Sarah bounded down the stairs, hopeful that the silence from Grace was an indication that she’d been on her best behavior, as she’d promised she would be. She hadn’t meant to leave her alone so long and realized that it was now well past lunchtime. I’m a horrible mother, destined for parent jail. She decided she’d take Grace out for a bite to eat, just the two of them, before dropping her off with her mother, where she could have more fun for the rest of the afternoon. She still had work to get done at the house.

The scene she walked in on in the kitchen was not at all what she expected. There was Grace, munching on a plate of Oreos and coloring alongside none other than Emory Owen herself, who interestingly enough seemed quite content coloring a rabbit of her own. Sarah watched them, shocked but still able to enjoy the serenity of the quiet moment as the two artists concentrated in tandem silence.

“I take it you two have met?” She hated to interrupt their work.

Emory looked up. “We have. Grace was rifling through the china and I walked in just in time.” Sarah was horrified, but Emory calmly held up one hand. “Joking. Your daughter has been very polite company and even lent me the use of her crayons. How old are you again?” She turned back to Grace.

“Eight. How old are you?”

“Grace!” Sarah was beyond embarrassed. Maybe add manners to her motherhood to-do list.

“It’s okay.” Emory offered Grace a wink. “I’m thirty-two.”

Sarah moved further into the room, stopping behind Grace’s chair. “I hope it’s okay that I brought her here. No summer camp on Saturdays and I didn’t want to get behind.”

Emory gestured as if to wave off any of Sarah’s concerns. “It’s fine. She caught me off guard at first, but it’s turned out to be a nice morning.” Emory smiled at Grace, who beamed back at her with about as much hero worship as was conceivable.

“Mom,” Grace said. She turned around to face Sarah with a tight grip on Emory’s first picture. “Emory said I could keep it. Can you believe how real it looks?”

Sarah took the page from Grace’s hands and studied it, impressed as Grace was at the intricate detail Emory had added to the once basic outline. “Wow. She’s kinda good at this, huh?”

“Yep, she’s going to show me how to shade sometime.”

Sarah glanced apologetically at Emory, who’d clearly gone above and beyond to be nice when there were surely things she’d rather be doing. “Um, we’ll see. Ms. Owen is a very busy woman. Now pack up your backpack and head to the car. We’re going to Burger King and then Mami and Papi’s. I need to talk to Ms. Owen.”

Grace gathered her things together, and with a wholehearted wave to Emory, was out the door.

Emory raised an eyebrow in amusement. “You’re sure she won’t just drive away?”

“I keep the keys with me.”

Emory laughed and Sarah noticed her dimples for the very first time. “She’s really something, a likable kid.”

“Thank you.” Sarah was pleased with the sincerity in Emory’s voice. “If you have a minute, before I go, there’s something I came across of your mother’s that I thought you should see.” No, need to see, Sarah amended internally.

Emory studied her with a look of restrained annoyance. “I don’t feel like going through any of Mother’s things today. If you could just place whatever it is in a marked box for me, I’ll find time to go through it all at some point.”

Sarah held up a hand. “Please just hear me out and take a look. If you’re not interested, I’ll pack them up.”

“Them?”

“Just wait here a moment.” Sarah quickly retrieved the journals and returned with the small stack in her hands.

Emory stared at the books, unblinking. “What are those?”

“I came across some writing your mother did, journals she kept over the years. The entries are sometimes frequent and sometimes not. There are months that go by without anything and then weeks where every day is chronicled.” Sarah heard the excitement in her voice and commanded herself to slow down. “Please forgive me for this next part, but I did read a portion of what she wrote. At first, I was just curious, but it seemed the more I read, the more I couldn’t put them down.”

Emory looked back at her dumbfounded, skeptical. “Are you sure that they belonged to my mother? It’s more likely that she was keeping them for someone.”

“They were hers. Each inside cover contains her name and the year she began the journal.”

Emory ran her fingers across her forehead absently. “I just wouldn’t have imagined that she…Mother wasn’t what I would call a deep person.”

Sarah took a step forward feeling the need to defend the woman she had come to know in the past few hours. “That’s not true. She had a lot of deep feelings and, I think that maybe you should take a look at what she’s written, Emory. I’ve bookmarked a few sections for you if you don’t want to read everything.” When Emory didn’t respond but instead stared blankly back at her, she placed the books on the counter. “I guess…I’ll just leave them there then.” As Sarah turned to go, she was stopped cold by the dull, venomous tone of Emory’s voice.

