Fosco nudged her cheek. He purred exuberantly.
Sam took another deep breath. She sat back up. She scratched Fosco’s ears until he’d had enough and jumped down.
She put on her glasses. She picked up her phone. She looked at the email, the name of the file.
Gamma.jpg
If Charlie had been Rusty’s creature, Sam had felt herself entirely Gamma’s own. As a child, Sam had spent so many hours watching her mother, studying her, wanting to be like her—to be interesting, to be smart, to be good, to be right; but after Gamma’s death, whenever Sam tried to summon her mother’s face, she found herself unable to fill in the corresponding expressions—a smile, a look of surprise, a look of puzzlement, of dubiousness, of curiosity, of encouragement, of delight.
Until now.
Sam tapped the file. She watched the image load onto her phone.
She covered her mouth with her hand. She did nothing to stop her tears.
Charlie had found the photograph.
Not the photo, but the mythical photograph from Rusty’s love story.
Sam stared at the image for minutes, for hours, for as long as it took to make her memories become whole.
As Rusty had described, Gamma was standing in a field. The red picnic blanket was on the ground. In the distance, there was an old weather tower; wood, not like the metal tower back home. Gamma’s body was turned toward the camera. Her hands rested on her slim hips. One of her legs, admittedly beautiful, was bent at the knee. She was clearly trying not to give Rusty the satisfaction of laughing at something foolish he had said. An eyebrow was raised. Her white teeth showed. Freckles dotted her pale cheeks. She had a slight dimple in her chin.
Sam could not deny her father’s assessment of the critical moment that had been captured on film. The vivid blue of Gamma’s eyes undoubtedly showed a woman falling in love, but there was something else; a set to her mouth, an awareness of the coming challenges, a willingness to learn, a hope for convention, for children, for family, for a full, useful life.
Sam knew that this was exactly how Gamma would’ve wanted to be remembered: head straight, shoulders back, teeth ground, forever stalking joy.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Kate Elton, my friend and editor, who has been with me since my second book. Also to Victoria Sanders, friend and agent, who has been with me since before the before. Then there’s Team Slaughter, who keep the trains running on time: Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Chris Kepner, Jessica Spivey and the great Oz, Diane Dickensheid. Thanks also to my film agent, Angela Cheng Caplan, friend and advocate.
At William Morrow, much appreciation goes to Liate Stehlik, Dan Mallory, Heidi Richter, and Brian Murray.
There are too many other folks to list at Harper divisions around the world, but thanks especially to the folks in Norway, Denmark, Finland, Sweden, France, Ireland, Italy, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Mexico, with whom I’ve had the honor of spending so much time.
And now I’d like to thank the experts: Dr. David Harper, who patiently answers my medical questions (with illustrations!) so that I sound smarter than I actually am.
On the legal side of things: Alafair Burke, a Stanford Law graduate, a former prosecutor in Portland, a current law professor and also a remarkably gifted author, who despite juggling ten million balls in the air still managed to answer my urgent texts about legal procedure. Thanks also to the following for free legal advice: Aimee Maxwell, Don Samuel, Patricia Friedman, Judge Jan Wheeler and Melanie Reed Williams. You have all made me at once glad I have your numbers and terrified that I will ever need them.
At the GBI, deputy director Scott Dutton was kind enough to walk me through procedure, and as always, deputy director (ret.) Sherry Lange, assistant special agent in charge (ret.) Dona Robinson, and APD sergeant (ret.) Vickye Prattes were enormously helpful. I always feel a tinge of guilt when I write about cops behaving badly because I have the great honor of knowing so many good ones. Thanks to Speaker David Ralston for making the introductions. Director Vernon Keenan, I hope you notice that I always make y’all the good guys.
My pal and fellow author Sara Blaedel helped me with the Danish bits. Brenda Allums and her merry band of coaches helped me calculate times and distances and many other things that I know nothing about.
I’m always grateful to Claire Schoeder for her travel services and friendship. Thanks very much to Gerry Collins and Brian for showing me around Dublin. Anne-Marie Diffley offered a wonderful tour of Dublin Trinity College. Ms. Antonella Fantoni in Florence and Ms. MariaLuisa Sala in Venice made history come alive with their joy and exuberance for these wonderful cities. And also, their joy and exuberance for wine.
My heartfelt thanks to the women who shared their stories and their losses with unflinching character and grace. Jeanenne English spoke with me about TBI. Margaret Graff reluctantly delved back into physics to help me with some passages. Chiara Scaglioni at HarperCollins Italy helped me come up with a fancy wine name. Melissa LaMarche made a generous donation to the Gwinnett Public Library in exchange for having her name appear in this novel. Bill Sessions first mentioned to me the Flannery O’Connor quote that I felt so perfectly captured the dilemma of the accomplished woman. I am sorry I have to thank him posthumously; he was a gifted storyteller and an amazing teacher.
Lewis Fry Richardson’s 1922 Weather Predictions by Numerical Process provided a helpful reference. The forward in the 2007, second edition, written by Peter Lynch, Professor of Meteorology at University College Dublin, gave additional insight into the work. Any mistakes are of course my own.
Last thanks always goes to my daddy, who makes sure I don’t starve and/or freeze to death while I am writing, and to DA, my heart, who always welcomes me back home to the restful piedmonts of Mount Clothey.
This story is for Billie—sometimes, your world turns upside down, and you need somebody to show you how to walk on your hands before you can find your feet again.