Even so, there was no denying how they felt about each other. It was palpable throughout the photo album. Even back then nothing could've kept them apart. "Look at you, Dad." She laid her hand on his picture. "The other guys are hanging out together somewhere, but there's you. Right next to Mom."

The captions grew even more precious toward the back of the book. There was a picture with her dad handing her mother a dandelion. Her mom had written, "Shane is the most romantic guy in eighth grade. Even if I am allergic to dandelions."

On the very last page, she found something that made her gasp. The entire sheet was a letter her dad wrote to her mom. Her mother must've hidden the letter there, because the page was stuck at the back, where most people might not look.

Dear Lauren, I don't think people are supposed to feel this way in eighth grade. All our friends are doing stupid stuff, having their friends ask a girl out for them. You know, that kind of thing. But I feel like I could marry you tomorrow. I'm not even kidding.

Emily put her fingers to her lips. "Dad.. . you were so smitten."

I don't know if I wanna graduate because that means going to high school. And high school means more people to deal with. All the senior guys will fall over each other to get to know you. Anyway, that's all right, 'cause I'm never going to leave you. Not ever. Love you, Lauren. Yours, Shane.

Yours, Shane?

Emily cooed. "You guys were so cute." Her parents were adorable as kids. How could this have been in the garage all those years when she would've given anything to know some of these details? She closed the album and set it aside. The next few items in the box were framed photographs. One showed her parents dressed in sports gear, only it looked like her mother was the football player and her father was cheerleader. She squinted at the picture. Yes, a cheerleader with eye makeup.

Emily giggled, but she kept her voice hushed. The rest of the lights in the house were off now, and she didn't want to wake her grandparents. She looked at the picture again. What were her parents doing? She spotted something in the background. A carved pumpkin sitting on the porch. Of course, the outfits were costumes. Her parents had probably been invited to a Halloween party.

But even more noticeable than the uniforms was the now-familiar look in their eyes. Like they were born to be together. She set the pictures aside and pulled out a journal. Her fingers trembled as she set the photo album down. It was time to read one of her journals. Emily took hold of the nearest one. She'd waited all of her life for whatever lay between the covers - the short stories and journal entries her grandma had mentioned - because then she'd have the answer she'd been looking for. The answer about whether her mother had a passion for writing, the way she did.

She held the journal, fingering the cover. These pages held an inside look at her mother's heart. Something she'd wanted for as far back as she could remember. Emily frowned, wishing she didn't feel so . . . guilty. Journals were private. She'd kept a little pink diary in second grade, then later on, a full-size journal. Page after page of stories and personal reflections and letters to the Lord. No one had ever read any of them.

Until now.

Emily bit her lip and balanced the journal on her lap, then she exhaled and opened the cover. As she did, her guilt faded. Of course she could read her mother's journals. They might well offer the only chance to get to know her.

The first entry was dated spring 1985.

Shane and I talked about love. Real love. We both think it's weird that our parents don't understand how we feel about each other. They act like we're a couple of kids who have no clue what love is. But here's what I've learned when I'm with Shane. Real love waits in the snow on your front porch so you can walk to school together in the fifth grade. It brings you a chocolate bar when you fall and finish last in the seventh grade Olympics.

Real love whispers something in the middle of algebra about your pink fingernail polish so that you don't forget how to smile when you're doing math, and it saves a seat for you in the lunchroom every Friday through high school. Even when the other baseball players think you're stupid. Real love has time to listen to your hopes and dreams when your parents are too busy with the PTA or the auxiliary club or the business they run at the local bank.

Real love stays up late on a Saturday making chocolate chip cookies together, flicking flour at you and getting eggshells in the batter and making sure you'll remember that night the rest of your life. And real love thinks you're pretty even when your hair is pulled back in a ponytail and you don't stand perfectly straight. Real love is what I have with Shane. I just wanted to say so.

Emily blinked, suddenly aware of tears on her cheeks. She was overwhelmed with the enormity of the find. But more than that, she was struck breathless by her parents' feelings for each other. She wanted to read the entry again, but she was driven to turn the page, to capture another glimpse of her mother's life as a teenager.

