We finally arrive at the entrance of a large Tudor mansion. Marble statues of lions guard the entrance on either side. Dozens of guests in suits and cocktails dresses stroll up a long cobblestone walkway lit by Victoria streetlamps and illuminated fountains. Everything just glows.
We pass through a double-door entryway into the house itself. Everything is grand and opulent. Eighteenth-century paintings hang in the foyer, bordered by ornate gold frames. I half wonder whether I’m walking into someone’s home or a museum.
Servers in red vests hold silver trays of hors d'oeuvres for the arriving guests—caviar on French blini, lobster toast with avocado, bruschetta on warm sourdough, spinach puffs, and minced-chicken lettuce cups.
Paige marches through the living room, scanning the crowd for some hint of her target. We navigate our way through the many people in fine clothes who chat and sip champagne while talking about the film industry, real estate prices, and the stock market. These are important people discussing important things. Paige and I are ignored as we move through the house, cloaked by our insignificance.
As we finally reach the end of the living room, Paige suddenly stops. My momentum carries me forward, and I bump into her back. I follow her gaze and see a familiar face in sitting in the corner—Judge William Whitaker.
The moment he sees us, he stands up. The immediate shock that registers in his face is quickly followed by sincere sadness. He takes a step toward us.
Worried that he means to stop us, I push Paige forward. “Keep going.”
We emerge into what seems to be a backyard but more closely resembles a private park. In the darkness of the evening, it’s impossible to tell how far the grass extends into the hills. Lights on strings crisscross above our heads, so everyone sitting at the various patio tables sits in perfect lighting.
I’ve been to many beautiful and expensive homes in Los Angeles, but this one is the most impressive. Everything is topnotch, from the architecture to the decor to the service. I feel like I’m in an old Hollywood movie, and I’m half expecting to see Clark Gable and Jean Harlow regaling guests with sordid stories of their recent weekend up at Hearst Castle.
I can’t even imagine what is going through Paige’s mind right now. For fourteen years, she grew up in conditions that would break a lesser woman—poverty, abuse, and things she won’t talk about even to me. And here she stands, in a palace of good fortune and luxury.
Why is her mother here? Who is this woman?
I notice a foam-core poster near the large swimming pool. Paige sees it, too, and we’re drawn slowly toward it. It’s a teenage girl’s high school portrait. Her hair is a chestnut shade with light streaks peeking through the waves that cascade to her shoulders. She’s beautiful and bears a subtle similarity to Paige with her athletic build, high cheekbones, and striking eyes—Paige’s eyes.
Written in silver letters above and below the photo are the following words:
Congratulations Emma!
Good luck at Harvard!
I glance at Paige. She stares blankly at the photo, and I’m not sure if she can register the resemblance like I can. Her expression is impossible to read. Pain? Anger? Resentment?
We hear a roar of laughter to the side, and our attention turns to a crowd near the cabanas—yes, this place has cabanas. Over the heads of a circling crowd, I spy a couple holding court. The man is tall, with a salt-and-pepper beard that matches his salt-and-pepper hair. But it’s the woman beside him who catches my attention. Or more accurately, it’s her long blond hair.
Paige approaches slowly, and I follow. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Judge Whitaker watching from a distance. I can tell from his expression that nothing good will come of this.
My eyes zero in on the woman’s hair, the only thing I can see above the throng of guests that surround her. The incandescent light bounces off her golden locks and acts as a shining beacon. Paige moves deliberately toward it, shoulder-checking anyone in her way. She doesn’t notice their sneering looks as they move aside.
The last of crowd finally parts, revealing the woman. She’s beautiful, with perfectly chiseled features and smooth tan skin. I can tell by her posture and the way her blue evening gown clings to her body that she keeps herself fit and healthy. Her teeth shine as she smiles at her husband, admiring the way he can own a room. This is the woman from the faded Polaroid in Paige’s pocket.
She looks like Paige—they are practically clones. I feel as though I’m looking at Paige in twenty years. The similarity is unsettling.
The woman laughs again, then her eyes fall upon the crowd. Her eyes fall on me. Then they fall on Paige. As her husband continues to talk, her smile begins to fade. Her eyes are locked on Paige, unable to look away.
Paige stares back. Her expression is blank, but I can tell by the way her cheeks flush that emotions are boiling within. The world around us moves in slow motion as each of the two women stare at the other as though trying to grasp the weight and truth of this moment.
The woman’s eyes well with tears as realization finally hits home. She drops her champagne glass, and it pops on the ground in an explosion of shards. Her husband and the crowd go suddenly quiet.
The husband rests his hand on her shoulder to see if she’s all right. She’s not. The man with salt-and-pepper hair turns to Paige and looks her over. He doesn’t register the similarity between his wife and my friend. How could he miss it?
He turns to the woman. “Priscilla? Is everything all right?”
Priscilla.
She ignores him as if she can’t hear anything. After an eternity, she finally speaks. “Paige?” she
