Where the Stars Still Shine(7)

The captain announces that the weather in Tampa is sunny and warm, and that we’re scheduled to land on time.

Greg breaks the silence. “Twelve years is a long time. And if you want to know the truth, I’m still pretty pissed off. There’s a big part of me that wants to treat your mom the same way she treated me, but I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to you. So here’s the thing … I want you to stay. You’re my daughter, too, and I want to know you. But if your mom gets out of jail before you turn eighteen and you want to go back, I won’t keep you from her.”

“Really?” My birthday is in May, only six months away. Half a year. Temporary. And I’ve got temporary down to an art.

His eyes tell me this is an offer he doesn’t want to make, but he nods anyway. “I promise.”





Chapter 3


Another airport, an hour drive, and we finally come to a stop in the driveway of a small yellow cottage in a town called Tarpon Springs. A porch swing propped with floral cushions sways slowly in the afternoon breeze. I wonder if I should recognize this place. Have I lived here? Was this our house before Mom took me?

“Phoebe and I bought this place a couple of years ago.” Greg answers the question before I can ask it, as he cuts the ignition of the dark-blue compact SUV that was waiting for us in the Tampa airport parking lot. “It was a complete wreck, but we gave it new life. I’m an architect, so that’s … kind of what I do.”

As we walk through the gate of a low white picket fence, the front screen door creaks open and two little boys spill out, launching themselves at their dad. He squats down to their level and lets them bowl him over with hugs. They’re laughing and rolling around on the lawn like puppies when Phoebe comes out. She reminds me of one of those perfect moms from the Tennessee park, with her rolled-up denim capris and sparkly flip-flops. She’s even prettier than her picture.

“You must be Callie.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before she reaches out to shake my hand. Hers isn’t rough the way Mom’s is; it’s smooth and she wears a braided silver ring. “I’m Phoebe. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“I, um—you, too.”

Greg untangles himself and stands, brushing bits of grass off his clothes.

“I’m Tucker,” the taller of the two boys says. He’s the one who resembles Phoebe. “Are you my sister? Because Daddy says you’re my sister. Do you want to see my finger? I have a boo-boo.”

He extends his hand, and his index finger is wrapped in a bandage with wide-mouthed cartoon monkeys all over it. I’m not used to little kids and unsure of what to say, so I go with, “Cool.” He beams at me, then peeks under the bandage to inspect his wound. It’s barely a scratch, but to Tucker it’s serious business.

Greg ruffles a hand over his son’s dark-blond head. “He’s three,” he says, as if that’s all the explanation I need.

“That’s Joe.” Tucker points to his brother. Joe’s fingers are jammed in his mouth and his brown eyes are wary. “He’s littler than me. He’s not even two.”

“Don’t take Joe personally,” Greg says. “His people motor doesn’t warm up as fast as Tucker’s, but once it does, he’s Velcro Boy.”

“Velcro Boy!” Tucker exclaims in a superhero voice, and races circles around us, arms extended as if he’s flying. Phoebe catches him up in her arms and gently scolds him—not really scolding at all—that he needs to turn down his volume.

I miss my mom.

Greg notices my distress. “So, who wants to show Callie her new room?”

“Me, me, me!” Tucker’s T-shirt rides up as he worms his way out of his mother’s grasp. “Pick me, Daddy.”

Without waiting for an answer, he catches my hand as if I’m not a complete stranger and pulls me along the side of the house to the backyard. Against the rear fence is an old-fashioned silver Airstream trailer, the kind you hitch to a car to go camping. Tucker races ahead to open the door, then doubles back to me.

“You get to sleep in here.” He says it with reverence, as if this trailer is the holy grail of sleep spaces.

Inside, it resembles a mini-apartment with a sink, stove, and refrigerator; a dining table; a built-in couch; a bathroom with a shower; and even a tiny bedroom. The bed is covered by a purple cotton spread embroidered with flowers and tiny bits of mirror, and decorated with a cluster of throw pillows. Nestled among the pillows is a patchwork owl that gives me the same déjà vu sensation I had at the sheriff’s office.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Greg says, entering the trailer. “The stove doesn’t work, and I still need to hook up the propane for hot water and heat, but we only have two bedrooms and … I guess I thought you might want a place of your own.”

I pick up the owl. Some of the patches are worn so thin you can almost see through them to the stuffing inside.

“You used to carry him everywhere,” he says. “You called him—”

“Toot.” It’s just a tiny flash of a memory, but I remember making sure he was with me every night before I went to sleep. “I thought that’s what owls said.”

I can see the bitter blurred in the sweet of Greg’s smile. All these years I’ve had very few memories, while he—he’s had nothing but.