new motivations behind everything her parents did. Had they been in love, or was her father a convenience? Had he fallen in love at first sight with her beautiful mother, and Delilah had taken advantage of him?
She remembered a particular day when they’d gone fishing, all three of them. Her parents had laughed with each other. Her father had put her up on his shoulders when they walked, helped her bait the hook, looked at her with pride when she caught a tiny fish. It was hard to tell if her mother had been having a good time or simply throwing pebbles into the stream to read signs in the ripples, something Emily knew Delilah believed in.
She began to realize that her questions would drive her crazy if she didn’t do something about them. The box of diaries and yearbooks seemed to be shouting at her each time she stepped into her room, so on her last night at the boardinghouse, she gave in and opened it up before going to bed. She sat cross-legged on the mattress in her old nightshirt and pulled out the diaries first. To both her relief and disappointment, they were from her mother’s middle-school years. No secrets to be found. And she would hardly need to research the names of boys Delilah had a crush on at thirteen.
The yearbooks from the late seventies and early eighties weren’t that much more informative—no hearts drawn around a certain boy’s photo, no declarations of love. But that wouldn’t have been her mother’s style. When Emily had once whined about finding nothing to do in high school, her mother had actually confessed she found one club she enjoyed—the 4-H club. That had made Emily giggle, for she was a child of the city, and she hadn’t been able to imagine her mom on a farm. It was easier to imagine now, for her mom had grown up right next door to a working ranch. And though Delilah had the Wiccan appreciation of nature, loving anything to do with meadows and streams and forests, she’d chosen San Francisco to raise her daughter, a contradiction Emily had never asked about.
She paged through the yearbook until she found an outdoor picture of the 4-H club members. Her mom was prominent, with her long curly hair blowing across her cheek, her eyes luminous and mysterious as she looked into the camera. Emily stared into that face and felt the same old frustration and sadness and the terrible yearning of a child wanting to be loved by her mother.
She took a deep breath and turned the page. She began to read the lines scrawled by Delilah’s friends. One girl’s name was repeated all four years, with more than one mention of “best friends.” Cathy Lombardi. Perhaps she still lived in Valentine Valley. Emily had never heard her mother mention the name, so she doubted they’d remained friends. Delilah’s San Francisco friends were all women who frequented her store, who believed in the goddess, like she did.
By morning, Emily had decided to go talk to Cathy. She knew if she left town and never returned, her mother’s secrets would haunt her. She had to know the truth about her real father, even if she didn’t act on it.
When she returned from her morning run, she whipped up a special breakfast for the widows, scrambled eggs and a selection of her favorite breads and coffee cake, some of which she’d baked the previous night.
Mrs. Thalberg was the first to enter the kitchen, and she paused on the threshold to shake her head. “I knew this day was coming. You’re moving into the apartment.”
Emily gave her a hug. “I am. I hope you don’t mind.”
Mrs. Thalberg sighed. “Renée warned me that you were almost ready, so I can’t say it’s a surprise.”
“You’ll come visit me, won’t you? Although believe me, it’s very bare bones. Nothing as wonderful as the Widows’ Boardinghouse.”
“Then why don’t you stay?” The old woman seemed to search her face.
Emily hesitated. “I’m thirty years old, and I’ve never lived on my own. I went from my mom’s house to sharing a dorm, to getting married. The couple months since my divorce don’t really count. I think it’s time I give it a real try.”
Mrs. Palmer bustled around them into the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Ludlow, taking her time with her walker.
“Sounds like the perfect reason,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Rosemary, even you can’t dispute such common sense.”