by Debbie Burns
Carter dragged the palm of his hand over his chin. Myra could see the blood draining from his face. Of course, he’d not been prepared for this. He came here wanting to unearth some family history, and here she was entrenching him in the present. “Sure. Anything, Myra.”
“I suggest you be careful with your promises, young man. What if I’m a kook and ask you to marry that girl and give Zoe the father she’s been longing for?”
Carter’s eyes widened in alarm until Myra chuckled.
“I said what if…”
He huffed at her humor. “Anything within reason, then.”
“Would it be within reason if I told you I intend to leave everything I have to those two girls of mine? My own children have already been given their share of their father’s money. And while I love them dearly, I gave them life, and now they’re living it. They don’t love this house any longer. Not the way Josie does. I want this house to be hers when I pass from this earth.”
Carter shook his head. “Myra, I’m no lawyer. Whatever it is you’re thinking, I probably can’t be any real help to you.”
“I have a lawyer. What I need is a writer. I have things left to say. Only, when I think of saying them, the words get lost. I want my children to know I love them. I don’t want them to begrudge Josie and Zoe. I want them to bring my grandchildren to Galena to vacation in summer, and I want it to be under this roof. And I want them never to question Josie’s authority to run the tea garden or to own this place.” Myra stopped short, finding herself impossibly close to tears.
“You want me to write for you? Your stories?”
“Yes. I want you to write what’s in my heart, even when it won’t rise to my lips.”
“I’m a journalist, Myra. I know a few people back home who’d be better suited for that. You could offer them the room you’ve given me, and I bet they’d be happy to spend a week or two here.”
Averting his gaze, Myra smoothed out the front of her blouse. “Young man, you have no idea how perfectly suited you are.”
Chapter 6
The clock on the windowsill ticked persistently in the darkness. Josie swayed her head to the rhythm, struggling to stay awake. She scooted closer to her brother and counted out the seconds, losing track as they ticked into minutes. From outside their locked door, the muffled ranting of her mother reached her ears.
After a countless string of minutes, the ranting ceased, and silence filled their small apartment. Feeling a swell of bravery, ten-year-old Josie shook her brother awake.
“Sam, wake up. I think she’s asleep.”
Their shared bed was nothing more than a mattress on the floor. Josie’s year-younger brother moaned in protest and curled deeper into the blanket. A mass of wavy brown hair was the only thing that stuck out.
“We can’t stay here tonight. Wake up. We need to leave.”
When their mother got like this, there was no telling how bad things would get. Josie brushed the tips of her fingers over her brother’s cheek. It was still warm where her mom had slapped him, and her long nails had gouged two short scratches in his flesh.
Just yesterday Josie and Sam and their mom had spent the whole afternoon in the living room, turning it into a castle of blankets and sheets held up by chairs and locked into place by windows and tied onto doorknobs. They’d eaten leftover Taco Bell and taken turns creating stories and making wishes. It had been the best day in forever.
And today, this.
Even though her mom had promised it would never happen again, Josie had known it would. Whatever drug it was that Skye Pictures craved had a stronger hold than any promise she’d ever made. And Sam—he didn’t know how to pull back when the fights started. He didn’t know when enough was enough.
But this time, Josie had a plan. She and Sam had somewhere to go. In the six weeks since they moved here—to the public housing complex in East LA that was supposed to help their mom get back on her feet again—they’d only met one person Josie could trust, a foreign-speaking older woman she and Sam met the day the elevator was broken.
What if she doesn’t answer the door?
The only other person in the apartment complex Josie knew was a man with big muscles and colorful tattoos up and down his arms. Her mother had been to see him so many times Josie had lost count. But he had calloused hands and even harder eyes. The thought of running there for help made her lungs clamp tight.
Josie tried hard to remember the apartment number of the woman. She’d given them a plate full of something sweet and puffy, like a crispy long john doughnut, after she and Sam helped her carry a bunch of stuff up two flights of stairs. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but she had kind brown eyes and gentle hands.
Sam finally stirred after she shook him a third time. “Can’t we stay?” His voice was thick and groggy. “The door’s locked.”
“If she gets in and something else happens, they’ll take us away again. Only this time for longer, I bet. We weren’t together last time. What makes you think we’ll get luckier next time?”
Her words must have sunken in. Sam sat up and threw off his covers. “I hate her.”
“Just follow me and don’t make a sound.”
She unlocked their door and peered into the hall. The TV was on but muted, radiating soft light across the floor. Their mother was in the kitchen huddled in the corner, her legs pulled in against her chest.
Josie paused in the shadows, a wave of longing washing over her before her gaze strayed to her brother’s cheek. No. They were doing the right thing.
She waved Sam toward the door and was unbolting it when their mom spotted them. Her incoherent ranting resumed, full volume. A glass smashed against the wall between the window and the door, shattering. Shards sprayed against Josie’s arm as the deadbolt gave, and she jerked open the door.
The older woman lived one floor above and down a long corridor. Josie recognized the apartment by a dark wooden cross visible behind a gap in the curtain.
