Woman in Blue

By Eileen Goudge

Sisters separated as children are reunited as adults in this wise, funny novel by the New York Times–bestselling author of The Diary.

Lindsay and Kerrie Ann Bishop were twelve and three when they were shunted into the foster care system. Thirty years later, Kerrie Ann, a high school dropout who has bounced from family to family, flies to Santa Cruz to meet the sister she never knew she had. With no job skills and no significant other, Kerrie Ann needs the help of her long-lost sister to regain custody of her six-year-old daughter, Bella.
 
Lindsay, who grew up in a loving adoptive family, has spent decades trying to track down her sister. When Kerrie Ann suddenly appears in her bookstore—a seemingly lost, but tough-looking young woman with pink streaks in her hair—she’s stunned. With help from an eighty-year-old exotic dancer, a bad-boy baker, and a sexy bestselling novelist, Lindsay is determined to help Kerrie Ann turn her life around. But Lindsay—and the sleepy seaside town of Blue Moon Bay—will never be the same.

From the New York Times–bestselling author of Garden of Lies and other blockbusters, this is both “a touching story with wide appeal [and] a sharp example of dysfunctional family fiction” (Publishers Weekly).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jul 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504015639

Eileen Goudge

Eileen Goudge (b. 1950) is one of the nation’s most successful authors of women’s fiction. She began as a young adult writer, helping to launch the phenomenally successful Sweet Valley High series, and in 1986 she published her first adult novel, the New York Times bestseller Garden of Lies. She has since published twelve more novels, including the three-book saga of Carson Springs, and Thorns of Truth, a sequel to Gardens of Lies. She lives and works in New York City.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Reno, Nevada, 1981

The first time Kerrie Ann disappeared was only the warning shot, as it turned out. Lindsay was fixing them something to eat and looked up from scraping scrambled eggs onto their plates to ask Kerrie Ann if she wanted ketchup with hers, only to find the folding chair in which her three-year-old sister had been sitting just moments before, swinging her small feet in their dirty pink Keds back and forth, back and forth, in that annoying way of hers that caused the chair’s hollow aluminum frame to squeak like a rusty hinge, empty. The only indication that she’d been there were her stubby crayons, strewn over the tabletop next to the open Washoe County yellow pages, where she’d been coloring an ad for pet supplies—a cartoon dog begging for treats. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air: Tabitha playing games on Bewitched.

Kerrie Ann? Lindsay kept her voice low so as not to wake their mom. Crystal’s shift ended when most people were getting up to go to work. Often she didn’t get home until the sky was light, and then she would sleep straight through until the following evening. Crystal’s one ironclad rule was that she not be disturbed during those hours. Damn it, Linds. I bust my ass for a few lousy dollar bills off the craps tables, and I’m supposed to wipe your snotty little noses on top of it?

Kerrie Ann wasn’t in the living room when Lindsay checked. There was no muffled giggle from behind the sofa—an old nubby beige one that smelled of mildew and was marred by a coffee-colored stain in the shape of the African continent—where at night they slept toe-to-toe, Lindsay with her knees tucked up to give her sister more room. No singsong voice calling, See if you can find me! The only sounds were those of a car engine firing noisily in the parking lot below and the asthmatic gurgling of the window unit as it sluggishly stirred the hot, close air of room 22 in the Lucky Seven Motel without doing much to cool it.

Lindsay crept to the bedroom door and cracked it open as quietly as possible. Pale fingers of light poking through the drawn blinds traced the outline of the figure sprawled faceup atop the unmade bed. Crystal was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn to work the night before—tight white jeans and a stretchy purple top with spangles sewn across the front—her makeup smeared and her platinum hair mussed. Something winked at Lindsay in the darkness: the toe of a patent-leather high heel peeking like a shiny black nose from the hamster’s nest of discarded clothing on the floor beside the bed.

There was no sign of Kerrie Ann. If she’d gone in to use the bathroom, Crystal would have been up by now, cursing a blue streak and blaming Lindsay. Another of Crystal’s rules was that they use Miss Honi’s bathroom downstairs if they had to go rather than disturb her.

