ICK WAS ALREADY drinking coffee and staring out the window of the little hotel restaurant when I came in from walking Coco the next morning. My dog jumped up on the seat next to him and stole a slice of bacon, and I ruffled his hair before sitting down.

“Hey,” he said, looking a little confused at the gesture of affection.

“Hey yourself,” I answered. “Sleep okay?”

“Not really,” he said. “I lay awake for hours, horny as a teenage boy.”

“Duly noted,” I said. “So. Are you bound and determined to get to Minneapolis today, Nick?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Feel like a little detour?”

He must’ve sensed something was up, because he gave me a long, speculative look, as if reading my soul. (Wow. Corny. Sorry.) “Where would you like to go?”

“Aberdeen, South Dakota. Maybe three, four hours from here. If I drive, that is.”

“And what’s in Aberdeen?”

“You mean in addition to the Sitting Bull monument?” I asked, having spent some time on Google a few hours ago. I took a sip of his coffee, which he noted with a wry look.

“Yes. In addition to that.”

“My mother.”

Saying those two words out loud…it took something out of me, because suddenly, I couldn’t keep up the cute banter and my hands were shaking, Nick’s coffee sloshing over the rim. He took the cup from me and held both my hands in his, held them tight.

When he did speak, it was brief. “Ready when you are.”

MY THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY had fallen on a Saturday, but my parents and I headed to Boston on Friday. On a plane, oh, yes. The ferry only went to Woods Hole, whereupon we’d have to take a bus or drive our aging Toyota, which just didn’t fit the glamorous night my mother had planned.

She and I had spent weeks researching the very best restaurants in the city, comparing views, decor, street desirability, menus and wine lists…not that I’d be drinking of course, but just to assess the class of the place. Class was a very important noun to my mother. And so we’d come up with Les Étoiles. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “Harper, this is definitely our kind of place. Now we just have to clean up your father, and we’ll be all set.”

She let me stay home from school that day, and I was thrilled. My mother was my absolute favorite person and always had been. She was much younger than most mothers of kids my age; in some cases, almost a generation younger. And she was so beautiful! She’d been a model, of course, and never lost her love of looking fantastic. Still a size four, that glorious hair, those green eyes. My mother looked ten years younger than thirty-four and she knew it. She was a wonderful flirt, and all the fathers loved her, of course, discreetly checking out her ass or her boobs, which she showcased in low-cut tops and tight jeans or miniskirts. She had flair, she had style, and she was fun. I was so proud to be hers, it was impossible to voice. The only real difference between us was that I was a really good student, and she hadn’t been. Otherwise, we were practically twins.

When my schoolmates voiced their hatred, disgust, despair over their mothers, I listened in disbelief and horror. Seriously? They weren’t allowed to see Pretty Woman? Why? So what if the main character was a ho? They still had bedtimes? Heck, my mother let me stay up as late as I wanted, and we’d watch TV and eat junk food and do each other’s nails. Their mothers didn’t let them wear makeup? Huh. Imagine that.

My mother wasn’t like that. She was miles cooler than those other, frumpy, aging women with short bobs held back by pink plaid hairbands or, even worse, those “I give up” types who carried fifty extra pounds, had gray roots and wore baggy, sagging jeans and voluminous sweatshirts. Yawn. No,Linda—I’d been calling her that since I was nine—Linda was special. She taught me how to dress, was always coming home with classy little outfits…no Madonna-style fishnets for me, uh-uh. Linda and I had class. Though we were far from rich, we looked rich, and being mistaken for summer people was a special point of pride for my mother. She coached me on how to diss boys and then make them like me, how to flirt, how to be popular and powerful with both genders. And God knew, she taught me how to make the most of my good looks because, “let’s face it, Harper. We’re knockouts.” As other girls my age sulked through adolescence, I stood out. Prettier. More confident. Better dressed. More fun. All because of my mother, who taught me everything she knew.

And so, the night before my thirteenth birthday, I came downstairs in my strapless blue minidress and three-inch pumps, smoky eyes and just a touch of clear gloss to my lips. My hair was Grecian tonight, loose curls piled on my head to better show my long, graceful neck. My father choked on the beer he was sipping.

“Linda!” he barked, turning away from me. “She’s thirteen, for God’s sake!”

