Page 109 of Across Eternity

I blink back tears. “You want to go all the way to the states to see a house? We live in a city full of magnificent architecture.”

Her gaze drops down to the book as if she’s confused. “I...do,” she says. “I don’t know why. We’re just supposed to go.”

There’s something in the way she says those words—we’re just supposed to go—that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. There are moments when it seems as if she’s being directed by a force outside herself, and this is one of them. I’m terrified of the direction that force is sending her, even when I know I should yield to it.

I swallow and force a smile. “Then I guess I’d better start planning a trip.”

That night I tell Cecelia about Quinn’s request, searching her face. She knows where my life is headed, through the tidbits I shared going back to visit her as she grew up. “Quinn wants to go to Virginia,” I say. “We’re going to stay, aren’t we? Something happens there that convinces us to stay.”

She gives a small laugh. “No matter how many years you know me, you still try to get me to reveal your future.”

“My own personal palm reader,” I reply with a smile of my own, “but one who refuses to tell me anything of import.”

“When it matters, I’ll tell you,” she replies.

“So you’re saying this doesn’t matter?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think it probably matters most. But I already know you’re going to do the right thing.”

* * *

Two weeks later we are driving into the mountains of Virginia, heading to Monticello. It’s August, searingly hot, but Quinn wants the windows down and rides with her eyes glued to the landscape, quiet and intense. She reminds me of an animal in the wild—the way it goes alert the moment it senses something nearby.

She nods when I ask if she’s okay but doesn’t even look at me as she continues to stare, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

My heart beats harder, scared of what it is she’s sensing. Cecelia told me, once upon a time, that I wouldn’t change this future that lies ahead of me if I could, but I still long for the husband and children I left behind. I pray that future she’s referencing isn’t any sadder than it already is.

“There’s something—” Quinn says, suddenly, pointing at an exit. “I want to go there.”

It’s just a generic country road that appears to lead to nothing, and we’ve got a full agenda of gallery visits before we head to Pennsylvania to see my brother Steven and his wife. Exploring country roads in the middle of nowhere is not on the list.

“Honey, we’ll miss our tour if we stop now. Maybe we can stop on the way back to D.C.”

“Please,” she begs. There’s a desperate note to her voice I’ve never heard before.

Reluctantly, I turn off the highway, driving through a podunk town with no signs of life aside from a gas station that isn’t even open. But she is sitting up straight, as if sensing something spectacular up ahead, her gaze intent on the small houses we pass.

We continue on until we hit a different small town—the type with a Main Street and tall white houses from early in the century.

“Can you turn?” she asks, pointing up ahead, and when I do, we reach a quiet, well-heeled subdivision where the houses back to trees. “Here,” she whispers. “It’s here.”

There’s a certainty to her voice that brings goose bumps to the surface of my skin.

“There isn’t anything to see here, honey,” I tell her, pulling over to the curb. “These are private homes.”

Just then, two shirtless little boys about her age come running around the side of the house, chasing each other. Quinn watches them intently for a moment and then takes off her seat belt. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch, dumbfounded, as she climbs from the car and walks to them. She’s a quiet child, normally. Reserved. I’ve never seen her do anything like this before. The boys—twins, nearly identical but not quite—suddenly stop whatever they’re doing and stare as she approaches.

Through the open window, I hear her speak to them for the first time.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m going to be your neighbor.”

I open my mouth to correct her, and then...I don’t. There’s something happening here and I’m not at the heart of it—she and these two boys are.

They both stare at her for a moment and then one of them frowns. “Well, you can’t come in our treehouse,” he says. “No girls allowed.”

But the other one watches her, his head tilted as if considering what she’s said, weighing it, and then shrugs. “I’ll let you in,” he says.