A Haven for Her Heart

by Susan Anne Mason

  Ruth made way for Jenny to look inside the car. Tears filled Jenny’s eyes. “That’s him.” Then she backed away from the vehicle, as though expecting him to jump out and accost her.

  Mr. Simmons crossed the road, his brows an angry slash on his forehead. “What the devil is going on here?”

  The injured man groaned and began to stir. Then his eyes opened, fastening right on Jenny. “There you are, you ungrateful wench. Look what you made me do.” Blood dripped down his face from a gash on his forehead.

  Jenny bit her lip, and Ruth put her arm around her.

  The sound of a siren broke the eerie silence. A police car headed down the street toward them, its red lights flashing.

  Olivia stood with the rain pouring off her, water puddling in her shoes. She didn’t know whether to cheer or groan. At least Jenny’s husband would no longer be a threat. He’d likely be sentenced and maybe jailed for destroying city property.

  However, this was not the type of attention the maternity home needed right now. And with the neighbors having a front-row seat to the whole debacle, it would only add more fuel to Mr. Simmons’s campaign against them.

  Just in time for the September council meeting.

  40

  Olivia sat on the bench in the backyard of Bennington Place and watched the sun rise over the trees. Shielding herself from the crisp morning air, she wrapped her cardigan more firmly around her middle, attempting to soak in the garden’s serenity.

  It had been over week since the car accident, and to Olivia’s utter astonishment, Jenny had insisted on going with her husband to the hospital. Then, two days ago, she’d returned for her things, saying that she was moving back in with her husband. She said he’d learned his lesson and had promised to give up drinking. Ruth had tried to convince her that change wouldn’t come so easily, but to no avail. Jenny had bid them a tearful farewell and taken her leave.

  A brisk wind blew up, stirring the grass at Olivia’s feet. She shivered. It was as if turning the calendar to September had created a distinct change in the weather. Now the evenings and mornings were decidedly cooler, and the first hint of color tinted the trees.

  It also meant that the Toronto City Council would soon resume. Olivia glanced at her notebook and pencil on the bench beside her. She’d been trying to write something about the necessity of keeping Bennington Place open but hadn’t come up with more than a few disjointed sentences.

  Some of the residents said they would stand up and offer testimony if Olivia did as well. How could she refuse when she wanted the other women to speak up?

  Now one of her worst nightmares was coming true. She’d almost rather go through another round of torture at the reformatory than stand before the city council and expose her disgrace to the whole world. But she could see no other way around it.

  She pushed away the ball of dread in her chest and read the few sentences she’d written so far. If only she could summon a bit of her initial passion for the maternity home. But lately, between missing Darius and worrying about Jenny, she’d lost some of her zeal for their mission. Somehow, some way, she needed to get it back.

  Olivia looked up to see Cherise crossing the lawn toward her, clutching her cardigan about her.

  “Bonjour, Olivia.”

  “Good morning, Cherise. You’re up early.”

  “Angelique woke me at dawn, but she’s sleeping again.” Cherise took a seat beside her on the bench. “I came to tell you that I’ve decided to speak at the council meeting. You and Ruth have changed my life. And I would like to do something to show my gratitude.”

  With the abundance of caregivers for Angelique, Cherise had begun working a few hours a week in a nearby restaurant, determined never to go back to her previous profession, so she could be a good role model for her daughter.

  Olivia leaned over to hug her. “Thank you, Cherise. Your testimony will help tremendously, I’m sure.”

  “I hope so.” Cherise frowned. “Have you heard from Margaret since she left?”

  “Yes. She said she’s going to do her best to be at the meeting.”

  “Bon. That is good.” Tears welled in Cherise’s eyes, belying her words.

  A similar wave of sadness tugged at Olivia. Margaret and Calvin had left Bennington Place a week ago. With the threat of the home’s possible closure, Margaret had reached out to her older sister, and the two had reconciled. When her sister invited Margaret to move in with her, she had gratefully accepted. Olivia was happy for her, yet she still grieved the loss of her friend.

  “I miss Margaret too,” she said. “But this is what’s supposed to happen. Our goal, after all, is to help you move on with your lives.” Margaret and little Calvin were, in fact, Bennington Place’s first real success story. They should be grateful for that.

  Cherise gave Olivia a curious stare. “You are very sad lately, mon amie. You must have faith that everything will work out for the best. For the home . . . and for you.”

  “I’m trying hard to believe that.” She managed a smile for the girl’s sake. Yet she feared the underlying pain from all the losses in her life might never go away.

  Cherise rose and smoothed her skirt. “I must get back before Angelique wakes again.”

  “I’ll come with you. It’s getting chilly.” She was making no headway with her speech anyway. Perhaps a change of location would help.

  Back in her room, Olivia sank onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. She couldn’t seem to escape the black cloud of depression that continued to hold her hostage. Ever since she’d ended her relationship with Darius, nothing but disappointment had followed. Margaret and Jenny had moved out of Bennington Place, their absence leaving a gaping hole in the household. Patricia and Nancy had both recently given birth, which only served to remind Olivia once again how she would never have children of her own. How many times would she force a smile to her lips as she watched the women happily moving on with their lives, while she remained trapped by her own unchangeable circumstances?