My mother came out of the bedroom. “And she’s gorgeous! Look at you, Harper! Oh, my God! We look like sisters!” It was true. She wore a silver dress with pearl jewelry, killer pumps encrusted with faux pearls. Her makeup focused on her red, red lips—so daring, so Hollywood.

“It’s a little…sophisticated, don’t you think, Lin?” my father tried again. “She looks…twenty.”

“Did you hear that? Your father thinks you look twenty! And you do! You should order a martini tonight, just to see what the waiter says,” Mom said, adjusting my necklace. “Linda!”

“Jimmy, I wouldn’t let her drink one,” my mother sighed, rolling her own beautifully made-up eyes. “Maybe just a tiny sip,” she added in a low voice, winking at me. I grinned in happy conspiracy against dopey old Dad. Sweet but…you know. So provincial.

Dad was quiet all the way to the airport and during the short flight to Boston. Linda and I ignored him, cooing and clutching hands as our cab neared the restaurant. “Okay, we’re here. Be cool, and Jimmy, try not to act like a bumpkin.” Linda and I giggled, united as always against my dad, though I did give him a pat on the cheek.

Looking back on that night, I would see things differently. My father, a general contractor, made a decent living out on the island, but we weren’t wealthy by any stretch. Spending all that money—the designer dresses bought at full price (“We deserve it,” Linda had said), the shoes, the jewelry, the mani-pedis at the uberluxe day spa, the cab to and from the airport, the flight, and my God, the meal…it probably cost him more than a month’s pay. Quite possibly more than two months’ pay.

But on that night, it was all about Linda and me. We acted blasé as we got out of the taxi, though secretly both of us were darting looks to take it all in…the sleek decor, the legion of restaurant staff—the captain, the waiters, the busboys, the sommelier—the soft clink of crystal and murmur of voices. And yes, heads turned as our party of three was led through the restaurant to the best table in the place, up on the second level, overlooking the rest of the diners. We were a gorgeous family, it couldn’t be denied.

“Too bad we couldn’t afford New York,” Linda said as we sat down. “Better yet, L.A. Harper, you’d be a star right this minute if we lived in L.A.” She shook out her napkin with authority. After all, she’d grown up in California. She knew about these things.

We ordered drinks…tonic and lime for me, which tasted weird but which my mother had told me would look way cooler than a Shirley Temple or ginger ale. Dad had a Sam Adams, causing Linda to sigh patiently before ordering a grapefruit martini, dry, for herself.

Then Dad looked at the menu and tried not to blanch, but holy crap, the prices! Forty-five dollars for a piece of fish? Seriously? Fifteen dollars for a salad?

“Order whatever you want, Harper,” Linda said, gazing blandly at the menu. “It’s your special night. Mine too, since I did all the work.” She gave me a wink and proceeded to order a lobster and avocado appetizer, a caesar salad and filet mignon. She always could eat. Never needed to diet.

Dinner was…well, it was fine. The truth was, my feet hurt in my new shoes, and I was kind of cold in my strapless gown. Food-wise, I’d have secretly preferred Sharky’s Super Nachos back on the island. But I pretended it was the best meal of my life as my mother regaled Dad and me with stories of her life in California, making us laugh, charming us with her tinkling laugh, even flirting with my father, laying her hand on his arm and talking in her animated, talk-show host way.

And that part…that part was wonderful.

My parents had a rocky marriage. I knew that. Linda spent too much, didn’t do a lot around the house, and Dad was often frustrated. Sometimes, late at night, I heard them arguing, Dad’s voice loud, Linda’s defiant. But Linda wasn’t like other mothers, or other wives, and surely he could see that. She was special, more fun, more lively, more envied. Dad’s appreciation for her was far less than mine, but on this night, we were really happy. We were having a ball. Even in this beautiful city, even at this very fine restaurant, we were clearly the people to be.

We ordered dessert (no candle on my cheesecake, it would be so gauche) and were winding down when a man approached us.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I take a minute of your time?” he asked. He had graying blond hair, a wicked expensive-looking suit, and he took my mother’s hand the way Lancelot took Guinevere’s.

He introduced himself, sat between my parents in the unoccupied chair at our table. His name was Marcus something, and he was from New York. He worked for Elite Modeling Agency.

At the name of the agency, my mother’s eyes got the slightest bit wider. Her perfect lips parted, and her eyes darted to my dad, who already looked thunderous.

“Of course we’ve heard of Elite, Marcus,” Linda said, tilting her head a bit. “Who hasn’t?”

