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18
Be
August 4
Dear Bill,
Please try to understand. I have to go. Someday I will explain it all. Until then, please know how much I love you.
Yours always,
me
Be
She shook her head, astounded. The date on the letter was roughly a month after Be
But there it was, on paper. The letter wasn’t signed, but it had to be from her mother, it was her handwriting. Still, Be
She refolded the note. She felt shaken, her body hollow. She returned the note to the envelope, then held the letter in her palm, feeling the old-fashioned heaviness of the stationery. Smelling the vaguely perfumed scent to the paper. Tea Roses, her mother’s perfume, or did she imagine that? Still, she couldn’t bring herself to put the note back right away.
Then Be
Be
But her mother was crazy. Stone-cold crazy.
Be
From the front step of the cottage, she could see the gabled roof of the main house against the darkened sky. Maybe Winslow was there, or at least they would know where he was. Be
She hurried through a pasture with grass barely long enough to tickle her ankles. A green, fresh scent filled the air and fireflies glowed on and off, oblivious to mounds of horse dung that Be
The door opened almost immediately, and the sweet, aged face of a uniformed maid appeared. “Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“I’m an attorney, Be
“At this hour?” The maid’s gray eyebrows made a snow-dusted roof over her eyes. “Why, they’ve all gone to bed. Is something the matter?”
“Uh, no. I’m trying to find the caretaker, Bill Winslow. I went to his cottage but he wasn’t there. Do you know where he is?”
“Mr. Winslow is on vacation this week and the next two. He takes three weeks every year.”
Be
“No. Shall I tell him you called?”
“I was wondering, how long has Mr. Winslow worked here?”
“Let me see. Mr. Winslow and I came to the family about the same time, almost thirty-nine years ago.”
Be
“Well, no.”
“In almost forty years?”
The maid’s eyelids fluttered. “I have my duties in the house, and Mr. Winslow works the grounds. He does like his privacy.”
“Does he have any family?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“Any children?”
“No. I must say, I know nothing about that, and I’m terribly uncomfortable discussing Mr. Winslow’s personal business any further. Please call again when Mr. Winslow returns.” The maid closed the heavy door with a solid brass click, leaving Be
It was a feeling she was getting used to.
By the time Be
She undressed quickly in the darkness, piling her skirt on top of the exercise bike and stepping out of her pumps. She felt exhausted and there was still so much work to do. She padded to the bathroom, followed by Bear, and stopped halfway in the dark hallway. Her home office was on the right, still unpainted.
Be
Be
Be
She went back to the search engine, typed in “adoption,” and got lists of websites about the subject. She skimmed the first few stories about how adoptees had found their birth parents and researched companies that located birth parents and siblings, with endorsements from satisfied adoptees. None of the endorsements were from the newfound parents or siblings. Why?
She eased back in the chair. Being found was at best an ambivalent experience, not the stuff of short, poignant testimonials. Be