Page 11

By the time I climbed the stairs to my room, my limbs drooped as if each weighed thousands of pounds. My stomach was settled, but my head pounded.

It had always seemed if you were carrying life inside of you, you’d feel good and full of energy.

It never occurred to me you’d feel as if a truck had slammed into you.

Mom and Rachel both had had great pregnancies.

Tons of energy and no morning sickness. But I didn’t share their genetics. I shared my birth mother Terry’s DNA.

Terry and I had reunited a couple of months ago. It had not been a greeting card moment but rather a tense and very trying meeting. She’d been more nervous than me, and she’d also feared I’d tell her husband and sons that I existed. Hard learning you were someone’s dirty little secret.

While we’d sat in the upscale Armistead hotel lobby, she’d tried to explain the reasons behind my abandonment. I had been a good kid, she’d said. It wasn’t my fault. She’d been a young mother, she’d explained. It wasn’t personal.

Intellectually, I understood what she was saying. But my brain and emotions didn’t always communicate so well. If I’d been such a great kid, then why not tell the world about me? Why did I need to be a secret?

I pushed through my bedroom door, flipped on a light, and sat on my bed. The springs groaned and squeaked as I pulled off my shoes.

My phone rang, and I glanced at it. Gordon. Drawing in a breath, I hit accept. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” He sounded surprised to hear my voice. “Did you get my texts?”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingertips. “Bringing down the wall was a mess, and then Margaret quit.”

“Why’s Margaret leaving?” The tangible reasons seemed to ease the edge from his voice.

“She’s gotten a great job. Long story. I’ll tell you when you get back.”

“You doing okay? You sound tired.”

Morning memories of my doctor’s visit flashed. I wanted so much to tell Gordon. He was my friend. I wanted him to be my lover again. I wanted a life with him.

But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, sudden tears filled my eyes, and as I glanced toward the ceiling, they trickled down my face. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

Clearing my throat, I said, “How did the bike ride go? You didn’t lose anyone, did you?”

“Nearly lost one or two, but we had a head count of twelve when we reached the inn.”

“Same twelve?”

He chuckled. “More or less.”

“When do you get back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, I’ll be here protecting the home front as Jean Paul rewires electrical outlets.”

“I’ll come by.”

I’d have the results by tomorrow morning. “I’ll come by your place. It’s insane here.”

“I love you.”

I drew in a deep breath. “I love you too.”

When I ended the call, I held the phone to my chest. Tears dampened my cheeks. I had been nudging my life back to a new sense of normal, and now it teetered on the edge.

Setting the phone down, I rose and moved toward a small desk in the corner. I wanted to call Mom. I wanted her to take me in her arms and tell me I would be okay. But she was somewhere on a beach in North Carolina, likely exhausted after chasing two five-year-olds around all day.

And right now, what did I have to tell her? I was afraid. I might have messed up.

I slipped the phone onto the charger and stripped off my clothes, letting them remain where they hit the ground.

The air cooled my skin as I grabbed an extra-extra-large T-shirt hanging on the back of the door and slipped it on.

I pulled my hair from a ponytail and ran my fingers over my scalp, letting my gaze land on the recipe box.

I flipped open the lid and glanced at the brown, brittle cards.

Gently I thumbed through them.

Moving back to my bed, I sat, pressed my back to the wall, and cradled the box in my lap.

I chose a card from the center because it appeared more worn and tattered than the others.

It was a recipe for pumpkin bread. Judging by the subtle stains and the frayed edges, it had been a favorite.

The handwriting was delicate and precise.

Clearly, whoever had copied the recipe had taken great care.

Seventy years ago, there had been cookbooks, of course, but many relied on recipes passed from generation to generation.

I raised the card to my nose, expecting a musty scent of time, but instead inhaled the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg.

Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the bakery around seventy years ago.

America would have been at war with Germany and Japan.

There’d have been rations. Alexandria, a port city so close to Washington, DC, would have been awash in soldiers.

The art center on the waterfront, now called the Torpedo Factory, was really a torpedo factory. No internet. No cell phones or laptops.

The idea of traveling back seventy years didn’t appeal. And yet people then had lived their lives as we do today. They’d loved, married, and had children—every emotion lived before by another. The cadence of life had been slower before technology, but the experiences were the same.

“So why did you hide this box in the wall? What was so precious in this box?”

Flipping through the cards, I saw more entries written as neatly and carefully as the first. Pies, cakes, and cookies. All had been used, but none were so worn as the pumpkin bread.

Behind all the cards was a small photo featuring three people.

A twentysomething young woman dressed in a white bakery uniform stood between two men, both dressed in Marine Corps uniforms. The woman had pinned her light hair back in a bun, and though she wore no makeup, her vibrant smile made her beautiful.

The man on the left, appearing to be several years older, was shorter and broader and wore his cap cocked to the left.

The other man, looking not much older than Jenna, was tall and lean with fair hair and had set his cap straight, and though he also smiled, he seemed a bit more serious.

Each wrapped an arm around the woman, but she leaned a little closer to the man on her right.

The trio stood in front of a sandwich board reading Union Street Bakery .

Smiling, I leaned in and studied the building behind her. I recognized the bakery’s front door. I knew the door had been changed out several times, but the style remained the same. I flipped over the picture and saw, written on the back, Jenna, 1944.

Who were you, Jenna? I fished the dog tags out of the box and ran my fingers over Sergeant Walter Franklin Jacob’s name.

“I’m guessing the tall serious one is Walter.” But I could have been wrong.

Dad had once said he’d stowed the bakery archives in his attic. In 1944 Dad would have been ten, so if he had crossed paths with Jenna, he likely wouldn’t have remembered.

I studied Jenna’s profile and looked closer.

Her smile, her brightness, and her zest captured my imagination.

Gently I traced her profile. I’d never thought much about the archives, but now I was curious about Jenna.

She’d been young. She was clearly close to two different men, and she’d taken the time to hide a recipe collection in the walls of the bakery with Walter’s dog tags.

I searched the box for any other photos but found none. I closed the lid and then my eyes. Worries quickly crowded out Jenna’s questions.

“In the morning the doctor is going to tell me I’ve no worries. Gordon is going to come home. I’m going to tell him how much I love him, and this will all be forgotten.”