The man smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. James, your daughter is a very lovely young woman,” he said, turning to me. “How old are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m thirteen. Well, tomorrow, I will be. It’s my birthday,” I said.

“You’ll be thirteen tomorrow?” he said.

“That’s right,” I answered. I could tell it was a good answer, because he gave an approving nod.

“How tall are you, Harper?”

“Five seven and a half. Still growing, I think.” I smiled, and he smiled back.

“I don’t think I want my daughter modeling,” my father said, his familiar frown lowering.

My mouth opened, and I glanced at my mother for solidarity. Surely, we weren’t going to let a chance like this pass us by, were we? Hadn’t my own mother taught me her runway walk? Modeling…for Elite? This would be a dream come true! My friends at school would die! Linda and I would travel all over the world, and I’d—

“Well, before you make a decision, consider this. Some of our younger models have put themselves through college, just working part-time,” Marcus said smoothly. “Of course we’d like some pictures taken. At our cost. We’d fly you all down to the city for a day or two, take you out for dinner, get you some tickets to a show and see what the pictures say.”

Despite the fact that I was pretending to be terribly sophisticated, I jumped a little in my seat. Was he kidding me? Come on! This was the best birthday ever!

“I can see you’re having a special dinner, and I don’t want to take any more of your time,” Marcus said. “But this is my job, and I have an eye for these things.” He gave me a little wink. “I’m in town with Christy Turlington. Do you know who that is?” Of course I knew who Christy Turlington was! The Calvin Klein model? We must’ve had at least ten magazines back home that were littered with pictures of Christy Turlington!

“I think you could have a very bright future, Harper. Here’s my card. Please call my secretary whenever you’re ready.” He handed me the card, and it was the real deal, embossed, expensive. He shook my parents’ hands as well as mine, then left, smiling and pleasant. A minute later, a waiter came over with a round of drinks and broke the stunned silence that had fallen over our table.

“Courtesy of the gentleman who just left,” he said.

“Thanks,” Dad muttered.

“Can you believe it?” I squeaked.

“I can’t,” my mother answered, and it was only then that I noticed her face was white underneath her perfectly applied blush.

“Can I?” I asked. “Can I call him, Mom?”

“Harper! Show a little class,” my mother hissed. She took her drink and drained it. “We’ll discuss this later.”

We never did discuss it later.

For a long time, I thought it was because I called her “Mom,” not Linda. Or maybe it was because the guy had interrupted our dinner, and we’d been having such a nice time.

It took me years to realize that my mother thought he’d come over to talk to her.

The evening was over, the mood gone. Our trip back to Logan was quiet, and oddly enough, it was Dad who tried to fill the silence. When we got home, I got into my pajamas, washed off the makeup that had been applied with such care and went to bed, hoping that my mother would be in a better mood tomorrow, and that I could call Marcus’s secretary. But even then, the thought of going to the city was tainted.

The next day, I found a note on my pillow from my dad, saying happy birthday, he was finishing up a house in Oak Bluffs and he’d see me later. I went into my mother’s room to say good morning.

She was packing.

“I’m taking a little trip,” she said blithely. “Gotta have a little me time, if you know what I mean. Last night was fun, wasn’t it?”

Once—only once—my mother had gone away without me. To California to visit her family, leaving Dad and me alone for a week. She came back three days early and said only that her family was made up of idiots and she was right to get the hell out when she did. So a trip…“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Not really sure yet,” she answered, not looking at me. “But you know how it is, Harper. I wasn’t really meant for small-town life. Time to stretch a little, get away from your father and this provincial little island.”

“But…when will you come back, M—Linda?”

“M…Linda?” she asked, and her voice was cruel. “Well, I’ve been here for thirteen years and nine months. I guess I’ll come back if and when I want to.”

Ten girls had been invited over to our house this afternoon. Mom and I spent half of yesterday getting ready for that party before abandoning our efforts to prepare for our glamorous night in Boston. We were supposed to be going to the beach, then come back and have virgin margaritas. We’d dipped strawberries in chocolate, a whole tray of them.

She yanked open another drawer and began tossing clothes in, her movements sharp and angry.

“Can I come with you?” I asked, and I hardly recognized my voice, it was so small and scared.

Only then did she spare me a glance. “Not this time,” she said, looking away. “Not this time.”

Half an hour later, she was gone.

