Catching the Wind(77)

“She buckled me onto a ride at Disney World and then walked away.”

His mouth gaped open as if a bomb had dropped on his head. A hundred questions, she suspected, were clamoring in his lawyerly mind, trying to connect logic and motive. “She left you for good?”

She nodded. “It was the last time I ever saw her.”

“That’s . . . ,” he started. “Well, there’s no words for it, Quenby.”

She tried to smile. “I didn’t think you’d ever be at a loss for words.”

“There’s nothing funny about abandoning a child.”

“I suppose not.” She dipped her spoon into the yogurt again.

“No wonder you don’t want to visit Disney World. I’m sorry—”

She intercepted his apology. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“What if something happened to your mother?”

“Unfortunately, she had a history of leaving. I don’t think the police ever suspected foul play.”

Leaning back, Quenby closed her eyes, remembering it so clearly again. In the minutes after climbing off Dumbo, she’d thought surely her mother must have gone to get them ice cream or a pretzel. That if she’d wait, her mother would appear soon, frazzled and apologetic, wanting to surprise her with the treat.

Then she had thought her mother had gotten lost or injured or taken against her will, but adults didn’t get kidnapped in Fantasyland. And if she’d gotten lost or hurt, Jocelyn would have called Grammy, at least once in the last ten years of Grammy’s life.

When she was younger, Quenby had often wondered if Jocelyn had been angry with her. If somehow it had all been her fault. But it was completely irrational. No child should be abandoned, for any reason—her counselor had reiterated—even if the parent was mad.

She turned toward the window, the strands of sunlight fading as the clock slipped backward. What would her counselor think of her now, all these years later and still afraid to find out what happened to her mother?

She curled her fingers around the edge of the envelope. Baby steps.

Samantha stepped back into their space, carrying two drinks. “A latte for each of you.”

They both thanked her as she set their drinks beside the parfaits. “Would you like anything else to eat?” she asked. “The galley is full.”

They shook their heads.

After she left, Lucas picked up the remote and turned the TV screen back on. “Would you like to watch a movie?”

Quenby stared at the menu of options, her mind wandering again. She shouldn’t have confided in him. He had the perfect family, and he must wonder—what was wrong with her that made Jocelyn want to leave?

“Quenby?”

His voice jolted her back to reality. “Yes?”

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Please.” Perhaps a movie would take her mind off the file that was now on the table beside her.

He scrolled through the options. “You pick.”

The movie featured at the top of the screen was an older one about Queen Victoria, filmed thirty years ago. The actress who played Queen Victoria was dressed in a beaded ivory gown with orange blossoms in her hair.

Quenby pointed at the image. “I interviewed her earlier this year.”

“Queen Victoria?”

“Very funny,” she said. “Hannah Dayne.”

“I thought she stopped giving interviews years ago.”

“I talked with her via phone. She asked me to write about refugee children.”

“Brilliant of her.”

“It was,” Quenby replied. “She’s been quietly assisting refugees in Yorkshire, but if readers found out about her involvement, they might be more interested in her reappearance than the plight of the people she wants to help.”

“You want to watch her movie then?”

“I think we need something more whimsical.” She pointed at another icon. “Like Pride and Prejudice.”

He groaned, but without much conviction.

She smiled. “You’re a closet fan, aren’t you?”

“I admit to nothing.”

“Right. Superpowers.”

He started the movie, but before the Bennet sisters began dancing at the ball, his mobile rang. It was Mr. Knight.

“He wants to speak with you again,” Lucas said before turning on the speaker.

“Hello, Mr. Knight.”

“Do you have your computer?”

Quenby flipped her iPad screen up from the keyboard. “It’s right here.”

“Look at the panoramic picture of the house again,” he instructed.

She pulled the picture up on her iPad, and she and Lucas studied the tangled web of branches, leaves, and vines surrounding it.

“That tree,” Mr. Knight said, almost breathless. “The one to the right of the Mill House.”

She enlarged the photo and examined the dying yellow leaves, the emerging green to replace them. And she realized it was like no other tree in the forest around it. Where the sunlight hit the branches, the waxy new leaves glowed.

“Magnolia,” Mr. Knight said.

The words in Brigitte’s letters flooded back to her. The tree in her father’s yard. The tale of Cinderella.

Eyes wide, Quenby glanced at Lucas. “It’s a wishing tree.”