A chill pierced Briana, but she allowed herself only an understanding smile, a mild nod. “Okay. Take your vitamins and go change. Your clothes are laid out on the dresser. Wear your new shoes. I’ll drive you to school today.”
“Aw, Mommy,” Nealie grumbled, “you haven’t let me ride the bus for weeks.”
Briana’s answer was ready. “All those Tandrup children have colds. Mrs. Feeney said so. They sneeze all over everybody.”
Nealie didn’t look convinced. Briana added, “Besides, I have to go to town anyway. I’ve got to mail the seed catalogs.”
Briana gestured at the stacks of catalogs on the entryway table. The covers showed jewel-colored fruits and vegetables—tomatoes red as rubies, snow peas green as jade, pears the deep golden of amber.
Hanlon’s Heritage Farm, proud letters announced. Your Source of Heirloom Seeds and Rare Fruits and Vegetables. Only the Best and Strongest. A Quarter Century of Quality.
“Why does Grandpa have to grow seeds?” Nealie asked. “Why can’t he grow jellyfish or woolly worms or something interesting?”
“Seeds are what he knows,” Briana said.
“He could learn something else,” Nealie complained. “I think I’ll tell him so tonight.”
“Not tonight,” Briana said firmly. “We’re having a celebration. Remember?”
Nealie’s eyes shot to the Heritage Farm calendar on the kitchen wall, then widened in alarm. “But Mama. It’s the first of the month. Daddy might call. What if he calls when everybody’s here? We won’t be able to talk. Rupert will hit and yell and pull the phone plug out. He’s done it before.”
“I won’t let Rupert near the phone. Besides, Daddy’s so far away he might not be able to get through tonight.”
“He will if he can,” Nealie objected. “You know he will.” She paused, her expression saddening. “How much longer has he got to be in Khanty—Khanty…”
“Khanty-Mansiysk,” Briana said. “He stays until he gets enough pictures. Then he’ll be back to see you.”
Josh Morris was in Siberia, just south of the Arctic Circle, shooting photographs for Smithsonian magazine. Before that he had been in Oaxaca, Mexico, taking pictures of Olmec ruins. Before that he’d been photographing moths in Belize and a live volcano in Java.
Briana had married Josh seven years ago, when he’d come to Missouri for a piece on farmers specializing in saving endangered fruits and vegetables. It should have been a tame assignment for him, mere routine, but when he and Briana met, routine flew away, and all tameness vanished.
Theirs was a heedless, passionate affair that swept them into a marriage barely three weeks after they’d met. Everyone who knew Briana had warned her. She’d ignored them.
Everybody who knew Josh had warned him, too, and he, too, had paid no attention. He was crazy in love, so was she, and nothing could stop them.
The marriage could not last, and everyone but them had seemed to know it. Josh was a man born with a hunger to roam. She was a woman tied strongly to one place. They stayed together only long enough to produce Nealie.
Josh had already been gone by the time Nealie was born—Albania, where he’d nearly gotten himself killed more than once. But he’d flown to Missouri as soon as he’d heard that the child was premature and fighting to survive.
Josh Morris loved his daughter. Nobody, not even Briana’s disapproving brother, could deny that. Josh kept in touch with Nealie as much as possible, he sent funny cards and silly presents, he came to see her whenever he could. But he was always on the move, often far away, and his schedule was erratic.
“I wish he’d come home to stay,” Nealie said with a wistfulness she seldom showed.
Briana stroked the child’s brown hair. “He has to make a living.”
Nealie wasn’t consoled. “He could do something else.”
Briana touch softened. “No. He’s like Grandpa. This is what he does. He educates people. He helps tell important stories. A picture is worth a thousand words.
“It isn’t worth one daddy.”
For this Briana had no answer. She turned away and said, “I’m sorry.”
“I wish you’d marry him again and he’d stay here, and we’d all be together,” Nealie said in a burst of emotion. “Why won’t he stay with us? Is there something wrong with us? With me?”
Coldness gripped Briana. She wheeled to face her daughter. “Don’t talk like that. He loves you. He thinks you’re the most wonderful daughter in the world.”
“But why—” Nealie began.
“It’s time for school. Go change your clothes.”
Nealie tossed her head defiantly, but she turned and stalked to her room. Her big robe trailed behind her, and her bear paws made clumsy thumps on the floor.
Briana tried not to notice the limp in the child’s determined step. She turned and began to clear the breakfast dishes.
I won’t cry. I won’t, she told herself fiercely. Nobody’s going to know how I feel. Nobody.
But she knew this could not remain true. She could no longer keep things to herself.
The time had come. She must act.
FRANKLIN HINKS was the postmaster of Illyria, Missouri. His father had been postmaster before him, and Franklin could clearly remember Victory Mail, the three-cent letter stamp and the penny postcard.
He had vivid recollections of many things—including Briana Morris as a child, back when she’d been little Briana Hanlon. He’d seen her every day she’d gone to Illyria Elementary School, right across the street from the post office.
This morning he’d seen her stop her aging pickup truck in front of that same red brick schoolhouse. He’d seen her kiss her daughter goodbye and the child run up the snowy walk to the building.
He had watched Briana signal for a turn, then pull into his parking lot. She got out of the truck and came up the walk, her arms full of seed catalogs and her breath feathering behind her, a silver plume on the gray air.
She had been a pretty child, Briana had, and now she was a pretty woman—tall but not too tall, slim but not too slim. She had long dark hair with the hint of a wave and dark eyes that had something exotic in them.
She looked nothing at all like her father or brother, big Scottish-Irishmen with pale eyes and square faces. No, Briana looked like her mother, a quiet brunette with a slightly Mediterranean air.
Briana came in the door of the post office. She wore an old plaid jacket and a black knit hat and gloves. The wind had tossed her hair and burnished her cheeks to the color of fiery gold.
She smiled at him. She had a good smile, but lately—for the past two months or so—he’d