What she found as she traveled the pages was a love that she hadn't known about before, a love between her parents that was both triumphant and tragic. Triumphant because it was the picture of how love was supposed to be: patient and kind, trusting and hopeful. Never mind their ages, her mom and dad had known about love. But tragic, because it hadn't lasted, because they'd lost each other, and as far as any of them knew, they'd never found each other again.

The last entries in her mother's journal must've been written after her dad left for California. One in particular caught Emily's attention.

I'm so mad at my parents. I hate them. They told me they'd leave a forwarding message when they disconnected our old phone service. It should've told anyone who called the house what our new number was. That way Shane could reach me and then he could give me his number.

But now they're telling me the recording isn't working yet. The worst part is this feeling I have that my mom and dad lied to me. Maybe, because shouldn't it be working by now?

My baby's due in a few weeks and I'm convinced Shane's parents and my parents don't want us together anymore. The thing that makes me most afraid is that if they really do feel that way, I think they could keep us apart. How would I know where to get his phone number? How would he know where to get mine? I can only pray that somehow, someway he finds me soon. I can't stand being without him.

"Mom." It was as though Emily were sitting across from her mother. She looked out her window at the dark, snowy sky. "Did you ever find him again? Did Dad ever call you?"

She ached for the loss her parents suffered. For the first time she considered the possibility that maybe her grandparents had played some role in separating her parents. The idea seemed crazy, but why else wouldn't they help figure out the phone number situation in the weeks before her birth?

She looked at the clock and she felt a slow smile creep up her cheeks. It was after midnight, which meant it was Christmas. A quiet, silent Christmas morning, and already - even with the sadness of all her parents had lost - she could see one very obvious miracle in her mind, lying near the manger. The miracle of her parents' love, a love that shone as bright as the star of Bethlehem. And in the glow of that light, she begged God for an even bigger miracle.

That she would be used not only to find her parents, but to bring them back together again.

SEVENTEEN.

The meeting Angela had been dreading was about to take place.

She and Bill woke earlier than usual and made Emily her favorite breakfast: cinnamon French toast with scrambled eggs. She came down groggy and smiling, her pink padded slippers scuffling along the floor. "Hey." She gave Bill a hug first and then crossed the kitchen to hug Angela. "You guys are so sweet. Christmas never ends around here."

The words pierced Angela's heart. It would end soon enough. In about an hour, she guessed. Emily was chattering on about what a wonderful Christmas day it had been and how much she liked her new sweaters and her cute purse.

Her chatter was like music. If only they could hold on to that innocence, that joy.

"You were up late again." Angela studied Emily. "Are you finding what you wanted to know?"

"I am." She lowered her chin, her look a mix of gratitude and apology. "You can join me any time, Grandma. But thanks for letting me see it all first." Her eyes shone. "I feel like I actually know Mom now." Her smile faded some. "At least the way she was as a teenager."

"Yes." Angela's throat ached. This was too much. All the memories of Lauren, the terrible awareness of what was coming . . . She didn't want to cry, not yet. "Yes, your mother was quite something back then. Never rebellious or sarcastic, the way so many teenagers are today." She leaned over and kissed Emily's cheek. "She was a lot like you in that way."

"Well, I need a little background music." Bill stood and slipped his Mitch Miller CD back into the player. A few seconds passed, and then the sweet refrains of "White Christmas" filled the room. "I always say Christmas songs should play till January 1." He did a little soft-shoe shuffle on the living room carpet. Then he smiled at the two of them. "That's what I'm talking about."

Emily giggled and waltzed her way into the living room, where she took her grand pa's hand and let him twirl her between the sofa and the television. Their voices mingled, a sound that was glorious, and not because either of them could sing on key. Angela watched them, mesmerized, fighting the sorrow struggling to overtake her.

Precious moments like this needed to be savored, because if the doctors were right their time together would end all too soon. But oh, if only they could go on this way another ten years. And how she wished Bill had danced like that with Lauren. What if he'd been more concerned with making memories than protecting her from Shane's parents?

