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  "Can . . . I . . . Can I walk you home? Or . . ."

  I shake my head hard. No!

  "Oh, okay . . ." She looks around likes she's not sure what to do. Her forehead creases and her eyes squint when she looks back at me. "Will you be okay?"

  I nod.

  "Will I see you again?"

  Oh, I hope so. Oh, please let me see her again. I nod and point to the tree.

  "We can meet here?"

  I nod. Yes, please come back here.

  "Okay."

  I turn and start walking away. But then I stop and look back at Sierra and Van . . . and I can't help it. I turn around and run back to them. I bend down and put my arms around Van's neck and give him a tight hug. I stand straight and look at Sierra. I take a step toward her, then stop. Should I . . . ? Then, I just do it.

  I just wrap my arms around her waist and hug her tight. Even tighter than I hugged Van.

  Then I turn and run. I run until I know she can't see me anymore.

  By the time I get back to the cabin, it's late. As I walked the rest of the way back, all I could think about was her. But when I crossed the stream and got closer to the cabin, my stomach cramped and I wondered if he was there. But by the time I could see the cabin, I saw his truck was still gone and I relaxed.

  Sierra told me when she left that she'd come again, but not tomorrow because she has to work. I hope she doesn't change her mind or forget.

  I sit on my mattress and think about all the things she told me. She said she named her dog after a famous painter, Van Go, I think. Kind of a funny name. She told me about her favorite painting—it's called Starry Night Over the Rind. She said she loves the way the lights reflect on the river. It sounds nice. Anyway, she just calls her dog Van for short.

  I wish I could talk to her.

  I could write to her! I scramble off my mattress and run to his room. I go to the table by his bed and look through the things piled there—some magazines, papers, a book of matches, a candy bar wrapper, a few pennies. Where's the pen? I look on the floor, but nothing. Finally I see it on the floor behind the table. It must have rolled off after I used it earlier. As far as I know, it's the only pen in the cabin. I grab it and go to the kitchen and tear another piece off the bag—a piece a little smaller than a piece of binder paper. Then I refold the bag and put it back.

  I stand at the counter for a long time thinking of what to say: Dear Sierra . . . But then I remember that it's not polite to call adults by their first name.

  In my best handwriting, I begin my note:

  Dear Miss Sierra . . .

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sierra

  Stop . . ."

  Getting the word from my mind to my mouth takes Herculean effort. I swat aimlessly at whatever's tickling my face. "Stop. I mean it." Still, something tickles just to the left of my nose. There's something else too—something warm and damp—like someone breathing in my face. "Stop it! Go away!" I finally open one leaden eyelid and—

  "Van! Off! What are you doing?!" I shove him from the bed to the floor and then crash back against my pillow.

  Then I remember. Ugh. I roll to the side of the bed and hang over the edge. Nose to muzzle with my dog, I apologize. "Sorry, guy, I'm used to sleeping alone. Come on, don't look so hurt. You're right, I invited you. Come on, come back up." I pat the bed and, with that, ninety pounds of fur leaps from the floor, over me, and settles—dare I say it?—onto his side of the bed. I scratch his neck. "You can sleep up here as long as you don't tell Ruby. Deal?" His tail wags against my leg.

  The weight and warmth of him last night chased the chill from my body and heart—a chill that set in after I left . . . what's her name? Good grief, I don't even know her name, but I can't get her off my mind. After restless hours trying to push thoughts of her aside, I finally got out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen, opened Van's crate, and told him he could sleep with me.

  In less than a week, I've completely lost my mind. I was content with my life. It worked. No surprises. I had everything under control. Now I have a dog on my bed and a child in my head—my life—whatever. How did this happen?

  I throw the covers back, swing my feet to the floor, and set myself straight: "It's time to get a grip, Sierra!"

  "Van, down. Outside." As though we have all the time in the world, Van stretches, eases himself off the bed, and saunters toward the kitchen. I let him out and set the teapot to boil. While I wait, I go to my studio and grab my calendar off my "desk"—two sawhorses and a piece of plywood.

