“This guy,” Sam said after the initial heat of my anger had dissipated into the atmosphere, leaving me cold and trembling, “did he have a name?”
I nodded, my breath choking me now just as it had hours ago when I’d heard this story for the first time. “Thomas Templeton.” I shuddered. I’d thought it was a horrible name when I’d heard it; saying it out loud was worse. “One day, she was Kathryn Nolan, and the next, she . . . wasn’t. She was back to being who she was before she married my dad. Before she was my mom.”
“Did she marry the Templeton guy?” Sam asked, his eyes narrowing as though I had presented him with an unexpected puzzle.
I shrugged, a headache beginning to throb at the back of my skull. “If she did, I never got an invitation.”
Silence fell between us. I was tired. I had hoped that by saying the words, by sharing my story, I would feel better. But all I felt was tired. Tired of hearing the words that had torn me apart; tired of saying them out loud. But they were branded into my bones now, and I would carry them with me like scars for the rest of my life. The thought pushed me past tired and all the way into exhaustion.
“I think I get it now,” I said quietly.
“Get what?” Sam looked at me, confused.
“Why you said the accident was all your fault.”
He tensed up next to me, his fingers falling flat against his knee.
“Maybe if you hadn’t done what you did, the outcome would have been different, but maybe not. You said the driver was drunk. Maybe he would have hit you anyway. Or maybe he would have hit the car in a different spot and Alice would have lived but one of your other friends wouldn’t have. There’s no way to know.” I closed my eyes. “And maybe if Mom hadn’t done what she did, the outcome would have been different, but maybe not. No matter how many maybes you dream up, you still always feel like it was your fault. Like somehow, you could have changed things before . . . before they couldn’t be changed anymore.”
Sam was quiet, and after the moment had stretched into minutes, I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“You want to know the strangest thing?” I asked.
Sam’s head barely tilted down. It could have been yes; it could have been no.
“As I was walking away from my dad that last time, all I could think about was those pink sugar packets in your bag and how much I wished I had one.”
“Why?” Surprise filled Sam’s voice.
“Because I knew you could turn one of those sugar packets into the desire of someone’s heart. You did it for Jess. And I wanted you to do that for me. I wanted you to take a packet and trade it and change it and somehow turn it into my mother.”
I closed my eyes, feeling a weariness all the way down to my soul.
“I hate it,” I whispered, “but as mad as I am at her, at my dad, at everything, there’s still a part of me that wants to see her again.”
Chapter 34
Sam
Sam didn’t know how long Sara slept on his shoulder.
She leaned into him. Her skin was chilled where the back of her hand touched the back of his. He could almost feel the warmth of his body flowing into her as she slept. Her breath was soft against the side of his neck. It was enough to keep him warm too. He considered it a good trade.
As his legs tingled into sleep and his back stiffened, he listened to the murmur of hushed voices and the shuffling of quiet feet. The crowds had thinned on Top of the Rock; it must be close to closing time. The wind curled over the stone barriers, dipping down to ruffle his hair.
For a moment, he thought he wouldn’t mind sitting like that forever.
When he’d moved to New York, he’d been running away. He had known it then and he knew it now. But it felt like he’d been running ever since. Always moving. Never stopping. He’d always believed that stagnation killed, and maybe that was still true, but stagnation wasn’t the same as stillness.
And, tonight, it was nice to sit and be still.
A guard strolled past, flashlight in hand. He stopped in front of Sam and Sara. “Last elevator leaves in ten minutes. Make sure you’re on it,” he ordered, but quietly.
Sam nodded in understanding, then turned his head slightly to look at Sara. She might be sleeping in peace, but Sam suspected her dad was still awake, still beyond worried about her. This might be his best chance to help ease his fears.
He carefully reached over and picked up her bag from where it sat on the far side of her hip.
Sara stirred, but didn’t wake.
With fingers well trained from months of delving into his own bag of secret treasures, he withdrew her phone. He pressed the text message icon on the phone and found the entry marked DAD. With one eye still on Sara, he typed in a short but—he hoped—reassuring message:
This is Sam—Sara’s friend. She’s with me. I’ll bring her home as soon as she’ll let me.
Almost immediately after he pressed SEND, the phone buzzed quietly and a reply appeared.
Where’s my daughter?!
Sam hesitated.
Safe. Don’t worry, and maybe don’t call. She’s still pretty mad about things.
Let me talk to her.
She’s sleeping.
But she’s okay?
Yes.
You’ll bring her home?
Promise.
This time the reply took a minute to appear.
Will you tell her I love her?
Before Sam could reply, a second message arrived.
And that I’m sorry for what I said?
Yes.
When he returned the phone to the bag, his fingers landed on her camera. The small rectangle fit nicely in his palm. He could see why Sara liked it. It felt comfortable, familiar. Setting her bag down again, he powered on the camera and trained the lens on Sara’s face.
A faint pink had brightened her cheeks. Her eyes moved under closed lids; her eyelashes curled down and away. Her lips parted slightly with a sigh.
A touch of a button and a quick flash of light, and he’d snatched the picture, saving it automatically on the memory card.
He smiled, imagining her face when she scrolled back through her photos from today and saw this one.
