Once again, Marina was surprised, but Holly’s face filled with relief and joy. “Oh, thank you. I’m so happy to have met you.”
Looking jolly, Ginger hooked her arm through Holly’s. “It’s such a nuisance having your car break down just before the holidays. But now we can learn all about each other. Won’t that be fun?”
As Ginger and Holly led the way, Marina exchanged a look with Ivy and shrugged. Ginger did things her way.
Holly seemed a little lost, though she was certainly artistic and adventurous, setting off on her own to sell her wares at arts and crafts markets. She wasn’t likely a serial killer, so where was the harm in inviting a stranger home? Ginger was generally a good judge of character, and she did as she pleased.
Then another thought struck her. Wouldn’t Marina want someone to look after her daughter like that?
“Just a moment. At the door, Holly stopped and dug into her large backpack. “I know it’s here somewhere.” As Ginger waited, she opened one small box, then another.
“What delightful ornaments,” Ginger said, peering at one with interest. “Are these the ones you make?”
Holly nodded. “I often paint images of people and places I recall.”
“Here, this one is meant for you, I think.” She handed Ivy an ornament with a hand painted scene, suspended from a golden ribbon.
“What a lovely beach house by the sea…” Ivy paused, lifting a pair of red reading glasses for a closer look. Surprise flashed across her face. “Why, you’ve painted the inn.”
Holly shrugged with a small smile. “Sort of looks like it.”
Ivy peered closer. “No, it’s identical. This is astonishing. How did you do this?”
“I paint from memory,” Holly replied, her cheeks flushing pink.
That comment didn’t sit well with Marina’s journalistic training. “I thought you said you’ve never been to Summer Beach.” She noticed Ginger’s mild admonishment from the corner of her eye but couldn’t help herself. Her grandmother had just invited this stranger—who was clearly caught in a lie—into her home.
Was Ginger losing her judgment and perspective?
Poppy leaned forward. “You probably saw our photos on the internet or social media. I post everywhere.”
Relief washed over Holly’s face. “I have a photographic memory for images.”
“As an artist, I can appreciate that,” Ivy said, turning over the ornament. “It’s quite good. We’ll hang this on our tree with pleasure. Thank you.”
Marina lifted the painting into the van with Holly’s help. On the way to her grandmother’s home, Marina listened as Ginger chatted and asked questions. Holly peered out the windows with apparent interest.
When there was a lull in the conversation, Marina asked, “So, you live in Phoenix?”
“Sometimes,” Holly replied. “I travel to shows a lot.”
“I love visiting there. What part of Phoenix?”
“Oh, different parts. I stay with friends.”
Marina considered that vague—evasive even. “And you don’t know the area?”
“Not really. I’m either painting or going to shows.”
Overall, Holly was pleasant enough, Marina figured, although she offered few details about her life. That was disconcerting.
And then, Marina remembered her father again, and guilt nibbled at her mind. She knew it could be challenging for kids aging out of foster care to find their place in the world.
When they arrived home, Ginger nodded toward the cottage and glanced at Holly. “Does this look familiar?” she asked lightly.
Holly stared at the Coral Cottage, her lips slowly parting. Recognition flashed across her face.
While Marina watched, Ginger held out her hand. “Let’s see the other ornament you took from your bag.”