  Her gaze fell to the hand-drawn picture on her wall, and a spasm of grief shuddered through her. She missed Darius and Sofia more than she thought possible, the ache inside her almost as deep as the one reserved for Matteo. Several days ago, at an extremely low point, Olivia had nearly broken down and called Darius. But then she’d remembered the reasons why she’d left him in the first place and replaced the receiver before making the call.

  With a heavy sigh, Olivia forced her uncooperative limbs up from the bed, removed the drawing from the wall, and carefully folded it in half. From the top shelf of her closet, she took down her bag of mementos and carried it to the bed. This was torture, she knew, yet she couldn’t seem to help herself. Loosening the drawstring, she reached inside to touch the softness of Matteo’s baby blanket. She brought the wool to her cheek, inhaling deeply, desperate for a trace of her son’s scent. He’d only worn the blanket for a few minutes, but Olivia held fast to the belief that the wool still contained his smell. Yet even that, like his memory, was fading.

  If only she knew once and for all what had happened to her son, perhaps she could find peace. Had Matteo been adopted by doting parents? Or was he still in a foster home somewhere in the city? Despite her litany of prayers, those troubling questions continued to haunt her.

  She let out a shaky breath and placed the blanket and Sofia’s picture into the bag, a decision firming in her mind. One way or another, she had to try and find out something—anything—about Matteo’s situation. If she never tried, she would always regret it, always wonder whether she could have done something to get him back. Because until she had some idea what had become of him, until she knew that he was better off without her, she doubted she would ever fully heal from the pain of losing him.

  The next morning, Olivia’s heart thudded in her chest as she stepped through the doors of the Children’s Aid Society. Would the people here take pity on her? Or would they send her away empty-handed once again?

  Please, Lord, please let me
learn something that will finally give me peace about my son.

  Twisting her hands together, Olivia headed over to a woman at the reception desk and forced a cheery smile. “Good afternoon. My name is Olivia Rosetti. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Linder, please.”

  The woman looked up. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I’m with the Bennington Place Maternity Home. I just need a few minutes of her time.” Perhaps it was cheating to make it seem like she was here on business, but if it got her in the door, she couldn’t feel too bad about it.

  “Wait here and I’ll see if she can fit you in.”

  Several minutes later, Mrs. Linder appeared. She wore her hair in a fashionable roll, and her dark blue suit gave her a very professional air. “Hello, Miss Rosetti. This is a surprise. What brings you to our office?”

  “I’d like to discuss something with you if you have the time.”

  “You’re in luck. My next appointment isn’t for twenty minutes.”

  She led the way to a small, crowded room and offered Olivia a seat.

  “First of all,” Mrs. Linder said as she sat down, “I want to compliment you on the work you and Mrs. Bennington are doing. I’ve always hoped that a maternity home of your caliber would open in the city.” Her face softened. “I only wish you’d had the opportunity to stay at such a place yourself.”

  Olivia drew in a breath, making a note to ask Mrs. Linder if she would consider speaking on their behalf at the city council meeting. But not today. Today she had only one focus. “Thank you. However, it was my experience at the reformatory that led to us opening Bennington Place, so at least some good has come from it. Which brings me to the reason I’m here.”

  “I assume this has something to do with one of your residents?” The woman smiled and folded her hands on the desktop.

  “Actually, no.” Olivia lifted her chin, grasping her handbag in a death grip. “I need to know what became of my son after he was taken from me.”

  Mrs. Linder winced, then quickly schooled her features. “I’m sorry. I wish I could—”

  “I realize adoption records are private,” Olivia cut in. “I only want to know whether Matteo is still in the system or if he’s been placed with a good family.” Tears pushed at the corners of her eyes. “Maybe then I can put the matter to rest once and for all.” She fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t break down in front of the woman, but that was proving far more difficult than she’d anticipated.

  Mrs. Linder gazed at her with compassion. “I do regret how events transpired with your son, Miss Rosetti. And off the record, I do not condone the way Mercer Reformatory treats the women in their care.” She hesitated, then sighed. “Let me see if I can at least find out whether your son has been adopted.”

  Olivia sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

  “What was the date of your son’s birth?”

  “June sixth, 1940.”

  “Give me a moment to check with one of the clerks.” She rose and left the room.

  Olivia closed her eyes and focused on regulating her breathing. Mrs. Linder had reacted better than she’d dared hope. Perhaps she really did regret the manner in which she’d had to take Matteo from her.

  Too restless to remain seated, Olivia got up to walk around the cramped area. For such an important organization, they sure seemed to lack space. A calendar and a round clock were the only adornments on the walls, except for a framed certificate citing Mrs. Linder’s academic achievements.

  Finally, the woman returned, a frown creasing her brow. She sat down and placed a manila folder on the desk. “I need to ask you a question, Miss Rosetti, and I’d like an honest answer.”

  Olivia’s heart thumped hard. Mrs. Linder seemed annoyed. What could have happened to change her demeanor? “Of course. What is it?”

  “Did you recently send someone—a relative, it seems—to inquire about your son on your behalf?”

