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Dreaming about your future is a euphoric exercise; making it happen tests you to the core of your being. Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard gave a name to the action of a person faced with a choice that can’t be rationally justified: they take a leap of faith. Dreaming of being an author when you’re too busy to breathe, requires such a leap. Still believing you can find your great love when you’ve been hurt too many times, requires such a leap. In my case, I inadvertently chose to fly instead of jump. “Ms. Gregory, here’s your seat,” the flight attendant said, motioning with both hands as she presented the aisle chair in front of the last row in first class. “Can I assist you in getting settled?” Looking around at the spaciousness of the cabin, I couldn’t help but compare it to my usual stuff-them-in-like- cattle seating. It felt surreal. “Thank you, I’m good,” I responded. “And please, call me Meg.” She nodded and gracefully turned to assist the next passenger. I sat and fastened my seatbelt on the Korean Air flight from JFK to Incheon Airport, with a laughable flight time of 12 PM to 5 PM. If only it weren’t for the 13-hour time difference making East Asia a day ahead of my North American Eastern Time zone. As the realization of the trip hit me, my insides rippled like ginger ale poured into an ice-filled glass. Korean passengers surrounded me, all speaking their lyrical language. The use of the suffix honorifics -yo and -nida, among others, combined with many words ending in vowels, makes the language soft and musical. Yet, a litany of Anglo swear-words telling someone off is nothing compared to an angry Korean honorifically, ironically, and eloquently, berating someone who was owed respect: …nida. …Nida. … NIDA! I started watching Korean TV programs, or K-Dramas – the historical, fantasy, and rom coms being my favorites – during the COVID pandemic lockdown. The need for something… anything… new during this time was a healing tonic and I grabbed onto them like a teased child finally retrieving their precious item from a callous game of keep away. As someone with untreated ADHD (‘That’s not a real condition,’ my parents scoffed), the desire to experience anything unique was overwhelming. As I wrote in my article, there were times when watching a few K-dramas in the evening got me through another day without a meltdown. If someone confessed their love for a seatmate, I’d understand at least part of it, having absorbed a few words and phrases based on repetition and reading the English subtitles. Otherwise, it was going to be a lonely and long flight. That was alright though. I had the outline of a novel I was eager to work on. I'd wanted to be an author since reading my first Harry Potter book, and I'd been writing stories ever since. I also brought a book to read. I suspected I’d mostly worry about the upcoming television interview about the article I wrote. As I waited for takeoff, I ruminated on the reason I was sitting on this flight. “There is an age-old argument amongst people of European descent, whether French, Spanish, or Italian is the language of love. I put forth another candidate for consideration – Korean.” So began the opening statement to my article, “Korean: The Language of Love.” I wrote the article to better understand my fascination with Korean television: a bit of scholarly and celebrity research, combined with self-examination. Pleased with the results, I pitched it to several lifestyle magazines. To my great amazement and joy, Vogue magazine accepted the article, and upon publication, it took on a life of its own. Soon Vogue-Korea had translated and published it, followed by a Korean tv cultural news report. However, I was unprepared when English language channel ROKBC-TV reached out and offered to bring me there for an interview, which included an expense-paid two-week vacation as my reward. My initial reaction was disbelief, followed by hesitation. I’m a small-town girl. The fashion and entertainment industry always felt distant from the reality of my life. What would I possibly talk about? However, international recognition was not something to pass up. Naively I hoped it would jumpstart my writing career and allow me some breathing space to follow my life-long dream. Besides, their offer of an expense-paid, two-week vacation excited me, and that would be mine alone to enjoy. How wrong I was. “What can I get you to drink?” a flight attendant asked. “Water’s fine,” I assured her. I’d have a glass of wine with my dinner, hoping a drink would help me sleep. How I’d get myself onto Korean time before the dreaded interview I wasn’t sure. I’d have one full day to get used to the time difference and realistically I knew that wasn’t enough. Come to think of it, I’d have two drinks with dinner. Suddenly the voices behind me grew louder, and the tone of one of the speakers was filled with vitriol. My stomach began to churn. I suddenly wished that ginger ale illustrating my excitement had been flat. ‘You have to learn to deal with conflict,’ I heard my sister Hannah chiding me. Two years older, she was the me I wished to be. Competent, organized, and confident, she held an important position with the state. She’d know how to handle an interview and even direct its focus. She was the daughter my parents were proud of; I was the ‘Oh Meg, when will you ever learn?’ one. As young children, my sister and I were frequently left to our own devices. Indeed, Hannah and I joked we were feral kids. Our next-door grandparents often fed us, and we slept there regularly. As we got older, we got little parental advice. Whether it was a boyfriend or a college major, the choices were ours to make, and then live with the consequences. They weren’t unloving parents; they were just more involved in their own lives than in ours. Amazingly Hannah turned out to be organized and focused, while I seemingly drifted from one bad decision to the next. One might be excused for wondering if we were raised by the same couple. “So, I told that American asshole to stick it!” An audible sigh. “They all suck!” This was spoken in perfect, albeit East Asian accented, English. His tone shook with the intensity of his indignation. Oddly, the voice also seemed familiar. Suddenly, I felt the jolt and heard the thud of something hitting the back of my seat, followed by the reverberation of the impact. What the ….? Wow! Not only is this guy technically insulting me, but he’s smacking the back of my chair! One would think he’d use his own language at least. But then again, I was the only non-Asian in first class, so maybe he didn’t want others to understand. Also, I was sitting in front of him. My 5 foot nothing stature made me barely visible during ordinary circumstances and the seatbacks were high. Invisibility was my superpower. I employed it liberally as a teenager, however, as an adult, I’d found it problematic. One had to be noticed to achieve success, and it’s especially difficult if that one was short and a bit of an introvert. I wasn’t the type who evaded others, indeed I liked working collaboratively. But interactions with strangers were uncomfortable for me, and I rarely initiated them. That was why my reaction to this encounter was so out of character for me. I turned and looked back at the two men sitting behind me. “I think you’ve painted us with too broad a stroke.”

Chapter 1 Hand Surgeon’s Office, Tuesday afternoon, October 5 Katherine Bradford, Miami socialite and advice columnist Katherine plunged her working hand into her tote and extracted the paperback she’d brought to the doctor’s office, The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Who was the oddball in their book group who had picked this one? Written almost a hundred years ago about random travelers whose destiny had intersected when a bridge collapsed in Peru in 1714. Strangers and fate!? Too much. She pushed the novel back into her Coach carryall with a sigh. Speaking of strangers, check out what this hand surgeon’s waiting room offered up. The other two other Miamians sharing the cramped space certainly qualified as strange, even by South Florida standards. First, in the identical chair across from her slouched that thirty-ish character. For sure something was way off there. Anxious brown eyes darted around from beneath snarled hair. And his outfit. He was wrapped in some kind of toga, held together by a fraying bungee cord. An unbuttoned Guayabera topped the outlandish robe. As if such an accessory camouflaged the fact that he was wearing a bedsheet? It did not. She checked his hands. Encased in blood-stained gauze he was shielding them against his body. What in heaven’s name had he done to himself? She side-eyed the other occupant coughing by the entrance, his right arm suspended in a sling. He seemed to be around her age, maybe mid-fifties or a little older, with groomed, graying hair. Way more respectable and wearing actual clothes. But to her astonishment, he was engaged in an unholy wrestling match with a People Magazine. As he grappled with the magazine, he stopped to cough. Again. Wait. Could he have Covid? Was that still a thing now? He was well dressed, so maybe not. Although good clothes didn’t repel the virus. Katherine’s friend down the street proved that; haut couture, but dead as a doornail. His clumsy left hand continued to tear at the magazine. No doubt it was full of germs. Maybe blood. She gave him a hard stare. Behave! That’s not your magazine. But with a fierce jerk, a handful of pages burst free. What the hell was he up to? Ugh. She checked her watch. She would be tapping impatient right fingers--if only she could make them function. Damn. When it came to operations, she wanted them to be by choice. But now, here in the hand surgeon’s waiting room, she knew there wasn’t one. After the requisite number of days, the fingers on her braced hand felt worse, not better. And her fingers, her hand…her whole arm…hurt. She was destined for surgery. Ha, fate!The inner door burst open. At last! But it wasn’t the chubby nurse. It was a young man, handsome, she couldn’t help but notice, despite his aura of chaos. He staggered across the room, twisting into a paint-spattered Dolphins sweatshirt and swearing a blue streak. “INFECTION!!?” he howled, falling into the seat just down from her. She leaned away from his swirl of panic. “Vic! I’m sure the antibiotics will work.” His partner, an earnest woman wearing a black T-shirt imprinted with a palm crisscrossed with multicolored lines, followed him into the waiting room. Balancing backpacks, phones, and papers she sank into the last available chair next to Katherine. “What about SEPSIS?” “Try not to worry. It’s a rare complication, ” his companion tried to sooth him. “NOT RARE ENOUGH! How about RICKY? He was my TWIN. We have the same blood. He had an infection; he got SEPSIS. And he’s DEAD,” he railed. He’d captured the attention of the other two strangers across the room. On the word DEAD, their heads jerked up in unison. There was no way not to eavesdrop. “DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!” He shouted to the room; in case no one had heard him the first time. “I know, sweetie,” the