  At 11:00 a.m. I'm scheduled to meet with the couple from Sausalito to discuss their color palette. We agreed to meet at a gallery in Half Moon Bay, a half-way point. The couple—Robert and his young wife, Lindy—wanted to meet at my "studio." Instead, I called the gallery owner, who has a few of my pieces on display, and asked if we could use his office for an hour. He was happy to oblige "his favorite artist." Right.

  I usually love the jaunt along Highway 1 to Half Moon Bay. The coastal route, if it isn't socked in with fog, is postcard perfect. But this morning I find myself dreading the time alone—time to think.

  I pick up the phone and dial Ruby.

  "Morning, Sunshine, want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today? Maybe do a little shopping? Ruby? Are you there?"

  "Sierra? It's . . . It's 5:45 a.m."

  "Oh, uh, yeah—I forgot to look at the clock. Sorry. Well anyway, do you?"

  "Do I what?"

  "Want to have lunch in Half Moon Bay today?"

  "No."

  "No? Why not?"

  "Hugo's coming."

  "Hugo? Who's Hugo?"

  "Hugo of the warped soul. Remember? He's sitting for me today. I'm working. It's a work day, you know?"

  "Oh," I sigh. "Yeah, I know. I'm working too. I'm meeting clients—I thought maybe you'd like to join me."

  "Sorry."

  "You don't sound sorry."

  "I'm asleep!"

  "Right. I'll talk to you later."

  "Sierra . . ."

  "What?"

  "Your water's boiling."

  With that, the line goes dead. And Ruby goes back to sleep, I assume. I go to the kitchen, turn off the screeching teapot, reach for a mug, fill a diffuser with loose leaves, and . . . the phone rings.

  "Hello—"

  "Let me get this straight. Spur of the moment, on a whim, you want me to go with you to Half Moon Bay and have lunch? Spontaneously, drop of the hat . . . just do lunch?"

  With the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I reach for the teapot and fill my cup. "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

  "You're not spontaneous. You don't have a spontaneous bone in your body. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong. Did you change your mind? Do you want to come?"

  "No."

  "Fine. But I am spontaneous. What about breakfast? Our breakfasts are always spontaneous."

  "That's different. It's planned spontaneity. We do it every week. We never just pick up and do lunch . . . and shopping . . . or anything different. You always have to plan it."

  "So, let's try it. C'mon."

  "No."

  For the second time in five minutes, Ruby hangs up on me.

  Heading north on Highway 1 out of Santa Cruz, much of the coastline is made up of agricultural land. Verdant rows roll toward the sea and an occasional farmer can be seen sitting atop a tractor surveying his crop. I think of my daddy and how much he'd love to farm land that dropped off into the Pacific—even on a gray and colorless day like today.

  My daddy. What would he have done if he'd found . . . What is her name? If he'd found a little girl alone in the forest? I know exactly what he'd have done. He'd have picked her up, lifted her up onto his shoulders, and scoured the area for miles around until he figured ou
t where she belonged. He certainly wouldn't have left her alone, without food, or shoes, or . . .

  Guilt slices my conscience again. I shouldn't have just let her leave.

  Before I left, I did ask if I could walk her home. Her eyes seemed to darken and she backed away from me. She shook her head so hard.

  And then it was back. The fear I'd seen that first day. Those were the eyes I'd seen staring at me from inside the tree.

  I moved toward her, careful not to startle her. "Will you be okay?"

  A slower nod—up and down.

  But honestly I knew better. She wasn't, isn't, and won't be okay. Something is terribly wrong.

  These are the thoughts I wanted to avoid today.

  "You're getting a grip, Sierra, remember?" The words ring hollow inside the Jeep. I turn on the radio and turn up the volume. Perfect.

  I arrive at the gallery with the beat of the music reverberating through my mind. "Hey, Alec. How's business?"

