Chapter 20: Her Kitchen

I read my mother's letter in the passenger seat of Nate's van, with the engine off.

It was one sheet of lined paper, folded in thirds.

*Anneliese,*

*If you're reading this, you're older than thirteen and I'm not there, and I'm sorry about that part most of all.*

*You are going to be good at being agreeable. You get it from me. It's a talent, and it will cost you if you let it.*

*Pick the color. Every time. Even the small ones. Especially the small ones.*

*Love, Mom*

*P.S. Your aunt will pretend she doesn't cry at this. She does.*

I read it twice.

Then I folded it back in thirds and put it inside my dress, against my skin.

Nate didn't say anything.

He turned the key and drove me up to Sierra Madre.

One of his hands lay open on the seat between us, in case I wanted it.

I took it.

Nine days later, the cottage kitchen was not white.

The roof was finished, and it had rained on Tuesday, and not a drop had come through.

I had painted the walls myself in the evenings after school, a pale gray with a faint blue in it.

There was a wooden table that I had picked out at an estate sale with my aunt.

Nate had fixed its one short leg.

There were two chairs.

I had chosen the chairs.

The front door at the end of the hall was blue on both sides.

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