“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
The news about Maisie sits in Molly’s stomach like a stone. She doesn’t want to spring it on Vivian just yet—too many surprises at once.
After Vivian has poured tea in two cups, handed one to Molly, taken one for herself, added and stirred in two lumps of sugar, and arranged the cheese and crackers on the plate, she settles into the other chair and folds her hands on her lap. “All right,” she says. “Now tell me.”
So Molly talks. She tells Vivian about living in the trailer on Indian Island, the car crash that killed her father, her mother’s struggle with drugs. She shows her Shelly the turtle. She tells her about the dozen foster homes and the nose ring and the argument with Dina and finding out on the Internet that her mother’s in jail.
The tea grows tepid, then cold, in their cups.
And then, because she is determined to be completely honest, Molly takes a deep breath and says, “There’s something I should’ve told you a long time ago. The community service requirement wasn’t for school—it was because I stole a book from the Spruce Harbor library.”
Vivian pulls her burgundy fleece robe tighter around her. “I see.”
“It was a stupid thing to do.”
“What book was it?”
“Jane Eyre.”
“Why did you steal it?”
Molly thinks back to that moment: pulling each copy of the novel off the shelf, turning them over in her hands, returning the hardcover and the newer paperback, tucking the other one under her shirt. “Well, it’s my favorite book. And there were three copies. I thought nobody would miss the crappiest one.” She shrugs. “I just—wanted to own it.”
Vivian taps her bottom lip with her thumb. “Terry knew?”
Molly shrugs. She doesn’t want to get Terry in trouble. “Jack vouched for me, and you know how she feels about Jack.”
“That I do.”
The night is still, quiet except for their voices. The drapes are shut against the dark. “I’m sorry I came into your house this way. Under false pretenses,” Molly says.
“Ah, well,” Vivian says. “I suppose we all come under false pretenses one way or another, don’t we? It was best not to tell me. I probably wouldn’t have let you in.” Clasping her hands together, she says, “If you’re going to steal a book, though, you should at least take the nicest one. Otherwise what’s the point?”
Molly is so nervous she barely smiles.
But Vivian does. “Stealing Jane Eyre!” She laughs. “They should’ve given you a gold star. Bumped you up a grade.”
“You’re not disappointed in me?”
Vivian lifts her shoulders. “Eh.”
“Really?” Relief washes over her.
“You’ve certainly paid your dues, in any case, putting in all these hours with me.”
“It hasn’t felt like punishment.” Once upon a time—fairly recently, in fact—Molly would’ve gagged over these words, both because they’re blatantly sycophantic and cringingly sentimental. But not today. For one thing, she means them. For another, she’s so focused on the next part of the story that she can barely think of anything else. She plunges ahead. “Listen, Vivian,” she says. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”
“Oh Lord.” Vivian takes a sip of cold tea and sets her cup down. “What have you done now?”
Molly takes a deep breath. “It’s not about me. It’s about Maisie.”
Vivian gazes at her steadily, her hazel eyes clear and unblinking.
“I went online. I just wanted to see if I could find anything, and it was surprisingly easy; I found records from Ellis Island—”
“The Agnes Pauline?”
“Yeah, exactly. I found your parents’ names on the roster—and from there I got the death notices of your father and brothers. But not hers, not Maisie’s. And then I had the idea to try to find the Schatzmans. Well, there happened to be a family reunion blog . . . and . . . anyway, it said that they adopted a baby, Margaret, in 1929.”
Vivian is perfectly still. “Margaret.”
Molly nods.
“Maisie.”
“It has to be, right?”
“But—he told me she didn’t make it.”
“I know.”
Vivian seems to gather herself up, to grow taller in her chair. “He lied to me.” For a moment she looks off in the middle distance, somewhere above the bookcase. Then she says, “And they adopted her?”
“Apparently so. I don’t know anything else about them, though I’m sure there are ways to find out. But she lived a long time. In upstate New York. She only died six months ago. There’s a photo . . . She seemed really happy—children and grandchildren and all that.” God, I’m an idiot, Molly thinks. Why did I say that?