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  “Crap.” Tears welled in her friend’s eyes.

  “I know.”

  “What does this mean?” Lisa’s eyes looked like a baby doll’s when she cried, round and glassy blue.

  “Plan B, I guess.”

  “What is that?” Lisa asked.

  Maggie picked up the guitar and plucked a few notes. “I got a call tonight. From home. My dad’s dying.” She needn’t provide any further information. Lisa knew what that meant.

  “Oh, God.”

  “I have to go see him. It might be my last chance,” Maggie said.

  “You have to try, at least.” Lisa wiped under her eyes with the corner of the blanket.

  “I just want him to tell me where the baby’s body is.” Maggie’s voice quivered. She strummed a chord on the guitar to gather herself. “Jackson’s dad left no stone unturned twenty years ago. Whatever my father did with her, we’ll never know unless he tells me.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Lisa asked.

  “You know you can’t.” Money, for one. Money, for two.

  Lisa drew her knees up to her chest. “Why do I feel like you won’t come back?”

  “Because I probably shouldn’t. I don’t know who I am without dance. But I need to find out.” Right then she craved the shelter of sycamore trees and the scent of the Pacific.

  Home. She had to go home.

  Lisa looked toward the window, picking at the skin around her thumb like she did when she was troubled. “I got a call this morning from my mom. My twin brother and his wife are having another baby. A girl this time.”

  Maggie waited for her to continue.

  “It got me thinking about all the stuff I’ve missed since I left home and moved to New York. All the birthdays and Christmases—I missed the birth of my twin’s little baby once already and I’m not sure I want to miss the next one. I want to be Aunt Lisa.” She smiled. “Cool Aunt Lisa who speaks French. Not loser Aunt Lisa who can’t afford the plane fare to come home for Thanksgiving. Not delusional Aunt Lisa who lies to herself and everyone else about how great things are going here.”

  “Everyone but me. I know,” Maggie said. “And I love you no matter what.”

  “I know you do. I saw some of your songs on the table this morning. They’re good.”

  Maggie flushed, embarrassed. “Maybe.”

  “I know they’re good. You should do something with them. Your voice is special. You know that, right?”

  “You know you’re a great actress?” Maggie asked.

  “I am, yes.”

  “You are.” She was. As good as anyone out there. Not to mention, Lisa was a classic beauty, like a movie star from the forties with an hourglass figure and eyes the colors of sapphires.

  Maggie was not a classic beauty. Not with her flat chest and white skin and freckles that covered every inch of her body.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Lisa said. “Every single day a new busload of girls as talented as we are show up. They’re fresh and young and their hearts haven’t been broken a thousand times already.”

  “What’re you saying?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m saying I want to go home. I want to live in a home with a real kitchen. I want to know people who are doing interesting things outside of the theatre. I want to find a nice man who doesn’t pretend his name is an adult beverage.”

  Maggie laughed through her tears. “But what will we do?” She gestured toward the window. “We don’t know how to do anything but be chorus girls.”

  “And bartenders.”

  “And waitresses,” Maggie said.

  “I always told myself I’d give it ten years and if things hadn’t worked out by then, I’d think about Plan B.” Lisa wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “It’s been almost twelve years since the first day we met in Professor Yang’s drama class. We’ve given it a good try, but it’s time to find another path, another way to live.”

  “I’m scared,” Maggie said.

  “Me too. But we’re going to have to trust that we’ll figure it out along the way,” Lisa said. “You go home to California. Pepper and I will pack up or sell anything you don’t take with you.”

  “Really? You’d do that for me?”

  “Maggie, we’ve been friends for what feels like a lifetime. Anyway, we’re paid up until the end of the month. That’ll give me time to sort through stuff. It’s not like we have any furniture worth taking with us.”

  “What about this chair?” Maggie asked. “The color’s so optimistic.”

  Lisa chuckled. “That chair is like us—looks good on the outside, but a wreck underneath.”

  “That’s a good song lyric.”

  “It’s time to go home and get our insides fixed up,” Lisa said.