“Why would you bring these to me? I specifically informed you when we first met not to bother me with the details of whatever it is you might find. It’s not up to you to decide what’s in my best interest and what’s not. You’ve overstepped your bounds and it’s unacceptable.”

Emory’s blue eyes were like ice, and Sarah felt as if she’d been slapped as they bore into her. Of course she’d known that she was pushing the envelope with the journals, but she believed in her heart that it was the right thing to do. Emory needed to read what she’d read and maybe it would help her recognize her own grief.

But Emory’s reaction made her think that perhaps she’d been wrong. She realized now that she should have just stayed out of it. She took a breath and answered simply. “I’m sorry, Ms. Owen. I won’t make that mistake in the future.” She quickly made her exit.


*


An hour and a half later, Emory was still glued to the kitchen chair in the midst of paperwork not three feet away from the stack of books that glared back at her. Why was this even an issue? She should pick up her keys and go. She had a mountain of work waiting on her that would keep her busy late into the night. There was no reason to get caught up in whatever the hell was in that bundle of pages. She knew her mother. Hell, she more than knew her, and hearing her voice again from beyond the grave was only going to reiterate what she already knew, that Catherine Owen was a self-involved society woman who cared more about appearances than substance. It was best to put all of that behind her now.

Even though that’s what she told herself, that’s not what she did. Swearing under her breath, Emory snatched the book on top of the stack, the one Sarah had bookmarked, and made her way onto the patio. She stared at its blue fabric cover for several full minutes before opening to the page Sarah had noted. She scanned the eerily familiar handwriting and a shiver ran down her spine as she began to read silently.


May 29, 1997

I write to you from Wallingford, Connecticut. Today, my younger daughter graduated with honors from the most prestigious preparatory school in the nation. This mother’s heart was full as I watched that beautiful young woman, who was once but a helpless infant in my arms, cross the stage and accept her hard-earned diploma.

Emory was named salutatorian of her graduating class and was asked to make a speech at commencement. At first, I was nervous for her. I’d never heard her speak publicly, though she’d always been an articulate child. Once she began, however, my fears fled me and I was awestruck at her grace and the wisdom she imparted to her peers. She’s grown into such a well-mannered, mature young woman, with much of that credit going directly to her and the admirable life she’s led thus far. I was lucky to have brought my handkerchief along with me to the ceremony. I’ve never been so proud. Grayson, had he lived to see this day, would have been over the moon at his daughter’s many achievements.


Emory stared at the passage, unsure how to feel. The words were so entirely unexpected, especially in comparison to her own recollection of the day of her high school graduation. Her memory was vivid, especially how her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in months prior to the commencement, had said very little to her after the ceremony. She’d behaved as if her attendance was a required formality, a box she was there to check on her motherhood to-do list. Catherine Owen had kissed Emory’s cheek and embraced her briefly, offering a few short words of congratulations before heading back to her hotel. Emory had been on cloud nine that day, celebrating with Mia and the girls from her hall, but saw none of that same excitement reflected in her mother’s eyes.

Yet, here in her lap sat evidence to the contrary and it was hard to take in. She had no idea that on that day, underneath that crisp and polite pretense of conversation, there existed a depth of feeling, actual emotion even, and it had been held back from her. Stolen.

She did the only thing she could think to do. She reread the earmarked passage again and again and again as if it were a drug she couldn’t get enough of.

On a mission now, she flipped to the very first page of the journal and settled in. Hours passed as she tore through the pages and read her mother’s innermost thoughts, most of which brought about startling revelations for Emory. It turned out that Catherine thought of her twice-a-week tennis match at the club as a necessary evil, while what she really longed to do with her afternoon was curl up with a good book, preferably a classic. She’d read Pride and Prejudice seven times. Emory never knew that and shook her head in wonder at the information. Emory loved that book, and if only she’d known, they could have discussed it and a myriad of other Jane Austen works. Other interesting pieces of information included the almost schoolgirl crush Catherine seemed to have developed on Peter Fullbright, their attorney, and the fact that she’d regretted never having a dog as a pet. But most notably, the fact that she thought Emory had amazing talent as an artist.