She thought too of the puzzling conversation she’d just had with Star in the garden.
“Georgia?” She heard Star’s footsteps in the hall. “I left something in your room for you.”
Surprised, Georgia hurriedly blotted her face dry. “Oh, thank you.”
A pause, then, “Sleep tight.”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Georgia responded instinctively, then froze. She hadn’t completed that phrase in thirty years. Rightthen and there, her past and present collided. She was thirty-three, standing two feet away from her mother with a bathroom door between them. She was three years old, giggling and pink from the bath, pressing her face to Star’s, and they were nose to nose, whispering the saying to each other over and over until they dissolved into peals of laughter.
“Good night... Mama,” Georgia called through the door. She had not said that name since her arrival, when it had slipped off her tongue by accident. Since then it had felt awkward to call Star by her given name or use any term related to Star as a mother, so Georgia had avoided calling her anything at all. Now somehow it finally felt right again.
Star paused. “Good night, Georgia May,” she said gently.
Wrapped in a silk robe she’d bought with her first pay raise in Paris, which felt insubstantial against the cool, wet air of the island, Georgia padded out of the bathroom and into her room. She clicked on the bedside table lamp and spied a plain white envelope sitting on her pillow, her name written in big, slanted handwriting. Georgia picked up the envelope and slid under the covers hastily, shivering in the chill. She carefully opened the envelope. Immediately, she was met with a waft of anise, mint, and thyme and the skunky underlying hint of cannabis. Star. She inhaled deeply, trying to seal the scent of her mother in her brain, to preserve it for later when she was back in Paris.
From the envelope she withdrew a stack of photographs, tattered at the edges and soft with wear. She examined the first one. Three women stared back at her. She flipped the photograph over. In Star’s handwriting it saidEmma, Helen and Star Stevens. Curious, Georgia studied the photo. Three generations of Stevens women stared back at her. The photograph looked like it had been taken in an old farmhouse kitchen, with Formica countertops and white painted cabinets. The oldest woman, Georgiaguessed she was Emma, was wide hipped and green-eyed, with her long red hair pulled back in a low bun. She stood wearing an apron and holding a rolling pin in her hands, caught in the act of rolling out pie dough. Georgia studied her face. There were echoes of her own reflection there in the older woman’s brow and the slant of her nose. A younger woman with Emma’s same wide brow but with short, curly dark hair stood next to her. Helen, Georgia thought, looking at the laughter crinkling the corners of her eyes. My grandmother. And then little Star. Georgia stared at her mother’s face in fascination. It was like looking at a slightly distorted mirror image of herself—same riot of red curls, same slanted cat eyes and snub of a nose. But Star’s nose was a little longer, and her skin was lightly freckled. She was sitting on the edge of the counter, wearing a pair of light denim overalls and a pumpkin-colored turtleneck. It looked like the late ’70s from the turtleneck and Helen’s teal bell-bottoms. Around her neck was a thin chain, and suspended from it, the four-leaf clover charm. Georgia’s hand went instinctively to her neck. She touched the charm reverently. Seeing this picture made her family history feel so real somehow.
Georgia studied every square inch of the photo with forensic intensity. This was her heritage, her family. As she stared at it, she felt a long-missing piece of her heart click into place. The Stevens women did not look heroic or saintly or angelic. They were simply women. Helen with her dark hair curling around her face, laughing into the camera lens. Emma, her mouth pinched, but a quirk of a smile as she concentrated on her pie crust, ignoring the camera. And Star sitting on the edge of the counter, legs caught by the camera mid-swing, so carefree and happy.
This was the missing half of Georgia, the half she had been told was bad and wrong, weak and to be shunned. But these women were none of those things. They were just women, withquirks and flaws and dreams. Women who had known where they belonged, who carried within them the legacy of their gifts. And they were a part of her. She was a part of them. Gazing at that photo, she had the strongest sensation that she was not alone, that she was being cradled in the embrace of three generations of Stevens women and the heritage she’d always longed for yet never known. She touched the charm at her throat.
“Faith, hope, love, and luck,” she whispered. And then she added a fifth element, just two words, but they meant the world to her. “And family.”
She didn’t realize she was crying until a warm tear splattered the photograph. Quickly, she wiped it away. Carefully, she tucked the photo back into the envelope and picked up the stack of remaining photographs. The next one was wallet sized. Georgia flipped it over and gave a gasp of startled recognition when she saw what it was. She was staring at her own kindergarten face. Aunt Hannah had given her a terrible haircut right before school picture day, a pyramid cut of ringlets with bangs that frizzed. She’d worn her favorite overalls with a Scottie dog print T-shirt underneath. It was a truly terrible photo. But what in the world was Star doing with it?
She hastily rifled through the other photos in growing astonishment. They were all of her, one for each grade. She stared at little first grade Georgia with one giant adult-size front tooth that made her look like a chipmunk and one empty space where a new tooth was just coming in. Her fourth grade photo when she’d been convinced she looked great in mustard yellow (patently not true). She cringed at the photo of herself at her high school graduation in her cap and gown, sporting an embarrassingly large zit on her chin. Thankfully by that point she’d learned to use mousse and had refused to let Aunt Hannahcome near her hair with scissors, so at least things were looking up for her stylistically speaking.