woman murmured. “I’m so sorry.” She reached over and eased the trapped sleeve of his sweatshirt over the gauze encircling his hand. Katherine noted a fresh bandage, enveloping the infection that he had disclosed to everyone within earshot. “You’re not going to die.” The woman picked up his undamaged hand and traced the lines on his palm. What was she doing? “Oh my God,” he groaned, snatching his hand away. “Di! Palm reading? Not now.” Of course, that explained what the weird hand design on her T-shirt was about: palmistry. “No honey, this looks good, ” she reached again for his hand. “No, I’m serious. Your creative line on your left hand is faint. Look. But here…” She lifted the corner of bandage on his right hand. “The accident changed this and now you have a deep, bold creative line.”Glancing over despite herself, all Katherine could see was the tip of a festering furrow under the gauze. “It’s a scar, not a line, Di! Anyway, I’m already creative! I’m an ARTIST,” he insisted with a fierce glare. “Well, now you’re even more creative. Stop worrying. You’ll live. The cut didn’t affect your life line at all.” At that, the unkempt toga guy with the double bloody bandages careened toward them, almost falling into Katherine’s lap. “Wait a minute, Miss, are you a palm reader?” he demanded. “Well, yes, yes I am,” the young woman replied, shrinking away. “Can you look at mine?” He thrust out his bandaged hands. “Well, no, not easily.” Obviously! Katherine lifted one brow. “Please, just take a look,” he begged, swinging a mummy-wrapped hand under the palm reader’s face. “Did my accident change my fate?” “Not now!” She cast a horrified look at his bandages. To Katherine’s alarm he began a clumsy effort to unwrap one of the dressings. The woman shook her head, appalled. “No! Not here!!” Crowded against her seat, Katherine rolled her eyes in agreement. “But maybe sometime? Can we meet up later?” he pressed. “Maybe another time,” the palm reader placated. “Excuse me!” Pressed against the waiting room wall, Katherine tried to assert herself. This was too much! The stained bandage on his right hand hovered within centimeters of her arm. Her corner was overpopulated. No one moved. Shrinking further into her seat, with nowhere to look, Katherine glanced down at her own palm. She was pretty sure that the surgery was going to be just below her fingers. Would it create a new palm line? No. Never mind. That palm stuff was silly. In college, the girl in the room nextdoor had been infatuated with palmistry for a hot minute. After rushing up and down the hall, reading everyone’s hand, she had decided it was all hokum. Which, of course, it was. Still, she checked her life line. She still remembered where it was, arcing around the mound of her thumb. Far from her fingers it was free from any intrusion of Dr. Ellis’s scalpel. So she was safe. The operation wouldn’t affect her life at all. Would it? What could a scar under her fingers mean in palm-reading land? Nothing. For sure. The inner door opened again. “Mr. Brother Egret?” What? The nurse sang it out, as if it was a real name. “That’s me. Brother Egret,” The bedsheet-clad, bloody-mitts guy proclaimed, at last backing away from her. Brother what? He paused to plead with the palm lady. “Please. Do you have a card?” “A card? Okay, sure, sure. Here.” She attempted to hand him one from her purse, then realizing it was impossible with his bound hands, she tucked it into the top pocket of his guayabera. “Thanks, thank you!” He turned to stumble after the nurse. “I should leave some cards here!” She laughed to her companion. “Dr. Ellis is changing people’s futures!” “Shut up, Di, not funny,” he scowled, rising. “You never know…” Katherine watched her as she placed a couple bright yellow business cards on the side table and followed him out the door. Wait - that name, Brother Egret, Katherine knew it. Yes, that’s who that man was. Brother Egret. That con-man preacher. There’d been an article in the Miami Herald about Egret and his rag-tag band of followers. After it appeared, the “Angels of the Everglades” had gained a sheen of spiritual legitimacy which had attracted more followers, and the promise of unseemly financial success.Well, he didn’t look very successful now, Katherine thought. He looked like he hadn’t washed or combed his hair for days. To be fair, with two confined hands, maybe he hadn’t. And the sheet! Couldn’t one of his followers gotten him into a pair of pants? Now it was just Katherine and the gentleman with the sling and the torn-up People Magazine left waiting. She had to be next. She’d arrived moments before him. She had been seated by the time he came in. And for certain, she was richer than he was. She knew she looked good. A blond chignon and a complexion as smooth as Botox could make it. Her Chanel jacket and her Christian Louboutins trumped his a half-on tweedy jacket and some sort of slip-on leather shoes. She would be next, hands down. Hands. Yeah, hands! Anyway, it was now 4:15 and her appointment had been for 3:45. Come on! Finally, the nurse returned. “Jeeezzus?” she called. No one rose. “Jeezzusss?” Again. “Hey-soos?” The sling-man man queried. “Hey-soos Santos?” “Well, maybe?” The nurse squinted at her clipboard. Katherine winced. Even she knew the Spanish pronunciation of Jesús. 2024 Miami was almost seventy percent Hispanic, for heaven’s sake. Dr. Ellis’s office staff had better get with the program. Wait!? How had that happened? The magazine-maiming Hispanic guy was called before her! She couldn’t believe she was still sitting there. She took a moment to bolster her outrage. The panicky guy, Vic, with the dead twin brother, had been in the treatment room when she arrived. And that ponzi-preacher Egret had already been in the waiting room. Right. But for certain she assured herself again, she had beaten Hey-soos into the waiting room by several minutes. Well, maybe she should just leave! Her fingers weren’t so bad. To convince herself, she attempted to flex them. Pain rocketed down her palm. Okay, yes, she’d better wait. But really! For distraction, she picked up her phone, hoping to get a game going. She hadn’t done Wordle yet today. She always started with the word “arise.” Nothing! There had to be at least one letter. A total lack of appropriate tiles mocked her effort at distraction. Ouch! She dropped the phone to her lap. She couldn’t even hold it for two minutes! This was ridiculous. This surgery had better work. The door clicked open. “Katherine Bartlett?”At last. Who else? She was the only one left! She rose and raised her chin at the nurse as she led her into a cubicle. Yes, I’m Katherine Bartlett and your doctor has kept me waiting. Inexcusable. Huff. The People shredding guy, Jesús, already on the way out, passed by the open door of her treatment room, minus his sling. That was a good sign. That maybe Doctor Ellis knew his stuff. In Miami-Dade County there were over two million residents and about a hundred hand surgeons. She’d checked. Of them, Dr. Ellis and his wife inhabited her social circle, so she’d come to him. But that did not provide an accurate read on his surgical skills. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake. “Hello, Doctor,” she purred at his entrance. She knew she could be rude to the nurse, but she’d better butter up the doctor. “Hello Katherine. How is Robert?” “He’s fine, busy with his law practice. How’s Gretchen?” La, la, la. Whatever. Let’s get this show on the road. “Lovely as usual.” “Mmmm.” “Let’s take a look at your hand.” Katherine held out her right hand, flinching as the doctor began to move her fingers. “I see there is no improvement. I think we should go ahead with the surgery as discussed.” “I guess so.” She was out of options. “I have an opening Friday at 11:00. Be here at 10:30. Nothing to eat after midnight. Plan to have someone here to pick you up around 3:00 in the afternoon. Does that work?” “Yes,” she hesitated. “Will there be a scar?” “Yes, just under your fingers. But there are lots of lines on your palm, it will blend right in once it heals.” “Oh, okay.” So yes, maybe a new line, but far from her life line. What made her think that? Hand lines. Palm reading. Foolishness. “See you Friday, then?“Sure, thanks.” There went her luncheon date. As he bustled out of the room, she absorbed his instructions. No food, 10:30, 3:00. Well, this was it. Too bad that it wouldn’t improve her looks like her two tightening and lifting forays into other operating rooms. Okay, maybe it would a bit. At least a working hand would mean more effective management of her hair and make-up. She sighed and collected her things. Passing back through the waiting room she noticed the palm reader’s business card on the table across from where she had been sitting. The room was vacant. One last yellow business card remained. What could be the harm? With her good hand, she picked it up and slipped it into her purse. Chapter 2 Hand surgeon’s office, Tuesday afternoon, October 5 Brother Egret, con-man and Deity to the Angels of the Everglades The pain in his hands was unbearable. What had he been thinking? Somehow, he had believed his own hype. And look where it had landed him. Brother Egret. Ha. Risen from the Everglades. Yeah. It had been a fluke. Last year, ahead of the Florida Python Challenge, he had secreted a cache of snakes that he’d bagged-up in a cypress dome where he’d camped as a teenager. After the obligatory training, signing up, showing up, and looking innocent, he’d gotten back to the place where he’d hidden the pythons he’d caught earlier. He’d hung around, smoking dope, cursing the oppressive August heat and humidity, and waiting the appropriate amount of time to have nabbed them for real. Then on the way out of the swamp, he’d tripped over another python. Literally tripped, capturing the snake with both hands and falling face first into raspy sawgrass. He’d been out of bags, so dripping with slime, he’d draped his latest find around his neck and kept going. Then he’d lost his way a bit, trying to get back to the road, to where the Florida Fish and Wildlife wardens would assess his catch. Stomping through a dank patch of bioluminescence he’d come across a camp of stoned neo-hippies who saw him “walking on water” with a snake draped around his neck. Well, he’d fit the description of the Deity of their dreams. Even he could see that there was more money in being a Deity than in the remote possibility of winning the ten- thousand-dollar Python Challenge Prize. So, he’d ditched the snakes and become Brother Egret. As his following grew, they expected things. Bits of excitement here and there. No problem. He knew lots of magic tricks. He had years of shenanigans up his sleeve. But then he’d gotten ahead of himself. He’d seen a gag on the internet on the Naranja Branch Library computer. “Amazing tricks with a coin and a glass.” It had looked like a piece of cake when the teenager in the baseball cap on YouTube did it. But despite the kid’s warnings Egret had chosen the wrong sizedglass and when he was trying to palm the coin and hold the glass, there’d been too much pressure. Boom! It had all gone to hell. There had been a lot of damage to his left hand, but he’d kept trying to look cool. Then