Silver Serenade

by Gerry O'Hara

  She was momentarily at a loss for words. He was speaking of intimacy, not physical, but emotional, which was more intense.

  “Christie?” He wrapped his hand around hers and she could feel the heat of their skin meshing. He leaned toward her and his breath made the candlelight flicker. She looked into his eyes for answers, but saw only questions. There was only one she needed to address: Was he falling in love with her?

  After breakfast the next morning, Christie called Dani Shepherd. The phone was answered on the second ring with a breathless, “Hello.”

  Christie introduced herself. “Mrs. Farley is cautiously excited to hear from you, Dani. After all these years, the possibility of having located her missing daughter is overwhelming. The Farleys hired me to compare your handwriting with Danielle’s. However, the enormous age difference between the writing makes it impossible. Perhaps other factors need to be explored.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Do you have any relatives that can back up or refute your father’s claim?”

  “No. My father was closemouthed about my mother’s side of the family. He said they didn’t approve of him, and after my mother died, they threatened to fight for sole custody of me. As a result we moved and he broke all ties with them. I don’t remember my other grandparents.”

  “So, you don’t have any letters or photographs that would identify you?”

  “I have journals.”

  “Journals?”

  “Yes. I’ve been writing journals since I was a child. Fancied myself a famous author someday. I didn’t attain that dream, but I never outgrew the habit of almost daily diary entries.”

  Bingo! Christie thought. “Do you have any of your earliest journals?” Even though it was a long shot, Christie had her fingers crossed that luck would be with them.

  “Oh, yes, all of them.”

  “I would like to see a couple of the first ones. Could you FedEx them—overnight delivery? The journals may supply the link we need.”

  “I’ll send them right away. I only contacted Mrs. Farley to appease my stepmother.”

  They said good-bye and Christie hung up the phone. She was optimistic that the journals might be an important piece in solving the puzzle. Her first impulse was to call Mrs. Farley and give her an update, but then thought better of it. Why raise her hopes prematurely? Instead, she called Cash. When he answered the phone, her excitement poured out.

  “Whoa, slow down. I can’t understand a thing you’re saying.”

  “You put me on the right track last night. I just got off the phone with Dani Shepherd. She keeps journals, Cash.”

  “And?”

  “She’s kept them since she was a child! And she still has them. She’s going to overnight a couple, and I should have them by tomorrow noon. Do you realize what this means?”

  “You may be able to make a definite determination on the handwriting. I’m happy for you, Christie.”

  “I hope this woman turns out to be Mrs. Farley’s daughter.”

  “Don’t set yourself up for disappointment. The examination of the journals may prove that she isn’t.”

  Christie fell onto the couch, deflated. “I wish you hadn’t reminded me. I was flying high and you just brought me down to earth.”

  “No matter what the results, you will have done the right thing by Mrs. Farley. As much as you want to see her reunited with her daughter, you don’t want to see her duped.”

  “You’re right.”

  “On another note, last night was great.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “We’re a good match.”

  “You think so?” She took a deep breath.

  “I can’t get you out of my mind.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “No, not at all. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather think about, or be with.”

  “It’s pretty early in the morning to be flirting with me.”

  “How about continuing this playful conversation later in the day? My three o’clock appointment canceled. If you can ditch work early, we can go out for a sail. We can pick up dinner and eat on the boat. Temp should be moderate, and we can catch the sunset before we return to the dock.”

  “I would love an afternoon on the bay. I’ll take the cable car and you can pick me up at work.”

  “At your service, my love. How about three thirty? I’ll pick you up outside your building.”

  “I’ll be ready.” His my love was duly noted. Even though it was just an expression, a tease, it felt like a good fit.

  The morning passed quickly. She ate a sandwich at her desk and finished up some paperwork. At three o’clock, she put away her files and yanked her jacket off the coat tree. She fiddled with the pens and scratch pads on the desk—busywork. She had half an hour before Cash would arrive. After a quick good-bye to Tom and the receptionist, she took the elevator to the lobby. Her running shoes padded softly on the polished marble floor as she headed for the large glass double doors leading to the street.

  She checked her watch. Five minutes more to wait. She could count on his promptness. She pushed the door open and was caught up in the sounds of San Francisco, the constantly moving panorama of city life. She watched a large Muni bus trundle along the street, left behind by cars and taxis that whizzed by, horns blaring. In the daytime San Francisco was in perpetual motion and she loved it.

  Cash’s SUV pulled to the curb and she quickened her steps. The door swung open and she hefted herself into the passenger’s seat. “Right on time.” An inane remark, she knew, but it was a greeting of sorts.

  Cash leaned across the seat and kissed her cheek. She knew he was glad to see her, and that made her heart sing. She turned to face him, to take in his broad smile, the glint in his eyes, and she shivered with delight. An afternoon escape with Cash. What better way to spend the day?

  It was too early for the commuter traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge, and they made it to Sausalito with ease. Cash had called ahead and ordered a takeout meal, and they stopped to pick it up. He was out of the shop in minutes, swinging a blue-and-white insulated bag.