  Home. She would go home to Cliffside Bay and settle her scores. Not to live, obviously. Not after what had happened with Jackson, not after the betrayal of everyone she once loved. But somewhere in California might work. Or maybe Oregon. Washington State? A place with pines and sycamore trees. A town where the briny scent of the Pacific would soothe her disappointment.

  “Once I get settled wherever, you have to come see me,” Maggie said.

  “Absolutely. And you can come to Iowa.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Iowa.”

  “Liar.”

  Chapter Two

  Jackson

  * * *

  THE SUN HAD not yet peeped up over the eastern mountains when Doctor Jackson Waller parked in front of Cliffside Bay’s only market. A woman in the park across the street caught his attention. His stomach lurched. Maggie stood under the birch tree. Dressed in running pants and a sweatshirt, she bent at the waist and touched the dewy grass with the tips of her fingers. Long red hair covered her face.

  “Maggie.” He whispered and leapt from his truck. Maggie. His Bird. It was her. It had to be her. His feet pounded the concrete, loud in the quiet of the morning. He reached the mailbox at the edge of the grass and stopped. His breath lurched. He leaned with both hands on the cold metal of the mailbox. Not Maggie. Not even close. This woman had legs sturdy like old-growth forest, not lean dancer legs.

  He expelled air from his tight chest and a strangled sob drowned out the song of a sparrow in the birch tree. The woman looked up at him and staggered backward. He’d frightened her—staring at her like he’d seen a ghost.

  He’d frightened himself. This was not Maggie. No freckles scattered across a narrow nose or a birthmark on her neck in the shape of Italy. This woman had blue eyes, not the green of a mountain lake.

  My God, he was slipping into insanity. Having visions. Seeing ghosts. More specifically, he was seeing Maggie. Everywhere. Not like before, when it happened maybe once a year. Since he’d moved home to Cliffside Bay six months ago, his visions had grown to daily occurrences.

  Two days ago, he’d been sure it was Maggie holding a dress to her torso outside the women’s boutique. Yesterday, he’d seen her in the bookstore with her head bent over a journal. All it took was one close look at the women’s faces to realize it was only red hair they had in common with Maggie. And yet, in that first split second, he’d believed it was her.

  His brain knew the truth. Maggie Keene, love of his life, had died in a car accident on her way to college in New York City twelve years ago.

  But his heart had eyes too. They were made of hope and denial. They saw what was not there.

  Damp with sweat, he apologized to the woman and slinked across the street to the flowers.

  As the sun rose in the eastern sky and shot beams of golden light over the rolling hills, he stood between buckets of flowers outside the food market. To the west, fog hovered over the Pacific, eliminating the view of the beach and water. It would be hours before the mist conceded to the warmth of this late-June day and dissipated. Around noon, as if the dampness had never existed, the sky would transform into a deep blue and the long strand of beach would fill with umbrellas and children and dogs and picnics.
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  But at daybreak, the drowsy town dozed. It seemed to Jackson that the world at this hour was conversely dejected and hopeful.

  Other than wetsuit-clad surfers who rode waves down at the long stretch of beach, the bustling movements of the grocery store staff was the only pocket of activity. Shades covered the windows of the rest of the storefronts along Main Street, including the bookstore, Violet’s shop of refurbished items, Zane’s bar and grill, a surf shop, Miss Rita’s dance studio, as well as Jackson’s medical office. Doctor Jon Waller and Doctor Jackson Waller. Father and son. Like Jackson had planned all his life.

  Many early mornings since his return to town, he met Zane for a surf. They would head down to the beach with their boards like they had when they were young and ride the waves as if they still were. Today he would not surf. He had other business. Flowers and the cemetery. Today Maggie would have turned thirty. And, today, like every birthday since her death, Jackson would lay ranunculus on her grave.