picking out the shards of glass, a big piece had gotten stuck in his other palm. From there it all became an agonizing bloody mess, and it was off to the Jackson Hospital Emergency Room. Today he’d been following up in Dr. Ellis’s office, hoping for a miraculous cure. Something was wrong with one of his tendons. Maybe both of his tendons. Now, according to Dr. Ellis, the remedy was time. Which he didn’t have. His hands were useless, and he needed to get back to his magic. Keep his flock enraptured. Before Dr. Ellis’s nurse had called him in, he’d been pretty sure that the Palm Reading dame who came out into the waiting room with her screaming boyfriend could be of some kind of benefit. For certain his palms were majorly damaged. What could that mean? Some big change? Something good? He’d had a strong hunch about her, and Egret always trusted his hunches. Those types of charlatans could have insights. Anyway, she’d refused to look at his screwed-up hands. For now, anyway. Yeah. Maybe just hype, but you never knew. She’d slipped her card into his front pocket where hope sprang eternal. Chapter 3 Hand surgeon’s office, Tuesday afternoon, October 5 Jesús Santos, father and manager for his daughter Caro, “The Latina Songbird” Diós! Jesús coughed into his good hand. Here it was again. That damned issue of People magazine. Yep, it was Tina Turner on the cover and his daughter on page thirty-six. This was the one. It had to be at least a month, maybe six weeks old. It was clear that Dr. Ellis’s office staff had neglected to update the offerings in the waiting room. And here was the magazine he never wanted to see again. Trying look casual, he ripped at the pages that referred to his daughter, Caro, and her ill- advised outing to Miami Beach. Enough! Not one other person needed to see this! It had always been the two of them. Caro and Jesús. Jesús and Caro. Caro’s mom, his wife Flora, had passed away when Caro was four. Passed away really described the way she had just kind of given up and faded like an old, sad flower, a daisy with the petals fluttering off, or better, a rosebud that stayed in a tight knot and refused to bloom. From then on, he’d had to be both mother and father to Caro. And here in People was his beloved daughter. In color. The Latina Songbird. Available for speculation. Did she look a little paunchy? Ninety-nine percent of women should look that good. But in the time since the pictures appeared and then reappeared elsewhere, conjecture had been rife. Was she letting herself go? Was she going to stop performing? Was she pregnant? On and on and on. Maldito social media. Ha. It was just a bad camera angle. And maybe that unflattering polka-dot swimsuit. Jesús was pretty sure that was all. She hadn’t said anything about it since the story came out, even though he had asked her over and over. In truth, he admitted to himself that in the last months she he had pretty much stopped talking to him altogether. Going out all the time, rather than working on her songs or spending time in her home recording studio. Hurrying past him on the rare occasion that they were in the same room in their cavernous Star Island mansion. What was going on with all her distant moodiness? It was so unlike her. Growing up she had shared everything with him. And now nothing. Of course, he hoped she understood that as her father, he always had her best interests at heart. Didn’t she? He could spin this beach fiasco if/when it came up again. But he needed the whole story from her. Then he could make it go away for good. Fat was one thing, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t ignore the other, more concerning part of the article. The black rapper. No, he didn’t want to think about that at all. A guy named Provi. No one Jesús had heard of before. He’d looked him up on the internet and it seemed he was a big deal in the rapping world. They’d been way too cozy in the photos. Cozy meaning that Provi’s hands were all over her. His daughter! He had the same question as the newsmongers; what was going on there? Again, she wasn’t saying. He tried to harness a cough, but it burst out. It had been six months, and he couldn’t get rid of it. He felt a twinge of anxiety. Two weeks ago, his general practitioner had been concerned and had ordered X-rays and tests. Once he had the test results, there was an immediate referral to a specialist whose office had scheduled more tests and an appointment for the middle of the next month. Many weeks away, so maybe it wasn’t so urgent. But a specialist? And he hadn’t stopped coughing. Would Tina Turner’s face appear on a magazine in that waiting room? God forbid. Anyway, the gossip from the article was finally dying down. Jesús was grateful to the moralizing senator from Florida who had been caught in a threesome. Stupid move. And the conflagration of a long-term Hollywood couple in the throes of a “friendly” divorce. It took a while, but public attention had been diverted. But just in case, these pages in People were coming out. He used his good hand to crumple them, wedging the rest of the magazine under his arm in the sling. It was awkward to get a good gripunder his elbow. His wrestling with the slippery magazine was raising the eyebrows of the haughty lady across the way. He gave her an “oh, how clumsy of me” shrug and a challenging stare. You try to handle a magazine with one arm in a sling, senora. Now she was staring back. You try to manage a recalcitrant daughter who is making every effort to tank her singing career. Try that! He sighed and coughed again. Pain twisted into his wrist as the periodical went one way and the offending pages the other. Careful of your hand, he reminded himself, trying to maintain a neutral expression, as if he wasn’t bent on destruction. “Still healing,” he nodded at the woman, trying to maintain innocence as the remainder of the magazine fell to the floor. He kicked it under his chair, secreting the torn pages into his muslin sling. Done. The door from the treatment area burst open and a deranged guy bolted into the waiting room. Loco. Screaming about an infection. His girlfriend was trying to calm him down, yammering about lines in his hand. Interesting. Caro was into that. Seances, palm reading, crystal balls, Tarot cards. A lot of nonsense if you asked him. The scruffy guy wearing some kind of toga who lurched over to her seemed to believe in it. Look at his hands. Something bad must have happened. Malo. Brother Egret? Si, that’s what the nurse called him. Jesús watched as he vanished into the doctor’s office, tripping over his bizarre, draping sheets. Now the senora and he were the only ones left in the waiting room. He pulled his phone out of his briefcase and studied it, feigning a stream of urgent messages. The door snicked. The nurse was back, “Jeezusss?” “Jeezusss?” Again. He pretended not to understand. He was nobody’s Anglo-savior. “Hey-soos?” he corrected, standing up. “Hey-soos Santos?” He didn’t understand the surgical procedure that Dr. Ellis had performed ten days before. Something about carpal tunnel along with the reason that his thumb wouldn’t do its opposable thing anymore. It had been painful and clumsy, doing the things with his left hand that he used to be able to do with his right. So the surgery had been necessary. But Ellis’s explanation of the whys and hows in rapid medical English went way over his head. Now he was left with a scar on his palm that curved all the way around the back of his thumb, his hand locked up in a brace, and the whole mess in a sling around his neck. Dr. Ellis’s promise was that he would untangle it all today and that with physical therapy, Jesus’s thumb would go back to doing its normal job.Now, seated in the treatment room with the doctor and holding out his hand, he could see the cut from the surgery was almost healed. The scar echoed of the strong line that had always been around his thumb. Long, but not too noticeable. Sure enough, after lots of painful probing, Dr. Ellis pronounced that with caution and a set of exercises, Jesús could begin to resume normal activities. At last, the brace was off and the sling secreting the rumpled People pages slid into the trash bin. Freedom. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. He passed back into the waiting room. The palm reading lady had scattered a couple cards on the table displaying her name, “Di Mason” and her profession “Palm Reader” with a three-oh-five telephone number inscribed below. Si, a lot of nonsense. Despite his name, he wasn’t a religious man looking for the hand of God in his life or his fate in his palm. But still, there were moments when he wondered. Catholic upbringing and all. He picked up a card, marveling that now he could kind of use his right thumb. Maybe he’d ask Caro if she wanted attend to a palm-reading. Get her talking. “Palms and Palms; Know your Future,” the card read. Chapter 4 Hand Surgeon’s Office, Tuesday afternoon, October 5 Vic Hernandez, an artist, and his girlfriend Di Mason, a palm reader The half-hour wait back in Dr. Ellis’s antiseptic treatment room was sheer torture. By now, Vic was sure there were other people waiting. Why couldn’t he leave? He checked the clock on the wall again. Something must be wrong, or it wouldn’t be taking so long. The doctor came and went. The nurse took blood. Took blood!? Why?? What the hell was going on? Unbound, his scar didn’t look great, even to him, raised and red, slanting down into his palm from his fingers. Instead of disappearing, as Dr. Ellis had promised, the stitches had produced raised, crimson pustules all along the injury. None of it seemed like any kind of healing to him. “What’s going on, Di?” he asked his girlfriend. “I don’t know, honey.” Her weak smile was not encouraging. “Isn’t that your jam? Knowing things?” “Stop being mean.” He hadn’t intended to be. He knew she didn’t deserve it. Through it all, she’d been there for him. It was just that he felt so jumpy about medical stuff, with good reason after what happened to Ricky. One day his twin had been well, then a little infection. Then not so well and a week laterragingly ill. Vic had taken him to the Baptist clinic, and they’d hustled him over to the hospital. But it was too late. One day later he was dead. Vic knew he shouldn’t take it out on Di. But with all her palm stuff, her sixth sense, shouldn’t she have known what was going to happen? Didn’t her business card say, “Palms and Palms…Know your future?” Shouldn’t she have received some message? “Get to the doctor, Ricky!” “Sepsis is coming for you!” The parade of ladies presenting their palms in the front room of his studio relied on her. Paid her. Even tipped her when things went their way. Why couldn’t she have helped Ricky? The doctor was back. Solemn. “What was that chemical smell on your bandages?” “I dunno, why?” Vic sniffed at his hand. “Turpentine maybe?” “From cleaning your palette or brushes?” Di offered. “Turpentine, ah, I think that was it.” Dr. Ellis looked nonplussed. “It’s an unusual smell for a sterile bandage. I wondered. Well, it didn’t help the healing. It looks like you picked up an infection.” “WHAT?” Giving Di a desperate look, he leapt up, grabbed his sweatshirt, and rushed out into the waiting room.

