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Chapter 1
Twenty-one years later
They were sisters and their mother and aunt were sisters. Quinn and Allie Grayson sat on the wall by the road, waiting for Aunt Dana to arrive from the airport. She lived in France. She was an artist. She was different from every single person they knew. Every time a car drove down their dead-end street, they craned their necks and Quinn felt a funny flip in her stomach. She wondered whether Allie felt it too, but she didn't want to ask.
"It's not her," Allie said when the Tilsons, the new neighbors, drove past in their green station wagon for the third time in an hour.
"Three times. Back, forth, and back again. What do you think they're doing?"
"Buying every plant the garden center has. Their yard is a showplace."
Quinn gave her a fishy look. "Showplace" was just the kind of thing Allie would say. She had picked it up from hanging around their grandmother, who was inside the house, way too much.
A different neighbor, Mrs. McCray, rolled down the window of her blue car and smiled. Mrs. McCray had owned her house forever, had known their mother and aunt since they were younger than Quinn and Allie were now. She was old with white-blue hair, and her rocks had the best tidal pools with the most crabs and starfish.
"Is Dana here yet?" she asked, smiling.
"Not yet. Any minute now," Allie said, but Quinn just stared straight ahead.
"It's marvelous, very, very exciting. To think of her coming all the way from Europe for an art opening! Some artists work all their lives without becoming known. We are all so proud of her. She and your mother got their start painting on my rocks, you know. I still have the pictures they gave me."
"Aunt Dana's the best there is," Allie said.
"Yes, she is. But she'd better not forget where she got her start. Tell her I'll see her at the Black Hall Gallery tomorrow night. We all will!"
"Lucky us," Quinn said under her breath as Mrs. McCray drove away.
Allie didn't reply. She resettled herself on the stone wall. Looking more carefully, Quinn saw that Allie was posing. She had arranged herself to best advantage, legs tucked beneath her bottom, the spring sunlight striking her bright yellow hair.
"You want her to paint you, don't you?" Quinn asked.
"I don't care," Allie said.
"No, you do. I can tell."
Allie wheeled around. "You might have changed your clothes," she said, eyeing Quinn's torn jeans and faded sweatshirt. At the sight of her sister's hair, which Quinn had twisted into sixty-three skinny braids, all looking like a bunch of boinged-out springs,she shuddered. "You want to drive her straight away."
"I couldn't care less what she does," Quinn said. "Whether she stays or goes, who cares?"
"Oh, my God," Allie said, peering down the road. Shade from the tall oaks and pines dappled the tar, making the approaching car look dark and mysterious. It was an airport sedan, dark blue with dents, the kind Aunt Dana always took when she visited. Up the hill, a door slammed shut. Without turning around, Quinn knew their grandmother had stepped outside to see. The car door opened, and a small woman got out. She was about the same size as Quinn and Allie's mother, with silvery brown hair and bright blue eyes, wearing jeans and a windbreaker, looking more as if she'd stepped off a sailboat than out of a city car.
"She looks like Mommy," Allie said breathlessly, as if she'd forgotten, as if they hadn't just seen her a year earlier.
Quinn couldn't speak. Allie was right. Aunt Dana had always looked like their mother. She was the same size, and she had the same curious, friendly, about-to-laugh expression in her eyes. In spite of that, Quinn scowled and couldn't quite imagine what made her say the words that came out of her mouth: "She does not."
"You two have grown so much in a year, I barely recognize you," Aunt Dana said.
"How long are you staying?" Allie asked, running straight into the street and their aunt's arms.
"Just about a week," Aunt Dana said, smiling across Allie's head at Quinn. "Aquinnah Jane. Is it really you?"
Quinn's feet started to move. They jumped off the wall and took three steps toward her aunt. But suddenly they turned and ran, fast, faster, down Cresthill Road, toward the rocks in front of Mrs. McCray's house, to the hidden tidal pool where no one, especially Aunt Dana, would ever find her.
