Now she turned back to her book. She’d read it in school last year, and though her classmates had found it boring, Lucy was riveted by the political drama, pulled right out of Roman history. But it was different, somehow, to be reading it here, where the actual events had taken place all those hundreds of thousands of years ago. That was the thing about books, she was realizing; they could take you somewhere else entirely, it was true. But it wasn’t the same thing as actually going there yourself.
A few minutes later, she was interrupted again, and she looked up, her face already set with annoyance. But she was surprised to find an old man this time, stooped and wrinkled, with a smile that revealed only a few remaining teeth.
“One for you, bellissima?” he said, opening a case full of simple white cards, each with a hand-sketched outline of a famous Roman site: the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain, St. Peter’s Basilica. Even the very steps where Lucy now sat.
When she shook her head, the man frowned, shoving the case forward a bit more. “For your amore, perhaps?” he asked, raising his gray eyebrows, but Lucy only shook her head again.
“Sorry, grazie,” she mumbled, and with a shrug, he snapped the case shut and then shambled off to find the next potential customer.
For a long moment, Lucy just sat there, looking out over the busy square, the man’s drawings still etched in her mind. Then she flipped open her book again.
They were beautiful.
But she had nowhere to send them.
22
In Tacoma, Owen waited.
He’d been the one driving when the car had started making an awful thumping sound, metallic and insistent. His dad had drifted off to sleep about an hour earlier, but he bolted awake at the noise, looking around in bewilderment.
“Pull off,” he’d croaked, pointing to the side of the highway, where there was a short gravel drive with a lookout point where tourists could take photos of Mount Rainier, the hulking rock of a mountain that dominated the horizon.
Owen had turned the wheel and was aiming in that direction when the car let out one last dying groan, rolling to a stop with the back half still on the highway. They’d had to push it the rest of the way themselves, the other cars honking as they flew by.
Now they sat together on the hood as they waited for the tow truck, sharing a bag of pretzels and looking out at the purple mountain, which was crowned in snow.
“What happens if it’s no good anymore?” Owen asked, drumming his fingers against the red paint, which was covered in a layer of dirt and grime.
“It’ll be good for something.”
Owen laughed. “That’s optimistic of you.”
“It’s put in a lot of good miles,” Dad said with a smile. “If we have to scrap it, we’ll figure something out.”
“This would be a great time to get a call about the house.”
Now it was Dad’s turn to laugh. He felt the pocket of his jeans for the outline of his phone, then gave it a little pat. “I’m sure it’ll be any minute now.”
“Asking price at least.”
Dad nodded. “At least.”
“And then we’ll buy a huge place in Seattle,” Owen said. “Maybe something on the water.”
“Oh yeah,” Dad agreed. “With at least four bedrooms.”
“Bartleby can even have his own.”
“He can have his own wing, if he wants.”
“He’d probably prefer not to,” Owen pointed out, and Dad gave a solemn nod. They were quiet for a little while. The wind rustled the trees, bringing with it the scent of pine, and a flock of birds wheeled overhead. Owen watched as they pumped their wings, moving as one, a constellation of black dots in an otherwise uninterrupted sky. As they shifted direction, he saw that one had fallen behind, and he tracked it with his eyes for a long time. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Dad spoke again.
“You know it’ll be okay, right?” he said, and Owen nodded, still watching the bird.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
23
In London, Lucy cried.
There was absolutely nothing to cry about—at least not yet. They’d only just arrived. She hadn’t seen the neighborhood or her school. She hadn’t even seen the inside of the house. But still, the moment the cab had pulled up to the bright yellow door of the little brick building, which was tucked away on a nearly hidden lane, she found herself blinking back tears.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asked once the cab had pulled away, as the three of them stood on the doorstep with their suitcases. The rest of their things had been shipped down while they were in Italy and would be waiting for them inside.
“She misses Scotland,” Mom said, throwing him a look.
“We were barely there,” he said, fumbling with the keys. “If anything, she probably misses New York.”
“You can be homesick for two places at once,” Mom said, sounding exasperated, but then the key finally turned, and Dad shouldered open the yellow door, and the two of them hurried inside, half-giddy with the excitement of another new home and another new start in another new place. And not just any place, but London: which, to them, had always been home.
Lucy, however, lingered on the stoop for another minute, her eyes still damp, wondering which one was true. Maybe she was homesick for New York, or maybe it was Edinburgh. Possibly it was even both.
Or maybe—maybe—it wasn’t a place at all.
24
In Seattle, Owen laughed.
When he saw the place where they’d soon be living, he couldn’t help it. It was a little house on the edge of the city, but it looked more like a garden shed or a small barn, with weathered red wood and sagging windows.
“It’s a fixer-upper,” Dad said, beaming at it. There was no way to tamp down his enthusiasm. He’d gotten the job he’d come here for; he’d be part of a crew that was renovating an enormous old warehouse building downtown, turning it into hundreds of apartments at affordable prices. After using the last of their cash to fix the car, they’d spent two nights using it as a bed, sleeping in the parking lot of a Starbucks with the seats reclined. But now he’d gotten an advance on his first paycheck, and it turned out one of the guys on the crew was looking to rent this place out, which meant they’d finally have a house again. Or at least something resembling one.
“It’ll be fun,” Dad said, thumping Owen on the back. “We’ll make it our own.”
There was a small patch of lawn and a few scattered trees, a back garden and a narrow front porch, all of it huddled around the tiny box of a house. As he stood gazing up at it, Owen had the distinct feeling that whether he realized it or not, this was exactly what his father had been looking for all this time. After so many months of flight, it felt like they’d finally landed.