Chapters Palms (5).pdfChapters Palms (5).pdf

Jenna wakes in the middle of the night and discovers her husband is gone. His bed is empty, she notices it immediately as she shuffles to the bathroom in the dark, the strange velvety texture of the hotel carpet against her bare soles causing an unpleasant shiver in her molars. She assumes she’s woken from the resonant thud of him walking past her bed. Hotel floors always reverberate in that particular way, as if their bones are hollow or a secret cobwebbed chamber exists between each floor. But he’s neither in the marble-everything bathroom nor the adjacent toilet closet. She assumes he must be in his bed; the rumpled sheets and the darkness have merely disguised his presence, and with her earplugs in she can’t hear the rise and fall of his breathing or the subtle purr of his breathing machine. Back in the bedroom, a thin square of streetlamp light limns the edges of the drawn curtains. The darkness in the room holds the thick, impenetrable quality of the small hours when even night predators crouch silent and motionless. Red light from the digital clock on the nightstand between their beds illuminates her plastic water bottle with the numerals 3:13a.m. Jenna picks up her water bottle, twists off the lid, and takes a swig (but not too much, else she’ll be up again in another hour). She frowns at David’s bed as she drinks, sets the water bottle down, and fumbles for her glasses on the nightstand. Slides them on. No head on David’s pillow, no legs and arms sprawled atop the sheets, no dark humps of belly and shoulders. A worm of unease slithers down her nape. “David?” she whispers, and she works one of her earplugs out. Immediately, she hears the rushing air of his CPAP unit, but not as it sounds when the mask is fitted over his face to prevent sleep apnea. This is a brash continuous rush of air with no lulls for inhalation and exhalation. This is the sound of a machine abandoned mid-operation. David would never remove his CPAP mask and leave the machine running. Ever. Her heart stumbles on the downbeat. “David?” she says again, louder, and she pulls out her remaining earplug and fumbles for the nightstand lamp, knocking over the water bottle which lands on her foot, the lid painfully striking her instep. Cursing, she slides her fingers over the brass body of the lamp, seeking the switch, then under the tasselled lampshade, up to the socket, over the smooth glass bulb. Where is that flaming switch? More fumbling, sleep shedding from her like a dog’s winter coat, and still the rushing air from the CPAP unit fills the room with its harsh susurrus. “David?” she calls out, even as she realizes he must be out of the room. At three in the morning. She belatedly remembers that the light switch is halfway down the lamp’s electrical cord (stupid design) and fumbles for it. Light bursts painfully against the backs of her eyes. David’s breathing mask sits on his pillow, empty. Indifferent air blasts the place where his mouth and nose should be. Her arm and leg muscles tighten. She smacks the off button on the hissing unit. The rushing air stops. A cloying silence floods the room. She swallows, the movement requiring thought and force, and scans the shadow-shrouded room. No David. He must have left a note on the floor somewhere. They do that back home, leave notes for each other on the kitchen floor like wind-fallen fruit. If David’s having a bad night, agitated by the stressful workday ahead of him, and has gone for a walk through this hotel’s labyrinth of shopping arcades, he’ll have left a note. Perhaps even now he’s stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling glass walls of the hotel’s underground aquarium, mesmerized by the sting-rays and sharks swimming in endless circles. Squinting in the gloom, she scans the floor, finds no neat, white square of hotel notepaper anywhere. Her eyes snap to the long mahogany bureau across from the beds, to the shadowed sprawl of her and David’s things—her reading glasses (different strength than her distance glasses currently perched upon her nose), his electronic cords, power adapters, chargers, and gadgets she doesn’t even know the names of all clustered beneath the wall-hung T.V. like viscera offered to a god. Deliberately controlling her breathing—there’s no need to panic, for the love of Lucy—she approaches the bureau and scans its cluttered surface. Once. Twice. Thrice. No note.

April 1989 Southport, Maine Someone had told her once that the red house had withstood years of abuse from the gales and never faltered because it had good bones. But the house that fishermen looked to as a landmark in the fog was now a beacon of neglect. Galene stopped at the front door and scraped her fingernails along the siding. Red paint peeled off in shards. At least she’d had the roof replaced last year. She tussled with the finicky lock and cringed as the door creaked open in protest. The air inside smelled like must. Furniture covered in white cloth. Dust motes dancing. A memory tugged at her. She shook it off. The large windows in the parlor stretched across the room, affording views of both Sheepscot Bay and the ocean beyond where a flock of gulls soared on an updraft, monitoring the water below for prey. A few landed on the granite ledge overlooking the bay. They still nest there, she thought. All these years and they still know to come home. There wasn’t time to linger over memories though. She needed to find her journal that she’d stashed years ago. A flight of steps led her to the attic and a flip of the switch bathed the room in a muted yellow glow. She yelped at the sight of the dress mannequin in front of the only window in the room. At first, she thought it was a real person. No. Just a ghost standing watch over the scattered remains of the people who once inhabited this house and didn’t take the time to clean up their mess. The chest was on the floor next to the mannequin. She unlocked it with a key, yanked it open, and the first thing she saw was the silk dress she’d retrofitted when she was seventeen. For him. She pulled the dress out of the tissue paper she’d wrapped it in, examining it in the natural light. Surprisingly, there were no moth holes. Standing up, she draped it over the mannequin where she had first discovered it, falling in love with the fabric’s silky embrace. Oh God, don’t do this to yourself. Move on. Find the damn journal and get the hell out of here. She returned to the chest. On top of a Montgomery Ward box that held her wedding dress was the trilogy of the sea by Rachel Carson. They belonged to her dad, and she read them to him almost every night until they had both read all three books at least twice, memorizing entire passages. Her eyes pooled, and she wiped at them with the back of her sleeve, getting mascara on it. She took the books out, set them aside, and rummaged around the bottom of the trunk until she felt the leather-bound journal. Lifting it out of the chest, she swung around, startled by a sharp bark. A yellow lab bounded up the stairs, its claws scratching the wooded steps, and sprinted directly at her, almost knocking her over. “Sit!” she said, grabbing for the collar as the dog licked the back of her hands and wagged its tail. “Sit, Beebee.” “There you are. Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Sasha stood in the doorway, hands planted on her hips. Arms akimbo. Galene let go of the collar and pulled the journal to her chest. “Jeesh, Sasha. Beebee scared the hell out of me.” Sasha stepped into the light. Her curly black hair now white, her blue eyes just as vivid as they’d always been. “BeeBee, come.” She motioned for her dog. “What are you doing up here?” “How’d you know I was here?” “I was walking BeeBee and saw a car with out-of-state plates and…you know you left the door wide open to the house?” She strode across the room and embraced Galene. “Why didn’t you tell anyone when you were getting in? We could’ve picked you up at the airport.” “I didn’t want to put anyone out, so I rented a car.” Sasha stepped away from her and poked at the journal. “Found your old diary?” Her dark brows slanted. “I remember that thing. You were always writing in it. Look, if there’s anything about me in there that my kids shouldn’t know about I suggest you burn it.” “It’s about me. Not you. And don’t worry. I won’t let it get into the wrong hands. I just want to read it again. I stopped by the house to find it. Thought it might jog my memory about the summer I worked for Rachel Carson. I need to think of what I’m going to say at the memorial.” Sasha rolled her eyes. “I know. That’s all everyone around here is talking about.” There’s not much else to talk about on this island besides other people’s business and the latest catch, Galene thought. But didn’t say out loud. “Where are you staying?” Sasha continued. “I got a room at Newagen.” “Lucky you. I hear they’re booked solid. You’ll be hobnobbing with all the bigwigs. The Governor is staying there as well. You sure you’re ready for this? There’s going to be a huge crowd.” “I lecture to a room of over a hundred students every week. I think I can handle it.” Sasha swiped a piece of hair away from her eyes. Galene recognized the dark red nail polish on her fingernails, chipping off like the paint on the house. “Oh, my God! Is that the dress you wore to the boat club party years ago? You kept it?” Sasha took a handful of the fabric in her hand. “I always loved this dress.” Galene stopped herself from telling Sasha to leave it alone because she didn’t want to come across as unkind in the short time she had here. “I’m only here for a few days,” she said to change the subject. “I’ve got to get back for finals week.” Sasha’s dreamy gaze remained on the dress. A smile formed on her lips, most likely remembering a time when they were both young and determined to makes something of their lives. A passing thought, a disturbing memory perhaps, caused Sasha to chomp down on her lower lip. She turned her attention to Galene. “Why’d you keep it?” “I don’t know,” Galene said as she choked back tears. Damn it, Sasha. Leave it alone. Maybe Sasha noticed the raspiness in Galene’s voice, because she let go and stepped away from the mannequin. Galene headed toward the stairs, Sasha right behind like a collie nipping at her heels. “Come on BeeBee,” Sasha called, and the lab barreled past them, almost knocking Galene over. “Do you know what you’re going to say at the memorial?” “I’ll figure it out.” They ended up in the parlor surrounded by white drop cloths, layers of dust on the mantel, and a fireplace that hadn’t felt the lick of flames in ten years. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. She’d given up on the place. Stopped renting it out because she didn’t feel like hearing renters complain about the lack of water pressure or the broken slats on the deck. She only did the bare minimum for upkeep, as was evident by the peeling exterior. Her brother kept telling her to sell it. The value of coastal property had quadrupled since her father-in-law bought the place in the 1960s. Sasha hugged her unexpectedly, and the warmth of it settled her. “I know it’s difficult for you to make the trip back. But I’ve really missed you.” “I’ve missed you too, Sasha.” “Then why don’t you plan to stay longer?” “I can’t.” “Then come back when the semester ends. Fix this place up. Have you forgotten how nice the summers are here?” “It’s hard not to,” Galene said. “Don’t take it personally. I’m usually tied down by my research.” She failed to mention that her summer stipend hadn’t come through. The funders were rethinking their commitment to her work studying the impacts of global warming on the marine life in the Salish Sea. “I’ve never taken it personally. