of, knew that he hadn’t lost everything.
“No way, Golden,” one of the kids yelled as he reached them. “You’re not beating us.”
They crowded together, around him. Moving close to trap him between them.
Their tactic was obvious and not especially skillful. He knew the maneuvers to outflank them. He didn’t even have to think about it—the movements were instinctive.
Only he couldn’t do it. The instructions flowed from his brain to his muscles, but somehow never arrived. Maybe it was the coldness seeping into his body. The chill that told him he was afraid. Maybe it was the memories flashing so quickly that he couldn’t see anything but Frank soaring through the air before falling to his death. Suddenly Josh couldn’t breathe. Cold sweat broke out everywhere. His muscles cramped painfully, forcing him to stop.
He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was beside his bike, hunched over, waiting for his heart rate to return to something close to normal. Nausea rose inside of him. He shook like a frightened, dripping dog.
When the kids started to turn, to come back and check on him, he waved them off. After he pointed to his bike, they nodded and waved, then continued their ride. They would assume he had a flat or something mechanical had gone wrong. With luck, they would never guess the truth.
As much as he wanted to compete, as strong and powerful as the drive was within him, he couldn’t do it. That part of him, the pieces that made him whole, were shattered beyond repair. None of the trophies sitting in boxes mattered. There wasn’t enough money in the world to make this right. He was a loser and a coward, and the hell of it was, he didn’t know how to make any of it better.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON, CHARITY walked the short distance between the hotel and Marsha’s house. Despite the weeks she’d been in town, she’d never been to her boss’s house before. Not that she was visiting as Marsha’s employee. Instead, Charity was going to see her grandmother for the first time in her life.
Grandmother. The word felt strange. She couldn’t seem to grasp the whole meaning of what she’d been told. For the past couple of days she’d alternated between happiness and confusion. She’d wanted to be a part of a family for so long, she couldn’t believe it had finally happened.
She was also wrestling with anger, mostly at her mother. Maybe Sandra hadn’t wanted anything to do with Marsha, but she’d had no right to keep Charity from that relationship. Especially after her death. Why hadn’t she told her own daughter that she had other family? Sandra had known how much Charity had wanted to belong somewhere. Yet she hadn’t bothered to leave a note, or even a hint.
As Charity approached the house, she did her best to push away the annoyance she felt. She didn’t want to start her afternoon with Marsha in a bad mood.
She turned the corner and saw the white house Marsha had described. It was two stories, in a craftsman style typical of the area, probably built in the 1920s. There were elements that were similar to the house Charity had fallen in love with. The house Josh wanted to sell her at a discount. Something else she’d yet to come to terms with, she thought humorously. Who could have known her life would go from fairly boring to wildly confusing in a matter of a few days?
She walked up the three steps to the wide porch and knocked. Marsha opened the door almost immediately.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” the older woman said. “Come in.”
Charity stepped into a bright, open living room. Something about the combination of colors, furniture placement and windows made her want to sink into one of the overstuffed seats and never leave.
“Thanks for having me,” she said, feeling a tiny bit awkward.
Marsha had replaced her usual well-tailored suits with jeans and a long-sleeved blouse. Her white hair was more casual, soft waves rather than a bun. She linked arms with Charity.
“Instead of dancing around the topic, I thought we’d face it head-on,” she said, leading the way to the stairs. “Let’s go look at Sandra’s room. I’m hoping you can get a sense of what her life was like before you were born.”
“I’d like that,” Charity told her.
They climbed the wide staircase and turned left at the landing.
“The last door on the right,” Marsha said, releasing Charity. “Nothing has been changed, I’m afraid. Despite my best intentions, I turned my daughter’s room into a shrine. I’m sure any number of psychologists would have plenty to say about that.”
Her tone was easy, but Charity saw the flash of pain in her eyes.
Not knowing what to say, she walked toward the open door. When she reached it, she turned and looked at the bedroom that had belonged to her mother.
The whole room had been done in shades of lavender, her mother’s favorite color. A full-sized bed was covered in a purple and lavender quilt. Built-in bookcases flanked the bed. The shelves were crowded with books, knick-knacks and pictures. There were posters on the wall. A very young Michael Jackson and a group Charity wouldn’t have known except for the word “Blondie” in script at the bottom.
She stepped inside the bedroom and walked to the desk. School books were still stacked. A half-written essay on Julius Caesar was next to them. A gold flower necklace on a thin chain lay carelessly across the paper.
She moved to the shelves and studied the pictures. Sandra was in nearly all of them. Her mother with her friends, at a school dance. The familiar smile made her chest ache, but other than that, she felt no connection with the room or the former occupant.
“All she took were some clothes and money,” Marsha said from the doorway. “Nothing else. There wasn’t a note. She never said goodbye.”
“I’m sorry,” Charity said, not sure how to ease Marsha’s pain. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think her constant moving on was about you. She loved new places. We’d settle somewhere for a few months and then she’d start talking about the next place and the next. Where we were going was always more exciting than where we were.”
Charity looked around at the room. The pretty curtains, the small collection of worn stuffed animals shoved carelessly in a corner. Something like this was exactly what she’d dreamed about when she’d been younger. A place to call her own. Nothing fancy—just a regular kind of home. Yet her mother had walked away from it and had never looked back.
“I wish she’d told me about you,” she said.
“Me, too.” Marsha’s eyes were sad again. “I wish I’d been more understanding of who she was. She desperately wanted to go away to college, but I always said she had to stay here. I was such a fool. Controlling and unyielding. I had to be right. In the end, being right cost me my only child. If I’d—”
“No,” Charity said, cutting her off. “She would have left anyway. It’s what she wanted. I don’t think there’s anything you could have done to change her.”
“You can’t be sure about that.”
“Yes, I can,” Charity said, trying not to sound bitter. “I knew her.”
“Perhaps,” Marsha said. “I still have that album