Angela needed to flip the last batch of French toast, but she couldn't draw herself away from the picture they made. Bill and Emily, waltzing around the room, knocking into a bookcase and stepping on each others' toes. Their singing eventually dissolved to giggles, and before the song ended, they were doubled over, laughing hard at themselves.

They each worked their way to a standing position. With their arms around each others' shoulders, they danced back into the kitchen. Angela pointed to the cupboard, ignoring the way her stomach hurt. "We're ready for the plates."

Breakfast was more of the same, smiles and laughter and shared memories of Christmases long past. All the while, Angela gave Bill anxious glances. If only they could avoid what was coming, if they could just continue to breeze through the day, enjoying the light of Emily's presence. But that just wasn't an option.

When the dishes were cleared, Angela made three cups of coffee, passed them out, and directed her attention to her granddaughter. "We need to talk, Emily." She looked at Bill. "Let's go sit in the living room."

Emily's expression was blank. She looked from Angela to Bill and back again. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes." It was time to get to the heart of the matter. "Something is wrong, honey." She led the way into the living room. "Come sit down."

Bill took his usual seat, the recliner closest to the television. His cheeks were still full of color from the dance and the laughter. Angela felt a surge of hope. He hadn't looked this well in months. Emily moved slowly, probably because she was caught off guard at the possibility that anything could be wrong.

Angela sat on one end of the tweed sofa and Emily took the other, fidgeting, her eyebrows knit together. All that athletic energy made her struggle with sitting still. That was always the case, but it was especially difficult when something serious was at hand.

"Okay." Emily's tone was a mix of hurt and fear. "So what's wrong? And how come you didn't say anything until now?"

"I'm going to let your papa tell you." Angela swallowed the lump in her throat. She folded her hands and bit her lip, unable to say another word without losing control.

Emily slid to the edge of the sofa, her eyes locked on Bill's. "What, Papa? Tell me."

"Well, honey." Bill coughed and his chin quivered. He shaded his eyes with his hands but only for a few seconds. "See . . . I have cancer." His eyes welled up, but he managed a sad, crooked sort of smile. "Doc says I've got about two months."

Emily was on her feet. The color drained from her face and she began to shake. "Two months?" She took a few steps in his direction, stopped, and took a step toward the front door. Another stop, and a step toward the sofa again. She looked like she wasn't sure if she should run out the door and scream or run to her grandpa and hold him tight. Finally she looked over her shoulder at Angela. "Two months? How long . . . how long have you known about this?"

"The doctors have been running tests for a few weeks." Angela blinked back the tears, but it didn't help. Her voice cracked all the same. "They told us the Thursday before you came home. It's all through his body, honey. It's very aggressive."

Emily went to Bill and stood near his chair, her hand on his shoulder. "But, Papa, you look so good. You - " she gestured toward the CD player - "you can sing and dance and laugh." Her eyes found Angela again. "Maybe there's been a mistake."

Angela understood the hope in her grand daughter's voice. Hadn't she felt the same way when the doctors told them the results of the tests? But like the doctors, she had to be honest. "There's no mistake. From the first test they told us this was possible."

Emily shook her head. "What about surgery? What about chemo or radiation or something. I mean - " she shot an anxious look at Angela - "we can't just take a death sentence and not fight it, right?"

"Honey, MRIs don't lie. We had the tests read by three doctors. The reports came in Thursday and Friday, but we wanted to wait until after Christmas to tell you." Her eyes met her husband's. "That was your papa's wish."

He reached for Emily's hand, and she leaned down, hugging him even as the tears broke free. "No, Papa, no. I still need you."

His arms closed around her. "I still need you, too, honey."

That was all Angela could take. She covered her face with her hands and wept. And across the room she could hear Bill and Emily weeping too. From somewhere in the midst of her pain, Angela heard her granddaughter mumble something about God being in control, and miracles, and how quickly everything would have to come together now. And her sweet Bill was saying something about strength and prayer and feeling healthy enough to fight the cancer. Angela wasn't getting all of it, but she understood why. She couldn't hear it over the loudest sound of all.

