“Well, she’s eight years old and about as precocious as they come, interested in everything. Yesterday, she asked me if she could start drinking espresso, because that’s what the Italians did. I love her to pieces, but I may have my hands full when she’s older.” She smiled widely just thinking about Grace and then played back how that must have sounded. Maybe she shouldn’t point out that her child was odd.

“She sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Oh, she’s definitely that and more, a laugh a minute, that kid.”

The car ride to her apartment was quiet with the exception of the radio playing softly. Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if James would expect to be invited in, and if so, how she would go about explaining to him that she just, well, didn’t go there on the first date. Grace was spending the night with her parents, and that left the apartment empty. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

As he followed her to her door, her anxiety only grew, and she was already formulating her polite explanation. But to her amazement, he paused on the front step and took her hand in his. “I had a wonderful time with you tonight, Sarah. You’re everything Carmen said you would be. I’d love to see you again, that is, if you’d like to.”

Sarah blinked once, again surprised by what a charming cutie her date was turning out to be. He actually looked nervous. “Um…I’d love to see you again. Next weekend?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll call you later this week to firm up plans.” He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Sarah’s lips. It was simple. It was sweet. And it left her smiling as she watched him walk the length of the sidewalk back to his car. It had been a nice night, she mused as she made her way into the apartment. She was glad that she’d gone.


*


The next day was Saturday, and though Sarah usually took the day off, setting it aside for spending time with Grace and the rest of her family, today was a no-go. The house on Banning Street demanded her attention, and if she had any hope of finishing before the cows came wandering over, she would have to work overtime. It upset her, however, not to have the time with Grace. They usually spent the day on some sort of joint activity, which allowed them to connect after their mutually busy weeks. She decided to compromise, and after assembling a bag of Grace’s favorite “stay busy” activities, she picked up Grace and headed to work.

“Is this place really a mansion?” Grace asked as they turned onto Banning Street. “Like in the movies?”

“Just like in the movies,” Sarah assured her. “Which means that everything inside is very expensive and cannot be touched, mija. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama. I won’t touch anything. I’ll just pretend it’s all mine and that I’m an orphan adopted by a rich man with no hair.”

Sarah took a moment. “Did you and Papi watch Annie again last night?”

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

As they pulled into the driveway, Grace’s mouth fell open at the expansive home spread out before them. “Wow. I wish we could live here.”

“I like where we live just fine. Don’t you? It’s our home—yours and mine.”

Grace returned her smile. “Me too.”

After situating Grace with some paper and crayons at the kitchen table, Sarah made her way back to the master bedroom to pack up the final contents of the closet.

There was a sadness that overtook her looking around the empty, dismantled room and understanding that it had been Catherine Owen’s sanctuary for so many years. She was in the midst of boxing up the books and casual clothes that were folded neatly in the multiple chests of drawers when there they were, a group of four blue canvas books. Three of the books were tied tightly from each side with twine. A fourth sat on top, unbound. Sarah flipped through the top book, assessing her find, and took a breath at the delicate, cursive handwriting and dated entries that lined the pages. This was her journal, Mrs. Owen’s personal journal. And the last entry was dated just over a month ago, not long before her death. The journals were thick and the writing quite small. The four books together could easily chronicle a good portion of the elderly woman’s adult life.

She slowly untied the twine that held the bundle and opened the bottom book. On one hand, she felt an enormous amount of guilt for the intrusion into the woman’s personal thoughts, but at the same time, something was pushing her to do just that.

She sat on the bed and began to skim the words written in very distinctive formal script. With each sentence, Sarah fell further and further into the world of Catherine Owen. She found herself exchanging one book for another as the entries turned to months and the months moved into years.

*


Emory pulled onto Banning Street cursing herself for still not having forwarded her mother’s mail. She’d not tended to the house as much as she should have and realized that there were still very pressing matters that required her attention. Bills needed to be paid, and there were charitable obligations that still needed to be fulfilled in her mother’s name. She was surprised to see the red Beetle in the drive as she pulled in. She hadn’t expected Sarah to work on a Saturday.

