“That is accurate.”
She winced.
“I knew June.”
I stopped.
“You knew my mother?”
“I was ten when you were born.
Your mother used to sneak me chocolate-covered pretzels during foundation meetings.”
I had no idea what to say.
Mara reached into her pocket.
She handed me a photograph.
The edges were worn.
Four people stood beneath the Meridian marquee.
A much younger Eleanor Voss.
A teenage Harlan.
A little girl who was obviously Mara.
And my mother.
June.
My mother wore overalls.
Overalls.
I had never seen her wear overalls in my life.
She had paint across one cheek and was laughing at something outside the frame.
I touched the picture.
“She hated having her photograph taken.”
“She hated formal photographs,” Mara said.
“She loved bad ones.”
I laughed.
It came out wrong.
Too close to crying.
Harlan looked away.
Giving me privacy without leaving.
I appreciated that.
“What happened?”
