapping and wagging his tail. The minute I let go of his collar, he was gone, and I wrapped my coat closed, hustling up the hill, my breath coming in quick, smoky bursts. The lights were on in the kitchen, and the scent of coffee bid a cheery hello, dispelling the sense of uneasiness that had come over me at the cottage.

Mom was on the sun porch, wrapped in a quilt, watching the lake and sipping her morning coffee while reading a copy of Charlotte Brontë’s Villette.

“Oh, you’re up,” she observed, like she wasn’t entirely thrilled about it. “There’s coffee in the pot.”

“I’ll grab some in a minute.” Leaning against the doorway, I glanced over my shoulder, making sure no one was sharing space with us. This was probably as good a time as any to feel Mother out about Clay and drugs. I had to be subtle. If I just bluntly asked, she’d jump to his defense and if she did know what was going on with him, she’d feel like she was doing him a service by hiding it from me. Clay had been gone on the earthquake relief mission for weeks before she’d even admitted to me that he’d left, and that was only because I’d gotten an email newsletter, soliciting donations. The notice had Clay’s email address on it, and he was pictured with the crew, helping to convert shipping containers into emergency housing. Mom hadn’t told me, because she knew that I’d complain about his taking another detour from law school and hocking the last car she bought him.

“Where is everyone this morning?” That seemed like a suitably innocuous opening line.

She shifted the half-moon-shaped reading glasses lower on her nose, so as to get a better look at me. “Haven’t seen the uncs, but you know they usually get up and head straight to the Waterbird to drink coffee and do political commentary with the docksiders. They could be gone already. I’m not sure where Clay is—still in bed, I suppose. Guess he and Amy made a late night of it.”

So late that he just got home, I thought, but I didn’t say it. One issue at a time. “Amy seems sweet.”

“Yes, very.” Mom took another sip of coffee, eyeing me with obvious reserve. She was wondering where this conversation was headed.

“Is it serious—this thing between Clay and Amy?”

Mom’s head tipped to one side. “A little, I think. Why?”

I shrugged and reached across the doorframe to brush a smudge of dirt, but it didn’t come off. “I don’t know. I just wondered how Clay could be so close to someone in Moses Lake. I mean, he just got back from South America a couple of months ago.”

“They knew each other back when Clay was in school here. Her brother was in Clay’s class. Clay remembers going over to their house a few times.” She acted as if that explained everything. Of course Clay and Amy could be dating seriously—they were playmates when Clay was in elementary school and Amy was barely out of diapers.

I found myself searching for the path from dating Amy to, So . . . does my little brother have a drug problem? Unfortunately, my mother was an astute woman. She understood language. She’d spent a lifetime dissecting it, manipulating it, analyzing the fine points of character motivation. I reminded myself to watch my body language, so as not to tip her off. Thank goodness for those Dale Carnegie classes. “You don’t think it seems a little odd . . .?” That they’re out all night, and he’s ditching Roger for her?

She shrugged. “I think it’s fine. Your father and I met one month and ran away to get married the next. It wasn’t anywhere in my plans or his. It just happened.”

And look how that turned out. I drew back at the thought, and she must have seen it, because she stiffened, her lips pursing. She pulled her glasses off and set them in her lap. “People fall in love, Heather. Sometimes at first sight, even.”

I blinked hard. I couldn’t help it. Now, on top of encouraging Clay to give up law school for frying catfish, Mom was in favor of my little brother falling into a relationship with a girl he barely knew? “So you think it’s, like, love at first sight?”

Mom licked her lips, and I could feel a debate coming on. Her eyes brightened and sharpened, like a cat’s when it spots a tempting movement in the grass and it’s contemplating a little sport. “Don’t you believe in love at first sight, Heather?” My mother had the most annoying habit of answering a question with a larger question—broadening a simple, concrete discussion into the sort of nebulous, intellectual debate she and her crowd lived for. This topic was obtuse, even for her.

“What does it matter what I believe? We were talking about Clay.”

Mom watched me with a closed-lipped smile that conveyed anything but pleasure. “There’s someone for everyone, right? Maybe she’s his someone. Isn’t that the way it is with you and Richard?”

