Kristin Hannah - True Colors

For the women who have come into our family
and brightened us with their presence:
Debra Edwards John and Julie Gorset John.
For two friends, Julie Williams and Andrea Schmidt.
You made me laugh in the craziest of times,
and I thank you.
And, as always, to Benjamin and Tucker,
without whom I would know so much less about life
and love and joy.

What is passion? It is surely the becoming of a person.... In passion, the body and the spirit seek expression... The more extreme and the more expressed that passion is, the more unbearable does life seem without it. It reminds us that if passion dies or is denied, we are partly dead and that soon, come what may, we will be wholly so.

J OHN B OORMAN, FILM DIRECTOR

1979

Fifteen-year-old Winona Grey stared out at the waterfront ranch that had been in her family for four generations, looking for something that had changed. Loss like theirs should leave a marksummer grass gone suddenly brown, dark clouds that refused to lift, a tree split by lightning. Something.

From her bedroom window, she could see most of their acreage. At the propertys back boundary, giant cedar trees stood clustered together, their lacy boughs draped downward; in the rolling green pastures, horses milled along the fence lines, their hooves beating the tall grass into muddy submission. Up on the hill, tucked into the deep woods, was the small cabin her great-grandfather had built when he homesteaded this land.

It all looked ordinary, but Winona knew better. A few years ago, a child had died in the cold waters along the Washington coast not far from here, and for months the tragedy was all anyone could talk about. Mom had taken Winona aside and warned her about invisible dangers, undercurrents that could drown you even in shallow water, but now she knew there were other threats lurking beneath the surface of everyday life.

Turning away from the view, she went downstairs, into a house that felt too big and quiet since yesterday. Her sister Aurora sat curled up on the blue and yellow plaid sofa, reading. Pencil-thin and bony at fourteen, Aurora was in that awkward stage that was neither quite childhood nor maturity. She had a small pointed chin and dark brown hair that fell long and straight from a center part.

Youre up early, Sprout, Winona said.

Aurora looked up. Couldnt sleep.

Yeah. Me, either.

Vivi Anns in the kitchen. I heard her crying a few minutes ago, but... Aurora shrugged her skinny shoulders. I dont know what to say.

Winona knew how much Aurora needed life to be steady; she was the peacemaker in the family, the one who tried to smooth everything over and make it right. No wonder she looked so fragile. No pretty words could soothe them now. Ill go, Winona said.

She found her twelve-year-old sister hunched over the yellow Formica table, drawing a picture.

Hey, Bean, Winona said, ruffling her sisters hair.

Hey, Pea.

Whatcha doing?

Drawing a picture of us girls. She stopped drawing and tilted her head to look up. Her long wheat-blond hair was a birds nest of tangles and her green eyes were bloodshot from crying, and still she was beautiful: a perfect Dresden doll. Mom will be able to see it from Heaven, wont she?

Winona didnt know how to answer. Faith had always come easily to her before, been as natural and effortless as breathing, but no more. Cancer had come into their family and broken it into so many separate pieces it seemed impossible they would ever be whole again. Of course, she said dully. Well put it on the fridge.

She walked away from her sister, but it was a mistake, that movement, and she knew it instantly. In this kitchen, memories of her mother were everywherein the handmade canary and blue gingham curtains, in the Mountain Mama magnet that clung to the refrigerator door, in the bowl of shells on the windowsill. Come on, Winnie, lets go to the beach and look for treasures ...

How many times had Winona blown her mother off this summer? Shed been too busy to hang with Mom, too cool to scavenge the beach, looking for pieces of smooth broken glass amid the shattered oyster shells and drying kelp.

That thought sent her to the fridge. Opening the freezer door, she found a half gallon of Neapolitan ice cream. It was the last thing she needed, but she couldnt help herself.

Grabbing a spoon, she leaned against the counter and started eating. Through the kitchen window, she could see the dirt driveway in front of the farmhouse and the raggedy barn-red loafing shed in the clearing. Up there, her dads beat-up blue truck was backing up to their rusted six-horse trailer. He got out of the drivers side and went back to the hitch.