Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Acknowledgments
- P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Also by Alison Gaylin
- About the Publisher
Nicola took another bite of her toast, the cream cheese thick, the jam drizzled on. She chewed politely and swallowed, dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Nicola Crane had the look of a frontierswoman but the manners of a debutante. “This was Renee’s favorite dish, you know, when we were kids.”
“Really?”
“We used to eat it all the time together—cinnamon raisin toast, cream cheese, strawberry jam. She used to make it for me, which is probably why I’m finding it so comforting now.”
“So you’re not blood relatives,” he said. “You and Renee.”
“We were in the same foster home back in the mid-’70s. Little town in Arizona called Brittlebush.”
Quentin drank his coffee. “How old were you both?”
“She was older than me—maybe seventeen? There were a lot of kids in that house, but she was . . .” Quentin watched her face, the way her eyes clouded, then stopped, shifting back to the present. She took her napkin and again dabbed her mouth.
Nicola said, “You know what oscars are?”
“Academy Awards?”
She laughed a little. “No, no. Fish. Big ugly, mean-looking things.”
“Oh. Yeah, I think so.”
“Our foster dad kept two of them, in a tank in the kitchen. Funny. I can’t remember what he looked like—the foster dad. But those awful fish . . . I still have nightmares about them.”
Quentin took another bite of pancake. “Oscars.”
“They eat living things,” Nicola said. “I guess all fish do, but these . . . the foster dad fed them live goldfish. Renee and I were in the kitchen—I think we were the only ones who saw. I was young and very sensitive. I’d lost both of my parents and I was still . . . hurting.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Anyway,” she said. “I saw one of the oscars eat the first little goldfish and I started to cry. The foster dad told me to toughen up. ‘It’s the food chain,’ he said. ‘It’s life.’ But Renee wasn’t having any of it. These poor goldfish were darting around that tank and the two giant oscars were scooping them up into their jaws and she told the foster dad—his name was Bill, that’s it . . . Bill Grumley. God, I haven’t thought of that name in forever . . .” She took another bite of her toast, chewed, and swallowed.
Quentin said, “What did Renee tell him?”
“‘You’re heartless.’”
“Huh?”