“Look where you are.”
“Exactly,” Shasta said, her relief palpable: I got it.
“Did you ever talk to your grandmother on your own?”
“That was the only time I met her. I wasn’t allowed to call. She used to send me birthday presents and my mom would throw them in the trash.”
“That sounds tough.”
She nodded. “I never met my grandfather. My mom hates him. She said he’s a sicko. I don’t even know if they’re alive, either of them. I googled them but, you know. They’re old, so.”
“I’m sorry, Shasta. This is a lot.”
“Yeah. It’s all right. Thanks, though.”
“What did you make of Lake of the Moon?” I asked.
“Well, I just started looking at it when Maggie comes into the garage. I show it to her, and she literally runs over and grabs it out of my hands.”
“Did she say why?”
“No. She made me take Wuthering Heights instead. ‘You’ll like this better, I loved it when I was your age.’ And it was so, so not her to act like that. She’s never been strict with me. So now I’m like, I have to read this.”
“Of course.”
“I came back later, when she was out on her walk. I go into the garage, but the book’s not there. She left a gap on the shelf. Like a warning. It pissed me off. First you assume I’m going to try and steal it. And I mean — yeah, okay. I did. But still. It proved she didn’t trust me. And like, stop, please. I’m not five. I can use the internet.”
“You ordered it.”
“With my mom’s account,” she said. “Then I had to make sure she and Jason didn’t find out. ’Cause obviously there’s something radioactive about this book. It became this whole complicated thing, ’cause we don’t get our mail delivered, we have to pick it up from the post office in Millburg. DJ drives out and collects it, then he gives it to Jenelle, and we pick it up from the hotel. Usually Jason goes, but for the next month I volunteered to do it. He just thought I was being helpful.” She mimicked him: “ ‘Gee, thanks, kitten.’ ”
I laughed. “Nothing stops you.”
She shrugged, gave a half smile.
“Okay. So now you have the book.”
“I didn’t get why Maggie was acting so weird. I kept waiting for some massively inappropriate scene, but it was just cursing and a tiny amount of sex. I’ve read much worse.”
“Did you like it?”
“Kinda? The main character felt real, not some adult pretending to be a teenager. And the parts about Fresno were interesting. I wanted to ask my mom about it but I didn’t want to upset her. I stuck it under my bed. One night I’m doing homework in the kitchen and she barges in, holding the book. ‘Where’d you get this?’ Like it was a bag of crack. She called me an ungrateful little bitch, and...”
Shasta broke off, her face hard.
She said, “She slapped me.”
“That’s awful.”
“It didn’t hurt that much. Just...” Shasta swallowed. “She yells. A lot. Especially when she’s drunk. So, all the time, basically. But she really doesn’t do... that.”
Our feet squelched in the soft forest floor.
“So, yeah,” she said. “That’s how I knew about Octavio Prado.”
“You didn’t tell Nick that, either.”
She shook her head. “I asked where he’s planning to sleep. ‘I’ll figure it out when I get there.’ I said, ‘There’s a bridge by the town sign. Meet me there tomorrow. Eight a.m.’ ”
In the morning he was waiting for her.
She led him through the maze, pedaling as slow as humanly possible. Nick told her he’d spent the night in the woods. He was talkative and animated, stopping repeatedly to take pictures of the abandoned lots.
“It’s just like he described,” he said.
“Who?” she asked.
“Prado. He calls it ‘purgatory by the sea.’ ”
A cottage stood at 6 Anemone Lane. Shasta opened the front door and waved him inside.
Bare, dusty rooms.
“Who lives here?” Nick asked.
“No one.”
From her satchel she took three sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. His eyes went wide. He tore open the paper and ate greedily, stuffing halves into his mouth and licking peanut butter from his fingers. When he was done he exhaled with contentment.
“Better?” she asked.
“Much. Thanks.”
On the kitchenette counter she laid out the remaining half loaf, the peanut butter, three cans of sardines, dried apricots, bottled water, and toilet paper. The faucets didn’t work, but there was an outhouse.
She asked what else he needed.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Sorry there’s no bed.”
“It’s great. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to keep saying that,” she said.
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “ ’Cause you keep doing nice things for me.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Can I see it again?”
No need to specify what “it” was.
They sat facing each other on the splintery floor. Nick dug out the manuscript and found the drawing for her.
Shasta had lain awake most of the night, picturing the woman and comparing her with Leonie. She hoped that a second viewing, in the cold light of day, would make plain her error. But the resemblance was impossible to deny. If anything it seemed stronger.
She brushed the surface of the paper. “You really don’t know her name?”
He shook his head.
“Why don’t you ask your dad?”
“He’s not around.”
“How do you know she’s a real person?”
“I just do.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.”
“But what if you are?”
“I’m not.”
“Okay, but,” she said, “this is stupid. What makes you so sure she’s here? What if she doesn’t want to talk to you?”
He leaned forward. Their knees touched. She thought he was going to kiss her but he took the drawing from her and held it next to her face.
She recoiled. “What are you — stop.”
She leapt up, began pacing in agitation. “Seriously. What’s your problem?”
She walked to the window. The glass was cloudy, the world beyond a copy of itself.
He started to speak, quietly, then building steam. Lake of the Moon. The links between Prado’s life and his own. The manuscript, hidden away, forgotten till he’d rescued it.
He took pages, presented his evidence: the first postmile, another by the highway exit for Swann’s Flat Road. The town was never named, but there was a hastily drawn map of the peninsula, along with a doodle of a swan. Nick was confident he was in the right place.
As for the title, Cathedral, he admitted that he didn’t know what it referred to.
“I do,” she said.
His mouth fell open.
She grabbed her satchel. “I’ll meet you at the bridge. Tomorrow morning at six.”
“We can’t go now?”
“It’s too far. You have to promise me you won’t leave the house before then. You have to stay inside. That’s the deal.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Promise,” she demanded.
He promised.
She rode straight to Maggie’s, found her working in the garden.
“Hello, my lovely.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“Can we go inside, please?”
Maggie’s expression turned serious. “Yes. Of course.”