The sound of her breaking heart.

It was some horrible nightmare. It had to be.

Even after she finished helping her grandma with the dishes, and after her grandparents had gone to their room for an early nap, Emily still couldn't believe it.

Papa had cancer? Okay, he looked a little pale and maybe thinner than usual. But that could be a good thing, couldn't it? Maybe the doctors were wrong. Everyone's MRI couldn't possibly be the same. Maybe her grandpa had the sort of blood and bones that tricked machinery like the MRI. She went to her room, sat on her bed cross-legged, and tried to concentrate. Suppose the news was true and her grandpa had only a few months to live. If that was the case, she couldn't wait another day. She couldn't take her time sorting through the box her mother left behind.

They were in a race now. And time wasn't going to win.

The miracle she was praying for wasn't just to find her mom and eventually her dad, but to help her mom make peace with her grandparents. Which meant if it didn't happen in the next few months, it might not happen at all.

She pressed her hands against the sides of her head, shutting out everything but the problem at hand. The cardboard box sat near the end of her bed. It held hours and hours of fascinating, heart-wrenching mementos, but did it really hold any clues to finding her mother or father? It was still only the day after Christmas, so nothing official would be open yet, which meant she had no way to make phone calls that might offer a clue to her mother's whereabouts.

So be it. She'd use this day to get through the box. Just in case something vital lay hidden. She'd already gone through a third of the contents. Most of it she'd stacked along the far wall, out of the way so nothing would be bumped or kicked or stepped on. Now she lifted another photo album from the box and scanned it. She could come back and savor it later.

Two more smaller photo albums were next, and then she found another journal. Again she skimmed, though anything her mother had written had far more potential for holding a clue of some sort. Maybe mention of a favorite place where she and Lauren's dad wanted to live when they were older, or something she'd always wanted to do, a place where she wanted to work. Anything that would shine a light on a trail, no matter how narrow that trail might be.

"Come on, Mom, show me something."

More framed photos and a stack of yearbooks were next. It was all Emily could do to pass over them, to place them in another stack by her wall until later. But the minute she removed the last yearbook, she felt her mouth fall open. A slight gasp escaped her as she reached into the bottom of the carton.

Notebooks.

One after another. Emily's heart raced. These had to be the notebooks her grandma had told her about. The journals held no short stories, so maybe they were here in the notebooks. The ones her mother was always writing in.

A chill ran down Emily's back as she lifted the stack of them - maybe twenty in all - and placed them on her bed. They wouldn't be journals. Her mother seemed to like journaling in hardback books with lined paper and pretty covers. These were simple, ordinary spiral notebooks. She opened the first one and scanned the front page. Half of it was taken up by oversized handwritten letters that read: The Greatest Walk by Lauren Gibbs Emily frowned and ran her thumb over the words. It was indeed a short story, but who was Lauren Gibbs? If her mother wrote these stories, then why had she used a different last name? Whose last name was it, anyway? She let her eyes move down the page to the beginning of the story.

A sidewalk can be many things to many people. But for Rudy Johnson, in the summer of 1985, the sidewalk was his path to freedom . . .

Emily flipped the pages, one at a time. The story went on for half the notebook. She turned back to the beginning and studied the title page again. Lauren Gibbs? Had a cousin or a friend of her mother's written the story? Emily's eyes narrowed. The story was written by hand, so all she had to do was compare handwriting styles.

She jumped to her feet and grabbed one of her mother's journals from the floor. In a rush she opened the journal, laying it side by side with the notebook. She compared the printing styles, then the cursive. Both had y's that dropped low on the line and i's with tiny circles where the dot should be. It didn't take a detective to see that the writing was from the same person. No question about it. Her mother wrote the short story.

So where did Lauren Gibbs come from?