  Alec, donning his signature black silk tee, feigns delight, and kisses each of my cheeks. "Sierra, enchanting as always. Because of you, business is lovely. I just sold Scattered—that fall montage of yours. Buyers came in last night. Tried to talk me down, of course, but I wouldn't budge. I told them it will be worth three times that amount by spring. So I have a juicy check for you this morning."

  "Great! And Alec, I trust you'll enjoy your juicy commission?"

  "You know I will."

  Alec drapes his arm across my shoulders as we walk to the back of the gallery. "Listen, cupcake, now that you'll have all that lovely money in your bank account, don't you think it's time for a little shopping trip?" He steps back and gives me the once-over. "Really, Sierra. Is this the best you could do?"

  "Ah . . . saved by the clients," I whisper over my shoulder as I make my way back to the front of the gallery. "Robert, Lindy, nice to see you."

  As I reach to shake Robert's hand, I notice a child tagging along behind Lindy—she can't be more than five or six.

  "Sierra, good to see you again. Hope you don't mind but we brought Annie with us—the nanny's home with the flu. You know how that goes." Robert shrugs his shoulders.

  "Annie?" Annie!

  "Yes, our daughter. Haven't you met? Oh, of course not, she wasn't with us the night of the showing. Annie, come here, say hello to Sierra. Sierra's an artist."

  The child leans into Lindy and gives me a shy smile. "I'm an artist too. See . . ." Pudgy fingers fumble with a coloring book she's brought with her. She finds what she's looking for and then holds it up for me to see—a unicorn colored in every shade of the rainbow.

  I just stare.

  After an awkward moment, Lindy waves a perfectly manicured hand in front of my face. "Hello, Sierra, is there a problem?"

  "Uh . . . no. No." I bend slightly and smile. "Nice unicorn."

  The meeting is a blur. I leave with paint samples and fabric swatches and pictures of an ultracontemporary home overlooking the bay that I decline an invitation to see in person. Beyond that, I have no idea what was discussed or agreed to. Instead, I feel as though someone's knocked the wind out of me.

  Of course, I've encountered children over the years. I see them on the beach, in the grocery store. I'm aware that there are other little girls out there named Annie. But I've protected myself. They have nothing to do with me. Even as recently as last week, my heart might have skipped a beat at the introduction of Robert and Lindy's Annie, but the discomfort would have passed since my memories were safely tucked away, only to be taken out once each year.

  But now . . . Everything is different.

  Why?

  "Why?" I shout my question into the wind. "Why? What do You want from me?"

  The crashing surf and the cry of gulls overhead are the only response.

  I left the gallery determined I'd drive straight home. But my resolve—and any remaining sense of control—shattered when I saw the turnoff marked Bonny Doon. I veered to the shoulder of the road, parked, and made my way to the beach.

  Now I turn and look at the mountains behind me. There, just a few miles above the beach where I stand, is a child who . . .

  Questions swirl in the wind around me, What if it were Annie? What's the truth, Shannon? What's true?

  The truth is that she's a child who . . . needs me. Me.

  All my fears—all the pain of the last twelve years—bubble to the surface. I can't do this. Then comes another truth: I can't do this alone.

  I need You.

  At first it's just a thought, then a realization, then a plea—a cry of desperation from the depths of my soul.

  I raise my head heavenward. "I need You." I drop to my knees in the sand. For twelve years I've stood on my own, depending on my own strength. I can do it no longer. The wind carries my wailing sobs out to sea. "I need You." The words come between sobs.

  I cry for all I've lost—my daughter and my dreams.

  When I think I can cry no more, when I think my tears are spent, another question breezes through my soul: Who enclosed the sea with doors when bursting forth, it went out from the womb?

  I recognize the question—it comes from chapter 38 of Job—my daddy's favorite account of creation. "Straight from the mouth of God," he would say. Often, after dinner, when we were all lingering around the table, Daddy would pick up his Bible and read that chapter aloud.

  The question silences me.

