Author: Kristan Higgins

Then, when the story was over and Nicole was in bed, Liam would write that story in a notebook, his hand cramping, his head aching from the effort of keeping the letters where they should be. But when the day came for Nicole to leave home, he’d give her those notebooks, and she could take a piece of her mother with her, recorded in her dad’s careful handwriting, like a shield against the world.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath and told Nicole about seeing Emma for the first time. How the light shone on her hair, how her laugh floated across the courtyard. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, that beautiful, perfect girl who seemed to glow from inside, and when she’d finally looked over at him, she smiled, and all the other sounds fell away.

Nicole’s face was glowing when he finished. “That’s so romantic, Daddy,” she said softly.

Liam didn’t answer. He’d described that meeting a hundred times, and while he’d told his daughter what he’d seen and heard, he never did tell her how it felt. Because when Emma Tate had met his eyes, it felt like every bad thing Liam had ever done—the fights and suspensions, the petty crimes that had landed him in juvie, the many girls he’d led on and slept with, the beers and the drag racing—all of that was about to be forgiven. That this perfect, radiant girl was some kind of angel about to change the soul of no one from nowhere, to see him as someone worthwhile, more than the hot guy with the bad rep, one small misstep away from being just like every other loser his family had ever produced.

But Emma didn’t change him.

Nicole was the one who’d done that.

But still, that moment—that golden moment of seeing the girl who’d become his first love—it had been…amazing. A shimmering, perfect moment.

Another memory came to him—Cordelia’s face as they sat on the blanket under the pines at the old estate. Her big, dark eyes had been soft…and trusting, too.

Nice job, idiot. She sure as hell won’t ever look at you that way again.

“Dad?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, babe?”

“You can say no, but…I just want an answer, okay?” Nicole squeezed her ring finger, her signature for nervousness. “The prom’s this Saturday.”

Ah. Hence the thaw.

“Dad, it’s okay if you say no. I screwed up, I know it. And there’ll be other proms. I just need to let Tanner know one way or the other.”

No. Don’t grow up. Stay with me. You’re all I’ve got.

“I want you home by eleven,” he said, his voice uneven. If you’re not home by eleven, I will call the police, the fire department, the National Guard and the SWAT team. I will find that boy, and if his hands are on you, I will rip off his head and drink his blood. I will bury his body where even the vultures won’t find it, and I’ll—

“Oh, Dad,” she breathed. “Really? I can go?”

“Yeah. Do your homework.”

Liam turned back to the strut and tapped it gently into place. The lump in his throat didn’t go away.

JUST BEFORE THE game on Tuesday, Posey girded her loins and went to her parents’ house.

“Oh, it’s you,” her mother said by way of greeting. “I thought you forgot where we lived, it’s been so long. Not a phone call, not a visit. I thought you were in the hospital. What’s it been, a month?”

“It’s been two weeks, Mom,” Posey said with weary patience. “And I did call. Twice.”

“Messages on that machine don’t count.”

Where was the more amenable parent? “Is Dad home?”

“He’s at Guten Tag. Come in. Are you hungry? I just made bockwurst.”

“Got any cake?”

Stacia narrowed her eyes. “Yes. Have you eaten supper?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Liar.”

Posey smiled, and her mother relented enough to step back from the door and let her in. Two minutes later, she was sitting at the kitchen table, eating apple kuchen.

“Gretchen and that horrible Italian man are back together,” Stacia announced.

“I know.”

“Well, I guess I’m the last to know everything.” She sat heavily, the cutlery rattling as her bulk hit the chair. “So. How are you?”

“I’m okay, Mom.”

“Still with that Liam?”

That Liam. Funny. “Nope, not anymore.”

Stacia frowned. “Why?”

“Oh…he’s got some issues to deal with. His daughter. Stuff like that.”

“Well, he’s an idiot if he doesn’t want you.”

Posey’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought you wanted him for Gretchen.”

“We did. I did. I don’t know. I pictured you with…someone else.”

“Who?” Posey asked.

Her mom sighed. “I don’t know. Someone perfect. A prince, maybe. A prince who also cured cancer.” She smiled reluctantly. “No one’s ever good enough for your little girl. You’ll see someday.”

Motherhood seemed far, far away. But she could picture feeling that way toward Brianna. Yes. Brianna’s future boyfriend would have to watch his back. Made her understand where Liam was coming from. But she wasn’t here to talk—or think—about Liam. She said nothing else, knowing the best way to get her mother to talk was to wait her out.

The fridge cycled on with a wheeze. A catbird sang from the clothesline. And…bingo.

“Posey, listen,” Stacia said, her pale eyes suddenly wet. “I—I have to tell you something. A couple of things, really.” Her hands twisted together, and she gave her head a little shake. “We—your father and I—we had a daughter before you. When Henry was five. She came too early, and they couldn’t save her. She only lasted an hour.”

