“And men are chasing us,” Foster added.
“That, too,” he admitted. “But I have a grandpa—my mom’s dad—he’s all that’s left of my family. He lives in Texas and he’s going to be devastated when he finds out what happened.” Tate paused and felt himself deflate as he realized the rest of it. “G-pa’s gonna think I’m dead, too. Oh, god, I just thought of that. Foster, I have to call him.”
“Okay, I get it. But let’s talk about this at the house.”
“I don’t see a house,” Tate said stubbornly.
“I’m pretty sure that’s the point—that you can’t see it from the road. Come on, get in. We’ve come all this way, you might as well see where we were going,” Foster said.
Tate gave a sharp nod and went back to the truck, climbing into the passenger’s side. “I need answers.”
“Tate, so do I. That’s why we’re here. Just trust me a little while longer,” she said as she drove through the gate, which closed silently behind them.
“Do you trust me?” Tate swiveled in the seat to look at her.
She glanced at him briefly and he could see her hesitation, and also see her decide to tell him the truth. “No, I don’t. But don’t take that the wrong way. I’ve only trusted one person in the past five years, and she’s dead.”
“You do seem like the kind of girl who has trust issues,” Tate said.
“That sounds like misogynist bullshit. I’m not a girl with trust issues. I’m a person who has learned through hard life lessons that people suck.”
“I don’t know why you think I should trust you if you won’t trust me,” Tate said.
“It’s simple. I don’t suck.”
Tate snorted, but his attention was pulled from her by the neat farm that appeared at the end of the long entrance drive. There was a big, gray, two-storied house that had a giant wraparound porch sitting back from a much smaller building that reminded Tate of something that could have been a storefront in one of the old John Wayne movies his g-pa liked to watch. Over the top of the store in what looked like freshly painted red letters was the cheery logo: STRAWBERRY FIELDS. Pastures stretched on either side of the driveway, and a barn that matched the house sat near one of them. Behind the house Tate saw several produce-filled fields that ended at a thick line of trees. Just peeking out from around the rear of the house was part of what must be a giant garden. He could also see the edge of something that looked like a chicken coop. Nothing stirred except for the lazy breeze and a bevy of chipmunks that scampered from the little storefront and disappeared into the waving grass.
“It’s pretty. Who lives here?”
When Foster didn’t say anything he looked at her, automatically annoyed at her typical silence, and then he felt like a total turd when he saw tears dripping down her cheeks.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“It says Strawberry Fields.” She smiled through her tears and wiped her cheeks with the dirty sleeve of her shirt.
“Yeah, like I said, it’s pretty. Why are you crying?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay. It’s nothing. You asked who lives here? We do. Come on, let’s go check it out.” Foster slung the satchel over her shoulder and left the truck, heading for the front door of the tidy-looking farmhouse.
“Is this where you lived with Cora?” Tate limped up the front stairs just behind Foster.
“No. I’ve never been to Sauvie Island before. Cora and I used to have a brownstone in Portland—right in the Pearl District.” Tate heard her voice soften with nostalgia. “Man, I loved that place. It had the coolest rooftop ever. Cora and I used to sit up there and gawk at people all the time. There was a game we used to play where we guessed how many dogs we could count walking by. The loser had to do the dishes.”
“Dogs?” Tate asked softly. He was hesitant to say anything. He didn’t want to mess up this version of Foster. She seemed so much nicer than the girl he’d just spent twenty plus hours with in the cab of that truck.
She’d pulled the piece of paper from the leather coin purse again and was punching numbers into the keypad on the front door.
“Yeah, dogs. Portland is majorly dog friendly. We were going to get a dog. I wanted a mastiff. Cora wanted a Scottie. We were arguing about it when everything changed a year ago.”
Foster opened the door and they both stood there, peering inside. Tate immediately thought it was a nice house. Not mansion nice. Not even rich nice. Homey nice, with a big fireplace, comfy couch, a couple of recliners, and even a beanbag chair plopped in front of the big-screen TV. From the front door he could see the dining room table and got a peek into the cheery kitchen painted a happy yellow.
He was just going to ask why they were still on the porch when Foster unfroze and walked into the living room, heading straight to the wide stone fireplace mantel and the row of framed family pictures there. He followed her more slowly, taking in the nice details—there were pretty pictures, mostly of landscapes and city scenes—plus lots of bridges.
A small, choked sound returned his attention to Foster, who had stopped in front of the fireplace. Her hand was lifted toward one of the framed pictures, as if she wanted to touch it, but couldn’t make herself. He knew she was crying, but only because she kept wiping at her face with short, angry swipes, and when he looked at the picture, he understood why.
It was of a younger, smiley-er version of Foster. She was sitting on the stoop of a two-story brownstone town house beside a big black woman Tate had no difficulty recognizing as Cora. Cora had her arm around Foster and was kissing her cheek while Foster cheesed for what was obviously a selfie. Tate scanned the rest of the pictures on the mantel. They were all of Foster and Cora—younger versions of the two of them. The joy that filled their faces reminded Tate of his family, and he felt his own eyes fill with tears.