You Are My Only (22 page)

“Better than any girl ever?” I ask when the kiss is over, and Joey nods yes, and he takes my hand, and we start back up the long grass hill, and above us the sky is still brewing its storm, and by the time we reach the smooth rock, a gust has started to blow.

“We'll be drenched,” Miss Cloris says, “if we wait any longer. We'll be drenched, and bless you, Sophie. You did fine.” She lifts Miss Helen and her float of dress high. Joey and I gather every other last thing.

“Must the party be over?” Miss Helen asks, her voice a whisper.

“Can't afford to catch a cold, dear,” Miss Cloris says, hugging her tight, and we set off for the narrow strip of gravel.

They are there when we pull to the curb—the big man and the brother-in-law, and a couple beside them. They stand on the porch, taking shelter from the purple slash of rain that has come in hard in the last few minutes. Miss Cloris steers the car to a stop and lets the engine idle. She sits and she watches and waits. She turns around and studies me hard, then asks us, very quietly, very oddly demure, if we would all mind staying put for the moment. She opens her car door. She slams it shut. She hurries up the walk, a hand above her heart.

“Who are they?” I ask Joey, but he doesn't know and pulls me close, and the rain is falling too hard for me to hear what is said—the brother-in-law to Miss Cloris first, and then the big man to Miss Cloris, and then the woman and Miss Cloris talk while the last man paces, his hair like knitting yarn rubbed out in spots and his shoulders too small inside his sweater. But it's the woman I watch most closely, her blond hair against the slick white of her trench coat, the belt of her coat tied, not buckled. She wears plain tan boots that lace up past her ankles. The hem of a red skirt falls past her coat, and she moves from one foot to the other, her hands on the ends of her belt, her hands like birds, fluttering, worried.

“Who is
she
?” I ask, the words a jumble in my throat, and Miss Helen turns, her eyes full on me, her mouth making little marks against time but saying nothing, and now Joey pulls me even closer, holds me harder in the back of the car, and I can't breathe, but I have to breathe, and the woman turns, and she keeps turning, toward the steps and down and out, and now she runs. She is a ruin in the rain, she is a break against the purple slash, she is breaking and crying and running, her eyes a bright smash, her hands like small birds flying. “Baby,” I hear her. “Baby. Baby.” And the sky is not blue; it is not easy.

This book began with an obsession concerning certain abandoned buildings and the lives of urban explorers. It took me to a place once known as Byberry, in the northeast corner of Philadelphia, and to the stories Jim Cuorato, Paul Lonie, and Dominic Ragucci told about a building that once was, about the patients who passed through.

Lauren Wein of Black Cat gave me cause to keep on writing; she believed in this story and my ability to make it whole; she sent e-mails that were full of graces, poetry. Marjorie Braman read twice with care, offered wisdom, and kept me company with stories of chocolates and flowers. And then, one summer day, Laura Geringer read and asked a question: What if? I am so deeply grateful.

Tremendous gratitude to Amy Rennert and her associate, Robyn Russell, who read this book throughout the three years of its making, who kept me grounded in a week of high panic, and who, with calm and wisdom, fell upon this novel's title.

Thank you to Mandy Stanley, whose gifts to me, and to the world, are innumerable. Thank you to Amy Riley, who discovered my work, three books ago, and generously, systematically, introduced me to her community of book-loving friends. Thank you to the book bloggers out there who have changed the way I think about the world and whose opinions and daring I treasure.

My thanks to Rahna Reiko Rizzuto and Ivy Goodman, dear friends who read quickly and who bolstered my long journey. My sincere thanks to Alyson Hagy, Elizabeth Hand, Jay Kirk, Katrina Kenison, Anna Lefler, Kate Moses, Jennie Nash, and Karen Rile, who bring crystal light into my life. Thank you to the remarkable Neil Swaab for a cover that is, in a word, perfect. My thanks to Elizabeth Mosier, who reads books through a brilliant lens, who throws parties with a book lover's grandeur, and who wrote words I will forever cherish.

This book is dedicated to the men in my life—to my artist husband, Bill, and to my son, Jeremy, who asks, nearly every single time he calls, for stories about the stories.

Finally, where would this book be without Egmont USA—that irreplaceable team of enthusiasts, intellects, and believers? Thank you, Elizabeth Law (might I now call you Lawsy?), Doug Pocock, Greg Ferguson, Mary Albi, Rob Guzman, Katie Halata, Alison Weiss, superb copyeditor Hannah Mahoney, and that master of case covers, Nico Medina. The world is a special place, thanks to you.