minute, she’s home.
Then the car turns a corner, and the river’s gone again. Something heavy and sad settles over me. I lean my head against the seat, and the worker tells me to stop; I’m smashing my hair bow.
In my lap, Gabion falls asleep, and I cuddle him close and let his hair tickle my chin, and I’m back home again anyway. These people can control everything about me, but they can’t control where I go in my mind.
But my visit to the Arcadia is too short. Pretty soon, we pull up to a tall white house that’s even bigger than Mrs. Murphy’s.
“Anyone who does not behave will be very sorry,” the worker says, and points a finger in our faces before letting us out of the car. “Be friendly with the guests at the party. Sit in their laps if they ask you to. Smile. Show them that you are good children.”
We go inside, and the house is filled with people. Other kids are there too, and babies. Everyone is dressed in pretty clothes, and we have cakes and cookies to eat. There are toys for the little kids, and before I know it, Fern and Gabion and even Lark wander away from me.
A man takes Gabion outside to play with a blue ball. A dark-haired woman sits with Lark, and they color in a picture book together. Fern laughs and plays peekaboo with a pretty blond-headed lady who sits off in a chair by herself looking tired and sad. Fern makes her laugh, and pretty soon, the lady is carrying my sister from toy to toy, like Fern can’t walk for herself.
They finally cuddle into a chair to read a book, and my heart squeezes. I think about Queenie and how she used to read to us. I want the woman to let go of Fern, to give her back.
A man comes into the room and tickles Fern on the belly, and the woman smiles and says, “Oh, Darren, she’s perfect! Amelia would have been this age.” She pats the chair arm. “Sit and read the book with us.”
“You go ahead.” He kisses her on the cheek. “I have some people to talk to.” Then he leaves the room.
Fern and the woman are on their second book when the man comes back. They’re so busy, they don’t even notice that he sits down next to me on the sofa. “Are you sisters?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I answer just like I’ve been told to. Ma’am and sir to everything.
Leaning away, he takes a good look at me. “You do favor one another.”
“Yes, sir.” I stare down at my hands. My heart speeds up, bumping around my chest like a wren caught in the shanty house. What does he want?
The man lays a hand on my back. My shoulder blades fold around it. Little hairs tug at the bottom of my neck. Sweat drips under my scratchy dress.
“And how old,” the man asks, “are you?”
CHAPTER 13
Avery
The cottage is quiet and filled with moonlight as I swing open the door. I fumble for the light switch and brace my cellphone against my shoulder as I wait for my Uncle Clifford to answer the question I’ve just asked. He’s put me on hold while he orders food at a drive-through window.
I’m consumed by the strongest memory of arriving here after dark for a visit, just my grandmother and me. The cottage was exactly like this, moon spears fanning over the floor in the shape of palmetto fronds, the air smelling of salt water, and sandy carpets, and lemon oil, and furniture that has lived long by the sea.
I wiggle my fingers. I can almost feel her hand wrapped around mine. I must’ve been about eleven or twelve—that awkward age when I’d quit holding her hand in public, but here in our magic place, it was okay.
Standing in the entry now, I reach for that sense of comfort, but this visit is pungent with opposing tastes. Bitter and sweet. Familiar and strange. The tastes of life.
Uncle Clifford comes back on the line. After a long walk along the beach and supper at the Waterfront Restaurant, I’ve decided that my uncle might be the only means of making progress in my quest, for now. Trent Turner ditched me by taking off in a jeep with the guy in the uniform. I waited around in my car, but the Turner Real Estate office remained closed all afternoon.
So far, this trip is looking like a bust.
“What