Page 110

A photograph slips beneath the tissue when I move the box aside.

Celeste crouches outside Haven House beside three young girls planting flowers. She wears jeans and one of my navy sweatshirts, with the sleeves pushed above her wrists.

The children face the camera, but Celeste’s attention stays on the smallest girl pressing dirt around a plant. A young woman stands behind them in the shelter doorway, her auburn hair tied back from her face.

Mara reaches for the picture and studies it closely. “I’ve seen her.”

“Where?”

“I visited Haven House once after the twins were born. Celeste needed supplies delivered, and you were working.” Mara angles the photograph toward the kitchen light. “I spoke with several women that day, and I’m almost certain she was one of them.”

“Was her name Nora?”

She goes still, her expression tightening as she searches her memory. “Nora…”

“Nora Bell.”

She repeats the name quietly, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you.”

I turn the photograph over.

Spring Garden Day.

Beneath the title, written in the same careful script as the other notes, are five more words.

Never underestimate hope.

Before I can compare the handwriting, footsteps race along the hallway.

Babs reaches the kitchen first in purple pajama bottoms and one of Biddy’s yellow shirts, with Biddy following close behind, with her curls pressed flat against one cheek.

Sprout abandons the table and bounds toward them.

Biddy sees the music box in Mara’s hands. “What’s that?”

Babs climbs onto the nearest chair and peers into the open parcel. “Did someone send us another present?”

I glance at Mara, and she gives me a small nod. “The music box belonged to someone who knew Mommy.”

Both girls turn toward it.

Babs lifts the lid and Biddy pulls her chair closer, and the melody moves through the kitchen again.

“I know that song,” Biddy says as she touches one of the carved flowers.

“You remember it?” I ask.

“A little.”

Babs nods with more confidence than memory. “I remember it too.”

Mara’s mouth curves. “You were both babies.”

“I know,” Babs says, with the patience she usually reserves for adults who require help.

Biddy looks at the photograph next, and I pass it to her. She studies Celeste before showing it to her sister.

“That’s Mommy,” Babs says.