Chapter i
Blythe House
Grove Hollow, New York
October 13, 1985
My eyes wander from the monotonous lines on the highway to the ladybug scaling up the door lock. I roll down the car window and offer the tiny bug a chance to break free—something I long for myself, an opportunity to escape this dreadful situation.
“Goodbye, little bugger,” I whisper, and my grandfather’s playful voice echoes in my mind. Those were the same last words he said to me.
We’ll catch up tomorrow, I’d promised him as I raced out the door to run a simple errand, unaware that fate had other plans.
Time’s cruel, fickle nature deceives us into believing it is limitless and abundant. We fail to appreciate the time we’re given, unaware of how little remains. But the grim reality is that death always looms on the horizon, waiting to claim us. It’s unavoidable that the ones we love will someday depart to whatever unknown lies ahead, leaving behind a painful emptiness. With each passing day, the echoes of their presence slowly fade away until the sounds of their footsteps and the distinct tones of their voices become distant and forgotten. The memory of their physical presence in a room with us dissipates, reminding us only of their absence.
They say time heals all wounds, except it doesn’t feel that way. It’s been seven days, and the raw, aching loss of my grandfather still hovers over me like a dark cloud. I’m forced to learn to adapt to it, but how can anyone coexist with the idea that you’ll never see your loved one again? Rather than confronting my hollow thoughts and emotions, I opt to suppress them, hoping that each day will pass without being tormented by the thought of losing him. Finding solace in my state of denial seems to be the best course of action.
As the lump in my throat burns, I push back tears to prevent the floodgates from bursting open. A tear escapes, and I let the gentle breeze from the rolled-down window dry it away. As the scent wafts in, it brings memories of Oregon’s woodland fragrance—a combination of earthy tones and tree oils. The familiar aroma fails to stir up any feeling of homecoming within me. I doubt I will ever feel that sense of home again.
I steal a glance at Toby in the back of the station wagon, my runt of an English sheepdog. He is lost in a deep slumber with a faint smile, appreciating the warm sunbeams that seep in through the open window. The exit sign for Albany, New York, approaches on the right.
Ronald, my social worker, takes another noisy sip of Diet Coke—his third can since our departure from Portland International Airport. The sound grates on my nerves, leaving me yearning for some peace and quiet.
“How much longer?” I ask.
Ronald turns down the radio, which is playing “Girls on Film” by Duran Duran. From the middle row, I watch him grab the crinkled map on the passenger’s seat.
“Well, Jade”—he inhales—“if my map is correct, which I hope it is, we take the next exit. Then it’s only a few miles until we reach Grove Hollow.”
I let out a sigh of relief. I’m exhausted from the constant moving and planning. It’s surreal to have left my grandfather’s sea shack only a few days ago. Now I am traveling through New York with a couple of suitcases, my treasured collection of classic literature, and my dog.
With my grandfather gone, Toby is all I have left that connects me to him. My grandfather gifted him to me last year on my seventeenth birthday. He had a peculiar way of approaching surprises. I recall him smoking a cigar and reading the paper at our kitchen’s Formica table, just like any normal morning. I didn’t notice Toby initially; I assumed he was a skinned animal rug from my grandfather’s hunting trip. As I grabbed some toast and bacon, a large fluffy dog pounced on me and swiped my food.
“So, you’ve never met your grandmother?” Ronald asks.
“My great-aunt, actually. My grandfather’s twin sister,” I say, pulling my long hair back with a red ribbon. “And no, I haven’t. I guess she and my grandfather weren’t very close. I didn’t even know she existed until a few days ago.”
“Gotta love family drama, am I right?”
I snort out a fake laugh. Unlike my classmates in Oregon, I didn’t have siblings to fight with growing up. It was just my grandfather and me for as long as I can remember. After my parents’ accident, just a few weeks before my third birthday, my grandfather became my family—my whole family. He was a very private sort of man, so family drama isn’t something I’m familiar with.
Ronald switches the radio station. “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks is playing. I see his finger on the search button, and I stop him from changing it.