She lined up each photo on the bed in front of her. Thirteen years of photos, kindergarten to high school graduation. There were also two additional photos, both ones she recognized as pictures she’d sent her dad and Aunt Hannah. One was her graduation from culinary school, which no one from her family had attended. The other was of her standing in front of La Pomme d’Or in her chef’s whites, grinning and wide-eyed as a frightened rabbit. She had been so elated and so terrified her first day there.
She studied the photos in bewilderment. Although Aunt Hannah and her dad refused to talk about Star, the underlying narrative Georgia had picked up through mean comments by kids at school or things adults would insinuate was that Star had abandoned them all, selfishly flown away to live her own footloose, drug-induced life. Georgia had been led to believe she had simply disappeared, but why, if that was true, did Star have these photographs? Where had she gotten them? Georgia frowned, trying to put the pieces together. Obviously, either Aunt Hannah or Buck had known where Star was all these years. They’d been sending her photographs of Georgia. That much seemed clear. But why? Why had they kept in contact with her secretly and never told Georgia about Star’s whereabouts? Why had they acted as though she didn’t exist?
Georgia thought of the conversation she’d just had with Star in the garden. The answer when she’d asked Star why she had gotten clean.It was for you, Georgia May. I did all of it for you.
Something was not adding up.
Georgia stared at her own younger face, another realization dawning on her. Star had kept track of her year after year, but she had never come for her, never made contact until now. Allthese years, even when Georgia was grown and in culinary school and in Paris, Star had known where Georgia was, but she had chosen not to reach out. So why had she done so now? Georgia had a feeling there was something more at play, something she didn’t know yet. There was a reason Star had contacted her now. She just didn’t know what it was.
Gently, she gathered up the photos and tucked them safely back in the envelope. So many little Georgias all with the same ginger hair and stubborn streak, all carrying the same question in her heart, the question no one would answer. Why had her mother left? But now she added another question to the mix, one which felt almost as important. Why had Star decided to reach out to her now? She set the envelope carefully on the nightstand and snuggled under the quilt. As she finally drifted off to sleep, she made a promise to herself. She’d find the answer as soon as she could.
22
Four a.m. andGeorgia was wide awake after a few hours of sleep, her brain whirring. Cursing jet lag, she clambered out of bed and switched on the light. She was not going back to sleep anytime soon, that was clear. Going to the window, she lifted the sash and leaned out. It was drizzling, the night dark and cloudy. Off to her left, the apple trees gleamed white in the rain, flowers resplendent like a fairy bride. And down by the bay, she could see Cole’s cabin. A warm yellow light shone through the windows. He was up too. She ducked her head back inside and shut the window. She didn’t want him to look out and think she was spying, although that was exactly what she was doing. There was a peculiar feeling in her chest when she thought of Cole, a golden tickle like champagne bubbles. Their time together the day before had sparked something in her, something unexpected.
“Oh no. This is just what you do not need, Georgia May Jackson,” she muttered, climbing back into bed and switching off the light. “You can’t afford to get distracted.” But as she lay there in the dimness, futilely waiting for sleep, she kept picturing his face. The way his pupils had dilated when he’d pulled her from the cliff’s edge, those ice-blue eyes locked on hers. When she made him laugh, she felt like she’d won some sort of hard-earned prize. And then, over and over, she kept picturing the alarm on his face when that couple had approached him at the winery. There was something about that interaction that wasniggling at her. Cole had not handled it like a normal person who had accidentally been mistaken for someone else. When that happened, people generally laughed it off and went on with their lives. But he had practically fled the scene. In short, he had handled it like someone who had something to hide.
“Who are you?” she whispered into the darkness. She reached for her phone and checked the clock, calculating the time change in her head. It was one p.m. in Paris. She called Phoebe. It was high time to find out more about the mysterious Cole.
Although she was at work, Phoebe was instantly on board when she heard the reason Georgia was calling. “Oh, this is so exciting!” she squealed. “Hold on. I’ll go on my lunch break. We can Google stalk him together.” Georgia could hear rustling on the other end of the line and then Phoebe popped back on. “Okay, so what info do you have about him?” she asked breathlessly.
Georgia listed off everything she knew about him. The details were scanty. “His name is Cole. I don’t know his last name. And he worked in California, but he’s been on the island for the past five years.” As she said it, Georgia realized it was pathetically little to start with.
“Anything else?” Phoebe asked dubiously. “That’s not a lot to go on.”
“He was raised in Phoenix,” Georgia sighed. “And there’s speculation on the island that he worked for the CIA or that he was an actor on some popular vampire show a few years ago.”
“Ooh, a vampire show? That’s a good tip,” Phoebe said approvingly. “Let’s see!” Georgia could hear her tapping away for a few minutes. “No, no good. I’m not getting any leads. Do you have a photo of him?”
Georgia sent her one she’d snapped covertly the previousafternoon at Lime Kiln. In it, Cole was standing on the cliff’s edge, looking broodingly out at the water, watching for orcas. He hadn’t noticed her snapping photos of the beautiful setting, or of him. The wind was ruffling his hair, and his jaw was set beneath his permanent five-o’clock shadow.
