Chapter 32
A rare summer storm comes through and douses the final embers of forest fire that had burned across California for the last week. It allows us to wrap up our rescheduled interviews in Chico and Oroville over the next two days.
On an unusually cool July day, almost three weeks after we began, we finish Beau’s project—sitting across from a quiet middle-aged woman, Erin Miller, overlooking vineyards before her shift at a small tasting room.
She hid her sexuality from her disapproving family and ruined every romantic relationship along the way.
Her body uncoils as she recounts each lie, every excuse about why she didn’t marry, every time she told a partner she couldn’t bring her home.
“Thank you,” she says as we finish. “I needed to tell a stranger first to get the courage to tell my family. I lost the woman I wanted to marry. And I need to win her back.”
After Beau and I slide into the car outside the winery, he doesn’t turn on the ignition. He’s quiet for a bit, staring over the dash and into the vineyard beyond.
“We’re done with the interviews,” he says, and I may be projecting, but I sense disappointment in his tenor. It feels like we’re ending on a whimper—after a stay at a nondescript motel and before another monotonous drive.
I’ve spent every free moment during the last two days trying to find new leads on my mom.
But without her Social Security number or her new name, I’m chasing a phantom.
We’ve run out of addresses to visit. I’ve scoured obscure social media channels.
Beau spent last night sifting through online newspaper archives, and the night before we checked online death and marriage records for every county in California and Oregon.
As ambivalent as I was at the start of this journey, now it feels necessary—a loop I need to close, if not to find my mom, then at least to understand my dad’s decisions.
But her trail runs cold, and I may have to accept that I’ll never find her.
I fell asleep with my laptop open last night and woke in the morning with Beau curled against my spine—and our time together expiring.
We haven’t talked. Not about what comes next or what we want.
We’ve existed in a time capsule. I imagine I’ll look back on our trip with a strange mix of fondness and pain.
I spent the first half of the trip trying to dam all my emotions behind sarcasm and evasion, and now they’re coursing through me like a wild river.
“Are you excited about going home?” he asks.
I’m not even sure where home is. The small apartment I haven’t missed once, even when sleeping in Beau’s car or stuck on the side of the road.
Or the childhood home that will likely be sold in a week—for less money than I need to make it worth the loss.
The buyers have another twenty-four hours to pull out, demand repairs, or ask for a credit for their trouble.
Ronald walked through the potential numbers two nights ago as Beau and I pulled out of Redding and away from my last maternal clue.
My focus was a bit spotty. From what I understand, the sale price—with all those California real estate zeros—is an order of magnitude smaller after the credits, commissions, and loan payoff. But I don’t have many choices.
I settle for honesty. “No.”
“Same.” His expression is so earnest it makes my heart swell.
I lace my fingers in his, squeezing tight before kissing the back of his hand.
“We’ve gotta face it eventually.”
He nods. “But you’ll stay at my place for a bit?”
The idea is tempting. I wish I could hide out with him.
But then what? I checked my bank account this morning—and it’s dire.
I need to focus on work and land new clients.
Without Juniper, my invoices will barely cover my basic expenses.
Beau has insisted on paying for most of our travel expenses since I’m helping with his book, but the incidental costs are adding up—meals, extra charges for my mobile hot spot, and lost income.
Beau leans forward, a reluctant smile playing at his lips.
He cups my face in his palms and kisses me until I forget our trip is almost over, we haven’t found my mom, and my dad lied to me and I may never find out why.
Until the only thought swimming through my head is that I think I love this man.
I should be terrified, but it feels too natural—too obvious—to trigger my self-destructive tendencies.
I don’t even have the impulse. Of course I love him.
Maybe I always have, but now it’s taken on a new shape.
“Okay,” I say into the kiss before he pulls back, looking for confirmation in my face. I bite my lip, worried he might find proof of something bigger. “For a couple days.”
His phone buzzes on the console, and I startle. Bianca hasn’t called him in days, but that doesn’t lessen my reaction to the possibility.
Beau grabs it and grins, pushing his glasses back up his nose. He holds the phone out to me. I read Carlos’s name at the top of the screen—a short text from his friend.
“Come here.” He drapes his arm over my shoulders and holds his phone aloft.
“Wait,” I say. “Are you attempting a selfie?”
“Whatever the equivalent is for two people, yes.”
“What kind of angle is that? Are you trying to document the texture of my nostrils?”
He snorts. “Oh my Lord, Ophelia.”
“And you’re leaning forward, so it looks like your head is three times the size of mine.”
“It’s fine,” he grumbles. “Carlos wants to know we kissed and made up.”
“In that case ...” I tousle his hair and unbutton the top two buttons on his shirt while he groans and huffs.
I lean in to plant a kiss on his cheek and snap a photo.
The picture is dimly lit, off-center, and blurry.
He’s scowling at me out of the side of his eyes—embarrassed, I think. But it’s sweet, possessive, adorable.
“That’ll do,” I say. “You may share it.” He rattles off a message, and I add, “Send it to me, too.”
And just like that, he adds me to their group thread. Serena responds first—a series of heart-eye emojis and an invitation to visit soon.
Carlos offers a subtle note. It’s nice to see you’re no longer choosing violence .
“Let me feed you and get you home,” Beau says as he backs out of the winery.
We find a diner perched along a dusty patch of highway. I groan as Beau turns off the engine. “Really? Another diner?”
“Every experience needs closure, Phe. There’s nothing more quintessential road trip than a roadside diner. Last one, I promise.”
Closure. I was hoping it would be delivered through means other than greasy grub and pleather booths. This diner is surprising, though. It’s been refurbished recently, and the staff are all dressed in a retro rocker vibe, which gives the place an ironic charm.
Our server has a black beehive and two full sleeves of vibrant ink, her eyeliner drawn into a precise cat-eye. Her name tag reads Dorothy , but I’m skeptical. It’s probably Madison or Ashley or some other millennial moniker.
We stay on brand—hamburgers and fries for each of us. When we’re done, Beau polishes off my fries and insists on a slice of huckleberry pie to share.
“Dorothy” drops it off with a smile and saunters away before Beau pushes the plate in my direction.
“I’m stuffed.” But I take a bite anyway. “What even is a huckleberry?” I say through a mouthful.
“It’s like a blueberry, but smaller, darker, and not grown commercially.”
“That was a rhetorical question, Professor.”
“Do you want the genus and species name?” he asks, deadpan, shoving a quarter of the pie into his mouth in one bite.
“Huckleberry,” I say, and my mind catches on the word.
“No. That’s the common name. You’re not very good at this game,” he teases.
“No. Huckleberry. As in Huckleberry Hound. Remember that old cartoon blue dog?” My dad loved classic cartoons and would have me watch them with him when I was small. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.
Beau shakes his head, but I pull up an image on my phone, and he squints. “I guess. It looks kinda familiar.”
“Huckleberry is also a last name. Like Mary’s boss mentioned in Fort Bragg.” I drop my fork. I could be wrong. I’ve been nothing but wrong. But I type in “Mary Huckleberry” and click on the image search.
And there, on page 2, I find her. I’d know the line of her profile anywhere—because it’s exactly like mine.