Lindsay checked theirs anyway, just to be sure. But Kerrie Ann wasn’t on the toilet or playing hide-and-seek behind the shower curtain. Lindsay was tiptoeing back across the room when her mother stirred, eyelids flickering. She froze. But Crystal only muttered something in her sleep, then flopped over onto her belly. Lindsay reached the door safely, easing it shut. Leaning against the wall, she let out a slow breath. That had been a close call. What if her mother had woken up to find Kerrie Ann missing? You didn’t want to get Crystal riled up before she’d had her coffee and first cigarette of the day. She’d never actually hit either of them, but when she was in one of her moods, things could get ugly very quickly. Lindsay was only in sixth grade, but she knew every curse word there was.

She was getting that tight feeling in her stomach again, a feeling that almost always had to do with Kerrie Ann. Before her sister had been born, when it had been just her and Crystal, she’d managed okay. By the time she was in kindergarten, in addition to being able to feed and dress herself, she could read street signs, count change, and order Chinese takeout over the phone. By third grade she was doing most of the shopping and cooking. She was also well-versed in the facts of life, thanks to her mother’s habit of bringing home strange men: Often Lindsay would wake to muffled thumping and moans in the bedroom or stumble into the bathroom in the middle of the night to find a naked man taking a whiz. She’d grown to accept it the way other children her age took it for granted that everyone had a mommy and a daddy. Some of the men had been nice. One, a bearded, heavyset man named Stan who was a fry cook at the all-night diner where Crystal sometimes caught a bite to eat after work, had shown her how to make a Western omelet. And she’d picked up a few phrases of Spanish from a blackjack dealer named Luis.

The winter Lindsay turned nine Crystal announced that she was taking some time off work. She grew fat, slept even more than usual, and was in a bad mood most of the time. The following summer she went off to the hospital. A day later she returned carrying a small, fleece-wrapped bundle. Meet your new sister, she said, depositing the bundle in Lindsay’s arms. Lindsay unfolded a corner of the blanket to reveal a small, scrunched-up face with a pair of bright blue eyes peering from its reddish folds. Eyes that fixed on her like a homing device. She and her baby sister stared at each other for a minute, taking each other’s measure. Then the infant stiffened and began to howl loudly enough to bring old Mr. Huff stumping up from downstairs to see what all the commotion was about.

Life hadn’t been the same since.

Now Lindsay had this whole other person to look after besides herself. And Kerrie Ann was a handful, no doubt about it. Her baby-fine, strawberry-blond hair was perpetually snarled, and she’d whine and cry whenever Lindsay tried to unravel the knots using her fingers or the hairbrush. When Kerrie Ann was a toddler, everything she could put into her mouth—dirt, caterpillars, old chewed gum off park benches, once even a poker chip—had gone in one end and out the other. And she’d had every childhood ailment known to humankind, from earaches to allergic rashes to head lice.

Plus she was as slippery as a goldfish. In stores she was forever wandering off, and by the time Lindsay would track her down, her pockets would be stuffed with pilfered loot that Lindsay would then have to return to the proper shelves. At the park, where Lindsay took her on nice days when it wasn’t too hot, her little sister was a blur, streaking down slides and scampering like a monkey over the jungle gym, from which she always had to be pried, wailing in protest, when it was time to go home. Once she’d chased a Mr. Softee truck, crossing a busy street to get to it. She might have been hit by a car or, if the nice lady who’d brought her back hadn’t found her, still been out there roaming the streets, a red-haired menace to society.

Only at Miss Honi’s was her sister content to stay put. Miss Honi Love, who lived in the unit directly below theirs, looked after Kerrie Ann during the hours when Lindsay was in school. But since she got paid only sporadically, Crystal being forever short on cash, and since she was a good-hearted woman who genuinely cared for the girls, it had developed over time into something far more than a job. The way Miss Honi fussed over Kerrie Ann, anyone would have thought she was her own little girl. And Kerrie Ann was just as devoted to Miss Honi. Lindsay would arrive home from school to find her little sister either playing quietly with Miss Honi’s angel collection or curled up on Miss Honi’s lap in the burgundy plush recliner in front of the TV. The two of them could sit like that for hours, Miss Honi smoking her Pall Malls and Kerrie Ann sucking her thumb, watching the dramas unfolding on Days of Our Lives and All My Children.

