CHAPTER TWO

C HAPTER T WO

After dropping her daughter off at her new school, Shannon Gibbons headed for her new home on Forty-Fifth Street. Shannon and her family had moved to Sacramento a week ago. It had been a whirlwind of activity from the moment the moving trucks drove away until now. Today she would meet Rosella Marlow, a celebrity and idol of hers who lived at the end of the block. Rosella was the reason Shannon and her family were living in the Fabulous Forties, one of the most coveted neighborhoods in Sacramento.

Six months ago, Rosella had contacted Shannon via email, explaining how she was looking for an assistant to help with her newest writing project. Shannon’s immediate reaction was disbelief. At the time, Shannon had been living in Elk Grove, about twenty minutes away. Rosella Marlow was a renowned journalist, nearly on the same level as Barbara Walters. Why was she calling? Did she have the wrong person?

When Shannon had asked, “Why me?” Rosella had told her Michael J. Barilla, a college professor at California State University, Sacramento, had mentioned her by name and talked about Shannon’s investigative nature and relentless pursuit of truth in a world clouded by misinformation.

Rosella Marlow seemed genuine in her desire to help nurture and develop Shannon’s talent. Not only did the notion of stepping outside of her daily routine excite Shannon, but the prospect of working with Rosella and learning from the best also filled her with joy and anticipation.

Their first conversation had been followed by a string of emails and a video call, at which time Rosella talked about a story idea having to do with the history of the homes on her street. She spoke passionately about the area known as the Fabulous Forties, how it once had an extensive streetcar network that wound its way through sprawling estates surrounded by manicured lawns and lush landscaping. The opulence and prestige, she’d said, had been unappreciated, but now, decades later, the neighborhood was finally recognized for its spectacular architecture.

The only thing Shannon had found strange was how Rosella seemed to know everything about her. Everything. Not only what her favorite restaurant was but also where Shannon had met her husband, as well as her decision to give up her dream of becoming a journalist so she could stay home to raise her daughter. Even more surprising, Rosella knew about Shannon’s childhood, her time spent in foster care, the loneliness she’d endured, and how, through it all, she had pined for her biological mother, so much so she used to be all Shannon talked about, thought about, cared about.

Rosella knew she hadn’t been adopted until the age of thirteen. The Fergusons, well into their sixties at the time, helped to change Shannon’s life. They were patient with her and a kind and loving couple. But all good things come to an end, and when Shannon was sixteen, Mrs. Ferguson was diagnosed with breast cancer and passed away soon after. Two years later, on the anniversary of her death, Mr. Ferguson went to bed and never woke up.

Although Rosella was a great listener, she didn’t open up about her own life, except to say they had much in common. When Shannon asked her how so, Rosella told her she had also experienced neglect and abuse as a child and sometimes felt the urge to strike out at those around her.

“I’ve never felt the urge to strike out at others,” Shannon told her.

“Not even after losing Mrs. Ferguson?”

Not even then, she thought. There was no way Rosella could know her inner thoughts or what happened behind closed doors. The truth was, after Mrs. Ferguson’s death, Mr. Ferguson had become a broken man. He would come to Shannon’s room late at night and want to talk—to cry, mostly. He became a bit touchy-feely: a kiss on the cheek here, an arm around her shoulder there. She began to lock her bedroom door at night. And when he died, instead of grieving, she felt relieved.

“Did you know Mr. Ferguson had a sister whom he talked to nearly every day?”

“Of course. Auntie Jane.”

“He told his sister everything, and she, in turn, told her husband, a police officer, about their conversations. His sister and her husband did everything they could to try and talk Mr. Ferguson into handing you back over to the state. They were afraid for his life.”

“Why?” Shannon asked, utterly baffled.

“Why do you think?”

“I have no idea. Mr. Ferguson and I always got along. I thought of him as my father.”

“Mr. Ferguson told his sister that you were an angry child, but he’d made a promise to his wife to keep you at his side and protect you. And then he died unexpectedly ...”

“Of a broken heart,” Shannon told her.

Rosella sighed as if it were no use trying to explain. “Don’t you see?”

Shannon didn’t, at all. “See what?”

“Mr. Ferguson’s own sister was afraid you might hurt her brother. And when he died unexpectedly, she blamed you.”

“No. That’s not true,” Shannon said, unsure. She thought back to the funeral, how Auntie Jane had been standoffish. Shannon had put it all down to grief. Everyone processed death differently. Shannon hadn’t spoken to Auntie Jane in years. The woman had to be in her late eighties. “Did you speak to Auntie Jane?”

