So many things began to take shape in my mind. I knew her husband was a chef, and now the pictures I had seen made sense. She and Katharine would work with one of Burt’s chef friends, and after the work was done, they would gather and eat together.
My Katy learned a new recipe from Mario today. Watching her work with him made my heart so happy—hearing her laughter and seeing that sadness disappear as she chopped and stirred. It was her marinara that they served at the wedding reception! Mario insisted it was better than his! Tasting it at dinner afterward, I had to agree.Tonight, my Katy wowed us all with her Beef Wellington. She worked for hours with Sam, and everything we had after the dinner was her creation. Burt would have adored her and been proud. I’m so proud.
A smile pulled at my lips. No wonder she was such a good cook. Professionals had trained her for years, given her one-on-one instruction in exchange for help. I flipped forward to another short entry.
I am taking Katy to the cottage next week! We can stay for free in exchange for some housekeeping duties at the resort. Her eyes lit up so bright when I told her!
Katharine had told me they didn’t have much money, and how Penny always made things that should be work seem fun. That remarkable woman used every trick she had to give Katharine things she couldn’t afford. She showed Katharine by working hard, there was a reward. Like a dinner out for waiting tables, or making beds at a resort, it was a break from the city and memories to share. I looked at the journals scattered around the floor. I knew they held more stories about Penny and her life. I wanted to read them all, but they would have to wait for another time. I had to concentrate on her life with Katharine and hope they gave me a clue.
My Katy loves the beach. She sits for hours, sketching, watching, so at peace. I worry she is alone too much, but she insists this is where she feels happiest. No sounds of the city, not surrounded by people. I must figure out how to bring her back.I spoke with Scott and we can come back mid-September. I’ll have to take Katy out of school—but I know she’ll catch up fast—she is so smart. The resort isn’t as busy then, the weather is still nice, and he has the cottage free. I will surprise her with the news on her birthday before we leave.
So the entries continued. Posts about the cottage, the beach, Katharine cooking, growing up—a great deal of information, yet not what I needed. I was tempted to call Graham, tell him I thought she was at a cottage, and beg him for the name, yet I expected he would tell me to keep looking.
I shut the book, rubbing my eyes. I had been reading for over eight hours, only moving to flick on the light when clouds began to cover the sun and get some coffee. The one clue I had was the cottage Penny had mentioned going to every year and the owner’s first name: Scott. Unfortunately, there was no last name, or even better, the name of the town or resort where the cottage was located. Reaching down, I grabbed the photo albums that held the pictures of Katharine and their life. I scanned the beach pictures, taking them from the album, convinced they were the same beach but taken on different trips. I couldn’t find any clue in the pictures, and nothing written on the backs to help me. With a heavy sigh, I sagged back on the chaise, staring around the room. For the first time, I wished for some horrid touristy souvenir with the name of a town emblazoned across the front to be on the shelf with her books. Tilting my head to the side, I noticed something odd on the bottom shelf. The last two books had no wording on the spine. They were tall, slim books. I glanced down at the pile of journals scattered around the floor, then back at the bookcase. They were exactly like the worn journals I’d been reading.
I pushed off the chaise and grabbed the books. Katharine kept a journal, or at least she had. I glanced at the dates, flipping from the front to the last page. She had started about a year after coming to live with Penny and these books had lasted her five years. Her journals weren’t as wordy as Penny’s. There were random thoughts, some longer passages, even a few postcards taped inside. They also contained sketches, small images of things she must have loved.
I sent up a small prayer as I opened the first book. I needed a clue, a name, something to help me find her.