Mama Nelle’s funeral went on and on and I thought I’d made a big mistake, agreeing to be there when I should have been working on the mural. My ankle twinged as I listened to Saundra and a few of Mama Nelle’s other children and relatives tell the tales of the old woman’s life. There were funny stories and poignant stories, but I felt little connection to the woman her family described. My relationship to Mama Nelle had been different. We’d shared secrets about Anna. The only problem was, I didn’t have a clue what those secrets were.

When the service was over and we were walking up the aisle of the church, Lisa said, “People will get together at the farm but you need to go back to work, so I’ll drop you at the gallery before I head out there.”

“All right.” There was no point in me returning to the farm for food and conversation when the person I most wanted to talk with was gone.

“You wait here,” Lisa said when we had nearly reached the front door of the church. “I’ll bring the car around so you don’t need to walk that far.” My ankle was much better and I was out of the boot, but walking a distance was still hard for me.

Lisa disappeared into the crush of people filling the vestibule and I pressed myself against the wall to keep out of the way. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Saundra at my side.

“It was very sweet of you to come,” she said.

“I wanted to,” I said. “I really liked your mom.”

“She liked you, too,” Saundra said, then added with a smile, “Even more than I knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know what to make of this, but Mama has … had … this big old chest in her bedroom. She kept all sorts of things in there.” Saundra rolled her beautiful dark eyes. “Papers and receipts and clothes and moth-eaten quilts. Anyway, the strangest thing … when I went in her room the morning she died … I found her…” Saundra seemed to choke up a little and I lightly touched her arm.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Well”—she pulled herself together—“that morning, I went into her room and the floor and dresser were littered with everything she’d had in the chest. She’d emptied it out, tossed things around the room like she’d gone a little mad. But there was one thing … it must have been at the very bottom of the chest and she was driven to find it … a diary of some sort. At least I think that’s what it is. It has a lock on it, but no key that I could see among her things. I never even knew she kept one. She was not what you would call a writer.”