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flipping through the albums. Mom and Antonia as babies, my grandparents. Granddad looked kind in his faded pin-striped suit. Grandma just looked kind of scary. The prom night pictures of Mom and Antonia were my favorite. The teased and crimped hair alone offered hours of entertainment. Mom at her first art show, sporting a very pink mohawk; Mom selling brownies at the school bake sale last year. We’d had so much fun that day. At the PTA meeting, the principal had suggested that parents dress appropriately, and everyone knew he meant Mom. So she did her hair in rollers and we wore fifties-style dresses and pearls. She looked like Bettie Page or a particularly evil version of Marilyn Monroe. The other moms had sniffed. But Mom was a better baker than they were, so our table sold out before noon.
    There weren’t a lot of pictures of Antonia after she turned sixteen, and the few I could find were from Christmas. Our purple tree glittered in the background, tilting slightly under the weight of handmade ornaments. They were mostly paintings of Elvis Presley and fifties pinup girls that Mom did on the back of coasters she took from the bar.
    In one of the photographs, Antonia and Mom toasted the camera with glasses of red wine. Antonia was laughing so hard she was falling over. The flash glinted off a pendant slipping out of her peasant blouse.
    An iron stag with a leaf in its antlers.
    I heard the murmur of Mom’s voice through the thinwalls as I tried to figure out what it meant, if it even meant anything at all. I crept to my open window, knowing hers would be open as well since the building didn’t have air-conditioning. I leaned out, listening carefully. Who could she be calling at one o’clock in the morning? I stretched farther out and caught the last few words.
    “Antonia, call me. I think it’s starting.”

Chapter 2

Jo
    Saturday
    I drove out to my grandparents’ farm under a sky the color of bleached bone. Heat wavered off the road, making the trees shimmy. The brown lawns of town gave way to fields of equally brown burned-looking corn and soybeans. My grandparents already lost ten acres of corn, and the stalks stood like forlorn guards with shriveled leaves and papery husks on one side of the winding lane. The pumpkin patches looked thirsty but they might survive. Even then, the harvest might not be enough to pay the necessary bills. The apple orchard was all that was currently standing between them and the last bank loan they were likely to convince anyone to give them, ever.
    I loved the farm. I spent my summers here and everyautumn weekend until November. My parents weren’t interested, especially Mom, who grew up here and left as soon as she could. Rowan wasn’t exactly the big city, but at least there were no barns, no chores, and no squinting up at the sky every morning wondering if the weather was going to destroy your crops. The fact that I loved it did a lot to alleviate the tension between her and my grandparents. They wanted to leave her the thirty-two-and-a-half acres as a family legacy, but she wanted nothing to do with them. I happily spent as much time as I could here, especially since my bratty little brother, Cole, didn’t like the farm either.
    Nanna was on the porch, her short white hair spiky around her lined face. She wore jeans and sneakers and a faded T-shirt with the farm logo. I was wearing jeans too, and the same T-shirt. This was the only place I ever wore jeans. I usually preferred long, lacy skirts and any blouse with medieval bell sleeves. Not exactly practical on the farm. I even had my hair in two long braids under a pink straw cowboy hat. No one at school would recognize me.
    “Jo, you’re early, pumpkin.” Nanna smiled at me. Her golden retriever, Apple Betty, panted at me, her tail thumping listlessly on the porch floorboards. “Have some lemonade.”
    I gulped two glasses, the cold juice hitting the back of my throat. It was already humid and gross out. Granddad