Sometimes Miss Honi told stories about what it had been like back in the day, when she’d been a top draw at gentlemen’s clubs like Diamond Jim’s and the Silver Dollar Lounge. She’d even shown them a photo of herself back then, all creamy limbs and Cleopatra eyes, her sculpted red-blond curls piled high atop her head, wearing spike heels and a spangled bikini bottom, a pair of tassels the only thing covering her breasts. She’d looked like a life-size party favor.

Now she was plump and middle-aged. She often joked that she’d be lucky to squeeze one of her big toes into that old costume of hers. She still liked to dress up, only now it was capri slacks and frilly, low-cut blouses that showed off her sizable bosom or sundresses with cinched waists in a variety of exotic prints. Miss Honi was inordinately proud of her dainty feet and owned several dozen pairs of shoes. Even relaxing at home, she wore marabou-trimmed satin mules, which Kerrie Ann loved tottering around in when playing dress-up.

It occurred to Lindsay that her sister might have gone to Miss Honi’s. Where else?

She let herself out the front door, easing it shut behind her. It was late, the sun dissolving like a giant lemon drop into the far-off mountaintops, streaking the horizon with brilliant bands of cherry and tangerine. A handful of stars winked in the sky’s deepening blue, and off in the distance, the casinos and clubs along the strip formed their own constellation, which cast a candy-colored glow over the streets around it. The club where Crystal worked was but a remote star in that constellation.

From where Lindsay stood, looking out over the railing of the balcony that wrapped around the top floor of the two-story motel, she could see the swimming pool below. It was fenced in, but the lock on the gate had long ago been pried open, and the manager, Mr. Boyle, hadn’t bothered to get it fixed. It wasn’t unusual when she came home from school for Lindsay to find a group of neighborhood boys gathered by the pool, drinking beer and generally being obnoxious. No one ever went for a dip, though. If there was one place in the U.S. of A. where you were likely to contract a tropical disease, Crystal was fond of griping, it was the pool at the Lucky Seven Motel.

It would also be easy for a three-year-old to fall in and drown.

Lindsay’s stomach clenched as she set off in the direction of the stairway, her bare soles slapping against concrete still warm from the sun: a girl just shy of twelve, tall for her age with long, coltish legs brown from the sun and the nubs of breasts showing under the faded Garfield T-shirt she wore with her navy shorts. She walked fast, her dark brown ponytail bouncing at the nape of her neck, the curl at the tip going from a comma to an exclamation point with each forceful step.

She was so intent on finding her little sister that she was only dimly aware of noises drifting from behind the sun-bleached coral doors lining the walkway—the muttering of TV sets, a phone ringing, a mother yelling at her kids to shut up. Kerrie Ann was a pain in the butt, but she was her pain in the butt. She and Crystal were the only family Lindsay had. Lindsay didn’t even know who her father was, much less where he lived. And her grandparents on her mother’s side, who lived in Crystal’s hometown in Ohio, apparently wanted nothing to do with either their wayward daughter or her illegitimate kids. Crystal hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone in her family since she’d disgraced them by running off at the age of seventeen, when she’d been pregnant with Lindsay.

Lindsay could have found her way to Miss Honi’s unit blindfolded. The scent alone, a potent mixture of perfume and cigarettes, would have been enough to guide her. She knocked on the door, and after a minute or so it swung open, her sister’s babysitter materializing like an oversized nymph from the cloud of smoke that wafted forth. Miss Honi had been to the beauty parlor that day, and her hair, the yellow-red of marigolds, was piled atop her head in a mass of sculpted ringlets that added several inches to her already statuesque height. She was wearing a low-cut Hawaiian-print sundress, which emphasized her ample curves, and a pair of color-coordinated lime-green sandals whose straps were decorated with rows of plastic daisies. The pendant on her necklace, sparkly pink stones in the shape of an angel, nestled in the cleft between her breasts, and a cigarette was propped decorously in the fork between two scarlet-nailed fingers. It was like encountering a neon sign in the middle of nowhere.

Lord almighty, sugar, what’s got into you? You look like you got chased here by a rabid skunk, she drawled, taking note of Lindsay’s flushed face and the sweat beaded on her brow. She peered past Lindsay into the shadows beyond the porch light. Where’s my baby girl?

Lindsay felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. I … I thought she was with you.

Miss Honi grew very still. From the TV blaring in the background came the manic cackle of a laugh track. Let me get this straight. You’re saying you don’t know where your sister is?