NICK LET ME DRIVE. It took three hours and fifteen minutes to get to the exit for downtown Aberdeen, and by then, my hands were stiff, sweaty and clenched around the wheel.

Back when we were dating, I had told Nick a very sketchy version of my mother’s desertion, kept a blasé and cool attitude about it, sort of the “Ah, well, shit happens” take on the event. But I’d told him in the dark, in the middle of the night, and when I was done, I made him promise never to bring it up, a promise he honored.

Today, though, on the ride to Aberdeen this day, he got the full version. He let me tell the whole story without interrupting once, and when I was finished, he’d simply taken my hand and held it.

And now we were here.

According to the report Dirk Kilpatrick, P.I., had given me, my mother had worked in Aberdeen for the past three years as a waitress at a place called Flopsy’s, home of the best milkshakes in the Midwest. The navigational system directed us to the restaurant, which turned out to be a rather cool-looking retro diner, chrome on the outside, a sign with Flopsy’s! in big green letters, an ice-cream cone outlined in neon jutting into the air.

Was she in there? My gorge rose at the thought, but my outward movements were smooth and controlled. I continued past Flopsy’s and pulled over onto a side street about half a block away, turned off the engine and just sat for a minute. The day was cool and cloudy, but I was sweating like a racehorse nonetheless. Pretty.

“Harper,” Nick said, turning to face me. “What exactly do you hope is going to happen here?” It was the first time he’d spoken in some time.

I took a deep breath. “Well,” I said, and my voice was strange, “I guess I just want to see her again. Ask her why she left and never…you know. Came back. Or wrote. Well, she did write. Those four postcards.”

Nick nodded. “Do you know what you want to say?”

“I guess just…‘Hi, Mom.’ Do you think I should say that? Or ‘Hi, Linda’? Or maybe something else?”

He shook his head. “You say whatever you want to, honey. Spit in her face if you want. Kick her in the shins.” He gave a smile that didn’t quite make it.

I nodded, but the truth was, my heart was kicking so fast and hard in my chest it felt as if I’d swallowed an enraged mule. When she’d first left, I’d spent night after night twisting in the chilly arms of insomnia, wondering what I’d done to ruin everything. Why hadn’t I been different? Or better? Or sweeter? Why hadn’t I seen her unhappiness and stopped it? Why was I so stupid? Later, I could see—intellectually, anyway—that it wasn’t my fault…I was just a kid, just thirteen years old. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but that knowledge seemed to float above my heart, whereas blame sliced effortlessly right to the center.

I had pictured our reunion thousands of times. When I was still young, I’d imagined the joy, the bliss on her face as she saw me, whereupon she’d explain everything—she was a Mafia princess, you see, and she’d had to testify against her family. Or she was a CIA agent, and staying with us would’ve endangered our very lives, but now it was safe, and we could be together again. As the years passed, the fantasy changed—she’d be the one to track me down (it was probably no coincidence that I’d stayed on Martha’s Vineyard). She’d be full of remorse and grief that so many years had passed without me, and she’d tell me what a huge mistake she’d made, that she’d thought of me every day, never stopped loving me, I was the one and only thing in her life that mattered.

And then, in recent years, I’d imagine learning that she was dead, and how I’d react to the phone call that told me the news. How broken I’d be at all that would never happen now. I guess that’s what made me ask Dirk to track her down.

Now that the moment was finally upon me, I wasn’t sure what to do.

Nick squeezed my hand. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“That’d be great,” I whispered. “What about Coco?” I asked, suddenly panicked. “What if they don’t let dogs in?”

“Why don’t we just leave her in the car?” he suggested. “She’ll be fine. We’ll leave the windows open a few inches. It won’t get too hot.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I’ll come back and check on her if you want.”

“Okay. Thanks, Nick.”

He gave me a little smile. “You ready?”

“Not really,” I said, but I opened the door anyway. My legs felt made of water, and Nick took my hand in his as we walked down the street, toward my past, toward my answers, toward her.

We came to the crosswalk. Right over there, across the street, my mother might be inside. Would she look different? What if she wasn’t scheduled for today? What if she’d quit? I swallowed.

“You sure about this, honey?” Nick asked.

I looked at him. “Yes. Yep. I’m sure.”

And then we crossed the street, and Nick opened the first set of doors into the restaurant foyer. I froze. “I don’t see her,” I said.

“Want to go in anyway?” he asked. I nodded, and he opened the second set of doors. A cash register. Green-and-white décor. A counter with stools. Booths.

