Page 19 of Knowing Amelia

Speechless, I grin at him. The next time I visit… Would there ever be a next time? And the hardwood—there’s a chance it’s still there. Which might mean Amelia’s secrets could be there too.

“Livy,” Dad calls, ending my trance. “Let’s go, honey.”

I nod for Dad’s sake but keep my eyes on Logan’s dimple. I slide my wrist from his grasp and slip my hand into his. Giving it a squeeze, more tingles chase their way over my skin. “Thank you, Logan.”

Ten

With my eyes on the passenger door mirror, I watch as Amelia’s house shrinks smaller in the distance, as her floorboards grow farther and farther away.

“I’m surprised the Heyborns still live here,” Dad says, grabbing my attention and catching me off guard. “Or at least that their son hasn’t fled.”

My mouth falls open. “Wait, you already knew Logan?”

“No,” he scoffs. “He’s barely older than you, Olivia. I knew his parents. I went to school with both of them. His mother grew up in the house right beside your grandmother’s. They were married before high school graduation. It didn’t surprise me they both ended up in Rendezvous, but I heard their only son was bright. Graduated with honors. I’m surprised he’s still here.”

Okay… so, I was surprised to find Logan still here too. But hearing that Dad knows about him, about Logan’s parents—that’s even more shocking. “Did he go to college?” I ask, ready to learn all I can about the boy next door.

“I don’t know.” Dad shrugs, eyes on the road. “What I know, I’ve told you. I’m not sure why I know that much. Amelia must have mentioned him. She was always fond of the kid.”

“She talked about him?”

“Once or twice.”

My throat tightens. She spoke of Logan to my dad, but no one in this town has any idea who I am. And sure, it’s not as if I’ve been bragging about my Wyoming grandmother to my friends. So, why does the fact make me feel so small?

“When did you last speak to her?” Did she ever ask about me or my siblings?

Pink blossoms in his cheeks and his brow furrows. He hasn’t answered, but I already regret asking. “Two years ago, on my birthday.”

I shut my gaping mouth. I refuse to comment or mention yesterday’s rocky events. I will honor my grandmother today and shove my judgments of Dad, Amelia, and even myself down deep.

Dad is all business in his navy suit, his pale hair slicked back. I study him as we drive to The Meeting Hall. He’s a good man. But I don’t always understand him—now more than ever.

We pull into a dirt parking lot, next to a large barn. This can’t be the right place. Sure, there isn’t a cow in sight. But a barn?

A woman walks by in a dark blue dress, a tissue in hand. I peer around to see others with their solemn strides and neat dark attire. That and the sign on the side of the barn that reads The Meeting Hall tells me we are in the right place.

Dirty and rustic feels odd for a funeral service. However, past the dirt lot and through the barn doors, the air turns floral. I close my eyes and inhale. Chairs line in neat rows with a black ribbon tied neatly to the back of the entire first row. Who did all this?

Rachel Lemonade, with her blonde bob and dark green dress, shuffles our way, answering my unspoken question. She pauses to direct two teenage boys, their arms full of flowers, then she’s marching toward us once more. “Jonathon!” She waves one hand high in the air. “Oh, Jonathon!”

Others peer over at us with Rachel’s display. It seems as if the entire town has shown up, and everyone knows everyone—except for us. No one but Rachel knows who we are.

“Hello, Ms. Lemonade. Everything looks lovely,” Dad says. Does he know she’s in charge? Or another good guess?

“Thank you.” Her wrinkles crease with her grin. Her eyes shine from recent tears. “I’ve got spaces for you, Earl, and Olivia right up here.” Rachel walks us to our ribbon seats right up front.

“Red’s not coming?” I whisper to Dad.

“No,” he says, no other explanation.

“Strange.” Who skips out on their mother’s funeral? Oh, right—Dad. He would have if not for me.

But if Grandma Isle had passed, Dad would have rearranged everything to be there. Mom’s mother, who we saw every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, and every summer. I have no doubt he would have made it work. But this is his own mother, and I had to guilt him into coming.

Dad takes one of our reserved seats. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch majors? You could go into law rather than medicine.”

I furrow my brow, not following.