Lindsay swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "I only turned my back for a minute, I swear. She was right there."

Miss Honi frowned. Your mama know about this?

Lindsay shook her head, saying miserably, I was supposed to be watching her.

Miss Honi’s frown deepened, her ruby-lipped mouth pursing the way it did when she had something to say but was too polite to say it. Something to do with Crystal, no doubt. Lindsay had overheard her talking on the phone once, muttering to whoever was at the other end, Shoot me for saying so, but if motherhood was something they taught in school, she’da flunked that course.

Lindsay didn’t have to ask whom she meant.

Miss Honi’s upbeat tone didn’t mask the worry on her face. Don’t you fret none, sugar. We’ll find her. She can’t have gotten very far, an itty-bitty thing like her.

Fleas were itty-bitty, too, Lindsay thought, but just try catching one.

Together they headed to the motel’s office, where they found Mr. Boyle with his balding head bent over a racing form. No, I ain’t seen her, he informed them, muttering under his breath as he went back to circling his picks. You folks oughta keep a closer watch on your kids.

"And you, mister, oughta watch your mouth." Miss Honi leaned down and thrust her face into his, eyes narrowed to emerald slits and her bonnet of marigold curls quivering as if from a strong gust. Before the stunned manager could react, she spun on her heels and sashayed out the door.

Lindsay didn’t share her indignation. Mr. Boyle might be a mean old bastard, but he was right: She should’ve kept a closer watch on her sister. If anything were to happen to Kerrie Ann …

As if picking up on her thoughts, Miss Honi reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She’ll turn up. You’ll see. She’s got the Rocky Balboa of guardian angels looking out for her, that one. Miss Honi’s angel collection wasn’t just for show; she believed in angels the way Lindsay once had in Santa Claus, a million years ago.

And maybe there were such things, Lindsay thought. All those close calls from which her sister had escaped unscathed couldn’t be chalked up to pure luck, could they? Like the time Kerrie Ann had tripped and fallen, charging down the stairs to the parking lot, and would have tumbled all the way to the bottom if one of her sneakers hadn’t caught in the railing. And the time she’d swallowed a mothball, thinking it was candy; if Miss Honi hadn’t rushed her to the hospital, she might have died.

Lindsay struggled to keep up with Miss Honi as the tall woman clipclopped across the parking lot in her high-heeled sandals at a rapid pace, making a beeline for the pool. It was deserted inside the chain-link enclosure when they reached it, with no sign of any recent activity, but they circled it nonetheless, with a grim sense of purpose.

On the far side of the fenced enclosure was the cinder-block shed housing the laundry facility, which consisted of a pair of coin-fed washing machines and dryers that were out of service as often as not. It was deserted as well. Not that Lindsay had expected to find her sister there, or anywhere on the premises for that matter. The Lucky Seven Motel wasn’t a place where people got lucky; it was where they landed when their luck ran out. Except for the handful of year-round residents, like Crystal and Miss Honi, most guests stuck around only long enough to make the next score, turn around a losing streak, or get pawned valuables out of hock. Fights born of desperation were commonplace, and the police were frequently called in to settle disputes. It wasn’t the kind of place where it was safe to wander around after dark. Especially for a three-year-old girl who didn’t know enough to stay out of trouble.

Suppose Kerrie Ann had been kidnapped … or worse? What if at this very moment she was lying in a ditch somewhere with her throat cut? A fresh surge of panic caused Lindsay’s chest to constrict, and she had to pause for a moment to catch her breath. Please, God …

They scoured the area. They knocked on doors. They walked up and down streets, calling out Kerrie Ann’s name until they were hoarse. But as twilight gave way to nighttime with still no sign of her, Lindsay’s panic crept over into despair. The night had become a vast ocean that seemed to have swallowed up her sister, and she felt as if she were drowning in it, too.

You go wake your mama. I’ll call the police. Miss Honi made no pretense of being upbeat this time. Lindsay could see that she was scared, too.

They were heading back across the parking lot when Lindsay caught sight of a black Labrador retriever in the back of a dusty blue pickup parked in front of one of the units. As they neared, the dog let out a yip and began to wag its tail. Some instinct drew Lindsay over to investigate. A wet tongue lashed at her outstretched hand, emboldening her to climb up onto the running board. She peered into the bed, and there, curled asleep on a dirty scrap of blanket, was Kerrie Ann.

