Page 50 of Memories of the Lost

He touched her hand. One of the things that made them friends was being able to make space for the weird parental baggage they each carried. His very religious single mother was 100 percent sure he would burn in hell for being gay, but she wrote him letters every week and wanted him home at holidays. Tillie’s mother had been utterly devoted and supportive, but she wouldn’t travel, ever, and she had what she called her “fits,” periods when she didn’t seem to be completely in contact with this world.

Trees along the road were glazed with green, and they passed a field with a pair of frolicking lambs. Tillie felt a whisper of recognition, a flash of déjà vu before it evaporated. The music on the stereo was very mellow jazz that unwound her nerves, and she let the tension go.

Jon said, “By the way, did you know your boy is a rock star?”

“My boy?” She echoed. “You mean Liam? He’s a meditation teacher.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Arock starmeditation leader. Google him.”

She frowned, thinking of when she’d asked permission to paint him, and he had been unwilling or unable to give it. He’d also requested that they keep their connection separate from his work. “I don’t want to. It’s not like he’s a serial killer or something.”

“You really haven’t googled him?” Jon looked askance. “Who just goes in uninformed these days? And whywouldyou?”

She didn’t want to admit that he’d asked her not to. That was what someone would say when they had something to hide, and it suddenly made her feel like the star of a bad horror movie, trusting where she should not.

And yet . . .

She thought of his gentleness when she was sick with her migraine, the way he’d come with her to her mom’s farm. Tentatively, she offered, “I just feel like there’s something here. With us.”

He looked at her, then back to the road. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” But she did. “It’s like I’ve been waiting for him. Like all roads lead here. To him.”

“I love that you’re feeling that, sweetheart. I do.”

“But?”

He shook his head. “You know the buts. I’m gonna respect you enough to trust you. If you trust him, I trust him.”

“Thank you.”

“But google him anyway. Right now.”

“No! I don’t want to. It might change things. It might change how I see him.” She plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I have been planning a painting of him, but when I asked him to sign a model waiver, he said he couldn’t without asking his businesspeople.”

“Yeah. Not surprising.”

Her curiosity was killing her now. “How famous?”

“The app is Quiet. It has over a million reviews.”

“Huh.” She’d heard of it. “Does he lead the meditations? Because you have to admit, he has a great voice.”

“Yes, on both counts. He also has books. Think Brené Brown famous.”

Her stomach flipped. “No,” she protested. “I’ve been with him in public. People don’t recognize him walking down the street.”

“Well, it’s a pretty specific group of people, right?”

She covered her ears. “Don’t say any more. I don’t want to know.”

“Okay.” The word was layered with a sense ofYou’re being ridiculous, but Tillie ignored him.

When they got to the village, he said, “Where to?”

She drew a blank. It wasn’t like her mother had a ton of friends. “She used to spend a lot of time at the quilt store with Calla. Not thatthey were exactly friends, but she’s been around as long as I can remember. Maybe she’ll remember something.”

“As good a place to start as any.”