wind was picking up. Outside the window the satellite dish rattled in the Quinns’ bare front yard. The cottonwood tree, dry and brittle, creaked the way it did only in winter.
The office was insulated beneath the drywall, but the room still felt exposed and cold, a large, boxlike addition sticking off from the kitchen. They’d built the office when they started to increase the size of their operation, and Cass tried to keep things neat, but it was a challenge. Along the back wall, the shelves piled up with farm reports, ledgers, and all the paperwork. FAQ sheets on seed potatoes and some recent issues of Spudman magazine lay scattered on the long folding table they used for farm meetings. Another table held a monitor for the DTN, the network subscription service with data on weather and futures prices.
Cass sat at the main computer, which they used for business, accounting, e-mail, and running the global-positioning-system software. In front of her, printouts of GPS maps were tacked to the wall, showing topographical and yield data from previous years’ harvests, and beside them hung a USDA Potato Disorder Identification Chart with color photos of every affliction that might befall a spud. The cell phone that Will used when he was out in the field was resting in its charger. There were several land-line phones as well, one with a headset that Will wore during office hours. Cass had bought him the headset when he started getting neckaches. She thought he looked cute with it on.
“Like a receptionist.” She sat on his lap and adjusted the mouthpiece, then pulled the rubber band off his ponytail, combing her fingers through his blond hair so it hung loose around his shoulders. “There.”
“I feel like a goddamned stockbroker.” He dumped her off and ambled back into the kitchen for a refill on his coffee. The wire from the headset dangled over his shoulder. “I didn’t become a farmer to sit behind a desk.”
Cass checked her watch. Will would be annoyed if he knew she was surfing the Net again. He thought it was a waste of time and couldn’t understand why she’d want to spend a minute more in front of the computer than she absolutely had to. At least this was legitimate.
She typed “Yumi Fuller, Hawaii” into the search engine. A list of course offerings came back from various institutions including the University of Hawaii, a continuing-education program, a high-school-equivalency night school, and a local prison. All taught by Yumi Fuller, M.A.
Cass checked the descriptions of some of the classes: Introduction to the Novel, Composition Level I, Japanese Poetry in Translation, Creative Nonfiction. There was no information on how to contact the instructor, but Cass felt she was getting close.
She went back to the search engine and on a whim typed in “Yummy Fuller.” The engine transported her to another real estate site.
YUMMY ACRES!
Aloha! I’m Yummy Fuller, licensed Realtor at Yummy Acres Realty.
Looking for your Hawaiian dream home?
A piece of Paradise to call your own?
Let me show you these listings today!
A list of properties followed, modest quarter-acre lots in a subdivision, built on what looked like the bare rock of a cooled lava flow.
Looking for a fresh start? A place to call home?
Just drop me an e-mail or give me a call!
Let me make your dreams into a reality!
A woman with long dark hair smiled ruefully from the corner of the home page. She was wearing a crown of flowers on her head. Cass stared at the picture, but it was small and indistinct, and she couldn’t be sure.
There was a “Contact Me” button, so Cass clicked it and started to type. “I am looking for Yumi (Yummy) Fuller, originally from Liberty Falls, Idaho. Her dad is dying, and her mom needs help. If you are her, could you please contact me at [email protected]. P.S. I am her old friend and next-door neighbor Cassie Unger.”
She sent off this e-mail. Then she addressed an envelope to Professor Yumi Fuller, M.A., at the University of Hawaii.
Dear Professor Fuller,
I am looking for Yumi (Yummy) Fuller of Liberty Falls, Idaho. If this is you, it has been a long time since we have communicated. I am writing to you to tell you some sad news, that your father, Lloyd Fuller, had another heart attack—I think this is his third or fourth one now, but I lost count—and what with the colostomy (they found a bit of cancer there a couple years ago, too), well, the doctor says now his condition isn’t very good. Although he has always been lucky and beaten the odds, the doctor thinks he may only have another couple of months or so left to him. Your mother, Momoko, is well, physically speaking, but she seems to have a touch of the dementia. I guess maybe it is Alzheimer’s disease or she had a mild stroke, which is what happened to my father, although his stroke was a big one that killed him. (My mother is deceased as well, from breast cancer.)
I tracked you down on the Internet from the letters you sent to your mother and I hope you don’t mind that I am writing to you out of the blue. I just thought you should know about your mother and father, and maybe you would like to come home now to say good-bye. I just hope this letter finds you in time.
Sincerely yours,
Your Childhood Friend,
Cass (Unger) Quinn
“I think I found her,” Cass whispered, climbing into bed.
“On the Internet?” Will was half asleep.
“I think so. I found two. I just hope one of them is her.” She pointed her toes and nudged them between Will’s shins. She eased her cold fingers under his armpits.
“Ow,” he muttered. “Cold.”
“I sent an e-mail and wrote a letter. I didn’t say anything about taking care of them. I just said maybe she should come home and say good-bye.”
“Mmm. That’s good.”
“Bet she won’t, though. It’s been so long.” She curled against Will’s warm chest. “What do you think?”
“Dunno,” Will mumbled, trying to stay awake, to oblige her desire for conversation. “What happened back then anyway?”
“She had an affair with one of our teachers at school. Her daddy found out. She was only fourteen, and you know how Lloyd is. So she ran away. Started a spell of bad luck for Lloyd. For everyone, really. That’s all I know.”
He nodded, and as he drifted back toward sleep, his hand reached for her like a blind mole, burrowing in the dark. His touch was not deliberate. Just an aimless sort of probing into adjacent soil, down the slope of her hip, up the rib cage. It was this random meandering across her body’s terrain that first uncovered the pea-size lump. Now his fingers stiffened when they touched her chest.
“Cass.” He sighed. He placed the heel of his palm against the slick twist of scar tissue. His fingers