My stomach dropped through my shoes. I swallowed hard, an uncomfortable, tingly feeling in the back of my nose. Did she know about Richard and me? Had she said that just to land a blow, to shut me up?

“Is Clay all right?” I blurted out.

Mom jerked back, her chin tucking in. For just a flicker of an instant, I saw a crack in the calm façade, a hint that there was more going on here. My mind once again spun the scenario in which Clay, under pressure in college and impulsive by nature, had experimented with drugs, then perhaps broadened a habit in some third-world country where the hard stuff was easy to get. Was that really it? Was she convinced that she could fix the situation by moving to Moses Lake, by letting him take over the restaurant and the canoe and cabin business?

She crossed her arms, the copy of Villette sliding off her knee and landing soundlessly in the chair. “I’ve never seen your brother more centered. It’s you I worry about, really. You seem so uptight, Heather. So . . . unhappy.”

Maybe that’s because everything is upside down and backward and nothing makes sense, and no one will tell me the truth. “Does Clay have a drug problem?”

I’d done it. I’d gone too far, spilled the beans.

Her reaction was exactly what I expected. She blinked at me like I was the crazy one, then gave a sardonic little laugh. “Really, Heather. That’s going too far. Why would you even say that?”

I bit my tongue, knowing better than to tip my hand again. I’d revealed too much, but something in her reaction told me I’d struck a nerve, scratched close to whatever they were keeping hidden.

She masked any initial shock with a sympathetic, slightly sad look. “I know you have some rivalry issues toward your brother, but honestly, why not just be happy for him? Not everything in life is a competition, Heather. Not everything is a race. There’s something to be said for learning to just . . . be.”

I swallowed hard, pinched my lips between my teeth, felt my eyes bulging with the pressure of the things I was biting back. Me? Competitive toward Clay? Puh-lease! In what way, and for what reason? “I’m worried about him—that’s all.”

A hand swat dismissed the notion. “Don’t be. Your brother is fine. Everything’s fine. Just because things aren’t happening according to your plan does not mean anything’s wrong. Perhaps the rest of us are entitled to want something completely different. Perhaps, Heather, you should leave the ruling of the universe to bigger hands than your own.”

I didn’t bother to delve into the meaning of that sentence. There was no point. My mother was just spinning words that were, like much of her poetry, intended for shock value. My only choice was to retreat, sufficiently burned, and leave her to Brontë.

Passing through the family rooms, I found my brother sacked out on an antique brocade parlor settee, his head and shoulders askew against a pile of needlepoint pillows Aunt Esther had probably purchased at various church bazaars. A trail of drying mud-and-grass footprints led across the room from the cellar door. The path ended at Clay’s feet, which were hanging off the sofa, as if he’d sat down to take off his shoes and simply crashed. I stood over him, watching him breathe. His nose and cheeks were still red from the cold. A piece of a dead oak leaf had tangled near his ear, its brown color slightly darker than the sandy strands around it. His hands were dirty, grime pressed under the fingernails, and the cuffs of his pants hung wet and sloppy over his shoes.

I tried to imagine where he’d been. Maybe he and Amy went parking in the woods? Back in high school, that was what local kids did. They knew all the out-of-the-way spots at the Ice Hole, Seven Springs, and Blue Moon Bay, where they could hang out and party without getting nabbed by the sheriff’s department, rangers from the state park, or the local game wardens. Wasn’t Clay a little old for that? Then again, he was dating a girl who was not far out of high school.

“Oh, Clay.” I sighed, trying to see through him, to understand what was going on. Finally, I leaned over and shook his shoulder, attempted to rouse him, but I knew it was probably an exercise in futility. Once Clay fell asleep, a freight train could speed through the room, and he wouldn’t notice. He only moaned and pulled away, his head falling off the pillows. Finally, it seemed hopeless to do anything more than cover him with a lap quilt and move on. Uncle Charley passed through the room just as I was about to walk away.

“Looks like he didn’t make it to the bed last night.” Uncle Charley jingled a set of keys in his hand.

“Guess not.” I didn’t have the heart to point out that Clay had come in only a short time ago. Apparently, Uncle Charley hadn’t noticed the damp shoes or the tracks on the floor.