“Of course. That’s what the best journalists do: they search for the facts, make phone calls, perform in-person interviews, visit libraries, and even pound the streets if they want to talk with hard-to-reach people.”

“You did all that before contacting me?”

“Yes,” Rosella said with a wistful sigh. “It’s what I do, what I’ve always done. The point is, you and I were made from the same cloth. Wrongfully treated. Misunderstood. We both harbor a darkness within.”

Shannon didn’t agree, but she kept quiet. Yes, she thought the world was harsh. And yes, she felt misunderstood, but she wasn’t angry. She didn’t blame the couples who declined to adopt her, because the first thing she always asked them was if they would help her find her real mother. But a darkness within? Most likely, Rosella was talking about “dark” emotions: sadness, loss, and even shame.

Relieved when Rosella moved on to something else, Shannon figured it was the woman’s unique background as a journalist with a sea of contacts that made her privy to so many details. A few months after her first conversation with Rosella, Shannon’s husband was offered a job as a surgeon at Sutter Hospital in Sacramento. Days after he was hired, Rosella called Shannon to let her know there was a house on Rosella’s block that would soon be listed and gave her the name of the agent to call. The house would be going for a spectacular price, and if they were interested, they needed to act fast.

It all seemed too good to be true. And yet that didn’t stop Shannon and Trey from pouncing on the opportunity. The icing on the cake, in Shannon’s view, was the prospect of working closely with Rosella. The woman might be a bit eccentric, but she was an extraordinary journalist who wanted to pass on her knowledge, skills, and experience to the next generation.

Shannon’s job would entail providing notes, ideas, and detailed supporting material on Rosella’s work in progress, The History of Homes on My Block . The project itself sounded boring. But there was no way Shannon would dare pass up the chance to work with someone of Rosella’s stature. The timing couldn’t be better. Shannon’s daughter was a sophomore in high school. It was time to think about what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

She turned onto Forty-Fifth Street and was greeted by a breathtaking sight of towering oaks that provided a sturdy framework for the vibrant maples, sycamores, and elms stretching above and gracefully shading the entire block. The garage door rolled open and Shannon pulled inside. When she stepped out of the car and shut the door, she was surprised to see four women standing in her driveway. They were all smiling. The woman in the center of the group waved. She wore a colorful, knee-length sundress and bright-white sneakers, and exuded grace and style. Her blond hair was thick and shiny, cut bluntly an inch above her shoulders. Shannon walked toward them.

“Hello,” the woman said. “My name is Chloe Leavitt.” She turned to her left. “This is Becky Bateman, and”—pivoting to her right—“this is Kaylynn Alcozar and Dianne Abbott.”

“So nice to meet you,” Kaylynn said. “I live right next door to you.”

Dianne lifted one hand. “Hi. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“I live across the street,” Becky said, pointing to the house behind them, the house Shannon saw through her living room windows. The house reminded her of something you might find in a fairy tale. It was painted in soft pastels. A turret with gingerbread trim crowned the structure, and its conical roof was covered in copper patina. She’d been admiring the house since she’d moved onto the block.

Shannon looked at her watch. She was running short of time. She didn’t want to be late for her meeting with Rosella Marlow, but she also didn’t want to come across as rude. Surely, Rosella would understand if she was a few minutes late. “I’m Shannon Gibbons,” she said as she reached them, offering her hand to each in turn. “So nice to meet you all.”

“Becky mentioned you had a daughter,” Chloe said.

“Yes. MacKenzie. We call her Mac. I just returned from taking her to Saint Francis. Her first day as a sophomore in high school.”

Chloe’s face lit up. “Saint Francis? My daughter, Ridley, goes there. She’s in her third year. We must introduce them. In fact, Ridley has a twin brother. They both drive, but Blake drops his sister off at school on his way to Jesuit High School every morning. If you would like, Blake would be happy to take your daughter to school and back.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“He’s responsible,” Kaylynn chimed in. “He’s even watched my little one a few times.”

Becky nodded her agreement. “He’s babysat my kids, too. They love Blake.”

Dianne nodded along.

“You can think about it,” Chloe said. “The reason we popped over is because we walk two or three times a week, or whenever the stars align, and when we saw you pull in, we thought we would introduce ourselves and invite you to join us.”

“I would love to, but I have a meeting with Rosella Marlow this morning.”

Dianne’s eyes grew wide, while Becky’s eyebrows pulled together in worry.

“A meeting with Rosella Marlow?” Chloe asked. “Whatever for?”

“That’s none of our business,” Kaylynn said. “We can all walk another time.”

“I don’t mind sharing,” Shannon said. “The truth is, Rosella Marlow is a big part of why we moved here.”

Dianne’s eyes grew even larger.