Lindsay felt a rush of relief so intense that the world went a little gray for an instant.

Then Miss Honi spotted Kerrie Ann, too, and let out a cry. A moment later she was holding her baby girl tightly, tears running down her cheeks, ruining her makeup, while Kerrie Ann blinked up at her sleepily, no doubt wondering what all the commotion was about. "I was playing with the doggie. It’s a nice doggie," she said simply when asked what she’d been doing out here all alone. It was easy to figure out what had happened. She hadn’t had her nap that day, because Miss Honi had taken her to the doctor for her checkup, so she’d grown sleepy and decided to curl up.

Didn’t you hear us calling you? Lindsay cried in exasperation.

Kerrie Ann shook her head, and Lindsay knew she was telling the truth. Whether she’d been born that way or had merely learned to adapt to Crystal’s comings and goings at odd hours, Kerrie Ann could sleep through anything. It wasn’t uncommon for Lindsay to wake up in the middle of the night and find that her sister had rolled off the couch onto the floor without waking up.

She knew she should scold her sister for going off like that, but she was so relieved to see her that she didn’t have the heart. Instead they all trooped back to Miss Honi’s, where they polished off the leftover macaroni and cheese from the night before, along with a platter of sausages Miss Honi fried up. When Kerrie Ann had had her fill, she crawled into Miss Honi’s lap in the maroon plush recliner. Bob Barker, she announced in her clear, bell-like voice. The Price Is Right was her favorite TV show, and it had just come on. She fell asleep again in the middle of it, oblivious to the scare she’d given them.

Upstairs, Crystal slept through it all, oblivious as well.

A few weeks later, when Lindsay arrived at Miss Honi’s after school one day to retrieve Kerrie Ann, there was a strange woman seated on the sofa. Sugar, this is Mrs. Harmon, Miss Honi introduced her. She sounded upset. She’d like a word with you.

The woman, short and thin-lipped with bobbed gray hair, explained that she was with Children’s Services. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother’s been placed in custody, she informed Lindsay gently. I don’t know for how long—the charges are pretty serious. Later Lindsay would learn that Crystal had been arrested for selling cocaine to an undercover cop. But I don’t want you to worry. It’s my job to make sure you and your sister are well looked after until … well, for the time being. We have good homes lined up for you both.

Lindsay struggled to absorb what the woman was telling her. Crystal in jail? Homes for her and Kerrie Ann? Why would they need homes when they already had one? Her mind was reeling, but she squared her shoulders and, with all the courage she could muster, looked Mrs. Harmon straight in the eye and said politely but firmly, We’re fine, thank you. We don’t need anyone’s help. She glanced toward Miss Honi, who gave her an encouraging nod.

I’m afraid it’s not up to you. Or me. It’s the law, Mrs. Harmon said regretfully. Now, why don’t we go on upstairs and get your things? She stood up, no doubt expecting Lindsay and her sister to follow.

But Miss Honi had other ideas. They ain’t going nowhere. I can look after ’em myself, she declared. Her hand dropped protectively onto Lindsay’s shoulder. Why, they practically live here as it is.

Mrs. Harmon cast her a dubious look. Are you a relative?

Miss Honi shook her head but didn’t back down. It don’t make no difference. I couldn’t love these girls any more’n if they was my own flesh and blood. They’ll be just fine here with me until their mama comes home. Ain’t that right, sugar? she said, smiling down at Lindsay.

I’m sorry, but it’s out of the question. We have rules. You have to be licensed. Mrs. Harmon’s tone grew brisk. Please, Miss, ah, Love, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.

There ain’t nobody more fit to care for these girls than me, Miss Honi insisted, digging in her heels. So if it’s a matter of filling out some form, just show me where to sign.

It’s not as simple as that. For one thing, where would they sleep? Mrs. Harmon glanced pointedly around the shabby two-room kitchen unit, identical to the one Lindsay and Kerrie Ann lived in upstairs except for the homey touches Miss Honi had added, like the plush recliner and lace doilies on every surface and the glass case in which her angels were displayed, angels of all shapes and sizes that she’d collected through the years, one of which, a delicate ceramic figure with gold-tipped wings, was presently cupped in the palm of Kerrie Ann’s small hand as she sat cross-legged on the carpet, whispering secrets in its ear, seemingly unaware of what was going on.

