“Her name was Jocelyn.”
He stopped laughing. “Jocelyn’s been dead for twenty years.”
“From a drug overdose, I’m told.”
“How did you find me?”
She shrugged. “Everyone leaves a trail.”
He stepped forward, his hand pressed against the doorpost. “What do you want?”
“I want to know—”
“Money?”
“No.” She paused. “I just want to know the truth of what happened to my mother.”
“My wife and I have been married for twenty-five years.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you understand?”
She didn’t have to be a genius at math for those calculations. “Clearly.”
He glanced at the stretch of windows behind him, at the expanse of lake outside, palm trees perfectly framing the view. “The truth is messy.”
“It usually is.”
“Are you Quenby?” he asked.
She nodded. Perhaps Jocelyn had told him about her after all.
“Stay here,” he said, as if she might lift a memento from his house to take with her.
The room beyond the entry was decorated nautically with a wooden ship’s wheel, pictures of sailboats, glass bottles filled with seashells. And a large photograph of Chase Merrill and his wife.
Had Jocelyn known he was married?
She stepped through the propped-open front door into the Merrills’ house. A boat flew by on the lake, hauling a wakeboarder who rode up a ramp, then flipped when he reached the top, landing in perfect form on the other side.
If only they could all ride up the ramps of life, twisting and turning and landing without injury on the other side. But in real life, often the person who was being towed ended up getting dragged underwater.
The boat turned toward the dock behind the house as Chase returned, carrying a dust-coated storage box. He dropped it on the floor and riffled through papers before he pulled out a thin album. “I was with her in the hotel room when she died. I called for the ambulance—”
“Noble of you.”
“This was in her things.” He held the album in his hands. “She wouldn’t have wanted her mother to have it.”
Quenby flinched. “You knew my grandmother?”
“Not personally.” He gave her a curious look. “You don’t know her?”
“No.”
He glanced toward the back windows and then shoved the album at her as if he were handing her an envelope stuffed with cash, exchanging it for her silence. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t know Jocelyn had a daughter until I found this.”
Bitterness bubbled in her throat. “She left me for you.”
He didn’t seem to be fazed by her words. “She was addicted to meth, Quenby. That stuff makes people do crazy things.”
“Who gave her the meth?”
Instead of answering, he glanced toward the windows again, at the woman and two teenagers strolling up the lawn. Then he pointed to the front entrance. “You have to leave.”
She didn’t move. “Who was Jocelyn’s mother?”
“I don’t remember her name.”
She crossed her arms. “I don’t believe you.”
The woman called for Chase from the patio, and he shoved Quenby back outside, the album clutched to her chest.
“The truth might be messy,” she said, “but it tends to come out in the end.”
“It’s not the end for me.”
“For me either,” she replied, but he’d already slammed the door behind her and slid the bolt as if she might burst inside and ruin his life like he had ruined hers.
Instead of moving away from the stoop, she opened the worn album.
There were pages of baby pictures, each one labeled in a flowery script. Quenby’s first steps. Quenby’s first Christmas. Quenby with Mommy and Daddy, riding in a boat on Old Hickory Lake. Then there were pictures of her parents’ wedding and some silly ones after it, at a carnival and a concert.
There weren’t many pictures after Quenby turned four, the year her dad died. On the last page was a picture of a girl waving as she circled around on her elephant. Smiling as if she really could fly.
Through the window, she heard a woman’s voice. “Who was that?”
“A solicitor.”
The woman groaned. “I hate it when people come begging.”
“Me too,” Chase replied.
“Did you give him anything?” the woman asked.
“Of course not.”
“Hopefully he won’t come back again.”
“No,” Chase said. “He’s gone for good.”
Quenby closed the album. Chase Merrill was right. She wouldn’t be knocking on his door again.
The golden turret on Cinderella’s castle blazed like a torch in the setting sunlight, and the realm below smelled like dark chocolate and caramel corn. Hundreds of children crowded Main Street, ice cream dripping from their cones, balloons dipping and soaring. The cheery music overhead and clanging bell of a train welcomed Lucas and Quenby into the kingdom.
But the scene didn’t bring the same joy to Quenby as it did to the kids around her. Instead the magic cut through her heart.