“There’s more,” she said. Opening the box again, she retrieved a small envelope yellow with age. “Read this and tell me what you think.”
Gage carefully took the letter from her, the paper brittle, the ink faded. Careful not to tear the sheet, he unfolded it and read.
January 10, 1943
My dearest Gina,
I only have a few minutes, and pray this letter will reach you. Your last letter took three weeks to find me and I know how worried you must be. I love you, Gina. Please don’t worry. We’ll be married as soon as I can arrange it. Everything will work out.
Yours always,
Jerome
“So…what do you think?” Lindsay asked, her eyes pleading with him.
“They were in love.” He’d known that earlier, after talking to Lily Quantrill. He didn’t need a letter written nearly sixty years ago to tell him that their grandparents had shared a deep and abiding affection.
“You don’t see it?” She seemed to beseech him to notice the same things she did or to interpret them in the same way.
“What am I supposed to see?”
“Gage,” she began, her voice trembling with emotion. “Obviously, I can’t read what my grandmother wrote Jerome—the letter he said took three weeks to reach him—but from his response can’t you tell how desperate she was? Can’t you guess why?”
He frowned, unwilling to speculate. “What do you think it said?”
“My grandmother was pregnant.”
“I don’t believe that!”
“Read between the lines.”
“You have no proof and even if you did, what difference does it make?”
“What difference does it make?” she cried, as though she couldn’t understand why he’d ask anything so outlandish.
Gage was sorry he’d come. He didn’t want to know this, didn’t want to pry into his grandfather’s life. “You have no proof of it,” he said again. “Lindsay, listen, sometimes it’s better to leave things alone. Whatever happened was a long time ago.”
“You’re wrong. I do have proof,” she whispered, and reached inside the cigar box again. “This is a letter from an adoption agency telling my grandmother about the placement of the child she relinquished.”
Fifteen
Lindsay could tell from the stricken look on his face that her discovery had come as a shock to Gage. It had shocked her, too. Frowning, he sat and stared at the letter from the adoption agency for several minutes.
Lindsay had read the letters enclosed within the cigar box so many times she’d practically memorized them. The one from the agency was straightforward, written over fifty years earlier by an empathetic supervisor to a grieving young woman.
September 30, 1944
Dear Regina,
I have your letters here before me. I appreciate your concern and love for your daughter. As you know, it isn’t our practice to let mothers who’ve relinquished their children know the details of the child’s adoption. However, I’m willing to make an exception in your case, with the clear understanding that this is all the information I can and will give you. You must not ask again.
Your daughter was adopted by a good family; of that you can rest assured. Her parents are educated and respected, her father a noted physician. As you requested, she will be raised Catholic and, in fact, has an uncle who is a priest. She has already been baptized.
I realize that giving up your daughter was a difficult decision, but as we have discussed on many occasions, it was in the best interests of both the child and, I believe, you. You have your whole life ahead of you. Bury the memory of your daughter and the lost soldier you loved deep within your heart. Hold them there through the years. But begin your new life with a sense of hope and a willingness to love again.
Be strong. God bless you.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Merline Hopfinger, Supervisor
Dickinson Adoption Agency
“She never told anyone about the baby.” Lindsay was fairly confident of this. Certainly, Lily Quantrill didn’t know; neither did Hassie. Granted, she wasn’t part of the Buffalo Valley community until after the war, but she and Gina had become friends. If Gina was going to tell anyone, it would probably have been Hassie. No, Lindsay was sure that Gina hadn’t divulged her secret, even to her closest friends.
Gage disagreed with a shake of his head. “You have no way of knowing that.”
“You’re right, but I don’t think she ever did.” Lindsay was convinced her grandmother’s silence had little to do with guilt or the shame of being an unwed mother. She was protecting the memory of Jerome Sinclair, the man she’d believed dead. And she was doing as Mrs. Hopfinger had suggested and holding tight to the memory of the daughter whose heartbeat she’d once shared.
“Do you remember what Lily Quantrill said?” Gage asked, as if the thought had suddenly come to him. “She mentioned that your grandmother was sick for a time after she got the news that my grandfather was missing in action.”
“I remember.”
Gage’s look was pensive. “I wonder if that was when she went away to have the baby.”
Lindsay knew it must have been. Her grandmother had probably hidden the pregnancy as long as she could. When it was no longer possible, she’d left Buffalo Valley, her heart broken, her very will to live taken from her.
“The baby was born sometime in August,” Lindsay said with certainty.
Gage handed back the agency letter. “What makes you say that? The letter doesn’t give any indication of the child’s birthday.”
“I know.” In the dead of night, Lindsay had found her grandmother weeping for the child she would never hold, grieving for the child she would never know. That had been in August and Lindsay now believed she’d seen her grandmother reliving the birth of the child she’d given up for adoption, mourning her all over again….
“How do you know?” Gage demanded.
“Camp was the last week of July—I went for years. So my family was here in Buffalo Valley in August. It was definitely August.”
Gage glanced at the cigar box. “This is pretty incredible information, but I don’t intend on breaking their secret, do you?”
