free, Bree enveloped Penny in a hug so tight she temporarily had to give up all thought of breathing.
“Why didn’t you call?” Bree frowned at Rowena. “You didn’t forget to tell me, did you, Ro? You’re so caught up in planning the winter schedule—”
“I didn’t forget. She just showed up out of nowhere. I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on.” Ro turned back to Penny. “So, if you’re not going back tonight, of course you’ll stay here. We wouldn’t hear of your staying anywhere else.”
“Ro, I—”
“No foolishness about imposing. It’s your house. Rats—I shouldn’t ever have rented the sister suite. But we’ll think of something. Where are your things?”
Ro moved to the window to scan the yard. “I’ll get Barton back. Or somebody. Who’s not leading a class right now, Bree? We’ve got tons of strapping college kids. One of them will bring your suitcases in.”
But Bree was staring at Penny thoughtfully. Her cool, observant control had always spotted things Rowena’s passionate fire either overlooked or tried to will away.
“Hang on a minute, Ro.” Bree’s blue eyes had darkened slightly, and her cameo-pale forehead furrowed. “Everything’s okay, isn’t it, Pea?”
“Everything’s fine.” Eventually, Penny would have to tell them about the intruder. But one thing at a time.
“Good.” Rowena scraped her black hair away from her face impatiently. She was an old hand at rejecting any little reality that annoyed her. “Then of course you won’t go back to San Francisco tonight, so let’s find one of the kids to—”
“Ro, let Penny talk.” Bree put her hand on their older sister’s arm.
Penny smiled, grateful. Rowena was a steamroller when she got going, and Penny would find herself ensconced in one of the cottages by nightfall, with a pet parakeet and a Silverdell voter’s ID, if she didn’t slow things down.
Bree’s voice was gentle. “Tell us what’s going on, Penny. Did you really come all this way just for one day? Are you really going back tonight?”
Penny took a breath. “No. In fact, I’m not going back to San Francisco at all. I sold the town house.”
“You what?” Both her sisters spoke at once.
“I sold the town house. You know Ruth left it to me, for a nest egg. She expected me to sell, and luckily it moved very quickly. So I’ve come back to Silverdell.”
“Then...but that’s fantastic!” Rowena frowned, tugging the sheet from her shoulder and glancing around the porch, her gaze again calculating, sorting. “Okay, so we’ll have to free up something more permanent. They’re almost finished with the four new cottages, but they won’t be move-in ready until—”
“Rowena!” Penny squared her shoulders. “Bree. I know this is going to be a shock, and that’s why I didn’t call ahead. Or write. I wanted to tell you in person, face-to-face. The thing is...I’m not going to be living at the ranch.”
“Don’t be silly,” Rowena repeated, almost absently. “It’s no imposition. It’s what we’ve all been hoping for. You know we’ve been begging you to come ever since Ruth died. Since before Ruth died. Of course you’ll live here.”
“No. I won’t.” Penny took Ro’s right hand and Bree’s left into her own. “I love you for wanting to take care of me. But I won’t be moving into the ranch.”
Rowena opened her mouth, obviously prepared to protest reflexively, but a glare from Bree made her shut it again.
“Damn it, Ro. Let her explain.”
But could she? Could she ever make them understand how, up until today, she’d always been a stranger to herself, a guest in her own life? Their love, Ruth’s love, the exile to San Francisco, the quiet, hermit life with her great-aunt...where no storms came...
No storms. And nothing else, either.
Everyone had tried to shield her from the ugliness of the Wright family history. Maybe they thought that, since she’d been only eleven at the time of the tragedy, she had a chance of growing up unscarred if they wrapped her in cotton and tucked her away.
But in the end, they’d only managed to create a ghost of a girl, who had no idea who she was or what she wanted out of life.
“I’ve bought a house. A duplex. I’m renting one side out for now, but eventually I hope to open a studio. Give lessons, maybe. Definitely paint and take pictures, and anything else that will help me earn a living.”
The news wounded them. She could see it in the speechless shock that wiped their eyes and smiles clear of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” she said, though she’d vowed to herself that she wouldn’t apologize. She had nothing to apologize for. She had a right to make her own decisions, to live wherever she pleased. And yet she hated to hurt them.
“Rowena, Bree...please try to understand. I love you both more than I can say. But it’s time I created a life of my own.”
* * *
THE DUPLEX MAX had rented was newly refurnished, which was one of the reasons he’d chosen it. He’d come out twice to look at various possible rentals. He’d seen plenty of houses much grander than this little cottage, but grand didn’t suit his agenda. Simple suited him. Simple and clean, with structural integrity and enough charm to please the soul.
Even Ellen hadn’t been able to say the duplex was ugly. Small, yes. But delightful in a quaint, historic-cottage way. A pale butter-yellow with blue trim around the windows and doors, the one-story wooden structure looked neat and friendly, glowing under autumn sunshine filtered through half a dozen gorgeous aspens.
And furnished made it even better. For the next nine months, he could leave all the big pieces in Chicago, which was a relief. Back home, every stick of furniture seemed saturated with memories of Lydia. That was her chair at the dinner table. That was where she sat while they watched TV. Even the pencil marks on the woodwork measuring Ellen’s growth had been made by Lydia.
Which was probably more proof that Max had been a hopelessly absentee father. But he couldn’t change the past. All he could do was rededicate himself to his daughter from now on. No do-overs in this life—but luckily you did occasionally get to start over.
And it would be easier to start over without Lydia’s ghost everywhere they turned.
He had put away his clothes and books and set up his drafting table. Later, he’d have to go buy supplies, but for now the landlady had been thoughtful, providing everything from magazines on the coffee table to knives and forks in the pantry.
Maybe he’d wait for Ellen to come back from exploring, and then they’d make a grocery run. He wasn’t very good at cooking yet, but he’d mastered the red rice with tuna horror she seemed to love best. She’d probably had it twice a week in the months since Lydia died.
He walked out to the car one more time, clearing out the last of the loose items—Ellen’s paper cup from the fast-food lunch they’d grabbed as they neared