  Clayton, the floral manager, despite being in his late seventies, had arrived before dawn with the daily allotment of locally grown flowers. Now, he stood to the side as Jackson chose a pale pink ranunculus from the bucket. The intricacies of the ranunculus were surely some of God’s finest work. Their petals were like layers of the finest crepe paper and reminded Jackson of ballerinas’ tutus. They were perfect for Maggie.

  He examined another before adding it to the bunch cradled in his arms. Only the best would do.

  Just inside the door, Martha wriggled her plump fingers at Jackson as she prepared her organic coffee stand for the wave of locals and tourists who would soon invade. If sympathy could be expressed through the wriggle of fingertips, Martha was your girl. The produce manager, Fred, an old friend of Jackson’s father, paused between apple stacking to tip his hat. Also in sympathy.

  They knew why he was buying flowers at the crack of dawn. They even knew why it had to be ranunculus. Clayton had likely picked them that morning for just this purpose.

  Ranunculus, once grown in his mother’s garden, were Maggie’s favorite. Everyone in town knew this. Everyone in town had grieved with him when they’d lost her. They didn’t pretend she’d never existed like so many did when presented with death. Not here. Here they still talked about her. How talented she’d been. How beautiful. How sad it was that she was plucked from the world so young.

  Clayton’s 1970s beater of a pickup truck was parked in front of the store. Muddy tires told the story of its morning adventures to the flower farms.

  “How’s your truck holding up, Clayton?” Jackson asked.

  Clayton took off his hat and brushed his hands through wild white hair before answering. “Heck, she’s as good as she ever was. The old girl and I do our runs out to the flower farms every morning like we always have.”

  “Ever thought of treating yourself to a new truck?” Jackson already knew the answer, but it was fun to ask Clayton just to hear his rote response, followed by the lecture of the demise of practicality, thanks to the younger generation.

  “No need to replace something that isn’t broke, Doctor Waller. Your generation needs to learn that.”

  “We sure do, sir.” Jackson smiled as he handed Clayton the bunch of chosen flowers. “Every time someone calls me Doctor Waller, I want to look behind me to see if my dad’s there.”

  “Well, that’s you now, son. We’re real proud of you too. Speaking of your dad, I saw him golfing yesterday afternoon with Janet Mullen. I gather they’re an item?”

  “You’re correct, sir.”

  “Never too late for an old dog, I guess. Not that I’d know. Harriet and me been together since we were eighteen years old. We figure we’re the lucky ones, loving so young and for so long.” Clayton wrapped the flowers in brown paper. With his shaky and weathered hands, he tied a pink bow around the cone-shaped container. Pink for Maggie.

  Jackson grabbed money from his wallet, but Clayton pushed his hand away. “Not today, Doctor Waller.”

  Jackson knew better than to argue. “Thanks, Clayton.”

  “You tell Maggie I said hello.”

  “Will do.” He bit his bottom lip as he jogged to his truck. Once inside, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel and gulped air. He would not cry. Not today. Please, not today.

  The first time he’d thought he’d seen her was just a year after she died. On a busy street in Los Angeles, he’d spotted her waiting for a bus. He’d called out her name. When she didn’t respond, he’d touched her shoulder. The stranger had turned and glared at him, afraid of his unwanted touch. Like today, he’d backed away, apologizing. It was not Maggie, but a cruel imposter.

  For God’s sake, she’d been dead for twelve years. Twelve years!

  He was a doctor, a healer. Yet, he was sicker than any of his patients. Many people who’d lost a spouse or lover, especially when they were young, couldn’t even recall their face. Not him.

  What had Clayton said about his wife?

  Lucky ones to have loved so young and for so long.

  I thought that was you and me, Bird.

  Ten minutes later, Jackson knelt on the damp grass and brushed the dust from Maggie’s tombstone with his free hand before placing the flowers in the vase he kept there. It was empty of the ranunculus he’d brought several weeks ago, on the twelfth anniversary of Maggie’s death. Zane must have been out to tidy up between then and now. They never spoke of it, but he knew Zane visited Maggie often too.

  With his index finger, Jackson traced her name.

  Maggie Laura Keene

  June 27, 1987 – August 7, 2005

  Our Songbird.