Kaylynn simply smiled. She looked like a younger, but shorter, version of Nicole Kidman with her red hair, flawless alabaster skin, and blue eyes. Shannon’s gaze shifted from one woman to another while she explained. “Rosella emailed me months ago about needing an assistant to help her with a writing project. Everything after that sort of fell into place. My husband was offered a job at Sutter Hospital, and then this beautiful house we’ve moved into came onto the market.” Shannon exhaled. “We feel so lucky to be here.”

“Did you ever meet the last owner, Caroline Baxter?” Becky asked.

Shannon shook her head. “We never got the chance.”

“She used to walk with us,” Kaylynn said.

“And she always said this was her forever home, so when she up and moved without saying goodbye to any of us, it was a bit shocking,” Dianne said.

“Definitely,” Chloe said. “We do miss her.” Her frown quickly turned to a smile. “But now we have you ...” Chloe’s expression changed from happy to excited, and she reached out and grabbed hold of Shannon’s forearm. Her grasp was gentle but firm. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to stop by later—before school is out, of course—and make you a proposition I hope you can’t refuse.”

“Lucky you,” Dianne said with a laugh.

“When is your appointment with Rosella?” Becky asked. “The last thing you want to be is late.”

Shannon glanced at the Apple Watch with the beaded band her daughter had made for her. The beads tended to pull on the little hairs on her arms, but every time she took it off, Mac noticed. “I was supposed to be there five minutes ago.”

A couple of the women jumped in unison, as if a car had backfired. They all shared worried looks.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Kaylynn said. “Good luck!”

“Good luck?” Shannon asked with a smile. “Is there something I should know?”

Becky winced. “Let’s just say Rosella is a woman of contradictions. Her personality walks a tightrope between overbearing and genial.”

“I don’t know about genial ,” Dianne said. “Doesn’t that mean friendly or cheerful?”

“I think of genial as pleasantly warm at times,” Becky said. “But yeah, she is also known to be stubborn and sort of scary.”

Chloe sighed. “I think what Becky means to say is that her assertiveness can be intimidating at times.”

“I have a voice,” Becky told Chloe. “What I mean to say is what I’ve already said, but I would add that Rosella has a no-nonsense approach to life. Her opinions are shared freely ...”

“A little too freely, if you ask me,” Dianne said.

“We need to let Shannon form her own opinion regarding Rosella,” Kaylynn said before heading off with Becky and Dianne.

“You’ll be fine,” Chloe assured Shannon. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Sounds good,” Shannon replied.

Chloe quickened her pace to catch up with the others.

Shannon liked Chloe Leavitt, who seemed kind and full of energy. In fact, Shannon liked them all. They were a nice change from her old neighborhood, where everyone stayed to themselves. After eight years, Shannon had never felt connected to the people who lived on her street. Trey had suggested she brought it on herself because she was inwardly afraid of rejection, which could be true, but Shannon didn’t believe that had anything to do with her feelings about the people in their old neighborhood.

The thought of Rosella waiting flashed through her brain. She ran back into the garage and hit the button. The door rolled down as she entered the kitchen through the side door. She glanced at the time. If she left now, she would be fifteen minutes late. She was still in her sweatpants and tee. She needed to change her clothes and brush her hair.

Shannon rushed up a flight of stairs and hurriedly made her way into her cluttered bedroom. Boxes and plastic bins lay scattered about, a reminder of the unfinished task of settling into her new home. She plunked her hands on her hips. Time was not on her side. Amid the chaos, she caught sight of a yellow summer dress through one of the bins. She swiftly pulled it out and slipped it on, the soft fabric hugging her around the hips. In the bathroom, she gathered her hair into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic band.

A glance at her watch prompted her to hastily apply a dash of lipstick to brighten her features, then scan the bedroom and the walk-in closet for her sandals. Frantically, she riffled through a jumble of shoes. No such luck. Finally, she slipped on a pair of ugly clogs and darted out of the room.

Outside, she took in a deep breath, hoping the fresh air would calm her nerves. When Shannon had last spoken with Rosella on the video call, she had been warm and friendly. Although she felt bad about keeping her waiting, she was certain Rosella would understand.

Her toes curled, gripping the clogs as she walked. She would have been better off wearing her old sneakers. Sweat gathered under her arms. If she weren’t so flustered, she might have been completely awestruck by the beauty of Rosella’s Victorian house, with its wraparound porch, ornate trimmings, and countless columns. Gabled dormers peeked out from the steeply pitched roof. No wonder the home had won Best House on the Block more than once. As she drew closer to the main entry, her heart began to thud against her chest. Afraid she might chicken out, she quickly rang the doorbell.