of her as grown, he never mentioned being in the picture.
Only now, a dozen years later, she longed for an anchor. One relative. One harbor. One place where she felt she might belong for a while.
The light changed. Jillian scrubbed her face with a napkin from McDonald’s, where she’d had lunch, and followed a sign advertising the town’s only historic bed-and-breakfast.
Papa’s rule: Never stay at a cheap motel. It marks you as a drifter.
A small bed-and-breakfast was cheaper if you considered the one meal a day could stretch into two if you picked up fruit on the way out, and the friendly staff usually offered a wealth of information. Innkeepers almost made Jillian feel like she had a friend in town.
She parked her car in one of the four Special Guest of Inn reserved spots.
When she climbed the steps of what looked like a miniature Tara mansion from Gone With the Wind, a tiny woman, in her late fifties, rushed out with a welcoming smile. Her chocolate-colored apron was neatly embroidered and read JOIN THE DARK SIDE. We have chocolate chips in our cookies.
“You must be Jillian James. I’m Mrs. Kelly, the innkeeper, but the locals call me Mrs. K. I’ve got your room all ready, dear. Did you have a nice drive? The internet didn’t give us a home address on you so I don’t know how long your journey was, but I hope it wasn’t too far. Don’t you just love our town?”
Papa’s rule: Never give out too much information. It’ll trip you up.
“I had a great drive and I love your beautiful home. You’ll have to tell me a bit of the history of this place.” Jillian smiled, thinking of one of her own rules. Never try to outtalk a talker.
“Of course, dear. This house is old enough to have not only a history, but a ghost, as well, though he’s quite shy.” The innkeeper handed her the key, then they climbed all the way up to Jillian’s room on the third floor. “I’ll tell you about Willie Flancher over coffee some cloudy morning. It’s the only time to talk about ghosts, you know. Folks in town talk about the house Flancher’s Folly because he built it for his fifth wife and died on their wedding night.”
Jillian didn’t care about ghost stories. All she wanted was a quiet, clean place to stay for a while. Third floor, back of the house. Usually least expensive and quietest.
Once Jillian circled the tiny room, she gave an admiring smile. This room would be perfect. Just what she needed.
The chubby innkeeper, who was very spry for her fifties, moved to the door and made her official announcement, “Breakfast at eight, if that’s all right. Soft drinks in the small fridge on the landing, and I put cookies out in the parlor after sunset for those who like a late snack.”
“Thank you.” Jillian pulled off her coat. “I think I’ll rest before I explore the town.”
“You do that, dear. There are maps in the foyer but you’re only a half block from Main, so you can park your car around back and walk if you like.” Mrs. Kelly’s head rocked back and forth as if ticking off an invisible list of what she needed to say. “I’ll see you in the morning. You’re the only one booked up here tonight. Both my other guests are on the first floor. No one wants to climb two flights of stairs these days.”
“I don’t mind.” Setting her suitcase and backpack down, Jillian grinned when she spotted the wide window. “It’s worth the climb for the view alone.”
Mrs. Kelly smiled as she backed out of the room. “I agree.”
When the lock clicked, Jillian pulled out her ledger and curled up in a window seat that had three times more pillows than it needed. On a blank page she wrote the date and “Day 1” beside it, along with the cost of the night’s lodging: “Winter rate: sixty-three dollars.”
Papa’s rule: Always keep count or you might lose track of how long you stay and forget to leave.
She had to be very careful. Thanks to car trouble a month ago and two crummy bosses in a row, she was less than a thousand dollars away from having to sleep in her car—or worse, a shelter. In her ten years on the road, she’d ended up broke twice before. Once in California when someone had stolen her purse, and again in New York City when she’d been in a wreck. None of her belongings had made it to the hospital with her. Both times she’d lost not only her money, but also her identification.
Papa’s rule: Always keep copies of vital papers somewhere safe. Birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, social security card.
In New York, without money and looking like she’d been in a street fight, it had taken her three months to collect enough cash to buy a bus ticket to Oklahoma City. There, she’d found her stash, money, ID and the letter, still unopened, that she’d left for her father just in case he ever used the secret hiding place beneath a shelf in the basement of the downtown library. Both times she’d come back to the hiding place, her stash was still there and the letter was unopened.
If he’d dropped by, he’d left no sign, and she doubted when she circled past Oklahoma City again that anything would be different. All her papers and the mailbox she rarely checked showed her as from Oklahoma. When she’d asked her father if that were true, he’d simply said, “Oklahoma City is the center of the country and as good a place as any to be from.”
Jillian took a shower and changed into dress pants and a sweater. She was close enough to her stash now to relax. If she had to, she could make the drive northwest for more cash in a matter of hours, but somehow that would mean she’d failed.
She wasn’t running to or from anything. She wasn’t hiding out. She just wanted to continue drifting. It was all she knew. Maybe in a few more years, she’d come up with another plan. Maybe she’d drift forever. To do that, she had to get better—smarter—at managing.
As she always did, she unpacked her few belongings. Clothes on hangers in the closet. Underwear in the top drawer. Shoes and backpack in the bottom drawer. Her father’s tiny journals on the nightstand beside the bed. Everything in order.
Her billfold and her laptop slid into her shoulder bag. The laptop went everywhere with her. The backup drive always remained with her clothes tucked away in the back of a shelf or tucked into a pocket. Against her father’s advice, she kept details of everywhere she stopped, be it for one night or a few months. He might have jotted only zip codes and number of days stayed, but she liked to log in the history of each place, how it looked, how it might feel to live there.
Walking out of her room, she studied the polished old mahogany of the staircase. The faded wallpaper peeling free in places, reminding her of fragile lace. The house was beautiful and well cared for, like an aging queen, still standing on a street with abandoned and broken-down homes huddled near, as if hoping the memory of great days gone by might still live in reality’s shadow.
Slipping past the foyer, Jillian rushed down the front steps like an explorer hungry to begin digging. This town’s zip code, like dozens of others, had been listed in her father’s first journals. Maybe in his early years, he’d left a trace.
She told herself she’d feel it if he’d been here. If this was the place where he’d stopped wandering just long enough to care for someone.
But she felt only the cool winter wind whipping between buildings, whirling her around as if pushing her off any direct course.
A few blocks later, she was strolling down Main, her still-damp hair swinging in a ponytail. She blended in with the crowds, window-shopping, as if she had no direction. The smell of cinnamon and ginger drifted in the winter air, blending around pieces of conversations and laughter like icing melts into warm cake.
Jillian swore she could feel her heart slow. The very air in Laurel Springs seemed to welcome her.
Halfway down the block she found what she was looking for. A small help-wanted sign in the corner of a window.
Above hung a faded sign that read LAUREL SPRINGS DAILY.
She let out