Emory sorted through the mail on the way into the house, categorizing each envelope into subscriptions to cancel, correspondence to follow up with, and checks to write. She decided in the future to have her assistants help with this process. There was no point in personally tending to these mundane issues. In fact, it was probably better for her to distance herself from the process as much as possible. She stopped abruptly as she entered the kitchen, double taking as she glanced up from the electric bill in her hand. She stared curiously at the strange child sitting at the kitchen table. “Hello?”

“Hi,” the child answered cheerfully.

“Um…And who might you be?”

“Graciela. But everyone calls me Grace. It’s very nice to meet you. Who might you be?”

“Emory. Owen. This is my house.” She was still off-balance by this unexpected visitor and didn’t know quite where to go. Damn it, she never knew quite how to talk to children. “So I take it you belong to Sarah.”

“Sarah’s my mom. Do you live here?” she asked.

“Yes. I mean, I used to. I don’t anymore. My mother lived here.”

“I’m sorry that she died.” Grace set down her purple crayon and gave Emory her full attention. “When I’m feeling sad, I like to color. I’m probably too old for it now, but I don’t care.” Grace extended a green crayon in Emory’s direction and tore out a sheet for her from the book she was working in.

When Emory didn’t immediately move, Grace re-extended her arm for emphasis. Clearly, she was not taking no for an answer. “You know, I have some bills I need to look through. How about I do that while you color?”

That seemed to be an acceptable solution to Grace who shrugged once and went back to work. Emory threw a glance over her shoulder looking for a possible rescue from Sarah, who had to be somewhere in the house. She could go and look for her, but what would she say when she found her? Your kid makes me uncomfortable? Instead, she reluctantly sat at the table and spread the mail out in front of her, focusing on the task she came to complete. Out of curiosity, she shot an occasional glance in Grace’s direction. Watching her color was, she had to admit, relaxing. The way she outlined each bunny before lightly shading in the gaping white portions until they were full of vibrant color. Okay, it was a child’s activity, but tempting all the same.

“Are you sure you don’t want a page?” Grace asked warily thirty minutes later. The kid was undoubtedly aware of being watched.

“I guess I could take one,” Emory replied nonchalantly. “I have a minute now that some of this is out of the way.”

Grace regarded her knowingly and nodded before handing over a picture of three small rabbits looking up at a large friendly bird in a tree. She moved the oversized box of crayons to the middle of the table so Emory had easy access to the assortment and went back to her own page, a rabbit curled up for a nap with several other rabbits. They worked in silence for a good forty-five minutes, Grace spending more time watching Emory color than coloring herself. Grace shook her head in awe as the once cartoonish outline turned into an honest to goodness, realistic forest scene. “You’re really good. Like really.”

“Oh, thanks.” Emory glanced up for the first time since she started. “You know, this is a lot more fun than I thought it would be.” And it was. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt calm, relaxed, and free. “I see why you like this.”

Grace reached for Emory’s page and held it up in front of her face, still shaking her head in astonishment. “It’s like the rabbits are real. How did you do that?”

Emory studied the piece of paper Grace held so reverently in the air and smiled at her, noticing how much she resembled Sarah. She didn’t have eyes as light, but her brown replicas were close. “It’s just a shading technique. Instead of only using one color for the rabbit’s fur, I used several to give it texture and layers.”

“That’s amazing,” Grace breathed. She shifted her focus to Emory. “Can I keep this?”

“Sure, go ahead.” She was somewhat honored that Grace would want to.

“Wanna color another?”

“Hit me.” But it was a foregone conclusion. Emory was already reaching eagerly for a new crayon.


*


Sarah closed the last and final journal in the stack and blew out a long, emotional breath, brushing a stray tear from the corner of her eye. She glanced at her watch and shook her head. She’d lost two hours of valuable work time reading the words of Catherine Owen, but she didn’t regret it for a second. She understood the importance of these journals and what they could mean for those she left behind, one woman in particular.