“Yes,” Remy said to the employee. “We know that a woman named Marisol Soto used to volunteer here. Does she still?”
“She sure does.”
“Any chance she’s here this morning? We’d like to say hello to her.”
“You bet. I saw her in the back five minutes ago. Let me go get her.”
“Thank you.”
The employee left and Remy mouthedOh my goshto Wendell. Not only did Marisol still volunteer here, but she was actually present—an amazing stroke of good luck.
“I’ve never been so nervous in my life,” Wendell said.
They waited, eagerness snapping and fizzing the air around them.
A few minutes later the grizzled employee returned with a young, heavy-set woman with dark, curly hair. “Hi,” she said shyly, with confusion.
“Is Marisol not here today after all?” Wendell asked.
“I think”—Remy’s heart was sinking—“this is Marisol.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Wendell said.
“Marisol Soto?” Remy asked the young woman.
“Yes. Darrell told me you . . . wanted to say hello?”
Wendell had gone stiff, mouth set. She rested a steadying hand on his forearm. “My friend here knew a Marisol Soto once,” Remy said. “We saw you quoted in an article, and we thought you might be the Marisol he knew. But that Marisol would be over eighty now. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“No problem.” She looked between them, her focus snagging with compassion on Wendell. “I hope you find your Marisol.”
“Thank you.” Wendell tried to smile at her, but his mouth wasn’t cooperating. “It’s a treat to meet another Marisol Soto. God bless you.”
“Are there a lot of Soto family members in this area?” Remy asked. “And do any of your relatives share your name?”
“No, none of my family members share my name. I came to Maine for college three years ago but I’m from Arizona. So . . . I don’t know if any other Sotos live here.”
“Okay. Thank you.” Remy turned Wendell and steered him from the store. On the sidewalk, he went as still as a tree trunk, staring hard at nothing.
Remy squeezed her eyes closed for a few seconds before opening them. She’d been too rash. She should have called Threads and asked to speak to Marisol. Had she done so, she’d have quickly realized this woman wasn’t Wendell’s Marisol and could have saved him this trip and the anguish he was enduring now.
Instead, she’d fallen victim to the romantic idea of surprising Wendell’s Marisol with a reunion.
“I’m very sorry,” she said.
He looked down at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “It’s all right, Remy. You’ve done a whole lot for me. A whole lot. I appreciate it.”
“I’ll keep looking for her.”
He nodded, but the twinkle in his eye had disappeared. This setback had hit him hard, and he was losing his faith that Marisol could be found.
The instant Jeremiah opened his front door that night, Remy comprehended that the Camden eyes and the Camden swagger and the Camden smile had only gained in power since she'd seen him last.
He wore a blue logo T-shirt beneath an open chambray shirt with jeans. His soft lips and eyelashes combined with his hard jaw and cheekbones and—SOS—that endearing quality about his face that she was still trying to articulate. For a few seconds, the sight of him stole all her air.
“You’re here.” He gave her a slow grin.
It was half-dark on the porch where she stood, but all warm, amber light inside his house.