Emily checked the back of the notebook for more stories, details, anything. It was empty, so she set it to the side and opened the second notebook. The title area on the first page read: A Summer Sunset by Lauren Gibbs Emily's heart began to pound. Whatever it was with Gibbs, her mother hadn't merely pretended to be someone else for a single story. She sifted through the entire stack, checking the first page of each notebook. When she was finished, there were goose bumps on her arms.

Every single one was written by Lauren Gibbs.

She swallowed hard and straightened the stack. The name was worth asking about, at least. She was about to stand up and go find her grandparents when something else caught her attention. On the front of one of the notebooks, her mom had scribbled this: Lauren Anderson loves Shane Galanter.

Only something looked different about it. Emily stared at the sentence for nearly three minutes before it finally hither. She had always spelled her father's name Galenter. She'd never asked her grandparents, not when their conversations about the past were almost entirely taken up by questions about her mother. Somewhere along the years she must've seen her dad's name scribbled somewhere and assumed she was reading an e where an a should've been.

A fountain of possibility welled within her. She raced to her door, flung it open - and hesitated. It was just past three and the house was quiet. She tiptoed down the stairs and peeked into her grandparents' room. They were both on the bed, still sleeping. She could ask them about the spelling later. She zipped back up the stairs and went into the office, the room that used to belong to her mother.

She flicked on the computer, pulled out the chair, and sat down. "Hurry," she ordered it. "Warm up, already." Her eyes stayed glued to the screen while she massaged her calves. They were still sore from the soccer game the other day, a reminder that she needed to get out and jog. But she couldn't think clearly about anything - not even breathing - until she at least ran a check.

She'd have to ask her grandma about the Lauren Gibbs thing. Maybe there was a family member who had that name, or a friend out in California. It was the best clue in the entire box, and even then it might be nothing. But her father's name? That was huge. Now that she knew the right spelling, she couldn't wait to Google it.

The computer was up and ready. Next she signed onto the Internet and waited. Her grandparents had a blazing fast connection, and she was online in seconds. She found the search line and took a deep breath. "Okay, here goes." Her father's name was familiar to her, because she'd typed it into a search engine hundreds of times, easily, before she finally gave up. But now . . .

Once more she typed in S-h-a-n-e G-a-l-e-n-t-e-r, just in cased she'd missed something all these years.

The results came up instantly and there in the top corner it said . . .

Her mouth hung open. How come she hadn't seen it before? At the top of the page it read, "Did you mean: Shane Galanter?"

She exhaled hard and exaggerated. "Yes. I meant that, okay?" She clicked the link beneath the correct spelling of his name. Another list came up and Emily felt her heart in her throat. Somewhere in this list of possibilities might lie the information that would lead her to her father. She scanned the few lines of details for the first four websites. Shane Galanter wasn't exactly a common name, but still there were a few hundred entries. The first one was for a Shane Galanter, president of a pest control company.

"Pest control?" Emily wrinkled her nose. "You wouldn't be doing pest control, would you, Dad?" She clicked the link and a home page covered with spiders filled the screen. Once every few seconds a cockroach scurried across the page. Emily shuddered. Bugs were the worst. But where was a picture of this Shane Galanter who owned the company?

She scanned the page and near the top she saw a link that said "Contact Me."

"Okay, I will." She clicked the words and another page popped up. This one had the smiling face of a black man. Next to the photo it said, "Shane Galanter has what you need for pest control!"

Emily blew at a piece of her dark hair. "One down."

She hit the back button and returned to the list of websites. One was a playwright, with a photo of a white-haired man in his seventies. Emily returned to the list once more. "Two down."

The next Shane Galanter ran track at Azusa Pacific University. Just for fun, she clicked the link and found his picture. "Hmm." She raised an eyebrow at the online photo. "You're cute, but you're not my dad."

The fourth website had the words Top Gunfight instructor next to Shane Galanter. Emily angled her head. "Interesting . . . " She clicked the link, but this time there was no photograph. The page was a listing of personnel at a naval air base outside Reno, Nevada. She clicked the link and read a few paragraphs. In the late 1990s, the Top Gun fighter pilot training academy moved to Nevada, but it was still called Top Gun. Like the old 1980s movie.