a profession of faith. Her mother had tried to be supportive, in a detached sort of way, but it was obvious she had abdicated the role of spiritual leader to Grandpa Buck. The days of the family going to church together had long passed. It was just Abby and her grandfather now.
Abby looked up and down Main Street. It was alive. Breathing. As if it had a heartbeat of its own. Magnificent shade trees lined the sidewalk on either side, branches intermingling overhead to form a green basket weave so thick that only glints of sunlight filtered through. On both sides of the busy boulevard stood a row of quaint two-story buildings, some brick and some natural stone, many with modern facades and creative signs designed to draw tourists.
She spotted Mrs. Sanchez, last year’s Spanish teacher, across the street at Rocky Springs Park, pushing a baby carriage, flanked by two black-haired girls in pink dresses. Funny how seldom Abby thought of her teachers having a personal life.
Near a mossy rock wall, just inside the park entrance, about a dozen men and women stood in line, holding empty containers, waiting for their turn to fill up with pure spring water.
An African-American couple sat together on a park bench facing the carousel, with their three little boys, who were eating blue cotton candy.
Nearby, two pesky grackles played tug-of-war with a wrapper of some kind, seemingly oblivious to a pair of teenaged skateboarders who zoomed past.
A young woman and a blond, curly-haired boy, each carrying a rolled-up towel, turned into the park and walked in the direction of the public swimming pool. And coming from the opposite direction was Mr. Chang, proudly riding his power chair and throwing out seed for the pigeons.
Abby had no agenda, other than not letting yesterday’s grim anniversary steal another day. She stuck her cell phone in the pocket of her sundress, hoping Jay would call and suggest they do something fun and adventurous. A sudden hankering for cookie-dough ice cream prodded her up Main Street toward Sweet Stuff.
Tourists moved in all directions, cameras strapped around their necks. Angel View Lodge was just minutes away, but it was like another world down here.
As Abby passed Murchison’s Feed Store, she spotted a girl sitting on the bench next to the wooden Indian chief out front. The child appeared to be about six or seven. Braided dark hair and almond-shaped eyes.
Abby’s heart nearly stopped.
The child was the spitting image of Riley Jo—only older. The little girl smiled shyly and waved. Without even thinking, Abby took her phone out of her pocket and snapped a picture. And then another. Her pulse surged.
She stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, people squeezing past her, grumbling for her to move. But she couldn’t move. She could barely breathe.
Abby kept her gaze fixed on the little girl, who smiled at her again. Was it possible? Could it be?
The door to the feed store opened, and a fortysomething man with a mousy beard, dressed in overalls and a sleeveless T-shirt, came outside and grabbed the girl by the arm, swatted her behind, then pulled her inside.
Abby turned and walked briskly to her car, her heart racing. Shouldn’t she have tried to get a closer look at the girl? Find out who the man was? Ask some questions? This was too important to dismiss without knowing more. Maybe they were still there.
She turned around and hurried back to Murchison’s, pushed open the glass door, and breezed up and down every aisle—and then did it again. No sign of the little girl or the man.
Abby went outside and looked in both directions on Main Street. How far could they have gone so quickly?
She stepped off the curb and jogged over to the park, moving her gaze from person to person. They weren’t there. She made her way up the block, looking in shops and eating places on both sides of Main Street. Finally she gave up and went back to her car and sat.
She took out her phone and looked at the two pictures she had taken. Only one had turned out, and she enlarged it to see what color the girl’s eyes were. Blue! Abby felt chill bumps on her arms. The resemblance was uncanny.
Abby burst into the log house and shouted for her mother.
Hawk came out of the kitchen. “What’s your problem?”
“Where’s Mama?”
“Over at the office.”
Abby turned and rushed out of the house, down the porch steps, and across the street. She raced over