Stacia’s face scrunched up, and without a thought, Posey got up and wrapped her arms around her mother’s solid shoulders.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” she whispered, tears slipping out of her eyes. Even though Posey had known this fact her whole life, Stacia had never spoken of it. For a long moment, she just hugged her mom, breathing in the smell of baking and Suave shampoo. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“We named her Marlene,” Stacia said thickly.

“Beautiful.”

Stacia nodded. “She was. She was beautiful, Posey. And I still think of her. Every day.” She wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “Sit back down, honey. I’m not done.”

Posey obeyed.

Stacia looked at the table, her finger tracing the pattern in the painted enamel. “We adopted you two years later. And you were perfect and healthy and beautiful, too, but I was so afraid of losing you, too, in any way. I had nightmares about you drowning, or being kidnapped, or forgetting you on the ironing board.”

“The ironing board?”

Stacia shrugged. She was quiet for a long moment. “With Henry,” she said eventually, “it was different. Oh, I loved that little boy, but you know how he was. How he still is. Completely self-sufficient. Sometimes I used to think that if he fell out of a tree and cut his head, he’d just stitch himself back up and wouldn’t even mention it to me.”

“I know what you mean,” Posey murmured.

“But with you, I was so scared. All the time. Maybe it got in the way of me being a good mother, I don’t know.”

“Oh, Mom. You’re a good mother. A great mother.”

Stacia blew her nose again. “Mostly, though,” she continued, her voice rough, “I was afraid that your birth mother would show up one day and ask for you back. And she’d be so much more than I was…she’d be young and pretty and fun, and you’d want to be with her. And you’d leave me.”

The words cut Posey’s heart right in half. “Mom! I would never leave you! I love you. How could you think that?” She gripped her mom’s hand. “Since it’s true confessions time, I’ll tell you one of mine.”

“You broke Glubby’s antler, didn’t you?”

“Oh…um, yes. Sorry about that.” Posey smiled, then grew serious. “No, what I wanted to say was that I always thought… I was always afraid that every time you looked at Gretchen, you wished she was yours.”

Stacia jerked back. “Gretchen? I mean, I love her, she’s my sister’s child…”

“Well, it always seemed like she could do no wrong. The German chef, your twin sister’s daughter. The way she calls you Mutti…constantly reminding me that I’m adopted. She’s the real reason I hate to cook. Because I didn’t want to be compared to her and come up short.”

Stacia shook her head. “Oh, honey. It’s just that sometimes you love a kid just because they need it. Not because they deserve it, not because you really like them…just because they need love. And that’s Gretchen. The truth is, she drives me crazy half the time. Your father and I were so glad when she moved in with you, we got a little romantic on the couch.”

Posey grimaced. “Feel free to keep that to yourself, Mom.”

Stacia smiled, then grew serious. She squeezed Posey’s hand, her grip almost painful. “I’m sorry I never told you about that letter,” she whispered. “It was selfish of me, and that’s not what a mother is supposed to be. If you want to find her, you go right ahead. I’ll help you.” She wiped her eyes and looked at Posey, her face blotchy. “Do you?”

Posey didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. I’m not sure.” She looked into her mother’s face, that strong-boned, handsome face, and noted, maybe for the first time, the web of wrinkles under her mother’s eyes, the heaviness of the skin. “And maybe she’d be great. But she’d never be you.”

Stacia looked down at the table. Nodded. “There was something else in that letter, Posey,” she whispered.

Her heart twisted. “What? Am I a twin or something?”

Stacia managed to smile. “No. Oh, honey, I wish I’d kept it in a safer place. I’m so sorry about that.” She sighed, then looked at Posey. “You don’t know this, but your birth mother…she was the one who picked your name.”

“What? What about Great-Aunt Cordelia?”

“Who’s that?” Stacia frowned.

“Gretchen said we had an aunt…” Leave it Gretchen to tell her some idiotic story. “Never mind. My birth mother picked my name?”

Stacia nodded. “The social worker who handled the adoption told us that even though we didn’t have to keep your name, the birth mother hoped we’d think about it.” She stared at the table, lost in memories. “And we were so grateful to her for giving us her baby, that we did. We didn’t really love it, to be honest. When Henry called you Posey, it just seemed to fit better, and I have to tell you, I was relieved. Cordelia. It’s not even German.”

“Was there something about my name in the letter?” Posey asked. A sudden weight pressed on her heart, as if she knew what was about to come.

Stacia took her hand. “She said her favorite play was King Lear. By William Shakespeare.”

“I know,” Posey said. “I read it in college.”

“Well,” Stacia said, her voice now a whisper. “She said she picked it because Cordelia’s the daughter the king sends away.”

Posey swallowed and pressed her lips together.

“But,” Stacia said, her eyes filled with tears, “she’s also the daughter he misses for the rest of his life.”

Cordelia. Not a great-aunt who was blind in one eye. Not the naive girl murdered by her evil sisters.

Cordelia, the precious, beloved daughter.

What a gift to have such a name.