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you made a pit stop to this place to find a twenty-five-year-old diary so you can reminisce.” Galene clutched the leather journal closer and stalked outside to the car. “It’s not reminiscing. It’s research.” She stepped into the car and shut the door. Sasha rested her elbows at the window as Galene put the car into gear. “Sure it is.” *** Her attention drifted to the murmuration over the fir trees dotting the coast. High above the audience on the lawn, the starlings were putting on their own choreographed show. The surf muffled their song, but she knew they were communicating to each other. How else could they accomplish these aerial theatrics?. They alighted en masse onto the branches of a tree, and on cue, pitched back into the air, circling, fanning, creating waves of black smoke along the horizon. From her viewpoint on the deck at the Inn, she imagined they were harassing the hawk waiting restlessly in the tree. He finally gave up and flew away. “…am happy to introduce one of our hometown heroes to the environmental cause, Dr. Galene MacGregor.” The clapping brought her back to the stage, to the event, to the people on the lawn waiting for her to speak. With a nod and a smile she took her place at the podium and focused on the audience. She’d learned long ago to keep her attention on the last row, a trick mastered when she felt seasick on a boat. Keep steady. Not that she felt seasick, but a feeling had crawled up her arms, tingled the back of her head, made her brain buzz. She couldn’t pinpoint it. Clearing her throat, she unfolded her notes and found them unacceptable. All of the lectures in the world hadn’t prepared her for this. The crowd waited expectantly for her to speak. The blood drained from her head, their faces went blurry. Was she about to faint? “Uhm. Do you need a moment?” the last speaker, the mayor of Booth Bay, whispered in her ear. Shaking her head to bring back some energy she said, “I’ll be all right.” Someone handed her a glass of water. She took two gulps, faced the crowd, and spotted her brother, Sam, in the front row next to Sasha. Galene spoke, “The other speakers here have spoken about Rachel Carson’s influence. Her message to us all about the perils of neglecting the natural world. And she’ll always be memorialized for that. But my memory of Miss Carson is of a warm, caring, private friend. She became my mentor when I desperately needed one.” Galene locked eyes with her brother to register his reaction. Noting none, she continued. “My mother died when I was young and the summer I met Rachel my entire world changed. Growing up on a small island, one doesn’t realize the vast opportunities that lay beyond the shore. Cloistered. I recall using that word about my life.” A few people chuckled, and she imagined it was one of her many cousins who were in the audience. “But Rachel made me recognize the potential I had when women like her, especially women scientists, were not taken seriously. Her critics, called her all sorts of names: spinster, hysterical, a mystic instead of a person of science. Through it all, she held her head high and showed true grace. Because she knew. She knew she was dying. And no one could take away her fortitude, her belief that as part of nature, it was up to nature to decide when her time came. As she told her best friend, Dorothy Freeman in one of her letters, reminiscing about a time she and Dorothy sat right here and watched a migration of monarchs over the lawn where you now sit, ‘…we felt no sadness when we spoke of the fact that there would be no return. And rightly—for when any living thing has come to the end of its life cycle, we accept that end as natural.’ “She was a keen observer. Her trilogy of the sea is a poetic account of the life cycle on the variety of species who rely on the ocean. I think she’d like most to be remembered not as the woman who catalyzed the environmental movement. But a biographer of the sea. Because it was here, by the ocean, she was happiest.” The applause died down, she regained her composure to allow a wide smile to break across her face, took another gulp of the water, and sat. The master of ceremonies announced a cocktail hour followed by dinner for those guests that had reserved tickets (tickets had cost three hundred a person and Galene doubted Sam or Sasha had forked out the money for a lobster bake when it was their lobster catch everyone was going to be eating). People came up to the deck and wandered inside when the breeze picked up and a chill descended. As she followed the crowd into the bar, Sam took her by her elbow. “Hey.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “We’re not staying.” “I didn’t think you would be.” “Come to dinner before you leave?” “Sure. I’m here until Tuesday.” His hair was still the same tawny brown, flecked with gray at the temples. His expression hopeful as he said, “Call us?” “Yes. I’ll call in the morning.” Sasha came up to say goodbye just as a man strode up and said, “Galene.” She did a double take. Although they were inside, he hadn’t taken off his black-framed wayfarer sunglasses, the type that were popular in the sixties and were making a comeback with celebrities. He lifted them onto his head and her heart caught in her throat. It was him. “James?” It came out as a croak. “James?” Sasha took the familiar stance of hands planted on hips. “Oh. My. God.” Galene widened her eyes at Sasha, communicating without saying, shut the hell up. And go away. “James, you remember my good friend Sasha?” He grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling like they always did, making him appear cheerful. “Of course.” His hair, once a deep brown, was now totally gray. His face had turned jowly, one reason she hadn’t recognized him when he took his seat on the lawn. That and his padded middle. No wonder she had felt unsettled before speaking. She’d seen him without recognizing him right away. He’d always been so chiseled. And without the bronze summer tan she remembered from their youth, he appeared—doughy. Galene hoped Sasha recognized her pleading expression after all of these years. “Sasha, so glad you came today. I’ll see you tomorrow? I know you have to go.” “Yes. So right. See you tomorrow. Goodbye, James.” And Sasha parted, leaving Galene to face the guy, now a man, she’d loathed for half of her life. “My company donated a lot of money to the Nature Conservancy for the upkeep of her preserve,” he said to explain his presence. The Rachel Carson Salt Pond Preserve in New Harbor was one of many memorials. “That’s nice,” Galene said, sounding as if her tongue had swelled to twice its size. He coughed into the back of his wrist. “I…uh…would you like a drink?” “Yes. A Chablis please.” She watched him make his way to the bar. As he did, a few people patted his shoulder, spoke into his ear. He threw his head back and laughed at a joke someone told him. Who were these people and how did he know them? Why was he here? He came back, handed her a glass, and as if on cue said, “When I heard you were speaking, I knew I had to come. We spent a lot of time in those tidal pools. You me and Trevor.” His eyes skimmed over the top of his tumbler of bourbon to meet hers. Ice tinkled in the glass as he sipped. “How is Trevor?” His face changed. “Trevor died in Vietnam.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. He was such a good spirited kid.” “Mother was crushed. She never recovered.” “That’s terrible.” It surprised Galene he talked about his mother with no note of bitterness in his voice. Losing Trevor must have been the end of what was left of their miserable family life. He put on a smile. “You look the same. And I hear you’re doing wonderful work out at the University of Washington is it?” “Yes.” “Still tramping around in the seaweed?” “Kelp beds. I study the impact of warming ocean temperatures on the kelp beds.” “Ahh…that global warming stuff. You take that seriously?” She bit her tongue. Took a long draw of her wine. “Well,” he continued, “I always knew you’d do something with yourself.” “Really?” She wanted so desperately to remind him of their last conversation, where he told her she’d move to Boston to be with him. “Did you ever get into Harvard?” She hoped this was a dagger that would ward him off. Send him scurrying. “Haha. That’s a long story. I own a company now. Real estate.” “Good for you.” His eyes grazed over her figure. “Get back home much?” “Rarely, I’m sorry to say.” She wasn’t, but it felt like she was supposed to say this. “Is this your first time back here since…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say what should come next. The awful summer of 1962 that had started out so sweet and ended up so tragic. Though out of tragedy she had love. He shook his head and puckered his lips. “No. But that’s probably going to change.” “There you are.” A young woman, Galene guessed was in her late twenties, came up to them and slid her arm into his. He patted the back of her hand. “Galene, meet my wife, Violet.” “Nice to meet you.” “You as well. You gave a wonderful speech.” Violet smiled politely, looked around as if finding Galene non-threatening, and not worth the effort. “Look at this crowd! Everyone is here.” She sounded like a chirping chickadee. “Hey, I just saw Farrah by the bar. I’ll be right back.” And she took off. “You were saying?” Galene said, trying to keep her expression neutral. Inside, she wanted to scream. He raked his free hand through his thick, wavy hair as his gaze followed his wife sashaying to the bar through a thick crowd of people. After taking the last swig of his drink, he puckered his lips and said, “I’m planning to buy the red house. The one my dad owned way back when we first met.” Galene dropped her glass, and it shattered, wine coating the floor, slithering around her feet. Everyone’s attention turned to them and a hush fell across the room. She felt like she was under a microscope. A server scurried over with a rag, wiping up around her shoes. “I’m so sorry,” Galene stammered. “Are you okay?” He was actually concerned for her. “I’ll be fine. I just need to sit,” she said. He took hold of her by the waist and guided her to a chair in the lounge by the fireplace. People gave her a wide berth as they passed. She inhaled and stared into the flames, afraid to look him in the eyes. “It’s probably jet lag,” he said. “Yes.” “I’ll stay with you until you feel better.” “It’s fine. Don’t worry. I have a room upstairs. I think I’ll go lay down.” “Wonderful. Then I’ll see you again.” “What do you mean?” “We’re staying here too.” Galene Early Spring 1962 Southport, Maine There’s gray, and there’s black and white. Gray times are those when you make concessions to survive. Black and white times are when you won’t. Today is gray. A fox got into the coop last night, chased the hens off their nests and ate the eggs. Dad doesn’t know yet. My brother Sam forgot to close up the coop before he went out, and I don’t want to give our