I’ll make room, said Miss Honi.

Mrs. Harmon remained firm. Even if you could, how would you feed and clothe them when—if I may be frank, Miss Love—it looks as if you’re barely subsisting yourself?

Miss Honi’s cheeks grew red. We’d manage. It don’t take money to love a child.

In the end there was nothing to be done about it. The law was the law.

Nooooooo! Kerrie Ann wailed when Mrs. Harmon took her by the hand and began tugging her toward the door. She tore loose and darted over to Miss Honi, clinging to her. "I want to stay with you!"

Lindsay noticed that in all the upset, her little sister had accidentally trampled the angel she’d been playing with; it lay in pieces on the carpet, its head crushed, its wings severed from its body. In the years to come Lindsay couldn’t think about her sister without seeing in her mind that poor, ruined angel.

But what would haunt her most would be the memory of Kerrie Ann crying out to her when it was time for them to go their separate ways—Lindsay to a foster home in Sparks and Kerrie Ann to one in another part of the state. A three-year-old girl in dirty pink terry shorts and a My Little Pony T-shirt, her face a knot of fear and confusion, her small body straining furiously against the adult arms holding her in check. Lindsay would never forget, either, the panic in her sister’s voice as she begged her big sister not to let them take her.

It was the last she would see of that little girl.

CHAPTER ONE

Los Angeles, California; present day

You get off on pawing through ladies’ underwear? Kerrie Ann sniped.

The airport security guard glanced sharply up at her before resuming his search of her carry-on bag. She immediately regretted shooting off her mouth. Why go looking for trouble when it was already on your ass like an APB on a stolen car? Here at LAX, of all places. Since 9/11, you couldn’t look crosswise at an airport official without being hauled off and strip-searched. And she was just the kind of person they would do that to. The kind likely to have a warrant out for her arrest or rock stashed in the lining of her suitcase. The only thing she wasn’t likely to be suspected of was being a terrorist, but only because she was white.

Not just white but white-white. The kind of white that looked as if it never saw the sun because it was too busy soaking up the fluorescent lighting in some factory. She could almost hear the guard thinking, White trash. And who was she to deny it? Didn’t she deserve to be looked down upon, to be the only one in line to have her bag searched for no apparent reason? It wasn’t just that she looked the part, with her tattoo that snaked up one arm, pink streaks in her reddish-blond hair, and multiple piercings that had been enough to set off the metal detector. She was a world-class fuckup. She’d fucked up so royally, she’d had her kid taken away.

An invisible fist clenched about her heart at the thought. Annabella, Bella for short. Her six-year-old daughter, who wasn’t hers anymore, at least not according to the state of California. Not until she could demonstrate that she was a fit parent. Seven whole months, and her only contact in all that time the twice-monthly visits supervised by Bella’s caseworker. And with her daughter in a foster home near San Luis Obispo, a three-hour drive each way, the trip alone was an exercise in frustration. Twice, on her way to visit Bella, the engine of her geriatric Ford Falcon had overheated, and once she’d blown a tire, which had eaten away at even those few allotted hours.

It won’t be this way forever. She clung to that belief as if to a life preserver.

All right, you’re good to go. The guard, a swarthy middle-aged man, his cheeks pitted with old acne scars, zipped up her canvas carryall. But before she could snatch it off the table, he leaned in so they were eye to eye and said in a low, warning voice, One word of advice, miss. Don’t get cute. You get cute with us, you could find yourself in a whole lot of trouble. Got it?

Kerrie Ann bit back a sharp retort. The dude didn’t have anything on her, but he could still fuck with her, and she didn’t want to miss her flight. She shot him a dirty look instead, waiting until she was out of earshot to mutter a few choice words under her breath.

The delay had put her a few crucial minutes behind schedule, and when she heard the boarding call for Flight 302 to San Francisco, she broke into a run. Why was everything so frigging hard all the time? If she didn’t live all the way out in Simi Valley, if her friend Cammie hadn’t gotten a ticket driving her to the airport, if she hadn’t been singled out at the security check, she might have been one of those people leisurely strolling to their gate, a Starbucks coffee in hand. Instead she was weaving her way down the concourse like OJ’s white Bronco with the cops in pursuit.

