Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
I gave her a sideways glance, murmuring a quick thank-you as I passed by. I’d give her the benefit of the doubt for now, especially considering I was going to learn whether that was warranted or not momentarily. I had to admit to the relief that loosened my muscles as I walked down the short hall to the back door. I was worried Rory would try some other evasion tactic rather than talk to me, and the fact that she hadn’t made me feel far less tense than I’d been ten minutes ago. I wanted answers. I needed answers if I was going to get a full night’s sleep again.
The door to the outside squeaked as it opened, and I stepped out onto a small patio. Beyond that was a large, open area with a fence around the entire perimeter, completely closing it in. There was a bar to my left with several barstools in front of it, and to the right there was more seating, shaded by a fabric-covered pergola. There were plant beds along the fence and large pots of flowers and greenery placed here and there, and the space was lit by hanging lights crisscrossed over the entire area. It was comfortable and charming, and I wondered if Faith used this space for art exhibits. I pictured servers offering trays of golden champagne and hors d’oeuvres named after famous artists for a touch of fun…cranberry-brie Rembrandt rolls…
I stepped around a pillar at the edge of the patio and pulled in a breath. Rory was standing near a table to the right, a glass sitting at the place she must have just been sitting before standing when she heard me arrive.
She watched me as I approached, something on her face I couldn’t read. A sort of sadness maybe, or regret.
“You made it,” she said.
I approached. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” I wanted to be here. I’d been chasing her around town for days. So why did I suddenly feel nervous and on edge?
“I…hoped you would. I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I swear I had no idea you lived here in Calliope, Gage. When you walked in the room at your parents’ home, I thought I might pass out from shock.” There was a second seating area that was uncovered, and she waved her hand to it and then walked over and took a seat on one of the large, cushioned chairs. I followed, sitting down across from her. “I’ve been trying to figure out where to begin,” she said.
“Well, the beginning’s usually a good place.”
She smiled as she brought her feet beneath her, pausing as I waited for her to gather her thoughts. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve wondered about my father.” She released a gust of breath. “My mother died before I had a chance to get more information from her than the little she’d given me. But what I do know is that she spent time here nine months before I was born.”
I tipped my head. “Your father is from Calliope?”
Her eyes met mine. “Yes.”
Even if I couldn’t see the entire picture, a puzzle piece snapped into place. “So, you’re here trying to find out who your father might be.”
“Yes,” she answered again.
This I had not expected. The girl I’d met in Mud Gulch by pure happenstance might have a father who lived in Calliope of all places? I’d thought it a certain kind of fate that we’d met at all considering the unlikely way I’d ended up there. And because of it, we’d spent an amazing night together that I couldn’t stop thinking about. But this took fate up a notch. What was it now? Double fate? Fate squared?
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and gripping my own hands. “Where does the art come in?”
“My father was an artist. Or at least, he was very good at drawing.” She reached down and pulled a canvas bag toward her and removed what looked like a journal or a diary and opened it carefully. She removed what I thought was a cocktail napkin that had been preserved between the pages. “I found this recently among my mother’s things. I believe my father drew it.”
She held it toward me and I took it carefully, holding it by the edges as I studied it. There was a sketch of a woman on it, sitting on a rock, knees drawn up as she looked out over a lake. And even though the woman was only in profile, it was obvious there was a secretive smile gracing her lips. I didn’t know a lot about art, but it was clear that whomever had drawn this was very good. There was no signature, only a date scrawled under the drawing—April, twenty-seven years ago. “Is this of your mother?”