delicate petals were so detailed they looked almost lifelike. Rich thick green stems wound down the side of the page and were bound at their base by a wide strand of blue ribbon tied into a bow. Beside the picture was a quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers.
“Hey, what’s that?” Sierra climbed the steps to the porch.
“Elaine sent me Olivia’s first gardening journal.”
“Why?”
“Family history. Olivia was Elaine’s grandmother. She suffered several miscarriages and was a key player in my adoption.”
“Oh.”
“I suppose, in a way, we are kindred spirits,” Libby said. “Though if my granddaughter had a baby, I would like to believe I would do anything to help her keep it.”
Sierra leaned over Libby’s shoulder and studied the page. “She was a fantastic artist.”
“She was.” Libby retrieved the black-and-white pictures. “Check out the first one. They’re standing in front of your mercantile store.”
Sierra studied the image closely. “Wow. Time goes so fast.” She flipped the picture over and read the caption. “Wow. Olivia knew Sadie Thompson.”
“Who was Sadie Thompson?”
“Supposedly a real wild child,” Sierra said. “She ran moonshine with her father and brothers and at one point ran a man down right in front of the store with her truck. I think there are folk songs written about her.”
“Who did she hit?”
“That I don’t remember, but I can ask Mom.”
Libby looked at Sadie’s solemn face, drawn to her moody gaze, which felt vaguely familiar. “What happened to her?”
“She vanished,” Sierra said. “Sheriff came to arrest her but couldn’t find her anywhere. There was a big manhunt, but she never was found. Legend has it that her ghost still haunts the woods near Mrs. Carter’s.”
“Her ghost? Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because it’s not true. It’s just a story.”
“What’s the story?”
Sierra shrugged. “They say if you drink corn liquor on a moonless night on the Woodmont property, you’ll see her.”
A ghost would have explained the odd sensations she had felt in the greenhouse the other morning. But so would her imagination and nerves. “Oh, I bet your mind can conjure up all kinds of things if you drink corn liquor in the woods. All late at night.”
Sierra laughed. “No comment.”
She studied Sadie’s small bow-shaped face. “I hope your mom can shed more light on this girl.”
“We’ll see. Have you and Elaine spoken since Monday?”
“No. I guess this is her way of keeping in touch without irritating Lofton.”
“The infamous Lofton. Spoiled and drives too fast in town. Let me guess, she’s not happy about having a big sister.”
“No. She looks at me as if she thinks I’m going to take all her mother’s money or love or both.”
“Twit.”
Libby smiled. “I guess I can’t blame her. I came out of nowhere, and it has to be a shock.”
“You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Agreed. But neither did she.”
“I see the journal as a great sign. Elaine wants to stay connected despite Lofton’s reservations.”
“I suppose,” Libby said.
“Did Elaine answer all your questions? I remember you always had a list of questions for your birth mother.”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask very many. I was just a little overwhelmed.”
Sierra traced the shape of a purple iris drawn on the corner of a page. “She sent you this for a reason, Libby.”
“Why not just tell me what I need to know? Why hide behind letters and journals?”
“Are we talking about Elaine or your father now?” Sierra asked softly.
“Right now? My dad tops my shit list. Why couldn’t he just tell me?”
“He was afraid he would lose you. He already lost a wife.”
Libby released an exasperated sigh. “Why would I turn away from him over something like this?”
Sierra knitted her fingers together and then pulled them apart. “Logic and emotion rarely speak the same language.”
“He knew I loved him.”
Sierra tipped her head back against the rocker and stared toward the blue sky. “Once you’ve been hurt badly, it’s hard to open yourself again. Although not well, your mother essentially left him.”
“How did you get so smart?”
Sierra rubbed her finger along the edge of her jaw. “Sadly, the hard way.”
“But you’ve done a good job of moving on.”
“That’s the thing; I’m staying busy, but I haven’t moved on. I’m stuck in this whirlpool of activity, treading water as fast as I can to keep from being pulled under. Your dad might have been that way after your mother’s death.”
“I thought you were thriving.”
“I’m surviving.” Sierra drew in a breath and rolled her shoulders, as if shrugging off a weight