Making a wish that snaked all the way down to her toes, she raised her hand and knocked, softly at first, then louder. After what seemed like an eternity, a teenage girl answered. She had long, dark hair with purple and pink tips and brown eyes. She was dressed in a spaghetti-strap tee and bikini underwear. She placed her hands on her hips and frowned down at them. “It’s too late to be knocking on somebody’s door.”
“Is your mom home?” Josie and Sam asked in unison.
The teenager spat out something angry and unintelligible, then called over her shoulder. To them, she added, “She’s my grandmother, not my mom. If you don’t even know that, you shouldn’t be here.”
After an agonizing wait, the woman appeared behind her, tying a robe closed. The two of them exchanged rapid-fire words in a language Josie didn’t understand.
She held her breath, crossing her fingers behind her back. She could pick up on the tension in the air like it was another person in the room.
Finally, the woman waved the teenager out of the way, eyeing Josie and Sam like she’d found something unexpected in her soup. “What are you doing outdoors in the middle of the night?”
“We didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“So many of us don’t,” the woman said after a pause. “Who hurt you, piccolo?”
Josie froze as the woman traced her fingertip under the spot along Sam’s cheek.
“We were playing,” Sam interjected.
After giving them both a knowing look, she turned to Josie and said, “Then you must have the nails of a woman.”
Josie balled her hands into fists, hoping to hide her bitten-to-the-quick nails. “We can’t go back tonight.”
“Where is your father? Can you call him?”
“There isn’t anybody we can call.”
“Send those kids on their way, Nonna,” the teenager spat from wherever she’d disappeared to. �
��They’re only going to cause you trouble, and my dad gave you enough of that.”
“Hush your mouth, Sofia. And put clothes on or go back to bed.” She opened the door fully and ushered them in. “You two need to rest your heads until morning? Come in. You can sleep on my couch. It’s big enough to fit you both.”
They offered their thanks and followed her inside.
“I know about your mother, the one they’re calling Hollywood. Not even here two months, and she’s told half the building she’s going to be famous. Pretty enough, but pretty is commonplace in this town. I should know. This city drew me in when I was young and pretty too.”
She disappeared into one of the bedrooms and returned carrying a blanket and two pillows. “Are you hungry?”
Sam’s eyes grew wide, and he brushed a tongue over his lips.
“If I’m going to feed you, I need to know your names.”
“I’m Sam. And this is my sister, Josie. Josie Pictures.”
“Pictures? Named for Hollywood, are you?” Her gaze lingered on Josie. “With that hair, you might even find your fame. My grandson told me about you, and he tells me nothing.”
“I want to live with my grandparents in Idaho, but they won’t take us. Our mom says she’s not allowed to go back.” It wasn’t an answer, but it was the only thing Josie could think to say.
“So, you’re stuck just the same as my grandkids.” She ran her fingers down Josie’s hair the way she did the day they carried her bags. “Josie and Sam, you’re fish out of water. But even fish need to eat and sleep. Come into the kitchen, and you can fill your bellies. My name is Francesca, but you can call me Francie. I knew when I first saw you a few weeks ago that our lives would run together. I have a way of knowing such things.”
The counters of Francie’s kitchen were crowded with food, dishes, and piles of paperwork. It smelled of oil and ripe bananas, but it was the most welcoming kitchen Josie had ever seen. She and Sam were quiet and watchful as Francie heated a small saucepan over the stove. In a few minutes, she served them bowls filled with something that looked like thick oatmeal but had a yellow tint.
“Polenta,” Francie said in explanation. She leaned over them and grated some fresh, hard cheese on top.
Josie was worried her brother could hurt Francie’s feelings by not liking it. After blowing on a spoonful, Josie was surprised by how much her mouth watered in delight at the creamy, salty taste. By the speed at which Sam inhaled it, Josie knew he liked it too.
As she was finishing, Josie saw movement behind the cracked door of one of the bedrooms. She strained to see who was watching them, but it was dark inside.
“You know my Nicolo,” Francie said. “Nicolo, if you aren’t going to say hello, go back to bed. You’ll be too tired for school in the morning.”
There was a shuffle, and the door shut.
“He told me when you came to his class. A blue-eyed girl with hair the color of a flaming sunset.”
“I don’t know a Nicolo,” Josie said. She puzzled over the many still-nameless faces of the boys in her class.
“He goes by Nico with his friends.” Francie smiled at the flash of recognition on her face. “He looks just like his father did at that age.” She seemed about to say more but gave a light shake of her head and made the sign of a cross in front of her.
Josie knew Nico. She’d had no idea Francie was his grandmother or that he lived in her building. He was the biggest kid in class—tall and slender and quiet. A week before, Josie was paired with him to read a story. He’d stammered in several spots, and she’d pretended not to know some of the words either. His skin was so tan compared to hers, his eyes were stormy gray, and his hair was dark brown and wavy.
“I know him.” Josie worried he’d tell the other kids in class that she and Sam had to flee from their mother in the middle of the night.
Sam leaned over the table and yawned.