  The hairs on Olivia’s neck rose. “No, I didn’t. Why?”

  “Last week, a priest from St. Michael’s came in to inquire about him. Even though he was a clergyman and claimed to be a relative, Martha refused to give him any information.”

  Olivia’s hand flew to the collar of her blouse. “That must have been my brother. But why would he do that without telling me?”

  “Perhaps he knew the odds weren’t good and didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

  Olivia’s eyes blurred with fresh tears. Dear Sal. It would be just like him to want to do this for her.

  “Well, he didn’t get far, which is a good testament to Martha’s dedication to our clients’ privacy.” Mrs. Linder paused, still frowning slightly. “Technically speaking, I am bending the rules here. I hope I can count on your discretion.”

  Olivia dashed the moisture from her eyes. “Certainly. We value your role at Bennington Place too much to jeopardize our relationship.”

  “All right then.” The woman opened the folder, pulled on a pair of eyeglasses, and scanned the paperwork inside. “It looks like your son stayed at the Infants’ Home for about a week before being placed with a foster family, a nice Italian couple, who intend to adopt him.”

  “Intend to? You mean he’s not adopted yet?” A bud of hope came alive in Olivia’s chest, quickening her pulse.

  “Not yet. But only because there’s a two-year mandatory waiting period before the adoption can be finalized. The family has had him for over a year now and is raising him as their son. The official document is really just a formality.”

  Olivia’s throat tightened. She pressed her fingers to her trembling lips. “So there’s no hope that I could ever . . .” She swallowed. “Even if I were to marry?”

  Mrs. Linder’s eyes filled with sympathy. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t see that happening. Besides, you have to consider what’s best for the child. These are the only parents he’s known. To rip him away after this long would be cruel.”

  “But I’m his mother.” Olivia twisted the handkerchief between her fingers, not caring that she sounded like a petulant child. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “Legally, I’m afraid not.” The woman patted Olivia’s arm. “This couple passed the rigorous approval process with flying colors and are very grateful to have him.” Mrs. Linder closed the folder. “All our follow-up visits have been excellent as well. I hope knowing that your son is healthy and has a loving home will go a long way toward easing your mind.” She gave a soft smile and stood, signaling the meeting was at an end.

  Olivia blew her nose and rose with as much dignity as she could muster. “Thank you. It does help to know that.” She hesitated at the door, still unable to concede defeat. “If anything changes with my son, would you let me know and possibly give me a chance to get him back?”

  Mrs. Linder shook her head sadly. “I don’t think that’s wise. I can almost guarantee the family won’t change their mind.”

  The last thread of hope stretched and broke. Olivia’s shoulders sagged under the weight of knowing that she had truly lost her son and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Unable to say another word, she simply nodded and made her escape before her tears could fall in earnest.

  41

  You look like a worn-out dollar bill.” Mr. Walcott stood in the open doorway of Darius’s office, his arms crossed.

  “Didn’t get much sleep last night,” Darius muttered.

  “Me neither.” He entered the office and perched on the edge of Darius’s desk. “I know you’re officially off the Bennington case, but I assume you’ve heard about the city council meeting scheduled for the sixteenth of this month? The neighbors will be presenting their petition to have the home closed.”

  Knots tightened in Darius’s neck. “I just heard they’d set the date.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to loosen the tension. He’d already had disappointing news this morning. Salvatore had called earlier to tell him that his visit to the Children’s Aid S
ociety had been unsuccessful. He wasn’t able to get any information on either Matteo or Abigail, effectively destroying Darius’s hope to give Olivia good news.

  “Caldwell is out sick,” Walcott continued. “And the other staff members are tied up on important projects. You’re the only one who seems to be at loose ends.”

  Darius couldn’t deny the statement. With the loss of the Peterson contract and Mr. Cheeseman still in mourning, Darius’s major accounts were presently inactive. Sure, he’d been doing the basics—collecting the rents, arranging for repairs that were needed, and finding new tenants for any vacant building space. But over the past weeks, he’d lost his initiative to drum up new business. In short, he wasn’t doing much except the bare minimum to earn his paycheck these days.

  Walcott leaned toward him. “I want you to round up more people who oppose the home and who’d be willing to testify at that meeting. Preferably local businessmen since their word will carry more weight.”

  Was he serious? Darius had been very clear about not wanting to take action against the maternity home. Yet could he refuse a direct order? His gut clenched as the answer became clear.

  Darius pushed up from the desk. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? There’s nothing intrinsically immoral about canvassing support.”

  Darius walked to the window and stared out. “I happen to think Bennington Place is an excellent facility. And I also know how much that house means to Ruth Bennington. I’m not going to help anyone take it away from her.”

  At the unnerving silence behind him, Darius turned to face his boss.

  “It’s that pretty partner of hers, isn’t it?” Walcott sneered. “I saw you talking to her at the fundraiser, and if memory serves, it was because of her that you burned our bridges with Elliott Peterson.” He stood up, his eyes narrowing. “I can’t believe you’d risk your career over a skirt.”

  “My feelings for Miss Rosetti are irrelevant. I’ve made my position clear. I don’t feel right about trying to manipulate a widow out of her home.”