dad another reason to be mad at him. So, I’m off to find gull eggs. The temperature was arctic last night, but as dawn creeps over the horizon, it provides a glimpse of warmer weather. The heat builds with the rising sun, coursing through my limbs, my face, my breath, as I venture out onto the rocky shore, slick with sea spray and small pools of water reflecting the silvery dawn mist. The herring gulls, with their muted gray wings, are less aggressive than the black backed, and smaller, so I start with their nests. I throw a pocket-sized rock to shoo a gull from her nest and snatch an egg before she can pierce my hand with her beak. It’s warm from her incubating and a wave of guilt washes over me briefly before I place it in the wicker basket. We need to eat. The indignant bird has a partner who joins her, circling in the air above my head. I move to another nest. Alert, this pair torpedoes my feet with their bills. I dodge their attacks as best I can, and they peck at my rubber boots like a small hammer. They’re in a frenzy now and my luck will run out soon if I don’t hurry. I’m able to take four more eggs before being chased off by one of them nipping at my hair. Their squawking protests echo as I run away. The things we do. If Sam had closed the coop, I wouldn’t be here wanting to screech back at the birds. “Sorry, you can always lay another one, but we’ve got to eat.” A few pairs of black-backed gulls have nests on the farthest ridge. As I approach, they flap their wings. One lifts its beak, opens wide and screams. I remind myself that their protective instincts aren’t half as bad now as they will be once the chicks hatch. When I was the height of Sam’s knees, he took me out on this ledge to see the chicks, warning me to stay away from the nests. I may have gotten too close, or not have paid attention to his warning. A pair of black-backs rose in the air above us, dropping an enormous plop of white and green slimy mess on my head. Sam laughed while I cried. I approach with caution. A gull pulls out of her nest, runs right at me, her wings unfolding and flapping like a red flag to the flock. There are gray and there are black and white moments. I just washed my hair last night. This is a black and white moment. I back off, turn, and stumble over a small boy. “What’re you doing?” he asks. From his small stature I guess he’s too young to know much of anything. “I’m collecting gull eggs,” I say, pulling the basket to my chest. “Who are you?” “Why?” Searching the sea behind him for answers, pointing at the gulls dipping into the waves. “They eat the fish. The fishermen pay me. To control the population.” “What fish?” “Herring. That’s why they’re called herring gulls.” He’s wearing a pair of un-scuffed Buster Brown shoes, a white button-down shirt, gray flannel pants, and a jacket. And from the sound of his accent I’d say he’s from away. “You’re going to dirty those,” I say. He shrugs and smears the toe of his shoe against a rock. “I don’t care.” “What’s your name?” “Trevor.” “How old are you?” “Nine.” “Where are you from?” “Boston.” It surprises me his accent doesn’t give that away. “What’re you doing here?” He gestures to the red house looming on an outcrop of rock at the end of the island. “My dad just bought that house. We’re staying there for the summer.” The locals call it the red house because of the brilliant red paint job. Though it’s actually owned by the Hemburly family. Or it was. Old lady Hemburly died a few years ago and her nephew inherited it but he lives in Texas and rarely comes back to Maine. Built a century ago when sheep grazed, the land is now flanked by fir and spruce. There’s a ribbon of stone wall embedded in the forest of trees. I haven’t been in the house since I was a little girl and I recall that the inside of the house was run down. So was Mrs. Hemburly. And I remember the views in the main parlor where she sat in an old velvet chair with views of the ocean on one end of the room, and Sheepscot Bay at the other. I set my basket of eggs down and put out my hand. “Well, nice to meet you. My name is Galene.” He puts his small hand in mine. It’s smooth and warm like the eggs. “What kind of name is Galene?” If he weren’t so young, his bluntness would be annoying. However, it’s not the first time someone has asked me that. My father named me after the Greek goddess. “It means calm seas.” “Oh.” He scratches his head and we both hear someone call, “Trevor!” In the distance, a young man stands on a boulder, cupping his mouth to the breeze. “That’s my brother James. I need to go now. Nice to meet you, Galene.” “Nice to meet you too, Trevor.” He pivots, runs toward his brother, and when he reaches him, points back in my direction. I pick up my basket and head back home. When I reach the road, a Cadillac comes out of the driveway of the red house. Trevor and his brother James are in the back seat. James’ dark eyes assess me under the rim of a tweed cap. I trip on a small rock and he turns away just as I find my balance. Trevor puts his face to the back window, flapping his hand. I wave back before James grabs him by the collar and pulls him into his seat. *** It’s a short walk past the red house to mine at the end of the road. Our Labrador, Candy, flops on the ground, languidly guarding the hen coop. “Too late,” I tell her. Her ears prick up, but she doesn’t even bother lifting her head as a fly buzzes around her nose. Green tufts of grass and dandelion greens peek out from under the melting remnants of a late spring snow along the side of the barn. The air smells like warm earth and salt. It’s the kind of day to open the windows. I pick some dandelion greens for breakfast and put them in my basket. My brother Sam comes out of the barn, sits on a bench, sliding his boots on over thick wool socks. “Where’ve you been?” “I had to collect gull eggs. You left the coop open last night.” “I know,” he says. “Candy was barking, so I ran out just in time to stop a coon from carrying off with one of the hens.” “The eggs are gone, or crushed. It was a mess.” Sam grunts but won’t acknowledge his mistake. “Go feed Dad. He’s been asking for you. And then I need you to come with me today. Louis can’t make it.” “Is that why you’re going out so late?” “Don’t be fresh.” He sweeps an oil stained hand through his unruly hair. I was about to ask him why his sternman wasn’t showing up, but he wouldn’t let me. “Go on now. Dad’s waiting.” Dad’s sitting by the wood-burning stove with a blanket draped over his laps. He’s staring out the window, what he sees, I’m not sure. Blue sky? White clouds? Or just watery images? “It’ll rain later,” he says, sensing my presence as I place the basket on our old wooden kitchen table. He can predict the weather. I’d say it was because he’s losing his sight, or maybe the arthritis flaring, seeping into his bones. But there’s more to it. As long as I can remember, even back when I was a little girl and my mother was still alive, my dad spoke about the weather with inevitability. He feels the air and knows which direction the wind will shift; knows to batten the window hatches when a Nor’easter no one else predicted is working its way up the coast. His uncanny sense of weather made him one of the most enduring and prosperous lobstermen in our town. Until he had given it over to my brother. Sam didn’t have Dad’s intuition about where to place the pots for the best catch, how to navigate tricky waters, and his timing was all wrong. I think he’s not up to it. My Dad blames it on the alcohol. Sam goes to the tavern with his friends almost every night and, as Dad says, five dollars spent is five dollars not made. I throw a slab of butter in the iron skillet and it sizzles. “Sam asked me to go out with him today. Will you be all right?” Dad shrugs. “Ayuh.” I crack a gull egg over a bowl, add milk, whisk it into a froth, and add the dandelion greens. There’s enough bread in the box for the two of us. I hope Sam ate already. “Wasn’t planning on going today. Sasha might call,” I say as I slather the toast with the rest of the butter, cook the eggs, and scoop them onto a plate. The smell alerts Dad to get out of his chair. He walks across the floor of the living room with a measured gait, both out of caution and because of his arthritis, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Eat more, Galene,” he says, scraping some of his eggs onto my plate, which makes me feel guilty. “A family bought the red house,” I say. “From away?” he asks. His gnarled hands reach for his coffee mug. Arthritic knuckles bulge, years of lobstering written all over them: scars from rope cuts; knife wounds; age spots from the sun. “Boston,” I say. “Figures. The house is in such state I don’t know whether anyone from town could afford to fix it proper.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Gull eggs?” I set my fork down. He knew. Of course, he’d know the difference in taste, while I couldn’t tell. “I stole them from the nesting birds up on the ridge.” What I don’t reveal is that Sam left the coop open. Although I want to. He grunts and scoops a forkful in his mouth. “Only get to taste them in the spring. Always like the taste. Did they get you?” He was the one who taught me how to collect the eggs years ago. “Almost.” His eyes graze past me, a fond memory lurking somewhere. There’s a fire in the stove, and wood close at hand. I telephone the neighbor, Mrs. Peterson and ask her to check in on Dad at lunch. “We should be back by evening,” I say. I leave a plate of pickles and ham in the cupboard. “Louis isn’t good for your brother,” she says. “I have to go now.” I don’t want to listen to Ida Peterson lecture me about my brother’s lobster business. There’s nothing I can do about it, anyway. Dad and Sam had always been a team until Dad’s sight went. He tried to hide it from us, but we noticed small things. The way he’d grasp at the side of chairs as he made his way across a room, fumbling in the cupboards for the tea, his hands wandering over containers of porcelain until they landed on the hard metal tin box. “Here, Dad, let me help you,” I’d say. And he’d brush me off with an impatience that struck me as odd. “He’s losing his sight,” my brother told me one day six years ago after they got back from lobstering. “How do you know for sure?” I said. “Because he almost killed me today.” My brother was not one for melodramatics. “What happened?” “The fog rolled in and we were passing the lighthouse and he didn’t spot Davey’s shoal until we were almost on top of it.” “Is that the whole of it? Maybe it was the vapors? Anyone can lose their sense of direction in the vapors.” Sam shook his head. “No, Galene. Admit it. We’ve known for some time. He almost tripped on the stool walking into the kitchen. He says it’s the malaria. He says it’s the lingering effects.” How could malaria still plague my dad years after he fought in the Pacific? Sam insisted it was too dangerous for Dad to keep lobstering. At sixteen, he quit high school to take over the business. I was too young to help, so he recruited a local boy named Louis. But I’m seventeen now, old enough, and Sam trusts me to bait the traps when Louis was busy or sleeping off a night at the bar. I don’t like it though. It’s hard and my hands end up red and raw from working the lines, even with rubber gloves as protection. The sound of the truck horn startles me. “Come on!” Sam shouts.

