She found a chapter titled The Summer of Your Mother’s Death and turned to it. The ink there was wet, shimmering. She read:
It was sudden—an aneurysm that burst like an overripe berry. Paige inherited the small, cluttered house by the bluffs, the seven overstuffed bookcases, and a single, heavy key. paige turner nau
Paige, heart hammering, descended. At the bottom was a single room with a single shelf. On it sat one book, leather-bound and larger than a dictionary. The title was embossed in silver leaf: The Untold Stories of Paige Turner Nau. She found a chapter titled The Summer of
Each page she read, she wept. And each page, after her tears dried, changed. The stories of her fear rewrote themselves into stories of her courage, however small. Paige inherited the small, cluttered house by the
Paige Turner Nau had always believed her name was a cosmic joke. Her mother, a whimsical librarian named Eleanor, had married a stoic marine biologist named Carl Nau. Eleanor had won the battle of the first name (“Paige, for the love of books, Carl!”) and Carl had won the war of the last name (“Nau is short, strong, and unpronounceable in a storm, Eleanor.”). The middle name, Turner, was Eleanor’s secret victory lap.