  I lift my head and through swollen eyes I see the gray, tossing, expanse before me. So great is the power I see that I lower my head. Bowed before God, my own questions waft away like ash on the wind. My demands wither and wane. Humbled by the magnitude of His power and love, I finally do it.

  I let go.

  Then I cry again. This time the tears are for those I've caused such pain—Mother, Daddy, Ruby. And I cry for the pain my rebellion has caused God. I cry because I know that regardless of that pain, He stands with open arms ready to welcome me home.

  My sorrows float away on a river of tears.

  I've sat so long that the waves clamoring for the dunes are now lapping at my ankles. I get to my feet, bend to roll up the legs of my jeans, and wade into the surf. The water swirls around my feet as the sand shifts beneath me.

  The water beckons and I inch my way in until my pants are soaked. When the water reaches my waist, I cry out one last time.

  "Forgive me."

  I look toward the horizon and see a break in the gray canopy above. Shafts of sunlight stretch from the sky and dance on the water surrounding me. As far as I can see, the world is gray. But where I stand—there is light—and it glistens on the water all around me. At that moment I know what I want to do. I take a deep breath and plunge beneath the icy water.

  When I was thirteen, I was baptized. Mother and Daddy said it was time to make a public declaration of my belief in Jesus Christ. So I did.

  Today, twenty-one years later, I make that declaration myself because I want to, because I need to. Because it's more than time. Alone before God, I declare that I will trust Him. I accept the forgiveness that He's offered all along, and symbolically, I leave myself—the old Sierra—on the ocean floor.

  Why had I wandered so far from my parents' truth? Because I hadn't made it my own truth. Until today.

  I come to the surface a new creation—cleansed, free, and for the first time in years filled with hope. As I swim for shore, I see the mountains ahead blanketed by thickets of redwoods. Somewhere on that mountain, there is a child. A little girl who hides in a tree.

  And she needs me.

  I emerge from the water and run to my Jeep. I grab an old blanket that I keep in the back, dry my hair, and wrap the blanket around my soaked clothes. I look one last time toward the mountains. "I'm ready to follow You, Your plan. Show me the way . . ."

  I get
in the Jeep, crank the heater, and head up the road to Bonny Doon.

  I can't get there fast enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kaylee

  If I read something, I usually remember it.

  Brent, the last boyfriend, called me Elephant. My mom said I have a photographic memory. "Should be good for something, Kaylee."

  I can read a book, and if I like part of it, then I'll read that part two or three times and remember it. Forever. It's not like I memorize the whole book or anything, I just remember the parts I like. That's how I remember the words from the dictionary—well, lots of them anyway.

  My mom was right, it is good for something. Now when I'm bored, I can sort through the words in my head or remember something from a book. Sometimes I'll write down what I remember.

  This morning a paragraph from one of my favorite books is running wild in my brain. It's all I can think about. It's from a book called Mandy. The author's name is Julie Edwards. Her other name is Julie Andrews. Maria, from The Sound of Music.

  I go back to his bedroom, take the pen, go to the kitchen and tear another piece off the bag, and then grab the dictionary from under the shelf. I use the dictionary to write on. I can see the words in my mind . . .

  At times she felt a soft, cool hand on her brow, and saw a woman's face, sweet and concerned. And often an arm was about her shoulders and a cup of liquid held to her lips. Mandy was aware of tender loving care, but sometimes it threatened to become the nightmare again and she cried out in fear.

  I remember the first time I read that paragraph. It was like a little hole opened up inside of me.

  Void—noun 1. an empty space; emptiness. 2. something experienced as a loss or privation. 3. a gap or opening, as in a wall. 4. a vacancy; vacuum.

  It feels like an empty spot that someone forgot to fill.

  This morning the paragraph makes me think of Sierra—of her cool hand on my forehead or her arm around my shoulders. I remember the feel of her hand running through my hair yesterday and her breath on my neck when she whispered in my ear. Sure you don't want to tell me your name?