September 2010, a Saturday evening at the cusp of fall. The dogwood leaves are burning; the light is changing, the sun slanting at a sharper angle. The air is dry. Soggy summer is over. Soon the nights will be crisp, the stars brilliant. Whatever is ripe will be harvested or lost.
Addie loves and dreads this time of year — the dying beauty of the trees, the way the world begins its slow surrender to winter. September is the anniversary of her own surrender.
Tonight she is home early, cooking dinner — a curry, William’s favorite, with cauliflower and chickpeas. A giant stew, enough to feed them until they are sick of curry. The rice is in the cooker. She pours herself a glass of Riesling. The finches are quiet.
Outside, there is a faint tinkling. Wind chimes or doorbell? She isn’t expecting company. She waits. The sound comes again — not tentative this time. A clean, clear slice of sound, announcing someone. The exact sound the old blacksmith must have heard in his mind’s ear as he was working.
The finches flutter and chirp. Who-can-it be be be?
“Hold your tiny horses,” she tells them.
As always when she hears the bell, she moves with a deliberate, practiced calm. She sets down her wineglass, turns the curry to a low simmer, walks through the house to the front door—I have hopes but no expectations—and opens it.
Acknowledgments
Emma Patterson, you are my dream agent. Thanks for your belief, intelligence, enthusiasm, and friendship. Guy Intoci, I could not have made up a more perfect editor. Dan Wickett, Steven Gillis, Steven Seighman, and everyone at Dzanc Books, thanks for your vision and commitment. Caitlin Hamilton Summie, thanks for your grace in helping to usher this book into the world.
For their generous support, I thank the North Carolina Arts Council, Vermont Studio Center, the Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities, and — my home away from home — the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where much of this book was written.
Thanks to my mother, Martha Church, who taught me to love books, and to my late father, Max Church, from whom I inherited the habit of storytelling. Thanks to my brother and sister, Andy Church and Marty Hargrave; my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, Joni Walser and Wendell Hargrave; and my niece, Morgan Hargrave, for their unfailing love and help. To Marty, particular thanks for our discussions about childbirth.
Thanks to my high school English teacher and champion, the late Mildred Ann Raper, who opened the world to me. Thanks to Laurel Goldman for pressing me to write this novel, and to the brilliant teachers who guided me: Patricia Henley, Angela Davis-Gardner, and Jill McCorkle.
Thanks to Joyce Allen, Paula Blackwell, Mia Bray, Nora Gaskin, Nell Joslin, Nancy Peacock, and Pat Walker, whose critiques were invaluable. Thanks also to Laura Herbst and Ruth Moose for inspiration and encouragement.
Thanks to my comrades Elizabeth Kuniholm, Henry Temple, Melissa Hill, Wade Smith, and Robert Zaytoun for making it possible for me to balance my writing practice with my law practice.
Thanks to Edith Votta of the Children’s Home Society for educating me on adoption procedures in North Carolina; to David Baumann of Reno for introducing me to the legend of the water babies; to muralist Clark Hipolito; to astrologer Randy Wasserstrom; to my brother-in-law and fire expert Bob Rodriguez; and to Patti Huopana, formerly of Nice Price Books in Raleigh.
Thanks to the birth parents who trusted me with their stories: Megan K., Richard K., and Cathy P.
My friends have sustained me in ways large and small. To all of you, my affection and abiding thanks.
For extraordinary acts of kindness with respect to this book, thanks to Bill Verner, Elaine Neil Orr, Anna Jean Mayhew, and Dr. Lucy Daniels.
Last and most, my love and thanks to Anthony Ulinski. You are my reward for everything.