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“I don’t know about you, but I think the fact that she left a forwarding address is a really good sign.”
Sarah is looking green again. She was back to easy-breezy when we knocked on the realtor’s door, to the point that she was cracking jokes while the realtor did us a solid by agreeing to go through her father’s files.
“He has records on his tenants from that far back?” she asked, her voice suddenly high-pitched and wary.
Our new friend rolled her eyes. “You should see his house. He has every National Geographic magazine from 1968 to the present. I shouldn’t complain because he’s still sharp as a tack, but it’s…a lot.”
While she went back to look through the file cabinets, Sarah started pacing the room while wringing her hands.
“Don’t stress, all right? Even if we hit the jackpot, doesn’t mean we have to go.”
She’s clearly relived I offered up that alternative. Her tone is a tad too hopeful when she asks, “And I’m sure you have to get back for work, right?”
“Like I said, I’m technically down to one job, and no, I don’t have to back at Dunes until my shift on Friday. I have time.”
“Right,” she says to no one in particular.
I bet she’s talking herself through some deep breathing meditation routine at the moment. She’s stopped pacing, but her breaths are going in deep and coming out in a controlled, slow manner. I’m about to comment on it but decide it’s best to let her be.
And whatever she did must have worked, because she surprises me when the woman comes out with a slim manila envelope. Sarah is typing something into her phone, barely listening to the woman at first, but I nod attentively as she tells us what she’s found. And we both close in when she produces a handwritten note from Grace Dawson to her father, thanking him for being such a good landlord—odd—but then there’s a line at the end with the explicit instruction to give this forwarding address to anyone who comes looking for her. The word anyone is underlined twice.
Her mother wants to be found.
Sarah’s eyes well as the realization hits her, too. She looks to me with a watery smile. “Have you ever been to Hopwood, Pennsylvania?”
Back in the car, she puts her hand on mine. “Seriously, it’s another seven hours. I can’t ask you to do this for me.”
“You didn’t ask, I offered. Really,” I say when she doesn’t look convinced, “I’m not even tired. I’m hungry, but I’m fine to keep driving.”
So after taking the realtor’s advice to stop at a place that makes thebest barbecue in the country,we get back in the car to plot our next move.
“You can’t tell me you’re not tired after that feast.”
In truth, I’d like to pass out because I’m so stuffed, but I lie. “I’m fine. That was great, and thanks for treating.”
Sarah waves me off. “You haven’t let me chip in for gas, so we’re still not even close to even.”
Now I’ll feel the need to be all gentleman-like and insist on filling the tank for the rest of the trip, whereas I might have let her chip in, seeing as we’re heading pretty far west from home.
I change the subject to get my mind off my pitiful finances. “Those ribs were awesome, but would you tag them asbest in the country?”
I think everyone from Texas, Louisiana, Georgia, the Carolinas—”
“Like everyone in the South, you’re saying.”
“Yes. Theyallthink they have the best barbecue.”
“Just like New Yorkers think they have the only edible pizza on the East Coast?”
“Exactly. They’re so obnoxious about their pizza.”
“And their bagels…Don’t even get me started.”
She winces. “I’m going to concede that one point to them. They do have better bagels. There’s something about the water. It’s like a proven fact.”
“I’ve never had one but I’m gonna call bullshit.”
“You’ve never had a New York bagel, so you can’t weigh in.”
