Page 41 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter thirty-two

“You two are such lazy bumblebees!” Chrissie exclaimed, borrowing Mum’s gentler alternative to lazy bums.

It was the early May bank holiday, and she had the Monday off.

Mikey was at home too, thanks to a rare stroke of luck from Lincolnshire Constabulary’s shift planners.

The weather, however, had been far less obliging.

In true British bank holiday fashion, the skies were a uniform slate grey, and the rain, which had started at seven that morning, showed no sign of letting up.

Her brother and dad were settled in the living room.

Mikey was sprawled out on the dark grey velvet sofa, his black-and-red striped socked feet propped on one armrest, head resting on the other.

Dad was in his matching recliner, a steaming cup of tea and a plate of biscuits perched on the table beside him, the TV flickering quietly in front of them.

“Something smells incredible, Chrissie!” Dad said, smiling up at her. “Let me know when you need me for the photos.”

His voice sounded cheery enough, but Chrissie’s insides gave an uneasy twist. Dad had been coughing a lot.

He blamed it on his annual spring cold, but her spidey senses were on high alert.

It had been at least fifteen days now, and there was that poster at the GP surgery: Any cough lasting more than three weeks should be checked out .

The memory of it hung in her mind like a warning siren.

Her chest tightened at the thought of losing him so soon after Mum.

“I can take the photos,” she offered quickly.

Dad waved her off, glancing up again. “No, no, I’ll do it. It’s no trouble. I like being useful.”

Chrissie caught Mikey’s eye. He gave her a subtle nod. He wasn’t as anxious as she was, but they both understood how much their Dad needed to feel needed.

“It’ll be a while yet, Pops,” she said. “The cake needs at least an hour to cool before I can add the orange jelly layer, let it chill, then pour over the chocolate ganache.”

Mikey shot upright, sending the cushions under his legs flying across the room. “Are you making a giant Jaffa cake?”

“No!” Chrissie lied through her teeth.

“You are, you are, you are!” His face lit up as he clasped his hands in mock prayer, tilting his head to the ceiling. “Oh, thank you, Gods of the shift pattern! Blessings be upon you for arranging my day off—on the day my sister bakes a giant Jaffa cake with my name on it!”

“Your name’s nowhere near it!” she shot back, her lips twitching.

He un-steepled his hands, turning to face her. “What if Dad could take a shot of me eating it? If he snaps me rolling my eyes in ecstasy, everyone will queue up to order that cake, promise, promise, promise!”

Chrissie rolled her eyes. God, he was annoying—in a nice way.

Still, his idea wasn’t the worst. Mikey’s biological parents had blessed him with jackpot genes: sandy hair, wide-set green-blue eyes framed by cow-like lashes, freckled skin so clear it practically glowed and a big, easy smile that he flashed at almost everyone.

And don’t even get her started on his metabolism. Another gift from the genetic lottery. While Chrissie wasn’t related to Alan and Karen Gordon by blood, she’d inherited their shared physique: squat, sturdy and a little too squidgy for comfort.

The sight of Mikey devouring cake with obvious glee would send pulses racing across the country, followed, seconds later, by traffic to her website. Likely enough to crash it.

“Alright then,” she said begrudgingly, determined not to let him think he’d had a clever idea. “Budge up. The cake won’t be ready for ages yet.”

Mikey shrugged and swung his legs off the sofa arm to make space for her.

“What are you watching?” she asked, plopping down.

“Heir Hunters .” He leant forward slightly, animated. “It’s this show where companies track down heirs to estates. You know, people who don’t even know they’re related to the person who’s died and then they inherit a fortune!”

“Yawnsville.”

“No, really! It’s kind of fascinating,” Mikey insisted. “Pops and I watched one the other day. Some woman inherited nearly three hundred grand. From a distant cousin she’d never even heard of!”

“Whatevs.”

Chrissie pulled out her phone and checked Instagram, marvelling as usual at the sheer attention her posts generated. Four weeks ago, she’d launched @chrissiecakes, and her wildest dreams hadn’t come close to predicting the response. Orders were pouring in faster than she could keep up.

Dad’s voice echoed in her head: “Be patient, Chrissie. Don’t hand in your notice at work just yet.”

Patience wasn’t her strong suit. The past month had been a whirlwind of sleepless mornings and late nights, starting at five in the morning.

, coming home from her day job and then baking until her back, hands, head and everything else ached.

Even when she was in the office, she was sneakily replying to comments and DMs. Weekends?

Forget about it. Every Saturday and Sunday were consumed by cakes, pastries and bakes to keep up with demand.

And Dad always there, camera in hand, ready to capture her latest masterpiece.

The chaos had been exhilarating, but it had also completely derailed her original mission to find Mikey’s birth mother.

She hadn’t done anything since that frustrating search a month ago.

Scrolling through social media platforms and Googling names had gotten her nowhere, and she hadn’t found the time—or energy—to dig deeper since.

“…the census is a brilliant resource. We uncover many branches of family trees using it,” said an earnest, middle-aged man on the TV, his dark hair and matching beard lending him a scholarly air.

The label at the bottom of the screen identified him as the founder of one of the companies featured on Heir Hunters .

“Why’s it so useful?” asked the off-camera interviewer.

“For many reasons,” the man replied with practiced ease. “First, it’s legally required to fill it in, so it provides a snapshot of where the entire population is at a given time. And if we have the deceased’s birth certificate, we can trace their parents, siblings and sometimes even cousins.”

Ping, ping, ping! Chrissie’s brain synapses fired up with possibilities.

The census! Of course—that might be the key to finding Eleanor Stephenson.

Mikey knew the hospital where he’d been born, so she could narrow the search to that area.

And if Eleanor had any other children, those siblings could lead her straight to her.

Her pulse quickened. She sank back into the sofa, trying to look casual as the programme unfolded. The man on the TV continued explaining how his company used the census, making it all sound oh-so simple.

“…names can trip you up when you’re researching genealogy,” said a square-jawed blonde woman, now onscreen.

She gestured to a sprawling family tree spread across three tables in an open-plan office.

“Take Elizabeth Cole, for example. Her mother’s name was Elizabeth too, but when we traced her side of the family to find cousins, we hit a wall.

Elizabeth can appear as Liz, Lizzie, Beth, Bet—even Nell. ”

Chrissie’s brain lit up again. What if Eleanor Stephenson went by another name? Ellie, Ella, Elle, Lora or even Nell?

Her excitement fizzled into hesitation. Should she keep searching for Mikey’s mum without asking him first? A stab of self-doubt lingered in the air. But then she remembered that time a few months ago when she’d arranged for him to meet Jaden, a work acquaintance, at the pub.

“Mikey, you’re going out tonight,” she’d declared, ignoring his protests. “Jaden’s sweet, gorgeous and totally into cops.”

He’d moaned and grumbled for a solid five minutes but eventually gave in. Now he and Jaden were still together. Thank you , Ms Cupid.

He might end up a bit cross about this, too, but he’d get over it. She was sure of it.

Chrissie shifted her phone into her far hand, away from Mikey’s line of sight, and surreptitiously Googled the census. The one from 1991—closest to Mikey’s birth year—could be her golden ticket.

‘Find Mikey’s mum’ mission was a go-go once more.