“I like this song. Can we keep it at this station?”
“You got it,” he says. “So, this will be a real adventure for you, then. You must be so excited.”
I continue to gaze out the window. “Yeah, a little.”
The scene before me resembles a classic English town from a Charles Dickens novel. As the vintage lampposts light up, the cobblestone sidewalks and old storefronts come to life. Even though the sun is setting, the town is bustling with activity. Intrigued by the quaint shops, I poke my head out the window to take a closer look. There’s a long banner stretching from one side of the road to the other, decorating Grove Hollow’s Main Street. The big red letters spell out the details of the upcoming Homecoming rugby match:
Saturday, October 19, 7:00 p.m.Ronald stops the station wagon at a red light. I watch a group of teenagers cross the intersection, dressed in leather clothes, with dyed hair and distinctive piercings. They are heading toward an old bookshop.
Three girls in cheerleading outfits exit a café, the aroma of coffee and cinnamon filling the air. The blond girl in the center sips her coffee while her friends struggle to divide a pastry.
“Will you guys hurry up? We’re going to be late,” the blond girl yells at them and stomps her feet.
I hear a rustling sound from the back. I look at Toby, only to discover he is missing. A shrill scream pierces the air, jolting me into action. Without fully comprehending the situation, I witness the blond girl collapse to the ground while Toby engages in a determined tug-of-war over her pastry. I jump out of the car just as the traffic light switches. Toby skips past me, proudly clutching the pastry in his mouth.
“My uniform is ruined!” the blond girl cries.
“I am so, so sorry!” I take the American Airlines napkin out of my coat pocket and try to dry her skirt.
“Leave it,” she says through her teeth.
The world falls silent around us. I can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me without glancing up. Car horns blare behind us as Ronald’s station wagon causes a traffic jam. One angry driver leans out his window and shouts at Ronald to move while laying on his horn.
“I’m sorry, this is so unlike my dog,” I lie. He is like this a lot. “Let me help you up.”
The blond girl slaps my hand away and shoots me a fierce glare. “Get away from me!” she spits, shoving me aside.
“You and your dog are going to pay for this. These uniforms are brand-new,” adds her curly-haired brunette friend.
“Jade, let’s go!” Ronald honks impatiently.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. I gingerly set the coffee-stained napkin down at her feet and step back. I sense the hushed whispers and pointed stares of the onlookers on the sidewalk. I keep my eyes trained on the ground as I hurry back to the car. Toby pokes his head out the window, wagging his tail.
“I hope that pastry was worth it, Toby,” I mutter as I slam the rear door shut. Slinking back into the station wagon, I hunch down in my seat. I hope no one catches a glimpse of my embarrassed face through the window.
“Goodness, I hope that girl is okay,” Ronald remarks, peering at the scene through the rearview mirror. “Your dog really ought to learn some manners.”
I ignore Ronald’s comment. I lean over my seat to peer through the back window. The two girls are helping their friend to her feet. This was not the kind of start I had in mind for my first day in Grove Hollow.
Glad to escape Main Street, we turn onto Fairview Avenue, an old cobblestone road running parallel to the Hudson River. The two-lane street is unusually wide. Perhaps it was to accommodate horse-drawn carriages in the past. On either side of the road, brick sidewalks and towering privacy walls line the way. Beyond the borders lie colossal, gilded mansions resembling castles with their extravagant designs. I feel like Nick Carraway from
The Great Gatsby arriving in West Egg for the first time.
“I wonder who lives in these giant mansions,” I say.
“These homeowners must be pretty wealthy and powerful to afford estates like these,” Ronald says, slowing down the car to take in the view.
“What’s the name of my great-aunt’s street again?” I ask, my attention still fixated on the mansion to my left.
“Fairview Avenue,” Ronald replies. “We should be getting close.”
I find it unlikely that anyone in my family would reside in these enormous residences. It is much more likely my aunt lives farther along the street, away from these massive estates.
Copyright © 2026 by Shelby Nicole. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
