Page 116 of That Reunited Feeling

I’ve now “walked” down numerous streets and can’t find anything I’m sure is exactly the right spot.

This is futile. And my eyes hurt. I knock back the contents of my glass.

“Oh, you’re still here.” Maggie’s a little startled to see me. She’s in a bathrobe and slippers and holding a bunch of envelopes. “You’re going into the village tomorrow, right?”

“Yes. Thought I’d send some people in the office gift baskets from The Jam Session since they’ve been working extra to cover for me.”

The Jam Session is a little deli that makes its own line of jam, honey, and other preserves. And obviously the name will give the music obsessives a chuckle.

“Great. While you’re there, would you mind stopping at the post office?” She holds up the envelopes. “This stuff needs stamps and mailing.”

“Of course.”

She drops them on the counter and yawns. “I’m turning in.” She squeezes my shoulder and gives me a good night kiss on my head, just like she did when Walker and I were the grieving kids who’d come to live with her and Jim.

“Night, Aunt Mags.”

I turn my attention back to the screen and move a little farther along the LA street. It’s probably completely pointless, but I’ve come too far to give up now.

“Oh,” Maggie says, stopping as she reaches the door. “One of them doesn’t need a stamp. It’s a redirect to Hannah.”

What?

My heart and stomach wobble, and my brain lights up with error codes.

“Night,” she calls back casually, blissfully unaware she’s just solved a mystery that was as confounding to me as the Bermuda Triangle.

I practically fling myself across the island and snatch up the pile of mail.

A tax thing.

Something for The Humane Society.

A padded mailer containing something she’s returning to an online gardening store.

And then there it is. The thing that should be accompanied by flashes of lightning, dramatic organ music, and a troupe of dancers—an envelope addressed to Hannah Hepburn care of this address, which Maggie has crossed out and replaced with a forwarding address in Los Angeles.

My heart pounds. There it is.

I drop my ass back onto the stool.

Maggie has had this information the whole time and I never thought to ask?

Could I be any more of a disorganized loser?

I stare at the address for a few seconds.

That’s where Hannah is. Probably right now.

I know where she is.

Then reality dawns.

Now that I know where she is, I have to do it.

This was all a great idea when it wasn’t possible, when trying to track her down was as difficult as finding the heavy metal singer who walked out on his tour to hide at a meditation retreat in the mountains of Bhutan.

But now this shit is real.

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