The story of her life. Wasn’t she forever running behind? A busted fan belt or blown sparkplug away from the breakdown lane at all times? At least once a week, she was late getting to work, delayed by car trouble, an appointment with her Legal Aid attorney, or a stop at the clinic where she submitted her weekly urine sample. And while Danny, her boss, wasn’t unsympathetic—one of the advantages of working for someone in the program—she knew he was getting fed up with her excuses. She could hardly blame him, but what more could she do when she was already busting her ass just to stay afloat?

Would it be any different with the sister she was on her way to meet for the first time? Kerrie Ann had no idea what to expect when she arrived in Blue Moon Bay, and the pit in her stomach yawned at the thought. She hadn’t even known about Lindsay until her attorney, Abel Touissant, had remarked the other day as they were settling into the booth at Denny’s that was his ad hoc office until he could afford a real one. You didn’t tell me you have a sister.

Kerrie Ann stared at him, dumbfounded. I do?

According to the state of Nevada. One Lindsay Margaret McAllister. He pulled his laptop from its carrying case, and moments later they were looking at a blurry copy of a scanned document on its screen. He’d gotten hold of her old case file from Washoe County, thinking it might prove useful in her bid to regain custody of Bella. Says here she went into foster care the same time you did, he went on, only the couple who took her in must’ve adopted her because her last name was changed to Bishop in ’83.

Kerrie Ann peered at the computer screen, struggling to process this startling revelation. You mean all this time I had a sister and didn’t even know it? Wow, she muttered in an awed voice.

Abel smiled at her. This could be good for you.

Kerrie Ann didn’t know about that. Whether or not it was to her advantage remained to be seen. She slowly shook her head. I wonder where she is now.

I have an address for her, in California, he said. A town called Blue Moon Bay.

It’s somewhere up the coast, isn’t it?

Just south of San Francisco. I vacationed there once as a kid with my folks. Nice place. Not much going on, but the scenery’s awesome, and the people are friendly. He copied the address and phone number off the computer screen onto a slip of paper and handed it to her.

Kerrie Ann, in her present state, had no idea what she was going to do with the information, but she was glad her lawyer was taking her case seriously enough to dig up shit like that. Abel Touissant, twenty-four and fresh out of law school, might have come to her through Legal Aid, but he was as smart as any of those fat-cat lawyers with their fancy briefcases and high-rise executive suites. Better yet, he knew what it was to struggle. The eldest son of Haitian immigrants, he’d put himself through school on scholarships and by working nights and weekends. Maybe because of that, he didn’t act like he was better than she; he always treated her as he would any client instead of one merely paying what she could afford.

Thanks, she said, tucking the slip of paper into her purse.

You should look her up.

Maybe I will. Sure, and what would she say? Hi, remember me? Your long-lost sister? If this Lindsay had wanted a relationship with her, wouldn’t she have been the one to get in touch?

Abel’s brown eyes regarded her thoughtfully. Seriously, he said, a bit more forcefully this time.

Kerrie Ann balked. How do I know she’d even want to hear from me?

You won’t know unless you look her up.

And what would I say? ‘Hi there. Long time, no see. And by the way, where the fuck have you been all these years?’ Now, there’s an icebreaker for you. As far as she was concerned, this was just another blank page in a family album that wasn’t exactly a series of Kodak moments. I don’t even remember my mom. All I know is she died in prison. Hepatitis, I think—something drug-related. She gave a short, dry laugh. So I guess I come by it honestly.

Your sister might be able to fill in some of the blanks.

Maybe, but the last thing Kerrie Ann needed in her life right now was another complication. Also, niggling at the back of her mind, was the thought What if she doesn’t want anything to do with me? Why should she? Look what a loser I turned out to be.

Two days later a hard dose of reality from Bella’s caseworker propelled her to take action.

The court is acting in your daughter’s best interests. And until such time as you can demonstrate that you’re competent to care for her yourself, she stays put, Mrs. Silvestre stated in no uncertain terms after Kerrie Ann shot off her mouth in a fit of frustration. Be patient, Kerrie Ann, she advised in a less officious tone, closing the file in front of her. These things take time. A child isn’t a lost pet to simply be handed over.

Anger pulsed in Kerrie Ann like the vein throbbing at the base of her throat, but she resisted the urge to let loose with another curse. What purpose would it serve except to prove Mrs. Silvestre’s point?