CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

They'd met at the Laundromat, of all places. Clare had to drag bedding over from the small house she rented. The girls had been infected with a stomach bug, and she wanted the big machines to sterilize their sheets and pillowcases. They busied themselves with a pair of rag dolls they loved, a gift from someone Clare couldn't remember when they were first born, moving back and forth between their own language and English. The language had begun to fade the past six months or so—they were leaving it behind with sucking thumbs and the blankets each had dragged around since toddlerhood. It was time, she supposed. They'd turned four in March and would start school in September.

She was struggling to fold a quilt when a woman came over and said in an American accent, "Let me help you with that."

Clare was grateful, and the two began chatting. They were close in age, and judging by Arlette's free-flowing blouse and the amulet she wore around her neck, of like mind. They got along immediately, laughing at the same things, sharing a love of the same music and a pleasure in the joys of gardening. Clare had been quite lonely since leaving her mean-hearted husband behind in Barnstaple, a move her mother had disapproved. She'd left behind her friends, too.

Arlette was traveling after a terrible tragedy, trying to find some way to live her life. For quite a while, she didn't discuss what that was, but one night after some spaghetti and cheap wine at Clare's house, she spilled the story. Clare clutched her daughters tight to her that night, happy for once that they only had the one bed to share.

In her warm kitchen so many years later, sitting in silence with Levi at the table after everyone left, Clare bent her head into her arms. How could she have missed the fact that Rosemary—not Tillie, never Tillie, how could she ever call her that name?—had been stolen , not washed away by the fast-running waters of the creek that fall?

They'd had rain for days on end, and the girls had gone out to play during a rare break. Only Sage had come back, hysterical, her sister lost. When she led Clare back out into the forest, the ground had given way on the bank, and one of Rosemary's socks had been found nearby.

Lost to the water.

They'd combed the woods, and called for her, and teams had gone out to sea to look for her body, but she'd never been found. Rosemary was gone.

"How did I miss the fact that it was Arlette? All this time?"

Levi said, "You trusted her."

"Did she really help us look? That seems so bold. And surely, Rosemary would have protested."

"Maybe. Children do what they're told, don't they? And she knew her, so maybe she just trusted that she was supposed to follow directions."

"The girls never stayed with her one at a time."

"She probably had a good explanation."

Clare sighed, pressing three fingers to her chest. "I feel so guilty. And so furious."

"You couldn't have known, Clare."

"But my poor girl, lost forever. Lost to her sister, to me." She shook her head. "How can she not remember?"

"Meg doesn't remember her mother. She was six. Tillie was younger, wasn't she? And to survive, she'd want to forget."

"It breaks my heart. For both of them." She looked at her husband. "And she seemed so aloof, didn't she? Like she wasn't sure about us at all."

"Consider it from her side. It must be overwhelming. Give her some time."

"I suppose." She spread her hands, looking at her rings, her nails, which were like her daughters'. "I wonder how Sage is doing."

"I'd wager she's making chocolate, working it out." He touched her knee. "Perhaps you should bake some bread for supper."

"Yes. That's a good idea." But she felt winded. Empty.

He stood and held out his arms. Clare let herself be enfolded in his warmth and good smells, in the solidity of his presence. "Things will work out," he said, his voice rumbling into her ear through his chest. "You're strong."

"Mm." She just melted into him, letting go of everything else. "What would I do without you?"

"It would be miserable," he said.

She couldn't dredge up a chuckle, as she was meant to do, but she leaned against him and sighed.