Page 79 of My Heart Will Find You

The train started and he walked beside it. “I’ll be there soon.” As the train sped up, he stopped walking. Then he again did the blowing kiss.

Etta caught it and put it to her lips. She watched until he was out of sight, then she went into the train and sat down. “I will not cry. I will not cry,” she chanted to herself.

She sat there, looking out the window. The porter asked if he could get her anything. No, there was nothing she wanted. He told her that Max had paid him well to look after her so if there was anything she needed, he’d get it for her.

“I’d like to live in my dream forever,” she said.

“That’s what we all want.” Laughing, he left.

The first stop wasn’t far away. Etta was so forlorn that she didn’t look out the window until the train was ready to start again.

And that’s when she saw Henry. He was standing on the platform, and at his feet was the paraphernalia of an artist. There was a folded easel and a wooden box with a handle. It was stained with paint.

Etta had her nose almost to the glass, but when Henry looked toward the train, she fell back against the seat so he wouldn’t see her. She stayed there until the carriage was far down the tracks.

When the porter came by, she stopped him. “There was a man on the platform. I think maybe he’s an artist.”

“That’s Mr. Henry. He travels all over and paints things.” Etta looked at him, waiting for more.

“There’s a sad story about him. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but people say that when he was young he built a big house for his beautiful wife. But she died right away. They say Henry shut the door to the house and never went back. He’s traveled ever since.”

It was the story Max had told her. He’d met Henry, as had Alice.

“He painted a picture of my wife,” the porter said.

“I’d like to see it sometime.”

“I’m never without it.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his watch, and opened it. Inside was a miniature of a very pretty woman.

When Etta saw it, she thought her heart might stop. She’d seen the picture in one of the books Henry had written. It hadn’t been a photo of an old painting, but something created for the book. Who illustrated them? She’d never read the credits. Her focus had been on Henry as the author. She looked at the porter. “What’s his full name?”

“Henry Fredericks.”

Etta just nodded. H. F. Logan. Henry Fredericks Logan. “Thank you for showing me the picture. Your wife is lovely.”

“Married twenty-one years, three girls,” he said proudly. There was a noise at the other end of the carriage. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Yes, of course.”

As Etta watched the country outside pass by, she felt a deep loneliness. As she’d ever known anything in her life, she knew it was over. Rescuing a legendary man, then seeing Henry. Those two things were what really mattered. And now they were finished.

When she and Max left home and everyone lined up to tell her goodbye, she’d had a premonition that she’d never see them again. All the friends she’d made, people she’d come to love. They would never return to her.

She leaned against the window. It was growing dark outside. “Max,” she whispered. “Please come back to me.”

She fought sleep as long as she could, but it overwhelmed her. Suddenly, she knew she was in Henry’s house. The dream was over.

15

When Etta woke, she had no doubt of where she was, and she didn’t hesitate in opening her eyes. The first thing she saw was a buffalo printed on the curtains in Ben’s room.

In her arms was the lace snug she’d worn at her wedding. It was yellowed and smelled musty.

Her impulse was to curl into a ball and cry. All the people she’d come to love were gone. Or maybe they’d never even existed. Whichever, none of them were with her now. Worse, she’d probably never see them again.

With great effort, she swallowed the lump in her throat, then swung around and put her feet on the floor. She had on jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. It’s what she’d been wearing the night she returned to Max for the second time. Since there was no dear Esmeralda to undress and redress her, Etta wasn’t in her nightclothes.

As she sat there, looking about the room, she tried to think of what Alicia would tell her about dealing with how she was feeling. She’d say that right now, Etta had a choice of behavior. She could let misery and unhappiness overtake her. She could stay in bed and cry over what she couldn’t have.

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