“I think I should kiss you,” I said. Cate laughed, then stopped, looking at me more closely. Something broke open behind her expression. She leaned forward, but I held up a hand, stopping her. “I want to be the one to kiss you. Otherwise, I’ll never—I won’t know how to—”
“So stop overexplaining and just kiss me, Josephine.” The slightest flush had risen into her cheeks and her neck. She waited, waited. I leaned in. I kissed Cate.
She was soft, salty, sweet, and slick. I remembered the night she brought me back to life, the way her hands on me had awoken that aching pleasure, stinging everywhere. That same sensation came over me now, concentrated wherever she touched. I gasped against her mouth.
We pulled back what felt like only seconds later, or maybe hours later. Too much and not enough at once. Cate was short of breath, her eyes heavy-lidded, but she managed to smile. “Well?” she asked. “Do I get to kiss you now?”
When I murmured, Yes, Cate slid my dress off my shoulders, tugging the straps loose. Laughing, selfconscious, sparkling all over, I helped her, pulling it free, my hair tousled. I crossed my arms over my chest instinctively, then lowered my arms, letting myself get used to being naked in front of her the way I’d adjust to sudden immersion in cold, clear water. I was pleased and shy to see that Cate couldn’t look away from me. She must’ve caught glimpses of me—camped in little motel rooms, sharing bathrooms. But this was different. This was for her.
Cate reached for me again, and I understood what would happen. My desire was interrupted by a clench of anxiety. “I still don’t really know what to do,” I said.
She laughed under her breath. “You’ll figure it out. Look at the things you’ve learned how to do, these past few weeks.” Her voice changed, huskier. “I’ve been waiting to do this since I first met you, you know that?” And I smiled, and Cate kissed me.
This kiss. This was not like with any boyfriend I’d ever had. It was the difference between not knowing I had my abilities and feeling them grow inside me, shifting and stretching everything about me, my whole understanding of the world and myself, of bodies and pleasure, sliding apart and then coming back together. With Cate, I was real.
44
A ringing, sharp and insistent. I woke up with my arm thrown over Cate, her body warm and damp against me. I looked around the motel room, at our clothes scattered across the end of the bed and the floor. It was edging toward midday, the light both brighter and heavier. No Isabelle.
The ringing was loud enough to reverberate at the back of my skull. It wouldn’t stop. I reached over, scrabbling for the receiver. Cate wrinkled her nose, murmured something. Then her face fell slackly peaceful again.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Josie?” A laugh on the other end, soft, disbelieving. “God. I didn’t think this would work. I’d been calling every motel in Freshwater. I can’t—is it really you?”
“Junior.” I looked over at Cate, pulling the blanket up over my breasts as if he could somehow see me. “What are you doing, calling here?”
“I’m just so relieved I found you. And that you’re fine.” A pause. “I mean, are you fine?”
“I’m going to hang up—”
“No,” he said quickly. “I did something for you. For all of you. Consider it my way of making things up to you. I know it’s probably not enough. We ended on such an ugly note, but I really do want you to find your mother. I always did. Maybe this can—can fix some of the things between us. Please,” he added, sensing my hesitancy. “Listen to me.”
Part of me missed him too. That part nearly convinced me to hang up.
“You need to know this,” Junior said. “After I left you, I grabbed a flight back home. I need somebody else to hear this because I can’t believe it myself. I kept thinking about that medical examiner Barbara mentioned, Henley, the one who lied about Lily-Anne’s death. It made me wonder what else he was lying about. I reached out to him.”
The man who’d spirited away Lily-Anne’s body and the body of her second daughter, destroying their place in our story. My chest felt tight. “You did?”
“Leland Henley’s his name. He’s retired now. He’s been living a very quiet life. If my mother hadn’t had his information, I’m not sure I would’ve gotten hold of him at all.”
Of course. That explained Thomas Abbott’s uncanny research abilities. Marianne Bellanger must’ve helped Junior find some of the more remote addresses of Homestead survivors. It explained that photograph of my mother and me, moments after my birth. I felt a flare of anger and betrayal again, at how long Junior had been walking alongside me on uneven footing.