On impulse, he held out the camera at arm’s length and pointed it back at both of them. He couldn’t see to frame up the shot, but he pressed the shutter anyway, trusting to luck that he was at least kind of close.
The flash fired once again, but this time Sara’s eyes blinked open.
“Hmm?” she mumbled. “What’s going on?”
Sam hurried and shoved the camera back into her bag, feeling guilty that he’d startled her and grateful that she hadn’t caught him.
“Sorry to wake you up,” he said. “It’s time to go.”
Sara sat up, rubbing at her eyes with a loosely curled fist like a child might after a nap. A faint pink line creased her cheek from where she had leaned against his shoulder. The pattern matched exactly the black stripe that ran down the sleeve of his hoodie.
He felt a strange and sudden flash of pride at seeing it. Even though he knew it would fade—it was already fading—for a moment, they were connected, like halves of a whole, and that made him happy.
“The elevator’s leaving, and we need to be on it,” he said.
“Oh, okay.” Sara reached for her bag and rubbed her eyes again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. How long was I out?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. An hour, maybe? It’s almost midnight.”
Sara’s face paled a shade whiter. She set her mouth in a grim line. “That’s it, then.”
“That’s what?” Sam asked. He carefully unfolded his legs, wincing as the blood rushed all the way down to his toes.
“I failed Piper’s challenge. I had until the end of the day, and now it’s gone. I missed it.”
“Somehow I don’t think Piper is waiting by her door with a stopwatch, counting down the seconds to midnight. In fact, now that she’s dealt with Paul, she’s pr
obably forgotten all about her”—he cleared his throat delicately—“request.”
“Still.” Sara pushed herself to her feet and swung her bag over her shoulder. She reached down her hand for Sam and leaned back, levering him to his feet. “It would have been nice to have done something right today.”
The bottoms of his feet burned; it was definitely past time to be moving again. He took a tentative step forward, testing his weight on legs that still tingled and itched as the numbness wore off.
“Can you walk okay?” Sara asked.
Sam tried not to notice the small dimple that appeared next to Sara’s mouth as she frowned, but failed. Taking her picture seemed to have brought all his senses to life. He couldn’t stop himself from noticing everything about her. The way the spotlights above the doors cast a halo of white around her face. The way the hem of her left pant leg was folded up in a crooked line. The way she held her breath while waiting for his answer.
“Yeah,” he managed. “I’ll be okay.”
She narrowed her eyes to green slits as though suspicious of a lie, and then looped her arm around his elbow. “I can help. It’s not far.”
Together they made their way toward the glass doors and then to the waiting elevator.
As they descended back to street level, Sam leaned against the wall, stretching and flexing his toes inside his boots as best he could. It hurt, but in a good way. He felt like not only were his legs waking up, but his whole body was too.
“Thank you for visiting Top of the Rock,” the elevator operator said with a cheerful grin as the doors opened and the passengers filed out. “Enjoy the rest of your stay here in wonderful New York City.”
“How can he have so much energy this late at night?” Sara asked as Sam pointed her toward the exit doors. “He’s probably said that a thousand times tonight.”
“Maybe he just really loves his job,” Sam said as they pushed through the doors and out into the warm spring night. “It’s been known to happen.”
Sam’s cell phone rang. He checked the number; it was one he recognized. What’s more, it was the one he’d been hoping to see.
He stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, tugging Sara after him.
“Vanessa? I’m so glad you called,” he answered.
Sara’s eyes brightened.
“Hello, Sam.” Vanessa’s warm voice poured through the connection like honey. “You said not to worry about the time, but I’m surprised you’re still up. I was expecting your voice mail.”
“I’m surprised you’re still up.”
Vanessa laughed, low and throaty. “Oh, honey, art never sleeps. And when the muses call . . .”
“What is it?” Sara whispered, stepping closer, as though trying to hear the conversation. “Can she help?”
Sam breathed in the scent of her hair, her skin, and swallowed hard. His stomach flipped as though he were still falling in the elevator from seventy stories up.
“ . . . the artist must answer,” Vanessa finished. “Tell me your tale, sugar. Your message said it was important.”
“It was,” Sam said. “I mean, it is. A friend and I could use your help with an art project. I know it’s kind of a strange request, and I know it’s way late, but I don’t suppose we could come by your studio? Tonight?”
Sara, listening to his side of the conversation, rose up on her toes in hope.
Vanessa hummed into the phone. “Tonight?”
“It would only take a few minutes—I promise.”
Vanessa’s hum turned into a laugh. “Of course you can come over. Art doesn’t care what time it is. When it’s right, it’s right.”
Sam locked eyes with Sara and nodded. She blew out her breath in relief.
“Thanks, Vanessa. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“When do you think you’ll be here?”
“We’re at Rockefeller Center now—”
“Oh, child, it’ll take you forever if you take the subway, even at this time of night. Take a taxi; put it on my bill.”
“No, I couldn’t ask you to pay—”
“I’m not asking; I’m telling. Take a taxi. Put it on my bill.” A hint of steel gave weight to her words.
