Page 45 of Buried Roots

“Do it,” I say, smiling. “And thank you, Huck.”

After he disappears, I shoot Owen a puzzled look. “That’s really Mary Louise’s son?”

“Yeah. He’s a nice guy. I don’t know what happened. The apple fell far from the tree.”

“No kidding.”

Owen and I climb the ladder to the loft, and I can see why Lily loved this space. The air smells like hay and cedar, and the sky window has a view of the trees above the barn. There’s a small turquoise couch that looks like a reading nook with a bookshelf behind it. “So charming,” I say.

“No wonder Trinity sneaks up here.” Owen walks over to the couch and flips the cushions over.

We wander, taking in the scene. For some reason, Owen gets down on the floor. I’m buzzing with anticipation as I go through the bookshelf, and between copies of Wuthering Heights and The Grapes of Wrath, I find a decorated box and take it. “Owen.” I look to see that he’s lying stomach down, his arms sweeping under the couch.

He glances up at me like a cobra, then pulls his arms out. “No way.” He stands, brushing the dust bunnies off himself.

We rush to the couch and sit side by side. I run a finger over the gold bar that runs along the top of the box. It has the words “Lily Underwood” etched into it.

Owen has a glint of hope in his eyes. “You wanna open it?”

I wave a hand, my stomach flip-flopping. “No, you do it.” I hand it to him.

He carefully lifts the lid, and I blink as I take in what’s inside. Rings, bracelets, and earrings.

“Nothing much in here.” He takes out a simple wedding band and eyes it.

After he hands the ring to me, I place it back in the box, disappointed. But I’m not ready to give up yet. “Let’s keep looking.”

Owen and I are combing the place again when I see that behind the couch are hinges on the wall boards, signaling a door. “There’s an attic space here.”

He rushes over and helps me move the couch. When I put my hand in the space between the boards, there’s a cutout. Sure enough, the door opens with a tug. “Nice!”

“No way! Good job, Queens.”

“Thanks.”

We duck through the door and step inside, knocking away cobwebs as we go. In the corner sits a dusty aging trunk, leather with straps on it, and I gasp. “That has to have something in it.”

I brush off the dust, and this time, there’s no hesitation when I flip the latches before opening the lid. Peering inside, I cry out, “A wedding dress!” I pull it out to see that it’s definitely the one Lily was wearing in that photo, and it’s definitely from the sixties with the collared neckline, lace explosion, and poofy sleeves. “It’s so adorably hideous.”

Owen winces. “I’m not sure about the adorable part.” He shuffles through the trunk, pulling out memorabilia, more photos of Lily and Bo, and other old photos that look like them with their families.

But that’s not what makes my heart stop beating in my chest.

With unsteady hands, I reach in and take out a photo that’s stuck to the bottom. It’s a picture of a young woman who has a frightening resemblance to me—long auburn hair, freckled skin, and the same thin lips. But bigger than that, she has my bright green eyes.

Owen studies the picture. “Wow, she looks like you.”

“She does,” I whisper, flipping over the photo. Scribbled on the back, it says, “Annie, 1996.” I stare at it, uttering, “She has the rare combination of red hair and green eyes like me. Could this be my mother?”

“Sure looks like it.”

“And her photo is here—in Bo and Lily’s house.” My words barely eke out as my eyes stay glued to the photo. “Annie,” I whisper, still processing the name of a woman who looks just like me. Maybe I finally know a piece of my lost history. Adrenaline’s pumping through me as I stare at the photo. I can feel it in my gut:This is my mom.

Giddy, I spin around, so thankful for Owen, I grab him and kiss him. Pulling away, I utter, “Thank you. For talking to your mom. But also, for being here.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Owen keeps showing up for me, something I didn’t know just how much I needed until now. I move my hand down to Owen’s and take it. His skin is warm, and I feel the roughness of his palm against mine. His fingers are long, but his grip is gentle.

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