“I don’t blame you. What else did you send me . . .” There’s a pause as she scrolls through the pictures. “Is this lettuce?” I can almost hear her frown.

“Yeah. Literally hundreds of heads of lettuce. Maybe more. There are farm fields down the road.”

“Huh. I guess some things have changed in twenty-four years.”

“Not everything.” I grin, waiting for her to scroll to the next picture.

She gasps. “The ducks are still there!”

“In all their tacky glory.”

Her mortified laugh sings out. “They’re as ugly as I remember them being.”

My gaze wanders over the busy wallpaper.

She gasps again, more softly, and I know she’s scrolled on to the next picture, the one of the calla lilies in my bedroom. “How did I forget about those? You know, I stayed up every night for weeks painting every last petal, all fat and swollen, trying to get them done before you were born.”

“Yeah, I remember you telling me.”

“Gosh, that was a lifetime ago, wasn’t it?” She murmurs wistfully. There’s a long pause, as she no doubt drifts back to her time here. “So? What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Besides scratching all my mosquito bites?” I mutter, my nails raking at the back of my calf, where a red bump is beginning to flare and itch. “I may as well set up a bunch of posts for the site. Diana woke up with new ideas.” I’ve had at least ten texts from her today.

“Diana always wakes up with new ideas. I wish I had that girl’s energy . . . Oh! The time escaped me. I’ve got to get to the shop to finish up a few things. You wouldn’t believe this woman that came in this morning. She was insisting on having baby’s breath in her bouquet, even after I told her that I don’t work with it because it cheapens the look of the arrangement. She had the nerve to . . .”

I lose track of my mom’s little tirade as something odd on the wallpaper catches my eye. I feel my face twist up. “Do ducks have nipples?”

There’s a pause. “Sorry. What?”

I lean forward to take note of the six distinctive dots perfectly spaced out on the underbelly of the duck. There are slight variations in dot size and spacing, though, which tells me that someone’s done this by hand with a black marker. To every last duck on this wall. “Did you do this?”

“Calla, what on earth are you talking about?”

By the time I’m done explaining, we’re both howling with laughter.

“It would have taken hours. There are, like, hundreds of ducks on this wall alone.”

“Well, it wasn’t me, but I wish it had been.”

I settle back into my chair, in awe. “Maybe Agnes did it. I don’t think she likes the ducks much, either.”

Mom’s laughter dies down. “So . . . what’s going on there?”

“No idea, but whatever it is, it’s ‘complicated.’ We’re going over to her house for dinner tonight. She lives across the road.”

“Good. You’ll get more than two minutes with him there. Wren was always a slow eater.”

“To be honest, I’m dreading it right now.” How awkward will it be, to sit across the table from him? Will he at least attempt polite conversation? Or will he completely ignore me?

At least Agnes will be there, too, to serve as a soft-spoken buffer.

“It’ll be fine. Just be yourself. And listen, don’t worry about what that jerk pilot said. He doesn’t know you at all.”

He doesn’t, and yet I haven’t been able to shake Jonah’s words from my mind.

“Thanks, Mom. Love you.” I set my phone down on the table with a heavy sigh, and then crack open my MacBook.

Chapter 9

Agnes’s driveway is as long as my father’s, giving me plenty of time to study the little white rectangular house ahead of me as I approach, my sweater pulled over my head to protect my hair from the gloomy drizzle that’s been falling all afternoon.

It’s a mirror image of my father’s house, save for the baby-blue siding and the front door, painted a deep crimson that delivers a much-needed punch of color. She doesn’t have the additional garage, but there is a small shed on the left, with a large green garbage can propped against the side. Agnes’s truck is parked in front of it.

Gripping the sad bouquet of daisies in one hand, I knock on the door. A moment later, I hear Agnes’s reedy voice holler, “Just come in!”

Warmth and the delicious scent of roasted chicken and herbs envelop me as soon as I step inside, and I steal a moment to marvel at how different this house feels from the cold, dark one across the road. For one thing, the kitchen, dining room, and living room are all open-concept, filling the length of the house. A short hallway divides two sides of the back, leading to the bedrooms, I presume.

For another, it feels like a family home. It’s simply furnished in beiges and grays, the furniture bland in style but clean and well maintained. But, where my dad’s place is void of character, Agnes has infused small touches of personality everywhere. Rich hues of red and burnt orange color the walls. The couch is adorned with cushions with birds hand-stitched into their fronts. Wooden masks and swirling artwork that must be tied to her Native roots hang on the wall, and the entire wall beside the hallway is filled with framed photographs of people, many wearing colorful beaded headdresses and animal-pelt coats. Her family members, I presume.