Sam smiled. “I’ll be in your debt,” he warned.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Vanessa replied, and Sam could hear a matching smile in her voice. “I’ll put the kettle on. Hurry along, now. The muses are fickle mistresses; they don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Sam hung up the phone and looked at Sara, feeling more energetic than he had all day. “Still interested in going on an adventure with me?”
Her smile was all the answer he needed.
He took her hand and headed for Fifth Avenue, where he was pretty sure he could find an empty cab.
Even though the night was dark, the city was still bright and vibrant and alive around him. Walking with Sara, he felt like he’d been traveling in the dark for too long. It was time to turn on the lights and see what he’d been missing.
Chapter 35
Sara
Vanessa’s studio in SoHo took my breath away.
Unlike Paul and Sam’s apartment, which was an actual apartment with bedrooms and closets and a kitchen, Vanessa’s studio was just that—a studio. The only walls I could see were the four walls enclosing the wide open space, and one wall was floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the neighborhood. The room felt welcoming and cozy at the same time.
A four-poster bed held court in the far corner of the room, the blankets rumpled as though Vanessa had been summoned from sleep and couldn’t be bothered with something as mundane as making the bed. In another corner was a small kitchenette space. Nothing fancy—a mini-fridge, a narrow counter with a sink in the center, an old-looking stove. Next to the counter was a baker’s rack with a microwave on it and a few pots and pans. A table made out of an old door stood nearby, surrounded by four mismatched but still oddly complementary chairs.
Most of the rest of the room was filled with easels, boxes of paints, jars of paintbrushes bristle-side up, empty picture frames and mats of all sizes, shadow boxes, and stacks and stacks of paper. Every flat surface was covered with some kind of art supply or image. A tall cabinet stood to one side, lined with a number of small, square drawers, but it was a toss-up if it held jewelry or shoes or more art supplies. My attention snagged on something familiar in the happy chaos around us. Between the cabinet and a workbench was a desktop computer with a huge monitor. A mammoth printer sat on the floor.
“Wow,” I breathed out next to Sam as I turned in a slow circle, taking in the room. The photographer in me fairly drooled with delight. I wanted to take pictures of everything. If we couldn’t find something for Piper here, then we weren’t going to find it anywhere. “This feels . . .”
“Overwhelming?” Sam suggested.
“Amazing?” Vanessa said. She gestured for us to take a seat at the table, the sleeves of her paisley dressing gown fluttering like colorful wings over her white silk pajamas.
“Like home,” I finished. I tucked my bag under my chair and ran my fingers over the table. Sam sat across from me, the polished hinges of the door gleaming like splashes of gold set into the dark wood.
Vanessa smiled as though I’d said something delightfully profound and bustled around the kitchen area, selecting three mugs from small hooks hanging beneath a cabinet and tending to the kettle on the stove. “Hot chocolate?” she asked me.
“Please,” I answered.
Humming a low tune, Vanessa poured a stream of dark chocolate into a mug decorated with alternating purple and green stripes and handed it to me. The mug was warm in my hands and I inhaled the scent of melting sugar and chocolate.
She nodded to Sam. “I already know what you like.”
I raised my eyebrows in anticipation. For all that I felt connected to Sam, he was still a mystery to me. I may have stolen his soul outside the bookstore, but that didn’t mean I understood him yet.
??
?Classic Southern iced tea,” Vanessa said. “I brewed up a batch as soon as I heard you were coming.” She filled his mug almost to the rim and set it down on the table.
His brown eyes were warm as he smiled and shrugged his bag off his shoulder. With one hand he drew the mug closer. “Vanessa introduced it to me last year. Can’t get enough of it.” He pulled out a pink packet from his bag. “But I like it with just a hint of sugar.” He tore off the top and poured the white crystals into his mug.
I almost asked him for one; I was sure the small granules would taste like wishes.
“There’s something about having a sweet beverage while the world is sleeping that is comforting, no?” Vanessa said, relaxing into her chair like it was a throne.
I took a sip of my drink. Pure heaven.
Vanessa took my breath away too. She was tall—taller even than Sam—and thin, with dark hair and light-brown, caramel-colored skin. Her large eyes seemed to be full of laughter and secrets, and I suspected she could see right to the heart of me. She’d piled her hair up into a tidy mess and pinned it with two carved wooden hairpins. Even in the middle of the night, she looked flawless and beautiful.
“I really appreciate you letting us come over,” I said.
“It’s been a long time since Sam has asked me for a favor.” Vanessa wrapped her long fingers around her mug and curved her lips into a circle, blowing on her hot chocolate. “How could I say no?”
“You have in the past,” Sam said mildly, looking down as he took a sip of his drink.
Vanessa laughed. “And I might again in the future. But today the answer was yes. Don’t you love ‘yes’ days?”
“What’s a ‘yes’ day?” I asked.
Sam set down his mug but kept his hands curled loosely around it. “It’s a day where you find ways to say yes.”
“To what?” I looked from Sam to Vanessa.
“To goodness,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “To life.”
“To things you might otherwise say ‘no’ to,” Sam added. His eyes flickered up to mine, the brown as warm and dark as my chocolate.
“Like saying yes to a damsel in distress?” I asked with a lift of my lips.