  Jackson had nicknamed her Songbird when they were little. Over time, it morphed to just Bird, which he interchanged equally with Maggie. When they were teenagers, she used to tease him that he only called her Bird when he wanted to kiss her.

  Fog hovered between pine, eucalyptus, and sycamore trees. A sparrow hopped between tree branches, singing. She would have loved a morning like this.

  He arranged the bouquet so that each marvelous flower was shown to its best advantage, like ballerinas on a stage.

  Sometimes he spoke out loud to her. Not today. Today his heart was so big and sore that it took up every ounce of energy just to breathe.

  Thirty years old. What would she be like now? Would she have forgiven him for sending her away? Would she have ever gotten past the cruel and selfish way he’d ended things between them?

  Would you, Bird?

  Her answer seemed to drift up from the sea and rustle through the pines.

  I would have, Jackson. It was a silly fight. We would have been back together by Christmas.

  If only he hadn’t made an ultimatum that night, she would be alive and by his side.

  Either stay in California with me or we’re done.

  The last words he’d ever said to the girl he’d loved all his life had been cruel. He’d never had the chance to say he was sorry and beg for her forgiveness. He lived with that every single day.

  She’d chosen her dream over him. Who could blame her? She’d seen him for who he was.

  I never thought you could be this selfish.

  Her father, Roger Keene, had been the one to tell them she was dead. His name was in the databases as “next of kin” instead of Jackson’s parents, who had raised her from the time she was ten years old. That bitter irony was lost on no one. The bastard had pounded on the Wallers’ door two mornings after Maggie drove out of town. She’s been killed in a car accident, he told them. Somewhere in Kansas she’d lost control of the car. The police had suspected she’d fallen asleep.

  Roger Keene had been the one to go to Kansas and collect her ashes. He’d been the one to arrange for her urn to be buried in the family plot next to her mother. There was nothing Jackson or his father could do. They were only her family by love, not blood. Jackson balled his fists, remembering how Roger Keene had played the grieving father at Maggie’s memorial. As if he’d had anything to do with r
aising her. As if he’d ever loved anyone but his narcissistic, brutal self. In further irony, the bastard was still alive. Sick and dying, but alive. May he rot in hell.

  Jackson tugged at a tuft of overgrown grass at the edge of the tombstone and tore it into bits. The lazy groundskeeper should use clippers. This plot should be kept tidy and beautiful.

  His gaze moved to Maggie’s mother’s tombstone. At least her father had put Maggie next to her mother. Mae needs a flower too. He placed one from the bouquet over her grave.

  Oh, Bird. I still miss you so much. I’m afraid I’m insane.

  He hadn’t even confessed to his therapist that his Maggie sightings had become a daily occurrence. How much longer could he keep Sharon waiting for a proposal? How much longer until Maggie no longer filled his restless dreams at night?

  The sparrow hopped from the tree and landed on the top of the tombstone. She chirped at him. Did she sing move on, move on, move on?

  Happy birthday, sweet Bird. I love you. Say hi to my mom.

  Jackson had a good poker hand. In fact, it was a great hand. A full house. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been up during a Dog’s poker game. Not that they played often now that they were adults. They’d come a long way from the geeky underclassmen at USC assigned to the same dorm room who’d named themselves the Dogs after the famous painting of dogs playing poker. With time had come responsibilities. What had been a weekly game during their college days had become more like a once-a-month game at best.

  He looked around the table to gauge the others’ hands. Not much to see. Almost twelve years they’d played poker together and he still couldn’t read his friends’ faces.

  Brody never allowed his expression to show anything but a competitive intensity, perfected during his time on the football field as the quarterback for San Francisco’s professional football team. He loved to win and would do almost anything to do so, on or off the field. His fiancée, Kara, called it his game face: glittering eyes, mouth set in a straight line with his square jaw clenched. The rest of the Dogs called it “resting douche face.” God forbid any of them would ever give one of the others a compliment without some form of mockery.