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“August?” Dennis almost shouted. “He'll figure it out long before then!”

“I'll tell him soon,” she said. “Soon enough.”

Dennis continued to stare at her, then shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Still grumbling, he walked out of the store.

 

Christmas really sucked, as far as Calla was concerned. And she wasn't talking about her gifts, either. It would've been better if her uncle Jeb had come, but he was too smart for that.

Her mother had put on this cutesy act Christmas Day, like everything was all wonderful. It wasn't. Calla wanted out of Buffalo Valley. This was a hick town, and she dreamed of attending a real high school and having lots of friends her own age instead of only a few.

Okay, Mrs. Sinclair was a neat teacher, better than that ancient Mrs. Patten who'd died the summer before. Calla suspected the old woman had been dead two or three months before anyone noticed. She hadn't been much good as a teacher, always going on about manners and something she called “deportment.”

Calla tried to imagine a school with hallways and lockers. Tried to imagine what it would be like to hang out in a real mall with a food court and a video-game arcade. Her mother didn't care about stunting Calla's social life. All she cared about was that stupid quilt store. That and Dennis Urlacher.

Calla stabbed her pen into a notebook, puncturing the cover. She hated Dennis. If it wasn't for him, her mother might move to Fargo, or better yet, Minneapolis.

That was where Calla's father lived now. His letter had arrived a few weeks earlier and she'd been so excited, she'd nearly torn it in half in her rush to open it.

Everyone had wanted to know what he'd written, mostly her mother, but Calla hadn't let anyone else read it. Not even Jessica Mayer who was her friend, or as close to a friend as she had in this godforsaken town.

Jessica still talked constantly about Kevin Betts, even though he was attending art school in Chicago. She wrote him practically every day and was lucky to get a letter back once or twice a month. It was clear to Calla that Kevin had his eye on other girls now and was ready to move on. Jessica didn't get it. She acted like Kevin's letters had been printed on gold. She treasured each one, reading them so often it was a wonder she hadn't memorized them. Calla cherished the letter from her father the way Jessica did Kevin's.

“Calla.” There was a knock on her bedroom door.

“What?” She made herself sound as nasty as she could. She wasn't in the mood for company, especially her mother's.

The door opened and her mother walked in. “I'd like to talk to you, if I could?”

Not again, Calla groaned inwardly. She sat up on the bed and stuffed the notebook beneath her pillow. “What do you want
now?
” she asked.

“To talk.”

“About what?”

Her mother pulled out Calla's desk chair and sat down. “You seem so unhappy lately.”

“Well, duh.”

Her mother didn't immediately respond. “Could you be more specific?”

“Sure. I hate it here. I want to move to Minneapolis.”

“But Calla—”

“I have no life, Mother. There are exactly three girls my age and two of them are stupid. All they talk about is boys.”

“What about Jessica?”

Calla sighed. “Did you know that Jessica Mayer actually believes Kevin's going to ask her to marry him when she graduates? The girl doesn't have a clue.”

“Why Minneapolis?”

“Figure it out,” she snapped. Talk about people not having a clue! Calla had credited her mother with more intelligence than that.

“Because of your father?”

Calla glared at her as if the answer should be obvious. “I hardly know my father, thanks to you.”

“Me?” Her mother's eyes flashed with outrage. “How can you say that?”

“You took me away from him.” His letter had been explicit on this point.

“He could have come for a visit any time!”

“Sure. Right.”

“Calla, think about it. I've never done anything to prevent Willie from seeing you.”

“He prefers to be called Will now,” she said coldly.

“Fine. Whatever.”

Calla folded her arms across her chest. Her grandfather and mother both claimed
she
had a bad attitude, but no one mentioned how nasty her mother could get. Being around her was a real downer, especially lately—well, other than Christmas Day and all that phony enthusiasm.

“I have a right to know my father,” Calla insisted.

“So you want to move?”

“Yes. Someplace where there's a mall—where I don't have to order what I want from a catalog. Someplace where I can meet other kids and hang out.”

Her mother said nothing.

“We're here because of Dennis, aren't we?”

“Calla…”

“I hate him.”

“That's so unfair!”

“You'd be willing to move if it wasn't for him,” Calla snarled.

Her mother didn't confirm or deny the truth of that.

“He must be real good in bed,” she said, unwilling to hide her disgust. No one thought she knew they were lovers, but she'd figured it out a long time ago. More than once, Calla had heard her mother slip out of the house in the dead of night and then sneak back just before morning.

Dennis had tried to talk to her, but Calla wanted nothing to do with him.

“Dennis is seeing someone else now,” her mother said quietly.

“Good.” Calla was delighted. “Can we move then?”

“No. Buffalo Valley is my home.”

“Well, it isn't mine. I'm sick of it here.”

Her mother didn't say anything for a long time, long enough that Calla suspected she was about to end this farce of a conversation.
Just leave,
she thought fiercely. They were incapable of communicating. Her mother saw her as a child and insisted she knew what was best for her. She didn't know her. Calla hated living in a small town, hated the fact she was an only child and that her parents were divorced. She wanted to be part of a real family.

“I do know what you're feeling,” her mother whispered.

Calla snickered contemptuously.

“When I was your age, I hated living in Buffalo Valley, too. I could hardly wait to get out. The day after I graduated, I packed my bags and took the bus to Minneapolis.”

