Quietly, I slipped the folded paper from my back pocket inside, eyes catching on the next page—the list of years I’d written down.
1912
1946
1950
1951
I’d already begun to think that they must revolve around crossings. 1912 was when Esther left me on the other side of the door in 1912. I met Eamon in 1946, and I left in 1950.
If you could cross only three times, then the older me, the one who’d lived in this time with Eamon, had used all my chances when I left. Wherever I was, I couldn’t come back. So why had I written 1951 at the end of this list? I couldn’t return; yet, in a way, I had, hadn’t I? But as a version of myself who had passed through the door only once.
Coincidence. Luck. Happenstance. This was none of those things.
I was less convinced than ever that walking through the door that day was an accident. It also couldn’t be possible that of all places and times, I’d ended up at this exact point.
Had I written the year 1951 because I’d known, somehow, that I’d be back? I’d thought that Susanna had brought me through the door, but for the first time, I wondered if the person who’d sent me here was me.
Twenty-One
Warm light spilled through the open bedroom door as I fit two pearl earrings to my ears. My waving hair toppled over my shoulders, and it looked lighter against the jewel hued green of the simple dress I wore.
It was the nicest one in the wardrobe, and I found it a little unsettling how much I liked it. The fabric hugged my curves like paper wrapped around a bouquet of flowers. There was a gold broach pinned at one side of the waist, where the fabric gathered and draped over my hip. I smoothed my hands over it, inspecting myself in the mirror. I looked like . . . myself.
Slowly, the memories were stitching together to complete the spider’s web. I could remember little things without much effort now, snatching them from the atmosphere around me as I put on my shoes or uncovered another reseeded plant in the garden. They were trickling in, bits of memory filling my head like drops of water. Longer, weightier memories were harder, drawing away from me almost every time I tried to chase them. When I tried to remember the moment I left, the night of the murder, or even Annie’s birth, the images disintegrated faster than they could form.
I straightened the locket watch around my neck, letting it come to rest between my breasts. On the dressing table, the light glinted on the ring in the abalone dish, and I changed my mind more than once before I picked it up. The gold was scratched and cloudy in places, as if it hadn’t been taken off for some time, but I’d left it here for a reason. I knew I had.
If Caleb was trying to find a crack in my story and the rest of the town was suspicious, I couldn’t afford to show up as June Farrow at the Midsummer Faire.
Tonight, I was June Stone.
I slipped the band onto the ring finger of my left hand and stared at it, a slow rush of something I couldn’t name running hot under my skin. When I looked at it now, I remembered vows under the willow tree. It wasn’t the replay of a story I’d heard. I’d been there, the moment fusing itself to my very core.
I drew in a steadying breath before I took the shawl from the edge of the bed and went into the kitchen. The house was empty, the front door propped open, and I could see Eamon’s shape through the thin curtains that hung in the window. Annie was on the bottom step, walking its edge back and forth.
I fidgeted with the thin, gauzy fabric of the shawl in my hands before I drew up the courage to step outside, and I felt the burn in my face when Eamon looked at me.
He swallowed, eyes dropping from mine to travel down from my face to my feet. The feeling made my stomach drop.
He’d shaved, making the shape of his face sharper over the white collar of his clean shirt. His brown tweed trousers and jacket were unwrinkled; the rich brown leather of his shoes shined. Even the soot had been scrubbed from beneath his fingernails.
“Ready?” I said, voice tight.
He ran a hand anxiously beneath the line of his jaw before he pulled the keys from his pocket. “Come on, Annie,” he called over his shoulder, and she let go of the porch railing, jumping down.
Her white dress was rimmed in eyelets, a pair of black Mary Janes on her feet. Two long blond braids were tied with blue bows at each shoulder—Margaret’s doing, I guessed.
Eamon opened the passenger door first, and I helped Annie, hands finding her tiny waist as she struggled to lift herself into the truck. When she was settled in her seat, I followed, smoothing out the skirt of my dress over my legs. She did the same, mimicking the movement as she looked up at me. I caught Eamon trying not to look at us, his head turning away just when I felt the weight of his gaze.
The mountains were ablaze with the oncoming sunset as we drove, a cotton candy sky speckled with pinks and violets that made everything look like it was pulled from a sleepy dream. I’d been in this very truck one year ago, headed to the Midsummer Faire. Had I known then that everything was about to change?
“Is there anything I should know about us before we do this?” I asked.
Eamon looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I tried to think of how to say it without feeling stupid. “What was it like before? What will people expect from us?”
Eamon let his hand move to the bottom of the steering wheel. He was pensive, as if images of our life were flashing through his thoughts.
“We’re friendly with people in town, but not too friendly. Most don’t want to be too closely associated with your family, but everyone keeps up appearances for the most part. The new minister has been coming around, trying to convince me that Annie needs to be baptized.”
My head snapped in his direction. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
Eamon looked surprised by my reaction.
“I’m serious. You wouldn’t ever get her baptized, right?” The tone of my voice was almost defensive now, bordering on angry. But I couldn’t account for the anxious feeling that had gripped me when he said it.
“No, we agreed we wouldn’t,” he answered, leaning forward to study my face. Then his hand lifted, his knuckles pressing to my cheek like he was checking for a fever. “June, you look like you’re going to be sick. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I tried to breathe. “I’m fine.”
All at once, I’d felt as if I couldn’t draw breath. Now the knot in my chest was slowly unwinding. I looked at my reflection in the side mirror, realizing that Eamon was right. The color had completely drained from my face.
“What else?” I said, dropping it.
“What else do you want to know?”
“How do we . . .” I tried to think of how to ask it. “Act?”
“Act?”
“Like, do we hold hands? Do we touch?”
Eamon was struggling now, the tension radiating from him. “Yeah.”
“How?”
“What do you want me to say?” He shifted in his seat, irritated. “If you’re asking if we acted like we loved each other, then yes. We did.”
I fell quiet when Annie looked up between us, her brown eyes trying to read the dissonance that had settled in the truck. Eamon gave her a reassuring smile, taking her small hand in his and raising it to his mouth. He kissed it, giving her fingers a squeeze before he let her go.