My mood picks up even more when I spot the photos of Deck nailed to the wall, starting with him at age five or six and ending with his high school graduation. I straighten the frame holding an image of him wearing his mortarboard, grinning, and feel my heart swell. Opposite the photos is a lovely built-in sideboard and cabinets, one of them stacked with china. I walk over and rest my cheek against the leaded glass of the cabinet nearest me, soothed by its coolness.

This is my new home.

Minneapolis is my history, Lilydale my present and future.

I am happy, safe.

A shuffling behind me tells me someone has entered the room. I peel away from the cabinet to spot Deck crouched by the dining room table, his back to me. He’s setting down our knickknack box.

Staring at his back, I’m overwhelmed by a love so strong I nearly weep with it.

Ten months ago, Deck introduced himself at the 620 Club, a bar I frequented every Friday night after work with some of the women in the typing pool. It’s located near the Minneapolis Star’s Downtown East offices, and it’s always packed with newspaper people, local sports stars, and businessmen, all vying for a spot at the men’s-only Round Table. That’s where all the real Minneapolis action happens. Deck stood out in that crowd, buttoned up with a buzz cut, not my type at all. In fact, when I first spotted him, I thought Ken Doll and kept looking.

But he made his way over, laid down a line so corny I couldn’t help but laugh (If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together), and bought me a brandy Alexander. He was so adoring, hanging on my every word, that I agreed to meet him for coffee the next morning. We’ve been together ever since. Life’s a gas, right?

“Darling, I love it here,” I say to him, my voice low and husky as I kneel behind him and snake my hands around his waist. “And I’m looking forward to loving you here.”

When he doesn’t respond, I rub his chest, then move one hand suggestively lower. It’s terribly naughty—his mom is in the other room—but the liquor has me feeling loose, and wasn’t Deck the one who told me to relax?

He places his hands over mine, firmly, stands, and turns.

It’s not Deck I’m caressing.

It’s Ronald.

CHAPTER 3

Shame explodes across my skin.

Ronald is saying all the things people are supposed to say in this situation (no harm, could have happened to anyone, I’m so glad—Barbara and I are so glad—that you love it here), but I can only gargle in response. I back away, hands held in front, palms out, until I hit the wall and spin, see the stairs (escape), and run up them, breath ragged. I duck inside the first room I hit and slide to the floor.

Great job, Joan. For your encore, maybe you could walk in on Barbara on the toilet.

My cheeks are hot, probably scarlet. I glance around. Might as well get used to this room, as I’m never leaving it. Looks like the master bedroom. It’s fully wallpapered, the pattern red-and-gold flowers, so loud it hurts my ears. A fresh breeze spooks the curtain, itself a clashing floral pattern.

This must have been Deck’s parents’ bedroom.

If Ronald follows me into here, I might as well commit hari-kari now and get it over with.

When after several calming breaths he doesn’t appear, my shame gives way to anger. Why didn’t he stop me sooner? Before I opened my mouth and reached for his zipper, for God’s sake.

But that’s not fair. He was probably as shocked as me.

My eyes begin itching, and I notice something in this room smells oversweet, like fruit gone bad. I stand and walk to the window, the deep pine-green carpeting swallowing my footsteps. The window is open only an inch, and despite all my strength, I can’t open it any farther. I kneel to gasp at the air like a fish in a bucket.

While the warm May breeze clears my nose, I focus on the house next door. It’s a near copy of this one—a craftsman, only in reverse colors, blue with white shutters. And the bedroom I’m staring into doesn’t have wallpaper but is laid out identically, sheets draped over the furniture.

Huh. Two empty houses next to each other. Probably haunted. I snort. That’s silly. I saw a single poster for Rosemary’s Baby before we left Minneapolis, and now I’m imagining demons and conspiracies in this sweet little town when I’ve just proven myself the most dangerous thing on wheels.

Having arrived not even an hour ago, I’ve already groped the mayor.

You’re just tired from all the packing. Plus, nerves. Settle down already.

A brush at my ankle makes me jump out of my hair.

“Slow Henry!” I scoop him up, chiding myself for being so excitable. “You’re lucky my knife bites are nearly all better, you old codger, or I’d be crying right now.”

The sudden bustle and clamor of voices downstairs tells me the welcoming committee has arrived. I peek inside the other rooms—a spare bedroom, a bathroom, a large linen closet—then pop into the bathroom, finger-combing my hair and pinching my cheeks for color. No point in delaying the inevitable.

If Ronald’s a gentleman, he won’t mention my mortifying mistake.

In fact, I’m going to decide it never happened.

“Come on, you,” I say to Slow Henry.

I toss a parting glance at the house next door, noticing its window is open the exact height as mine. I shiver and squeeze Slow Henry tighter, making my way to the main floor.

The dining room seems to have shrunk, jammed as it is with strangers, all of them eagerly watching me descend, a hungry nest clamoring as its food drops down. My gut grows slimy.

“There she is!” a large man booms from the bottom of the stairs, his voice so loud that Slow Henry yowls and leaps out of my arms. The man is square-jawed, one of the biggest humans I’ve ever seen, the size and build of a grizzly bear. “Ronald and Barbara’s new daughter-in-law!”

“Mr. Brody,” Deck cautions, appearing beside the man.

Before I can figure out the joke, Mr. Brody wraps me in a hug that steals my breath.

“My name’s Clan,” he says, still too loud. “Clan Brody. We live right next door.”

Engulfed in his arms, I think about the empty house I just peeked inside, the one with sheets draped over the furniture. He must mean the other next door.

“You’ll have to tell my wife, Catherine, if you need anything,” he continues. “She’s in charge of Lilydale’s welcoming committee.”

“Nice to meet you,” I murmur into his shirt.

They sure like their hugs in Lilydale.

“Oh, let her go, Clan,” I hear. I’m released to face a woman with a sharp, broad face. She looks familiar.

“I’m Catherine,” she says, holding out her hand.

When I clasp it, I realize she doesn’t look like anyone I know. Rather, she’s a dead ringer for the mother captured in Dorothea Lange’s iconic Depression-era photo, the one of a woman sitting grimly on the edge of a tent, covered with her dirty, tired-looking children. Migrant Mother. That’s the photo’s name.

Clan the Brody Bear and Catherine the Migrant Mother.

“My turn,” I hear.

Catherine releases my hand. Another man moves in to embrace me, but he makes it short, a quick squeeze before stepping back. He’s wearing browline glasses, striking against his tight, narrow face.