Blackbird Lake by Jill Gregory

Madison finally shrugged into her worn suede jacket, told her that it would be no problem switching days with Martha, then gave Emma one final hug before grabbing her guitar and heading out the door toward home.
    But Carly was a wreck the entire time and she still was as she readied her daughter for bed. She hadn’t felt this awful clenching tightness in her chest for years now—or that sense of horrible uncertainty over what troubles tomorrow might bring. Ever since the day Social Services had whisked her away from the noisy and indifferent jumble of her relatives’ homes, her life had gradually become blessedly steady and calm. All of the turmoil, confusion, and loneliness of those six years after her mother’s death had begun to fade away the day Annie Benton became her foster mother.
    Now, carrying Emma through the airy hall of the old Victorian back to the nursery, Carly couldn’t help glancingat Annie’s favorite quilt. It was folded over the blue-and-cream-striped sofa in the living room. Merely the sight of the simple log cabin quilt with its vivid squares of periwinkle, rose, lavender, and yellow calmed her. That quilt and the fairy tale quilt hanging in the nursery, as well as the exquisite Dear Jane sampler Annie had sewn long ago, and which held a place of honor folded at the foot of Carly’s own bed, always evoked a flood of wonderful memories. Memories of Annie.
    Every time she saw or touched one of Annie’s quilts, comforting memories of her slight, soft-spoken foster mother circled gently through her head.
    Annie, that first day, so calmly opening her door and her heart to a lost, lonesome child.
    Annie, with her fluffy, graying hair, her thin, bony face, and serene brown eyes, quietly leading Carly into a spotless sunlit kitchen where Mrs. Smiggles the cat perched on a windowsill.
    Annie had served Carly a glass of freshly made lemonade and a chicken salad sandwich that first day, while she told her all about finding Mrs. Smiggles in a trash can. The poor thing had been mewling her scared little heart out. Annie had scooped her out of there and taken her home, and they’d been together ever since. Annie had also told Carly that first day, that first hour, that
she
was home now, too, and she would soon see—everything was going to be all right.
    And it had been.
    Of course, Carly hadn’t believed anything would be all right again, not at first. Ever since her mother’s death, Carly’s life had spiraled into an endless cycle of loud people and frequent moves, of confusion and, most of all, loneliness. Cousins, great-aunts, and a half sister of her mother’s had all taken her in reluctantly for short periods of time, passing her around between them like last week’s leftovers. Letting her live with them in crowded apartments or cramped trailer homes filled with their own children or grandchildren and piles of laundry. She’d found herself surrounded by yelling voices and noisy squabbles—untilsomeone else came along who could better afford another mouth to feed for the next few months or years.
    By the time she was ten, Carly couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like she belonged somewhere. Anywhere.
    Nor could she remember a place she wanted to be.
    But once she was in Annie’s home, set back on a shady street in an old, shabby, but safe neighborhood, all that had begun to change.
    Life with Annie had been comforting, stable, filled with quiet talks, homemade cinnamon cakes, and a tranquil sense of belonging. Annie was a quiet woman, a homebody with no children of her own. She taught Carly how to quilt and how to bake everything from lemon squares to carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. She took her to the library every week, and Carly brought home stacks and stacks of books, mostly fiction—mysteries and ghost stories and gothic tales of castles and orphans.
    And several times, including the first summer Carly lived with her, she’d taken her on a trip. To Montana—to Lonesome