My novel is about a heartbroken, modern-day science teacher who is wooed by a man who claims to be Shakespeare. 1 Joy looks up at the autumn sky and sees a sign: a white “H” within a bright green square, a logo that reminds her of summer vacations. “Who knew we had a Holiday Inn?” she says to Fredrico. “Who cares?” She could change the subject to something more relevant to him—like the spa facilities at the new Ritz Carlton, or his resemblance to a 1970’s George Harrison—but instead of working that hard, she lets the conversation drop. The restaurant is just a few blocks from his West Village apartment, and she wants to relax and take in the unseasonably warm weather before dinner. Along the way, her thoughts return to summer. She doesn’t intent to talk about her memories. Or her parents—Joy never does that—but after a few minutes of silence, she finds herself reminiscing aloud, conveying more about her childhood than she’s shared with Fredrico over the entire five years they've been together. She tells him about Destin, Florida, a beach resort about two hundred and fifty hundred miles from New Orleans, and the Holidome, a tiki-themed Holiday Inn where she and her parents used to stay. To her, it was the best place ever. Her mom and dad would watch from the bamboo-covered bar all day while she swam in the indoor pool or played video games. With plenty of other kids around and a seemingly endless supply of quarters, there was no need to go outside. “I guess I didn’t spend a lot of time looking out the windows”—she laughs—“because when I was ten, Mom confessed we never got to Florida.” “Huh?” Fredrico says, lifting his head from his phone. “The Holidome was in New Orleans, less than eight miles from home. Dad would get on I-10, drive around in giant circles, and wait for me to ask, ‘Are we there yet?’ As soon as I did, he’d say, ‘Yes, we are!’ and turn onto the hotel exit.” “That’s nuts.” “No, it was brilliant!” Almost thirty years later, Joy’s still impressed by her parents’ efficiency. In her mind, the Florida ruse isn’t much different from Santa Claus, but apparently, Fredrico disagrees. “You should be much more fucked up,” he tells her. “What do you mean more fucked up?” “Less trusting,” he says, but she can tell he's holding back.

Chapter 1-Algonkin.docx

My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. That was the accusation screaming inside my head—like the chorus of a heavy metal song—when the doctor came striding in, asking about tacos. “Chicken or beef?” the nurse added. She was wearing magenta scrubs bright enough to blind someone. Maybe both their vision had been compromised. Could they not see the body right in front of us? “It’s this little game Doctor Mullion likes to play, asking what she should order for lunch,” the nurse explained. “My personal vote is pork.” Little game? My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. After rubbing a spurt of sanitizer onto her hands, the doctor took a few steps closer. “So Molly—it is Molly, right?” I must have nodded. “Molly, you’ll have to forgive my growling stomach. But I heard you might be able to help us figure out what happened to your friend. As far as you know, is this her first benzodiazepine overdose?” “No—no. See…that’s the thing,” I stammered, distracted by the tube protruding from Cate’s mouth. A different doctor had intubated her upon arrival, breezing out the door before I could ask any questions of my own. “This isn’t some sort of drug overdose. I keep telling everyone that, but no one seems to be listening.” I then sucked down a deep breath before repeating everything I’d already told the EMTs: What Instant Ten was. How I’d gotten it. And what I suspected might have gone wrong. “So let me get this straight,” the doctor said, folding her arms across her chest. It was impossible to miss the side glance she and the nurse exchanged—confirmation I was next in line for a drug test. “You think your friend’s overdose isn’t an overdose at all. It’s a side effect from a magical invention called Instant Ten…which you got from a girl named Van?” She didn’t let me answer. “And may I ask…is this so-called Instant Ten something you’ve been using as well?” I admitted that it was. “But obviously, I had no idea it was dangerous.” “Right. But then doesn’t it seem a bit odd you aren’t suffering any sort of life-threatening reaction yourself?” Life-threatening. My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. I shook my head, determined to prove my point. “I know how this all sounds—like an episode straight out of The Twilight Zone or Black Mirror. And I have no idea why the same thing hasn’t happened to me. But I promise it’s the truth!” I then began rummaging through my purse—a cesspool of toys and used tissues and half-eaten granola bars—insistent on showing them Instant 10. “Just give me a second, and I’ll find it again.” “That really won’t be necessary,” the doctor said, dodging the miniature fire truck I’d accidentally tossed toward her head. “Molly, I’m sure this is all a big shock. However, let me assure you, we see BZD overdoses each and every day, and these are the telltale signs: vomiting, muscle slackness, erratic breathing, pupil dilation, loss of consciousness…” She was ticking symptoms off as casually as a waitress reciting beverage choices but didn’t get the chance to finish. Because the machine hulking in the corner, watching over us like an armed guard, suddenly switched from chirping to red-alert beeping. And as a swarm of nurses came charging in, barking new accusations—Respiratory distress! Plummeting oxygen levels!—Cate’s bed went churning out the door. “Wait—what’s happening? Where are you going?” I tried to keep pace with them in the hallway but was quickly edged to the side by the fluorescent nurse. “They’re moving her to the ICU, which is facing significant capacity constraints. But I promise your friend is in good hands. Let’s get you back to the waiting room, okay?” “But I can’t just leave her. You don’t understand!” And despite my ongoing protests, with a few quick steps, the nurse somehow steered me all the way back to the ER lobby, asking that I take a seat. Instead, I paced alongside the front desk like a caged tiger, my mind jumping from regret to panic to despair—an exercise so exhausting, I eventually collapsed onto one of the blue padded chairs. Head falling into my hands, I allowed my fingernails to dig into the tender flesh where the hair had been ripped from my scalp just minutes before the ambulance came hurtling into my driveway. I wondered if I might go into cardiac arrest. A survival mechanism: my heart’s way of rejecting further trauma. There simply wasn’t a world in which I could handle another loss of this magnitude. Not after what had happened to my mother. My best friend is going to die. And it’s my fault. But wouldn’t Cate herself be the first to say that I needed to stop thinking negative thoughts? Positive visualization! Manifest your thoughts into reality. I closed my eyes, trying to picture her laughing instead of gagging on that tube. I opened my eyes. I’d tried to stop her, hadn’t I? But had I tried hard enough? I whipped my phone from my purse, anxious to see if Van had finally replied to my earlier barrage of messages: 10:04 a.m. Van? R u there? Something’s wrong VERY WRONG I know u said not to share Instant 10 But it was used w/o my permission And now … Something terrible has happened PLEASE CALL ME 10:12 a.m. Van, I’m serious CALL ME NOW OR I’M CALLING 911 10:33 a.m. I am BEGGING u to help me This is a matter of life and death!!! Still nothing in return. Such cruel silence—the opposite of the instant gratification I’d been conditioned to crave by the glowing box held in my hand; a hunk of glass and precious metal that could do anything I told it to. Almost anything. It couldn’t fill Cate’s lungs with air. It couldn’t undo the past. My thumbs had just launched an attack on the screen—violently tapping a new round of messages to Van—when a blur of movement filled my peripheral vision. Looking up, I expected to find the same nurse from before. But there was no magenta. Only gray. Gray blazers. Putty-colored pants. And the blur was actually two people. People who I could tell weren’t hospital staff. Just like the officers who showed up on my doorstep after the episode with my daughter…these people had badges. And when I tried to speak, I swallowed my defense whole. I was trying to help. To make things better. I never meant to hurt anyone.