“I’m headed down to the Waterbird.” He thumbed over his shoulder in the general direction of the driveway. “You could come along and class up the joint.”

I was tempted for a minute. Morning banter with the docksiders and a funny story or two seemed like just what I needed. Maybe I’d run into Blaine there. . . .

The thought was appealing in some way I was afraid to analyze, especially first thing in the morning, not yet into an initial cup of coffee. “I’d better not.” In terms of what I needed to take care of in Moses Lake, I would accomplish nothing by hanging out at the Waterbird. “I’m supposed to go see Ruth for lunch. By the way, can I borrow one of the cars this afternoon?”

Uncle Charley nodded, patting me on the shoulder. “Sure, help yerself to whatever’s out there. The keys are on the pegboard by the washin’ machine, where Herb always keeps ’em.” He thumbed in the general direction of the kitchen. “I’m glad you’re gonna see Ruth. She can use the company. All the young folks are out working the dairy during the day or in school—or runnin’ around after the chickens, like little Mary and Emily. As you get old, you sit by yourself too much, seems like.”

The words had an unusually somber quality, and I realized something I hadn’t before: Uncle Charley was lonely, despite all of his connections to the community in Moses Lake. He had no kids of his own, his wife was gone, and the nieces and nephews he’d helped to raise were living far away now. Clay, my mother, and I weren’t much of a substitute. Clay did his own thing, Mom kept her nose in a book, and I was only in town for a few days.

I couldn’t come up with the right thing to say, so I changed the subject. “Listen, Ruth asked me to look for some sketches of hers. She didn’t want them to end up in the estate sale, I think.”

Uncle Charley chuckled. “Oh mercy, if you find any of her pictures around here, don’t tell Herb you’re takin’ them back to her. Ruth used to draw them things and then put them in the trash. Herb would fish ’em out and hide ’em away. You know that Herb can’t stand to see anything good thrown out. One of the few fights I ever saw the two of them have was over those sketches. I don’t know why Ruth didn’t just take them home to throw away, but Mennonite folk can be kind of funny about pastimes like art. The older, stricter folks don’t always approve. Guess maybe that’s why she did her sketchin’ here, and why she was a little embarrassed about it. Anyway, if there’s any of her drawings still around, Herb would’ve tucked them away someplace where Ruth wouldn’t know. You’ll just have to look around.”

We said good-bye then, and he headed for the Waterbird. I made a cup of coffee for myself and began canvassing the house. Since I didn’t want to go into the basement, particularly not first thing in the morning, with the light still dim, I concentrated on closets and bedrooms and did my best to ignore the creaks and moans of the old house. Footsteps passed by in the hall as I searched bedrooms. I assured myself that it was the floor joists creaking as the morning warmed.

In a quilt trunk in the bedroom where my mother was staying, I found a sketch pad. The cover lay crinkled with age and had been snacked on by a mouse, who quite fortunately was no longer present. An odd feeling settled over me as I slipped the pad from its hiding place, closed the lid of the trunk and sat on it, and then ran a finger along the edge of the pages. Only a few remained, just a sheet or two of paper tucked between the covers. If Ruth’s sketches were private enough that she wanted to make sure they weren’t left in the house, maybe I shouldn’t be looking.

But I couldn’t help it. I lifted the cover anyway.

The first page was blank, a faint image in charcoal having bled through from the page behind it, the ghost of a stranger, the hint of body.

I lifted the sheet, watched it flip over, saw the face of a young woman. She’d been captured, frozen in a moment in time, her eyes filled with life, her dark hair swirling around her waist in loose waves. She’d turned to look over her shoulder, as if someone had surprised her from behind. A friend or a lover.

Her essence had been preserved in charcoal, in confident strokes of gray.

Her floral print dress and her eyes were blue. Pastel.

I watched her, tried to imagine the moment Ruth had recorded. Who was the woman? Her dress was vintage, perhaps from the forties, but form-fitting and stylish—not Mennonite garb by any means. The barest hint of a smile played on her lips, as if she were toying with someone.

I wondered what secrets she’d been keeping all these years as she lay in the quilt trunk.

In this house, everyone had secrets.