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She was still staring at the screen when the door to the shop was thrown open, and she only just managed to close her e-mail as Qui
And so she hadn’t written back, even though she wanted nothing more than to sit down with her best friend and marvel over the fact that somehow—unbelievably, ridiculously, impossibly—the random guy from California she’d been trading e-mails with for months had somehow turned out to be Graham Larkin.
Qui
“I know,” Ellie said, pouring her a glass of lemonade from the pitcher they offered customers. She swallowed hard, realizing how nervous she was to look up and meet Qui
But Qui
Ellie braced herself. “But?”
“I can’t believe you never told me,” she said, looking genuinely hurt. “All this time you’ve been keeping it a secret? I thought the deal was that we tell each other everything.”
“It is,” Ellie said, lowering her eyes. “We do. It’s just that—”
She was interrupted by the sound of the village clock as it rang out over the town, a series of deep thudding tones, and Qui
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “We’ll have to finish talking about this later.”
“Okay,” Ellie said, aware of the guilty blush that was making her cheeks hot. “I promise I can explain…”
“You better,” Qui
“What happened?”
“Nothing much,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Just that Devon Alexander kissed me.”
Ellie’s mouth fell open. “How did that happen?”
“After Graham left to find you, Devon ended up having di
“Kind of not so bad?” Ellie said, and Qui
“Okay, fine,” she said. “It was kind of good. Can you believe it?”
Ellie laughed. “No, actually.”
“So what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you kiss Graham Larkin?”
She laughed. “Weren’t you ru
“Yeah,” Qui
“What do you mean?” Ellie asked with a frown.
“It’s just that he’s actually nice. And it’s obvious he really likes you. So just try not to get in your own way.”
“I don’t…” Ellie began to protest, but the door bounced shut before she could finish. She stood there for a moment in the quiet of the shop, thinking about Graham, and about Devon and Qui
This time, her fingers seemed to move on their own.
Yes, she typed, just to see what it felt like.
The door opened again, and once more, Ellie clicked away from her in-box, looking up as a family of tourists wandered in. She flashed her most welcoming smile, but they were immediately distracted by the barrels of beach toys near the door. The two boys each grabbed a foam noodle and began jousting as their mother tried to wrestle them from their hands, but it was the youngest one that Ellie was watching, a small tow-haired girl who couldn’t have been older than four.
While the mother dealt with the boys, the father took the girl’s hand and led her over to the display of postcards, kneeling beside her and pointing at the various scenes. Her face was serious as she picked out one after another, holding them by the edges, her eyes big as she studied them.
Watching the two of them, Ellie couldn’t help the thought that always came to her in these moments, petty and jealous as it was: that there was no way that little girl would remember this. Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags. And while those bags might hold a few hazy recollections—a diner with a jukebox at the table, being pushed on a swing set, the way it felt to be picked up and spun around—it didn’t seem enough to last a whole lifetime.
Still, whether this one would count for her or not, there was no doubt this girl would have more memories of her father than Ellie, who only had a handful to go back to again and again. Now, after so many years, they were fuzzy and well worn, like papers that had been folded and refolded enough times that you might mistake them for cloth.
Her father had been a first-term congressman and a rising star in the Republican Party when he met her mother, a waitress at his favorite diner, who was ready with his pancakes and coffee every morning before he even walked in the door. Over time, ordering turned to talking, which turned to flirting, which turned into something more, and before long, she was pregnant with Ellie.
The only problem was, he was already married.
Secrets never stay secret for very long. But they managed to keep this one hidden for four years. Mom refused his money, and let him visit only sparingly. During those times, she later told Ellie, Paul Whitman would hang up his expensive jacket and sit on the ratty floor of the even rattier apartment to play with his daughter for an hour or two—he and Mom barely exchanging a word—and then, when the time was up, he would rise and kiss Ellie on the forehead, try once more unsuccessfully to hand Mom a check, and then he would be gone again.
It might have continued like that for longer if he wasn’t a politician, and if his name wasn’t starting to be bandied about as a future presidential candidate. But as it was, the press had taken a keen interest in him, especially once he decided to run for the Senate. Ellie was four when the story broke. And in its wake, everything else broke too.
For three months, Mom tried to stick it out. For three months, she was hounded by the press, followed everywhere with cameras, harassed by reporters and peppered with questions. The pictures Ellie had seen online showed a younger version of her mother hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. In every one, she’s carrying Ellie on her hip, pressing her daughter’s face into her sweater to protect her from the glare of the unwavering spotlight.
There were a million reasons to leave. But even so, Mom hadn’t meant for the whole thing to turn into a secret. At first, she just wanted to get away for the summer, and so she rented a cottage in Henley, a place she remembered visiting once as a kid. But when she arrived there, she’d told Ellie, she felt a powerful rush of relief at the quietness of it all. The clouds were scudding across the sky, casting shadows on the water, and there was a man playing guitar on the village green. It all felt so far away from Washington, D.C., with its sleazy scandals and fast-talking politicians, and, mostly, from the father of her child, who had responded to each and every question from each and every journalist since the story came out with two simple words: “No comment.”