Lindsay had only recently made her decision. Unsure at first, she’d reviewed the contents of the box a dozen times. Then she’d called Gage. Now she knew what she needed to do.
“I want to find her.”
“Her? The child?” Gage shook his head, resolutely dismissing the suggestion.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “Whoever she is, she has a right to know about her birth parents.”
His mouth thinned and he continued shaking his head. “Lindsay, no.”
“No?”
“First of all, adoption records are closed.”
“I don’t need any records. The letter gives me enough information to find her. At least I hope it does.” It probably wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. She’d hoped Gage would be willing to help her, would find the importance of this task as compelling as she did.
He was silent, then stood and walked to the other side of the room, as though to put distance between them. His absolute rejection of her plan disappointed Lindsay more than she’d expected it would.
“I’m not going to pry into her life,” she rushed to explain, responding to his objections before he had a chance to speak then.
“No, you plan to force your way in, uninvited and unwanted. And for what possible reason? What’s done is done. All this happened nearly sixty years ago. What possible good could come out of invading her privacy?”
“She has a right to know her parents loved her,” Lindsay said as persuasively as she could.
“Don’t do this,” he pleaded softly.
“What about the gold locket and the letters? If you were an adopted child, wouldn’t you want those?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” The words were flat. Unyielding. His jaw was hard and his eyes cold in a way she hadn’t seen before. Shaking his head, he added, “
Brandon said it last week—and again today. I took his warning with a grain of salt, knowing he’s bitter and miserable over Joanie and the kids being gone.”
Now it was Lindsay’s turn to feel confused. “What’s Brandon Wyatt got to do with any of this?”
“You don’t understand us….”
“Us? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She hated it when he said things like this.
He held her look. “You aren’t one of us.”
“Are you saying I’m an outsider?” she asked angrily.
“You mean well, Lindsay, but you don’t understand. People here believe that other folks should be allowed to make their own choices and live by them. We’re independent. Self-reliant. We don’t interfere in other people’s lives—or want ours interfered with. That’s what you don’t understand.” He walked toward the door, pausing to reach for his coat. “Don’t do this, Lindsay. Leave the woman alone. She didn’t ask for anyone to intrude in her life. She has a right to her privacy.”
“I’m not going to invade her life—I’m giving her a gift.”
He glared at her. “Gift.” He spat out the word. “You talk about a scholarship for Kevin and call that a gift, too. Don’t you see? Can’t you understand? You insist on giving people gifts they don’t need or want.”
Lindsay opened her mouth to argue, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Your grandmother chose to keep her daughter a secret,” he said earnestly. “If for no other reason, honor her wishes.”
“I’ll…think about it,” she promised.
“That’s all I can ask.” He moved to open the door.
“Gage,” she said, stopping him. She didn’t want him to leave, not like this, not when so much remained unspoken. “I think we should talk some more about Kevin and the scholarship.”
His back was ramrod straight. She felt a sudden fear of losing him. She could feel it, see it. He was pulling away from her, emotionally as well as physically.
“I understand about duty and responsibility, and that Kevin’s future is already planned for him—but I also believe strongly that he should apply for the scholarships. If he’s rejected, then nothing’s lost, and if he’s accepted, well, we can all cross that bridge when we get to it. If he is accepted, he’ll never doubt his talent. He’ll know that if circumstances were different, he could have pursued art had he wanted. And still might if the future allows.”
“You encouraged him to fill out the applications?”
She nodded.
“Kevin agreed?”
“He wasn’t sure…Yes, he agreed after I talked to him.” Heart sinking, she clasped her hands in front of her. Gage looked past her, but she didn’t miss the expression on his face. He thought she’d betrayed him. That had never been her intention, never entered her mind. “I…felt you should know,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “That’s all…”
“You do what you feel is best, and so will I.” He turned toward the door.
“Gage!” she cried, stopping him again. “If I were adopted, I’d want to know about my birth parents.”
He said nothing.
“I wouldn’t interfere in her life.”
“Are you looking for my approval? Because if you are, I’m not giving it. Like I said, you do what you feel is necessary and so will I.”
“But you won’t help me find her?”
“I want nothing to do with this.”
She took a step toward him. “I’m going to do some research this weekend. I figured if I found the name of a physician who practiced during that time—a man who was Catholic and had a brother or brother-in-law who was a priest—then I might be able to locate her. I was hoping we could work together.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time. I said I want nothing to do with this. Can I make it any plainer than that?”
Lindsay felt numb. “No, I guess you can’t,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
Gage opened the door and this time she didn’t stop him.
Heath Quantrill hadn’t talked to Rachel Fischer since the night of their dinner date a month earlier. In retrospect, he realized he’d made a mistake in rushing her.
The women he knew, and there had been plenty over the years, had a more sophisticated and liberal view of life and sex. Often they were the ones who’d aggressively pursued him, eager to take him to their beds. Sometimes he forgot he was back in North Dakota, where the mere suggestion of physical pleasure made women like Rachel blush. She’d lived her entire life in Buffalo Valley, had married right out of high school and settled into a role she’d never questioned. It’d been years since he’d had to charm a woman into his bed—not that he wasn’t up to the challenge.