Calla intended on doing the same thing. Two more years and she was out of here forever. If she lasted that long. Another two years seemed intolerable.

“I discovered some painful truths while I was away,” her mother continued.

“Oh, puleese, Mother, spare me the dramatics.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I don't really care to hear how you suffered.”

“My marriage was a disaster—”

“Whose fault was that?” Calla demanded. “Were you sleeping around on my father then, too?” She knew she'd gone too far when her mother leaped to her feet and raised her hand to Calla.

Protecting her head, Calla waited for the blow, but nothing happened. “One day you'll know the truth,” she said, and Calla could see how much of an effort Sarah had to make to keep from slapping her.

“The truth,” she spat. “I know everything already. You took me away from my father and brought me to this dying town and I hate you for it.”

Her mother dropped her arm, her face red, her eyes bright with anger. “I once told my mother I hated her, too,” she said. “Then, before she died, I begged her to forgive me. One day you'll beg me to forgive you, too.”

“I'll rot in hell first.”

Her mother walked to the door, then turned back. “I wonder if my mother felt the same disgust for me that I feel for you right now.”

“Whatever,” Calla said with a sneer.

 

Jeb's Christmas had been quiet, but that was what he preferred. He'd decided to treat it as an ordinary day.

Sarah had phoned to thank him for the picture frame he'd made, with a design of sunflowers carved into it. He'd found an old wedding photograph of their parents and set it inside, knowing how much Sarah would treasure the gift.

He hadn't talked to Calla, who was busy somewhere else when he phoned. His guess was that she felt just as grateful as he did not to be trapped in an awkward telephone conversation. He'd given her a similar frame, though smaller, holding her mother's high-school graduation picture.

His father claimed to be impressed with the buffalo Jeb had carved out of cherrywood, and Jeb had thanked him for the shirts and new jeans. Sarah had given him new towels and Calla's name was signed to a bottle of aftershave. He doubted the fifteen-year-old had been the one to pick it out.

Christmas wasn't his favorite time of year. The gifts he gave had all been handmade. He wasn't a shopper. Nor did he mail out greeting cards; it was something he'd never done and he sure wasn't going to start now.

Jeb glanced at his watch. He'd hung around the house most of the day and he wasn't fooling himself as to why. Maddy was due later that afternoon. It'd been a week since he learned she was dating Dennis, which probably explained why Jeb hadn't seen or heard from him in a while. Some friend!

Although, to be fair, Dennis had no way of knowing how he felt about Maddy. Nor could he blame Maddy. He dared not let himself think about the last time they'd talked. The memory was like a half-healed wound. Still, he wanted to see her again—even though he'd done everything he could to chase her away.

For reasons he couldn't understand, it was important to see her, to know she was happy. He told himself she had every right to a relationship with Dennis, if that was what she wanted.

Maddy should arrive within the hour. He cleared the table, where he'd sat doing woodwork most of the day, trying to imagine the course of their conversation. Should he mention Dennis? Would she? He moved the piece he was working on to a nearby shelf. It was a carving of a woman's face—a woman who looked like Maddy. It had started off as a bust of Sarah, meant as a gift for Dennis. Then, almost without being aware of it, he'd started to carve Maddy's face, instead. He carved from memory—and, he knew, from love.

A car door slammed outside, followed by the sound of a second door. She was early, and she hadn't come alone. He stood, mentally preparing himself to meet her face-to-face.

After a perfunctory knock, she came in the door, carrying a small bag of groceries. He hadn't ordered much. Actually, the few items he'd requested had been more of an excuse to see her.

“Jeb!” She stopped short, evidently surprised to find him at home.

“Hello, Maddy.” He nodded in her direction and noticed an older woman following her into the house, holding a carton with toilet paper and a box of cereal peeking out.

The other woman set all the groceries on the counter and turned toward Maddy. “Mom, this is Jeb McKenna. Jeb, my mother, Cynthia Washburn.”

“Hello, Jeb.”

“It's a pleasure, Mrs. Washburn.” He saw the smile Cynthia sent her daughter, as if he'd cracked a joke.

“Maddy tells me you raise buffalo.”

“That's right.” He looked at Maddy. “You're early.”

She seemed nervous, eager to get away.

“I decided to come here before heading out to the Clemens ranch,” she explained.

“Margaret Clemens?” Cynthia asked. “Didn't I meet her?”

“Yes…She came by the store on Christmas Eve.” Although Maddy was answering her mother, she continued to stare at Jeb. And he at her. She looked pale, he noted, as if she'd been working too many hours. Her eyes seemed bigger, her face thinner. He remembered holding her face between his hands, remembered the way those eyes had smiled up at him with love and caring. He remembered it every time he picked up his carving and held her face again.

“Don't you think?”

Jeb realized her mother had asked him a question. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Washburn. Would you mind repeating that?”

“About Margaret Clemens,” Cynthia said in the familiar chatty style of her daughter. “She's about the saddest young woman I've ever met. I want to put my arms around her and hug her.”

Jeb wasn't sure what to make of that comment.

“We'd better go,” Maddy said abruptly.

Jeb wasn't ready for that to happen. Not so fast.

“What's this?” Cynthia Washburn glanced over at the shelf, where he'd placed the carving.

“Jeb does woodwork,” Maddy answered for him. He heard the impatience in her voice, even if her mother didn't.

“This is really lovely,” Cynthia said. “Do you mind?” she asked, raising a hand to pick up the bust.