These first pages are preceded by an introduction which establishes the setting with relevant history. Job one is to orient the reader, as well as well as introduce the protagonist, antagonist, immediate problem, etc. A fumbo has a surface meaning and a hidden one, and it can be used to either avoid or create conflict. It is a puzzle, a metaphor, and the makeshift of an outspoken people during those accidental moments when discretion is suddenly required. It can be a riddle, an insult in disguise, an indirect accusation, and even something someone says without thinking. When should something so frequently silly as a fumbo be taken seriously? Only a few days ago, there was the mentioning, by Busiku, the catechist’s wife, of a goat squeezing through a neighbor’s garden fence. As is the intention of all fumbos, or at least all intended fumbos, it was only after they parted ways that Sophie Tembo began to grasp what it could mean — after a seemingly unrelated chat about their husbands. Only yesterday afternoon, another fumbo was uttered by Emma Tambwa, the village merchant’s second wife, during the village health lesson. As the only ongoing event for every woman in the village of Tumbako, the weekly lessons given by Kaya, the village health worker, were a sort of covert women’s forum. They studied each other’s faces more than the abstract illustrations that Kaya used for visual aids. A tall woman with a sharply upturned lip, shifty black eyes, and a little bulb on her nose, Emma Tambwa raised her hand, and her voice throbbed like a loose piece of rubber: “Do you do eye tests in case a child will need glasses?” Kaya shrugged. “I don’t know if I can get glasses, and, even so, I can’t tell you which ones,” he said. “Maybe I can get an eye chart that will tell me something. Is the child old enough to read letters?” “I just wondered,” Emma throbbed almost innocently. “Just in case the daughter is like the father.” The one person in Tumbako who wore glasses was Sophie’s husband Tolo, the village school director. Only a few hours ago, while she was sleeping, Sophie had a dream about her Grandma Sophie-Aya, for whom she was named. “Wake up,” Grandma Sophie-Aya said. Then she made the sign of the Uke. Grandma hadn’t spoken to Sophie from the dead before, and, after so many years and prayers, she never thought she would. Sophie opened her door and looked, in the growing light, at the village clinic, which was in the next compound. People were already over there, waiting for it to open. She couldn’t tell who they were, at least not yet. With the Sun still low on the horizon, their elongated shadows wagged between the fat mud-brick pillars of the veranda. “Are we going?” her daughter Maria asked behind her. “Yes. Hurry with the basin.” Maria stooped down. With plump red-brown hands and a new copper bracelet on her wrist, Sophie arranged a rolled-up piece of cloth on her daughter’s head. On top of the coiled cloth, she placed a plastic basin piled with laundry. Maria stood up, holding the basin on her head with slim fingers, alertly scanning her short, chubby, baby-faced mother. At ten years old, she was an adept apprentice, a strong girl, straight-backed in a blue cotton dress. If only she wasn’t so shy about everything. On top of the fuzzy cornrows arching front to back over her broad oval head, Sophie hoisted an empty plastic jerry can. The room around them was gray, but it was growing lighter, and almost everything could now be seen. From under the jerry can, she glanced at the picture on the wall, painted on a piece of canvas sack that was stretched over a frame: a mermaid with a snake wrapped around her tail. Her husband Tolo got it in Kitwanga, the market town. She didn’t like the mermaid’s hypnotic eyes, the pinpoints of white light in her pupils. Opening the door, Sophie and Maria stepped off the low, packed-earth foundation of their house into the sunlight, picking their way through the mud and goat shit they’d sweep later, after the ground dried. The morning mist was still on it. They reached the road and scrambled over the glistening ruts, turning their backs to the clinic. Sophie’s foot slid on a patch of clay, the empty container bucking on her head. Clutching the jerry can to her shoulder and the kanga around her hips, she danced to keep her balance, skidded to a stop, and gazed down at a red-grey clod of earth on the big toe in her sandal. She scooped up the chunk of clay and rolled it between her fingers. “Good?” Maria asked. “We’ll come back to it,” Sophie murmured, examining the soft red vein in the road bank. “We’re going somewhere.” “Where?” “Just hurry.” She took Maria’s hand, and they jogged down the firm side of the road. She moved like a chubby piston, and the girl struggled to keep up. The village of Tumbako unfolded alongside them. They jogged past clusters of thatch-roofed buildings: main house, wives’ huts, kitchen hut and latrine. Smoke was rising from kitchen huts where the morning tea was brewing. It was almost the end of the rainy season, and the air was cool, but the light beyond them was growing stronger. A skinny man crouching over a peeling enamel washbowl paused, a piece of green soap bobbing in the water. “What news?” he called. Sophie shook her head, and they kept moving.

Preface The truth of a journey is that the vast and mysterious lands, the terra incognita, you set out to explore, in the end, becomes yourself. Every grain of grief and longing, love, regret, triumph, slips quietly into your suitcase. Harper had learned that at nineteen, a scattered girl full of woebegone and madness who made a pilgrimage to Paris to forget. But there is no escaping yourself. No drug, no distraction, works indefinitely. More than twenty years later, she was in yet another foreign country, and whether she’d gotten there by running toward or away, is debatable. Georgia was supposed to salvage her career and cure her loneliness. Nothing worked out the way she thought it would. A different story unfolded. The whole thing could even be comical, depending on how you told it, and if the story was only about her, which it wasn’t. Harper’s own story would become just one strand in a great tapestry of private chronicles and historical episodes she would spend nine months untangling, then weaving together again, in an attempt to understand some tiny, subtle thing which was the echo of a bigger, profound thing, which she had no idea how to find. Are we mixing metaphors here? Ah well, life is messy. Anyway, this is the thing, this is the beauty part — our stories give shape to our experience, which creates a delicate structure holding the essence of who we are. And sometimes, our stories can only be illuminated and understood, within a larger narrative; the play within the play, as it were. Walk with me; the story begins like this. Chapter 1 Preface Tbilisi September 2018 In those first heady days, roaming through the twisting streets of Tbilisi, Harper Hanigan was brimming with ambition and optimism. She was almost frantic for a fresh start, new surroundings, different air to breathe. It had been a dark, miserable year, and the prospect of returning to Georgia was the pinprick of sunlight which kept her going. Maybe she should have gotten to work directly after arriving, but she didn’t. Leaning out the window of the cable car as it soared above Vake Park, Harper breathed deeply and thought of Gia’s parting words, “Listen girl, when you get back to Tbilisi, relax, you hear me? I’ll deal with professor Blakewell. And by God, hop in bed with that man of yours. Blakewell can wait for the edits. It won’t kill him.” Harper’s furnished flat was in the fashionable Vake district named after the park. It felt indolent and romantic, with meandering tree-lined streets where the sidewalks lifted and cracked, and old, ornate apartment buildings with twisted iron balconies and laundry lines. Weather still warm, Harper slipped on a pale blue sundress and wound her way through vibrant street markets inhaling the colors and smells of harvest season. A tall blond in a sea of delicate, raven-haired women, men on the street noticed her. Though she might not admit it, she enjoyed the attention. At forty-two, Harper was not yet invisible to men, but her presence was fading for them, like an image on an old Polaroid. She passed lanyards of dried fruit and marigolds swinging from faded striped awnings, mud-spattered potatoes tottering in clumsy piles beside apples and walnuts, and mounds of gleaming, ripe tomatoes. Peddlers sliced pomegranates in half to display the ruby seeds inside. Whenever she saw one, open and glistening like a lusty invitation, Harper wondered if O’Keeffe ever painted a pomegranate. Her first trip to Georgia’s intoxicating capital city was on a summer’s research trip in 2017. Harper fell in love with the small, quixotic country, its layered mysteries, the food, and the people. That summer she also met the three remarkable women who now agreed to be unofficial cultural advisors, translators, community liaisons, and all-round champions of Harper’s new research endeavor. It was Friday afternoon, at the end of Harper’s first week back in town, when they arrived at the door of her new apartment for the first project meeting. Magda dropped her backpack on a table near the door and rummaged around for a moment. “Okay, I brought dessert. This is a new, gourmet chocolate bar — it’s supposed to have tiramisu in it, or something,” she rolled her eyes sarcastically. “But tiramisu isn’t Georgian. You know that, right?” Grinning, Magda held up two brightly colored packets stuck together with red tape. “And this, this is kid’s stuff. You know, crap candy. But I love it. Okay, here it is.” She thrust the candy at Harper, “Am I early?” Sebine and Nina arrived moments later carrying a bag of perfectly ripe, golden grapes. Sebine’s brilliant green eyes flashed with excitement, then she smiled shyly. “The vegetable man said these came from Kakheti this morning; they are very fresh. Here,” she said, lifting her hands. The grapes smelled earthy and sweet. They smelled like Indian summer. Nina breezed into the living room, turning slowly, her long black skirt twirling around her ankles. She sighed, “Oh Harper, I loooove your apartment. There’s so much light. Are you unpacked already?” “Yep,” she smiled, pointing to the bookshelf. In her tiny, sunlit kitchen, Harper rinsed the delicate grapes, enjoying their coolness and weight in her hands. On a tin platter, her impromptu charcuterie board, Harper set them beside a fat wedge of smoked sulguni, fresh figs drizzled with honey, sliced apples, a roll of rich salami, salted nuts, and warm shoti, a Georgia style baguette. In the center, curled like rosebuds, were the badrijani nigvzit, purchased from a delicatessen near her flat. Harper smiled, remembering the first time she tasted the heavenly eggplant and walnut rolls, and wondered if it was possible, she’d actually come all the way back to Georgia just for those. “Open the wine someone!” she called from the kitchen. Feeling happier than she had in months, a rush of excitement washed over her as she stepped into the living room with her platter of offerings. On the coffee table, two bottles of Château Mukharani Grappe Noir stood beside an old “Oh, good wine,” Nina purred, pulling a crisp packet of cigarettes from her bag, and settling herself on a pillow. Sebine took off her shoes and pulled a wooden chair near the sofa. Magda scribbled something in the notebook on her lap. Lifting it up she said, “Look guys, I’ve got a new journal so we can keep the notes from our meetings.” Sebine chuckled, “What’s your first note?” “Harper begins meeting with food and wine, like a good Georgian.” The tray still in her hands, Harper paused, smiling at the three women. They were her friends, and she felt so damn lucky.