“I know, there’s only those two articles from theCamden Chronicle. I’ve run search after search, and every time I get those same two articles.”
“Then tons of speculation spouted by amateur investigators and conspiracy theorists in all the years since,” Genevieve said.
“Which I don’t put much stock in.”
“Me neither. I tried to call theCamden Chronicleearlier today to see if I could get my hands on more back issues, but they closed down in 1990.”
“What about the Camden library? Would they have back issues of the paper?”
“I’m way ahead of you, sister of mine.” Genevieve had a perfectly good brain, but because she was older, Natasha often couldn’t resist rushing in with suggestions before Genevieve finished talking. “The librarian I spoke with told me that they once had every issueof theChroniclein their collection. However, they lost the issues in a fire in 2007.”
“Bummer.”
“The librarian went on to tell me, though, about a woman who lives in Camden. Her name’s Mrs. Birdie Jean Campbell. She’s ninety, and apparently she’s kept a scrapbook-style diary for eighty years. Whenever people ask for old newspapers, the library sends them to Birdie Jean.” Genevieve crossed to the fireplace and arranged logs inside. Since coming to stay at the cottage, she’d become a decent fire builder. A remote cottage with a fire in the fireplace was cozier than a remote cottage sans fire in the fireplace. “The librarian recommended that I call and schedule a visit with Birdie Jean. Evidently, Birdie Jean feeds visitors delicious but very sticky pecan pie, so she warned me about my dental work.”
“That sounds promising.”
“The visit or the pie?”
“Both.”
“If I can reach Birdie Jean this weekend, I’m hoping to set up a meeting on Monday.”
“Gen! I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” She added kindling to the logs.
“I, too, have something new to report.” A door rattled in the background. It seemed one of Natasha’s kids was mounting a siege. “Everything I’ve read about Russell showed one of three photos of him. The college yearbook one, the grainy one from high school, and the one with his church baseball team. None were with Mom. But then it occurred to me. A wedding picture of Mom and him must have run in the Athens newspaper along with their wedding announcement, since she was from Athens and they were married there. Right? So after two phone calls and some time online, I was able to locate their announcement.”
“What? Why haven’t you sent it to me?”
“Because I found it a little while ago, right when Owen was having an epic meltdown. Here. I’m sending it to you now.”
“Mo-mmy!” came the muffled sound of a child’s wail.
“Got to go,” Natasha said. “Talk later?”
“Yep.” They disconnected, and Genevieve opened her text messages. Natasha had sent two photos. One containing a picture. One containing text.
She inhaled sharply as she studied the photo. The close-up image captured her mom, the bride, with Russell, her groom.
In contrast to the dress her mother had chosen when she’d married Dad, here she wore the style of gown Genevieve would have expected of her. Formal and southern. Its sweetheart neckline lay beneath a sheer layer of tulle covering her chest and arms. Delicate needlework embellished the tulle at her throat and wrists, and along the contours of the bodice. She wore her hair swept up beneath a veil. Her bouquet burst with small roses.
Russell looked dashing and confident in his tux. His smile was broad and sure, his blond hair a gleaming match to Mom’s blond hair.
The couple appeared just the way a couple should appear on their wedding day—happy and excited about their joyful future. They couldn’t have known, in the millisecond when this photo was snapped, that Russell had very little future ahead of him. Which meant their marriage had very little future.
Genevieve rubbed her forehead. It bent her brain to see photos of her mother with this other man.
Dadwas Mom’s spouse. Dad, not this stranger. Mom and Dad had been a pair for as long as Genevieve could remember and for years prior to the start date of her memories.
Mom belonged with Dad.
Dad belonged with Mom.
Their identity as husband and wife was a foundational part of who Genevieve had known—knewthem to be.
Yet she was holding in her hand evidence that proved Russell to be the one Mom had fallen in love with first. Picked out china with first. Exchanged vows with first.