“To the couch with you both. We all need our sleep.”
They didn’t take any further convincing. Francie threw a blanket over them and pressed her hand against the tops of their heads. “I know good children when I see them. Sleep, and we’ll worry about your mother in the morning.”
Sam was asleep in seconds, but only after stretching to take up most of the space. Josie lay in the darkness and whispered a fervent prayer to a god her mother told her didn’t exist. She prayed that—if he could hear her—he’d make her mother just a little bit more like Francie. Just a little bit would get them through; she was certain of it.
The apartment grew still and quiet, and Josie waited for sleepiness to set in again, but it didn’t. After a little while, the door to Nico’s bedroom opened. She held her breath as he approached. He knelt in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet and resting his elbows on his thighs, reminding her of a crouched tiger.
“Your mother did that?” He nodded toward Sam’s scratched cheek.
Josie said nothing, feeling a rare loyalty to her mother.
“My mother never hit,” he continued. “She’s been gone since I was five. That’s when my old man started hitting, but he’s locked up now. But it’s all good. It’s better living here.”
“I didn’t know Francie was your grandma.”
In the darkness, Josie saw a lopsided smile light up his face. “If she has you calling her Francie, then you can come whenever you want. That’s Nonna’s way.”
“I like her.”
“Everyone does. She grew up in Italy.”
Josie had never met anyone from Italy. All she knew was that spaghetti was her favorite dinner, only she didn’t know if that was an okay thing to say to someone whose grandma was Italian.
A silence fell between them. Then he pointed to his room. “Go. Take my bed. I’ll stay with your brother.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Take it. Girls need their privacy. Nonna is always saying it.”
Josie felt her cheeks grow hot, thinking of her and Sam’s shared mattress on the floor. She pushed up to a sitting position and looked at Sam. His breathing was deep and even like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Go,” Nico repeated, leaving no room for rebuttal. It didn’t surprise her. He was that way in class too.
She left without saying anything else. It was strange getting into his bed. She pulled his covers over her and rested her head on his pillow. She liked the way his sheets smelled. It made her wonder if he smelled the same way.
She finally drifted off, and in the morning, Josie woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs. If Francie cared that Nico had given her his room, she didn’t say anything. After breakfast, Francie said it was safe to go home and get ready for school. Francie had been to see their mother while they were still sleeping.
Before they left, Francie told them to hold their shoulders high and not to cry. She said to let their mama do all the crying for them.
Josie thought Francie was wrong; her mother never cried. When they got there, Skye was watching out the window, looking pale and exhausted and biting her nails. She dropped to her knees and hugged them tighter than Josie could ever remember. And then she started to cry. It was one of the few times Josie ever saw her do it.
It took less than an hour at school for Josie to know her and Sam’s secret was safe with Nico. He was a quiet boy and not one to tell other people’s stories. In the space of a month, he was the best friend she’d ever had. Before long, she loved him almost as much as she loved Sam. One day, a kid in class joked that she and Nico were in love. Nico broke his nose without a second’s hesitation and was suspended for two days.
She couldn’t comprehend how things between them could ever grow more complicated. And she was too young to consider the implications of being best friends with a boy like Nico, a boy who talked very little, but who everyone listened to when he did. Too young to think about how the world wou
ld change all of them when it inevitably began to press in.
Chapter 7
Carter’s quads burned from exertion by the time he was midway up the Green Street Stairs. Myra wasn’t exaggerating with her claim of two hundred steps scaling the bluff from Main Street to the top.
The century-and-a-half-year-old town was a postcard, even at night. Redbrick buildings with soft lights pouring from windows lined the streets and hillsides in the center of town. Myra’s place was in a residential area above the massive bluffs, and the steps were the most direct route between them.
Behind him, below the streets and shops, the Galena River became visible as he climbed, glowing glossy black in the night. Maybe it had something to do with the story that had brought him here, but the river reminded him of a serpent that had witnessed one secret after another, century after century. What could the river tell him about the man pulled from it in 1940? Who shot him and why? Who made it his grandfather’s watery grave?
Carter climbed high enough that he passed the tops of trees, and it was just him, the endless steps, the bluffs, and the night. His lungs protested, reminding him how ridiculous it was to pick up smoking again in the wake of his stressful breakup. Even if he was limiting himself to a few cigarettes a day. Some habits needed to be quit forever.
An image of Myra on these very steps came to mind. He could picture her, frail and slightly stooped, weighed down with her groceries. A young mother came to her aid and stayed. Who did that?
He reached the top not a step too soon. Shaking off the burning in his muscles, he began the final two blocks to the old Victorian mansion. He’d accepted Myra’s offer to stay—in spite of an overkill of knickknacks, lace, and doilies—because there was a story here. Most likely, there were a few. For his father’s sake, he was committed to staying until he resolved at least one of them.
As he unlatched the wrought-iron gate that led to the impressive front porch, Carter glimpsed the light pouring onto the side yard from the back of the house. He glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight. He guessed that, considering the age of the wedding party, everyone would’ve gone to bed.