“It’s art. The owners asked us to be especially careful with it.”

“Oh. Is it sturdy?”

“It’s made from steel… What are you doing?”

“Sitting down. If it’s made of steel, it certainly won’t be damaged by my weight.”

Josie wasn’t inclined to argue. “I hope not.” She leaned back against a pile of Sheetrock and pulled her sandwich from its greasy wrapping. “Why are you here?”

“I thought I had explained. I need to speak with you.”

Josie took a big bite of her sandwich. A large ruffle of ham fell from her mouth and into her lap. She reached down, dusted it off, and popped it in her mouth.

Naomi grimaced.

Josie took another bite and reminded herself that anger would accomplish nothing. She chewed and waited for the other woman to speak.

“I had an interesting conversation with Courtney.”

“When?”

“What difference would that make?”

“I’m just… you know, curious.”

“I don’t know. A few days ago. Apparently what she said is true, otherwise you would know all about it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Josie admitted. “What did Courtney say about me… that you think may be true.”

“She said you maintain absolutely no contact with your family. Disgraceful.”

Josie had opened her mouth to answer before the final, condemning word. But when she opened it again, she found she had no idea what to say. It had been years since she had thought much about her family. Because she had trained, carefully trained, herself not to. “You don’t know anything about it. They chose not to have contact with me.” She knew she sounded like a stubborn child, inarticulate and angry.

“Why, I happen to know a lot about it. I speak with your mother at least once a week and I frequently see your father at the hospital.”

Josie noted that some things didn’t change. Apparently her mother still visited the library for a weekly pile of books. That didn’t surprise her any more than her father’s dedication to his job as hospital administrator did. She had assumed that their lives had gone on without her, but the reality of that fact was surprisingly painful. “They complain about me?” she asked, suddenly unable to eat another bite.

“No, they’re more dignified than that. But everyone in town knows how much you hurt them.”

“I hurt them! What about how they hurt me?” She was shocked into saying more than she planned. “I needed them! I was desperate! I can understand their shock, but to abandon me and my son-their grandson-like they did! How dare they claim to be the ones who were hurt? How dare they?”

“That’s not-”

“I never talk about them,” Josie continued. “You just ask my son. I have never, no matter how much they hurt me, I have never, ever, ever said anything against them. They left me stranded with no money, no insurance, no nothing. But I created a life for myself and I brought up Tyler alone. And I’ve been a good mother and he’s a good kid. And you can ask every single person I know-you can ask my son. I have never, ever complained or criticized my family. Ever. Never.”

“I don’t believe I accused you of that particular failing.”

“You said everyone in town knew that I hurt my parents!”

“Not this town. Your hometown. The town you grew up in.”

Josie heard a bit of compassion in Naomi Van Ripper’s voice, but she heard the words also. “So my parents have been complaining about me? Telling everyone they meet that their daughter is a dreadful person?”

“No. I doubt if they have said more about you than you claim to have said about them.”

“So you’re just assuming I hurt them! What do they do? Wander around with pitiful expressions on their well-groomed faces? Did my father rip the Father’s Day poster I made him in fifth grade off his office wall? Are they ashamed of me and my life?” Josie realized that she was going to begin crying if this conversation went on much longer.

“Josie, I believe you misunderstand the situation. If your father doesn’t have your poster on his office wall, it’s because he doesn’t have an office. He was forced to retire many years ago. Fifteen or sixteen. Right after you left college.”

Josie was stunned. He had barely been in his fifties then. Her workaholic father retired early? “I don’t understand. Why did he retire? He was so young and he loved his job.”

It was Naomi Van Ripper’s turn to be surprised. “You don’t know, do you?”

“I don’t know what? What are you talking about?”

“Your father had a stroke. Right after you vanished. At least, that’s what we thought when we pieced the story together later.”

But Josie was focusing on the original statement. “My father had a stroke? Was it serious?”

“Very. He was in the hospital for months and then in a rehabilitation facility for almost a year. He speaks now and can use his upper body, but he can’t walk.”

“He’s paralyzed? He stays in bed?”

“Heavens, no. He uses one of those scooters and gets around just fine.”

“But… but he can’t work like that. And golf. He can’t play golf or tennis, can he?” When her father wasn’t working, he could usually be found playing one of those two games at the country club.

“No, he can’t. It’s been quite a change for him, but your father is a strong man and he has managed just fine-to all outward appearances, that is.”

Josie knew what that meant. Brought up in a family where “No one wants to hear what’s wrong with you” was a constant theme, and “Keeping yourself to yourself ” was considered a virtue, outsiders wouldn’t have any way of knowing to what extent her father was suffering. “When did it happen?”

“The stroke?”

“Yes, the stroke.”

“Years ago. I told you.”

“But when? Exactly.”

“Three days before Christmas your freshman year of college-your only year of college apparently.”

Josie didn’t even hear the second half of the statement. “Are you sure? I mean about the day. Exactly. Are you sure it was three days before Christmas? Not a day later?”

Dr. Van Ripper took being accurate very seriously. “Let me think about it. As I recall, you were due home the day before Christmas Eve.”

“I was, but how did you know that?”

“Your mother was in the library the week before trying to find a recipe for some sort of cookie you liked. I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was something made with peppermint. She said she had never made them.”

Josie slowly nodded her head. “They were made from pink and white dough, twisted together and shaped like little candy canes. Our next-door neighbor used to bake them for Christmas when I was a kid, but then she moved to Florida. My mother always said they were just too much trouble to make.” She looked at the librarian. “Are you sure she was going to make them? For me?”

“That’s what she was planning. To surprise you, she said.”

“It would have amazed me,” Josie admitted. “But about the stroke. Are you sure it happened the day before I was to come home?”

“Yes. I was one of the last people to see your father that day. It was snowy and I took a longer than usual lunch hour to pick up a few last-minute gifts. I should have walked-you should always walk when you can, of course-but I was hoping to find a large stockpot for my sister-in-law and I didn’t want to have to lug it halfway across town on foot, so I ended up driving around downtown looking for a place to park. I had just about given up when I saw your father get into that big black Mercedes he always drove. Funny how you remember things when tragedy strikes, isn’t it? Later that night, when I heard the news, all I could think of was how healthy and happy he had looked, tossing the wrapped gifts he was carrying into the passenger seat and waving for me to take his spot when he left. I called out a greeting, of course, and he replied, saying something about how it would be a good Christmas because you would be home.” She nodded to herself. “He looked wonderful. Who would have known?”