Rachel’s sexual experience was probably limited to her marriage. He was sure she had much to learn, and he looked forward to teaching her. He was vaguely aware that his attitude might be a bit arrogant, but it didn’t concern him much. Women tended to like confidence in a man—judging by his observations, anyway.
He’d been a fool to believe she was like the other women he’d known. Although it’d been difficult, he’d purposely stayed away and allowed enough time to pass for her wounded sensibilities to heal. Now, with Christmas over and the holidays behind them, he’d try again. He’d advance a little more slowly, though.
Her January payment on the pizza oven was due, and when she brought it to the bank, Heath planned to use the opportunity to make amends. Subtly, of course. He’d be contrite, but not excessively so. He knew what he wanted—and he wanted Rachel, in his bed. Rachel was a woman who needed to be seduced. Persuaded. Courted. If he hadn’t been so distracted by her, he would have recognized it.
All day, every time the bank door opened, Heath looked up, hoping it was Rachel.
But the entire day passed and still no Rachel. Before this, she’d always been prompt with her payment. Then, just as the bank was ready to close, a breathless Mark raced inside.
“Hello, Mr. Quantrill.” The ten-year-old’s cheeks and nose were rosy red from the cold. His flyaway hair stood straight up with static electricity from his knit cap, which he’d yanked off when he entered the bank. “My mom asked me to give you this.” He removed his glove with his teeth, then reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a crumpled check.
Instead of bringing the payment herself, Rachel had thwarted him and sent the boy.
“It’s the money for the pizza oven,” Mark explained when Heath didn’t immediately accept the check.
The paper felt cold against his warm fingers. “Thank her for me,” Heath said.
Mark nodded. “I gotta go, Mom needs me to help at the house.” He pushed the knit hat back on his head and pulled on his glove. “See you next month, Mr. Quantrill.”
“Right,” he muttered. So that was the way it would be.
A few minutes later, Heath locked up, but instead of heading straight back to Grand Forks, he wandered over to Buffalo Bob’s. He wanted to think and didn’t know of a better place than the 3 OF A KIND.
“How’re ya doin’?” Bob greeted him.
“Great,” Heath mumbled, “just great.”
Buffalo Bob paused and stared in Heath’s direction. “Don’t tell me you got women troubles, too.”
Heath slid onto a stool. “What do you mean?”
“Seems to be afflicting every man in town.” He held up a beer and Heath shook his head. Buffalo Bob reached for the coffeepot and poured him a mug, instead. Heath had found it to be the best coffee around. Bob served real coffee and not some watered-down version. Or, God forbid, that flavored stuff. After living in Europe, Heath had developed a connoisseur’s taste for coffee. In his opinion, most folks in North Dakota served coffee weak enough to resemble tea.
“Take Brandon Wyatt,” Buffalo Bob said as he set the mug down on the bar. “I suppose you already heard he and the missus split?”
“Brandon and Joanie?” Heath hadn’t heard, and the news depressed him.
“Don’t know what went
wrong,” Buffalo Bob added. “All Brandon said was he should’ve known better than to marry a city girl.”
Heath shook his head and cupped the mug with both hands, his elbows on the bar. “That’s a real shame.”
“Dennis Urlacher was in recently, all miserable about him and Sarah. Apparently he’s having trouble with that teenage daughter of hers. From what he said, it looks like the girl wants her parents to get back together.”
“Any chance of that?”
Buffalo Bob shrugged. “I doubt it, seeing they’ve been divorced for years, but I wouldn’t know.” He poured a coffee for himself. “You got the look, too, Mr. Quantrill.”
“Me?” Heath didn’t want to discuss his personal affairs, not with Bob or with anyone. Others might, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk about his mistakes. He’d drifted in here for some privacy, a chance to think. “It’s nothing,” he murmured.
“I thought you and Rachel Fischer were hitting it off.”
“Not really.” He took one last sip of coffee, put the mug down and left a dollar on the counter. “Guess I’m ready for the drive now.”
Buffalo Bob seemed surprised by his abrupt decision to leave. “Good to see you,” he said, scooping up the mug and the money. “Come by anytime.”
“Thanks, I will.” Heath was halfway out the door when he heard a woman’s giggle. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Buffalo Bob and Merrily engaged in a kiss that looked as if it was never going to end. For an instant, he experienced a pang of envy. If he hadn’t been so stupid, Rachel might be kissing him like that right now. Instead, he was slinking out of town, defeated, and wishing like hell for a second chance.
Sunday afternoon, Heath made his weekly trek to visit his grandmother at the retirement center. He found her asleep in her wheelchair, head to one side, eyes closed.
As quietly as he could, he made his way into her suite and set the small bouquet of flowers on top of the television.
“Don’t put those there,” she snapped, fully awake and alert in a split second. She looked at him suspiciously. “When did you get here?”