There she was.

My mother.

Nick must’ve seen the resemblance, too, because I heard his quick inhalation. His hand found mine once more.

She wore black pants and a lime-green shirt. Her hair, once the same shade as mine, was redder now, and cut in a wedge style. She wore peach lipstick. White Keds. She was fifty-five years old, but she looked younger. She was still beautiful, and it was so strange, looking at her, seeing myself in twenty more years, I felt a flash of gratitude that I’d age well, and then a flood of longing so hard and fast my knees almost buckled and I couldn’t breathe.

“Welcome to Flopsy’s!” cried a voice, causing me to jump. “Can I help you?”

I turned to see a girl of about sixteen or so, her hair French-braided tightly back from her face.

“Table for two,” Nick said.

“Right this way!” she chirped, grabbing two menus.

My heart rolled and flopped in my chest as the girl led us to a table by the windows. She was so close now, but she was turning away, had she seen me, was she leaving?—no!—but it was okay, she wasn’t leaving, she was just talking to the cook.

“Two coffees,” Nick said.

“Your server will be right over,” the teenager said, practically skipping away.

“Harper,” Nick said in a low voice. “Harper, are you okay?” He reached across the table and took both my hands in his. “Honey?”

“I’m really glad you’re here,” I whispered.

And then the kitchen doors swung open, and my mother came over and took out her pad, groped in her apron for a pen. “Hello there,” she said, and her voice! My God, I hadn’t heard that voice in so long! It was still the same, and my heart flooded with love and hope.

“Hi,” I breathed. I drank in every detail…her still perfect makeup, her eyebrows, waxed thinner than they used to be, that mole on her cheek…I’d forgotten that mole! How could I have forgotten that mole?

“Can I get you folks a drink to start? We have the best milkshakes in the Midwest!”

Then she looked at me, right at me, and I waited for it—the shock, the recognition, the tears, the explanation, the utter and complete joy. The same love I felt right now.

“Or maybe just some coffee?” she said.

She was looking at me, but her expression remained the same. Pleasant. Querying. She glanced at Nick and smiled. “Anything to drink, folks?”

“Coffee will be fine,” someone answered. Oh. It was me.

“Coming up!” she said merrily. “We’ve got a tuna melt special today, and save room for some blueberry pie, because it just came out of the oven. Back in a sec!”

And then she was gone.

“Christ,” Nick breathed.

I didn’t say anything. My heart slowed and calmed…and seemed to freeze. Maybe it had stopped completely. But no, it was still pumping away. Right. I was fine. It didn’t matter. Then, realizing I hadn’t blinked in some time, I closed my eyes for a second.

“Oh, honey,” Nick said gently.

“Bye, Carrie, you have a great day, okay?” my mother called to someone. She came back to our table with two mugs, set them down and poured our coffee. “You folks decided what you want?” she asked.

Did she really not recognize me? But I was her baby…her only child. I was her little girl. And damn it to hell, I looked exactly like her.

“I’ll have the tuna melt,” I said, and my voice was normal.

“Same,” Nick said.

“Fries or cole slaw?” she asked. I hated cole slaw. I hated it. Didn’t she remember that?

“Fries for us both,” Nick answered.

“Coming up!” she said, scooping our menus from the table. She strode away, stopped to chat with someone at the counter, then disappeared into the kitchen once more.

“Harper, say something to her,” Nick said. He got out of his seat, slid around to my side and put his arm around me. “Tell her who you are! I can’t believe she doesn’t know.”

My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “No, it’s okay. If she doesn’t want…uh…” My brain was having trouble operating. “I think we should go,” I whispered.

“Honey, you deserve something from that woman,” he said fiercely. “Do you want me to say something? Tell her who you are?”

“No!” I hissed. “No, Nick! Let’s just get out of here, okay? Please, Nick? Take me somewhere else, please. Please.”

He hesitated, then nodded and reached for his wallet.

“No. Let me.” I yanked my purse open, grabbed my wallet and took out a hundred dollar bill, tucked it under the sugar bowl. “Let’s go.”

It didn’t feel like walking…it was more like floating, slowly. Would she stop me? Call my name? Grab my arm and pull me into her arms, kiss me, crying, apologizing?

Nope. Nope to all of the above. Nick opened the door for me, and I went outside.

If my mother even noticed, she didn’t say a word.