Page 52

He slowed, and we both peered up the long, graveled driveway snaking up the hill. By the driveway was a large sign that read Posted . Beside it another read No Trespassing .

Gordon slid his sunglasses on top of his head and glanced at me. “Doesn’t look very welcoming.”

“I don’t think those signs are for us.”

“Really? What kind of strangers do you think they might be referring to?”

“Bad strangers. We’re good strangers.”

He chuckled. “Right. Good strangers from Alexandria bring obscure questions about a woman who may or may not have lived here sixty-plus years ago.”

“Well, if it were me living up on that hill and sixty years had passed and someone had information about my long-dead sister, I sure would want to know. Wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Gordon. You wouldn’t want to know?”

“Not necessarily.”

I was so starved for information about my biological family that his viewpoint was foreign to me. “I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to gather every morsel of information.”

“Not all information adds value.”

I straightened the yellow bow on the box of cookies. “How do you know?”

He shook his head. “You think about that more than I do.”

“You can trace your line back to the Mayflower . You have all the pieces.”

“True.” Again, he tossed me that heart-stopping smile. “Let’s find out what they say.”

I relaxed back into the seat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He shifted into first and drove up the hill. Gravel crunched under the tires, and I stared out at the fields covered with tall grass and willowy dandelions reaching toward the hot sun.

As the truck rounded a corner, I spotted a dilapidated barn to the right.

Ravaged by time, the main support beam had collapsed long ago, pulling the building in on itself.

Weeds grew up through the sunbaked beams covered with faded patches of red paint.

But set against the crystal-blue sky it had its own kind of beauty.

Old and broken, the barn still had a presence that telegraphed it belonged.

Gordon didn’t say a word as we climbed the gravel driveway.

He played along, keeping his good humor, but I knew he thought I’d lost my mind.

The Daisy he’d known in Washington, DC, would never have put herself out like this.

Sure, that Daisy was a ballbuster professionally and would go toe to toe with the toughest brokers or bankers, but when it came to personal issues, Daisy never stuck her neck out.

That Daisy bristled at the first sign of emotional turmoil. In so many ways, she was so fragile.

And here I was six months out of DC with my neck metaphorically stuck out so far with Gordon and with Jenna’s family, a slight chop would sever my head from my body. And I was oddly okay with the risk. These last months, meeting Terry, connecting with my family, had made me stronger.

Gordon rounded a second corner, and this time we came upon a white farmhouse.

Clay planters filled with tall, full marigolds stood silent and welcoming at the foot of three steps leading up to a deep tongue-and-groove porch that wrapped around the front of the house.

Twin rockers swayed ever so slightly in the breeze on the porch by floor-to-ceiling windows flanking a large black front door.

A simple brass knocker hung on the door.

Faced with the reality of speaking to perfect strangers about a dead woman, I felt my stomach start rolling. “The flowers look welcoming.”

Gordon parked the car. “Yeah. And the house looks nice, and there isn’t a sign that says Warning .”

I smiled. “So basically, the house is saying it wants us here.”

“As long as Freddy Krueger doesn’t answer the front door, we should be good.”

“Right.” I slid out of the front seat, box in hand, and met Gordon in front of the truck.

Together the two of us walked up to the front door.

I searched for a bell, then, when I didn’t see one, opened the screen door and rapped the knocker against the door a couple of times.

I slowly closed the screen door, and we both took a step back.

With Freddy Krueger still in mind, I wondered how fast I could make it to the truck in a full-on sprint.

Gordon smiled as if he’d read my mind. “I’d beat you to the truck. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t drive off until you have at least one foot in the front seat.”

The tension knotting my back eased. “Thanks. But I’d beat you.”

“You’re pregnant and a girl.”

The pregnant reference came easier and easier to both of us. “My survival instinct is so honed right now, it’s as sharp as a razor. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

He grinned when we both heard footsteps in the entryway. Seconds later we saw the rustle of curtains to the right of the door and then heard a lock click open. Slowly the door opened, and instead of finding ourselves face-to-face with a fictional killer, we were greeted by an elderly woman.

She barely stood over five feet. Thinning white hair was tied back in a bun, and wrinkles deepened the lines around her eyes and mouth. Laugh lines, I thought as I stared into her clear green eyes.

“I don’t entertain solicitors,” the woman said in a crisp voice.

