The Secret of Everything (31 page)

Tessa thanked her and settled in to read. At first, she found very little that she didn’t already know. It was fun to read about the reaction of the town to an invasion of hippies, who lit bonfires by the river and had wild parties. Orgies, even. The word was used in a letter to the editor from an outraged citizen of the valley.

She flipped through the pages, not really sure what she was looking for. There were few photos.

But wouldn’t Green Gate have some kind of archives from that time? She would go there next. In the meantime, she found the local account of Xander McKenzie’s death. A photo of a clean-shaven version of the mustachioed man showed up, and this one was much less grainy. He had a high-bridged nose and exotic, long eyes, and she recognized him instantly. In a dizzy overlay, she saw the living face in memory, colored and animated, overlaying the black-and-white shot.

“Guinnevere had green eyes,” he sang, along with the album playing in the room, “like yours, milady, like yours…. ”

Tessa closed her eyes and let it come. Memories rushed in as if they were birds coming through the windows.

She saw him laughing, spinning a woman around, and then Tessa held up her arms—“now me, now me!”—and he sang that lyrical, lovely song to her. To her green eyes. She could see the room clearly, too: eight windows in a circle around the tower room, with beds tucked into the angles and the stereo on a table at the back. It was cold and snow fell outside
.

And more:

She sat at a long table with other children, all of them eating sandwiches. A woman with her hair falling out from beneath a scarf gave them each an apple
.

“You want to trade with me?” asked a girl next to her. Rhiannon. She had green eyes, too
.

That was it. Feeling shaky and somehow demolished, Tessa put everything away and went back to the hotel.

   O
n the way back to the hotel, Tessa checked out the motel and found it well below her comfort level. Just as well that she’d kept the room at Los Padres, because, when she got up to her room, there was an envelope on the table beneath the window, and even from ten feet away she could identify her father’s calligraphic hand. The envelope was decorated with a gauzy photo of a puppy, all soulful eyes and adorability, and Tessa had to grin even through the anxiety that fluttered in her throat. He still chose pictures to appeal to the twelve-year-old she once was.

Felix fell on the floor in a heap, as if completely exhausted, and Tessa carried the envelope out to the balcony. Sunlight was breaking through the clouds, glittering on wet cottonwood leaves. The tourists were just beginning to come back out.

She didn’t open the letter immediately but sat with it in her hand, aware that things would shift the minute she began to read. And, really, was that what she wanted? Her life was good. Real. Satisfying.

Except, a whole adult embraced her life, warts and all. The disaster in Montana had dredged up things she had never thought about. She had to face both her childhood and Lisa’s
death and her own responsibility for it. Even letting that thought in trebled the sense of airlessness the letter had brought.

As if he sensed her subtle upset, Felix got up and came over, putting his foot delicately on her knee. Tessa tapped the envelope.

What could you do once the lid was flung open on Pandora’s box? The memories had begun to surface.

Taking a deep breath, she slid her thumb under the flap of the envelope and broke the seal.

It began:

For a long, long time, Tessa stared into the middle distance, holding the paper loosely in her hand. Everything in her was hushed. Astonished.

Sam was not her father.

Not her father.

Tears rose in her throat, rushed through her sinuses, welled in her eyes, and then—they didn’t fall.

As if her father—not!—was linked to her by some invisible cord, the cell on the table spun in a circle, flashing Sam’s number. Coldly, she watched it spin and spin until it stopped.

There’s a couple things I need to be looking at your face to tell you
, he’d said.

She didn’t want to know any more right now. In swift and sudden decision, she rose and tugged a hat down on her head. Cramming the letter and her cell phone into her pocket, she grabbed her backpack and whistled for Felix to come with her. She had to walk.

Tessa walked and walked and walked, following trails that looped through the foothills surrounding the town, up and down hills and along low ridges.

And this was exactly why she walked: It moved her out of her head and into her body. Every time some angle of the past came up—the far distant past she still couldn’t remember; the more recent past where she was responsible for the death of another person; or the past of this afternoon—she shoved it away and focused on her feet. One foot in front of the other, firmly planted on the earth.

And it worked its magic. The fresh air and the trails and the pleasure and relief of getting slightly sweaty brought her back to herself. Tessa Harlow, alive in the early twenty-first century, who seemed to now own a dog who happily walked along beside her. He was excellent company.

He was her pack now.

When she felt she had some semblance of peace, she headed back toward town. The trail she’d been following looped over
the trailhead to the pilgrimage site, and Tessa wandered into the garden of the church and sat on a bench. She gave Felix some water, and he slurped up a hefty portion, then fell against the wall in the shade. His happy collapse, his happy drinking, his happy walking made her laugh. Dogs were such creatures of joy.

“Hello again.”

Tessa looked up to find the young priest, dressed in jeans and a collared shirt, kneeling amid the corn. “Hello. It’s Father Timothy, right?”

“Yes. And you are …?”

“That is the question of the day,” she said wryly, then shook her head. “I’m Tessa Harlow.”

“You seem to have taken in a stray.”

“Do you know Felix?”

“As well as I know any of them. He seems a good pup.” The priest tugged weeds. “Would you like to help? Weeding is good for a heavy heart.”

“Really.”

He grinned. “And there are a lot of weeds.”

“Okay.” Tessa knelt on the ground and started helping. The ground was soft and the weeds came out easily. She pulled them silently, but this action sent her thoughts flying inward, into analysis. “Hmmph,” she said aloud.

“You do have a heavy heart,” he said. “Priests are known to be good listeners.”

Tessa rocked back on her heels. “I do,” she said, and to her horror, the tears she’d been fighting rose in her eyes. “I don’t know who I am. I mean, I do know—I’m not one of those people who has big issues, you know? I’m not speaking metaphorically. I know who I am.”

He nodded. “Keep weeding.”

She obeyed, talking as she yanked out bindweed and goat-heads. “The one thing I’ve always been sure of is my father. He loves me. He’s always done the right thing, and I am who I am—who is this grounded, clear-sighted person!” She pulled out a big hunk of soil, and dirt went flying into the air. “Sorry.”