“We aren’t solicitors, ma’am. We’re from Alexandria. My name is Daisy McCrae. I manage the Union Street Bakery. And this is Gordon Singleton, a ...” Who was this man standing next to me? “... a good friend of mine. We came to ask you about a recipe box.”

A slight cock conveyed annoyance more than curiosity. “I don’t know about a recipe box.”

She didn’t make a move to open the screen door, and I didn’t ask her to.

This had to be so weird. I dug into my satchel purse and held it up.

“We were renovating the bakery and taking out walls last week. We found this box in the wall. It belonged to a woman who used to work at the bakery. Her name was Jenna Davis.”

The old woman’s gaze sharpened as she dropped it from my face to the box. “How do you know the box belonged to Jenna?”

Yes, she looked at me like I was crazy, but I also knew in an instant she recognized Jenna’s name. Excitement rushed through me. “You knew Jenna?”

The older woman pursed her lips, but her gaze remained on the box. “I didn’t say that.”

A cloud of impatience swirled around, and I could hear the chant Find him, find him, find him .

Annoyed, I swiped a lock of hair away from my eyes as if I could also brush away the restlessness.

“Her first name was written inside the box, and then I searched bakery records from 1940 onward. I found the name Jenna Davis. From there I traced a picture I found of her and two soldiers. And then I was given a letter Jenna had written that gave this address. I took a chance she still had family living here.”

The woman stood silent for a long moment. Her hands trembled slightly, and she nibbled her bottom lip.

“Did you know Jenna?” I asked.

The woman looked at me, her sharp eyes now watery. “Yes, I knew Jenna.” She unlatched the screen door and pushed it open. “My name is Kate Simmons.”

“You’re Jenna’s sister.”

She swallowed, as if struggling with emotions. “Why don’t you come in, and I’ll fix you a lemonade.”

I smiled and glanced back at Gordon, very grateful he was there. I wasn’t sure why, but I was suddenly unsure of this entire trip. I clearly had dug into a deep and painful wound this woman harbored. Understanding what it was like to carry such a wound, I took pity on her.

We followed her into the house, lit by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows.

Instead of being dark or dreary, the room had a bright, cheery feel.

White lace curtains hung from clean windows, and fresh daisies filled several mason jars and vases in the room.

A soft beige color gave the walls a fresh look, and there were dozens of framed black-and-white photos.

A rose floral fabric covered a couple of wing chairs and an overstuffed couch.

All old and well worn but well cared for.

Along the hallway Gordon and I followed Kate, drawn deeper into the house by the soft, sweet smell of goodies baking in the oven.

It reminded me of the maple cookies I’d baked this morning.

Jenna’s cookies. Kate nodded toward a chrome kitchen table surrounded by six chairs, seats covered in red leather.

In the center of the table sat a ceramic bowl filled with oranges and apples.

“Have a seat.” I hovered close to a chair but stood, too nervous to sit.

Kate opened a refrigerator that dated to the 1970s and reached for a pitcher of lemonade. She glanced at my belly. “Go on, have a seat. You shouldn’t be standing too much.”

I took a seat at the table but couldn’t relax back into it. Carefully, I let my purse fall to the floor as I set the recipe box on the table. “Thanks.”

“Can I help you with that?” Gordon asked.

She glanced toward him, surprised, as if she wasn’t accustomed to help. I expected her to refuse, but she said, “Thanks. That would be nice.”

Gordon took the pitcher and carried it to the table. I glanced up at him, and he looked at me as if to say Speak.

“The lemonade looks great,” I said.

Gordon cocked an eyebrow. Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

I shrugged.

Kate retrieved three glasses from a whitewashed cabinet. Gordon took the glasses from her and filled them before replacing the lemonade in the refrigerator. Kate carried a platter of cookies to the table. “Have a seat.”

Gordon pulled out a chair for her, and when she sat, he took the chair beside me.

I shouldn’t have been nervous. I was offering information to Kate.

This wasn’t like searching for my birth mother.

The moments and seconds shouldn’t have been loaded with emotion, but every ticking second was charged with a nervous energy I didn’t understand.

I held up my bakery box wrapped in yellow ribbon. “I baked cookies today too. Maple cookies.”

Kate stared at the box but didn’t reach for it. “I haven’t baked them in years.”