  Behind the wheel of the SUV once more, he swiveled to drop the bag into the backseat. “Roast chicken, potato salad, and apple pie. Sound good to you?” he asked.

  “Sounds like heaven.” Heaven was being with Cash, whether dinner was included or not, she mused. Alone on his boat without distractions…umm.

  They pulled into the harborside parking lot and scrambled along the dock to Serenade’s mooring. On board the boat, it took a minimum of time to unlash and raise the sails, and then they were motoring away. A light breeze, relatively warm, pushed at the sails, and Cash shut down the engine. The sails billowed like a half-filled balloon and the boat skimmed the water.

  She stood beside Cash as he handled the wheel, guiding the ship into the lightly rolling waves. He put an arm around her and drew her close so that their bodies were comfortably aligned. He kissed the top of her head and pushed away a stray tendril of hair that had been swept by the wind. As she leaned into him, her heartbeat began to race. She turned her face up to see him smiling at her. The smile turned serious and his lips slowly descended to meet hers. She drank in the taste of him, and felt a prickling sensation run up and down her arms.

  The boat rocked gently as it swept through the water. Christie rested her head against Cash’s chest, happy and content.

  “Look,” he said, indicating a midpoint in the distance. A pod of dolphins, five or six of them, danced in graceful ballet-like arcs along the surface of the water. Their gray bodies shimmered like silver in the reflection of the afternoon sunlight.

  They continued sailing along the coastline, following the route of pelicans searching for supper, and sea lions barking hoarse sea lion language from rocky outcroppings. Cash steered Serenade into a cove, where the water was calm, and dropped anchor.

  They busied themselves setting their sumptuous dinner on a portable deck table. Cash poured two glass
es of chardonnay and handed one to Christie. “To us,” he said, and then clinked his glass against hers. She sipped the wine while the word us ran through her mind. It sounded right, she thought, and hoped it would last.

  She didn’t have long to wait for the promised sunset. The golden orb was fast dipping toward the ocean. Wanting to reach Sausalito before dusk, they hauled anchor and headed into the wind. Before they reached the harbor, the sun seemed to splash into the ocean. Orange rays fanned across sky and water, painting the Golden Gate Bridge awash in brilliance. Christie’s breath caught at the startling beauty.

  “Better than sitting in an office all afternoon,” Cash remarked, dropping the sails and motoring to the dock.

  “An understatement,” she answered.

  “You’re not an understatement,” he said. He reached for her hand and pulled her close. “You’re all I want.”

  He kissed her again, and in the fading light, the warmth of his body chased away the wisps of chill air that trailed the loss of sunlight.

  The following day, at five minutes before noon, a FedEx deliveryman was at Christie’s desk. She signed for the bulky package and could hardly contain the impulse to rip the sturdy envelope apart. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she pulled at the adhesive strip. Dani had sent four journals. Three were mottled black-and-white composition books, the type familiar to students. The fourth must have been a gift, judging by the tapestry cover and fine-quality paper.

  Christie handled the books as though they were museum pieces. They might offer the key to a history that was of the utmost importance to three people, information that could change their lives forever. While the books she held were not heavy, the responsibility to her client was.

  She sat down and reverently placed the books on the desk blotter. She held her breath and opened the first book. The date at the top of the page indicated it had been written when Dani was about thirteen years old. The others must be earlier, she thought. She thumbed through the journal with the tapestry cover. It covered the second half of Dani’s eighth year in school. Her heart dropped; each book held the story of junior high school life. Childhood, yes, but not early enough to compare writing.

  The first book told the story of an adolescent girl on the brink of becoming a young lady, with all the accompanying anxieties that a mother might quell. Christie could almost hear young Dani’s voice as she longed for her mother, a safe haven in her distress. Although the handwriting would not shed light on the question of Dani’s identity, Christie planned to scrutinize the books. Perhaps luck would be on her side and she would discover an answer to the mystery, something that would prove who Dani was…or was not.

  At one o’clock Tom peered into Christie’s office. “I’m ordering sandwiches, anything you’d like?”

  “Turkey on sourdough would be great,” she answered without looking up.

  “I see you’re absorbed, so I won’t interrupt.”

  Christie nodded. She was absorbed.

  A couple of hours after lunch, she put down the last book. Her hands rested lightly on the cover, her eyes were misty, and she looked out the window, barely seeing the San Francisco skyline. She could only see a child in pain. Had Dani’s mother died? Or had her father perpetrated a cruel and despicable hoax?

  It was six o’clock by the time she left her office. At home she cradled a hot cup of mint tea in her hands. She could not shake the Farley case from her mind. Putting her tea on the end table, she reached for the phone; she wanted to talk to George Porter’s widow.

  Jane Porter answered on the fourth ring and did not seem in the least surprised to hear from her. “I thought you might call. Dani told me that she sent her journals to you yesterday.”

  “I’ve read the journals, but I thought I should speak to you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. I didn’t enter George and Dani’s lives until Dani was in college. George told me his first wife was killed in a car accident when Dani was six years old.”

  “Mr. Porter never said anything to lead you to suspect that things were not as they seemed?”

  “Not until he became ill, nearing death. I guess the morphine loosened him up. He began to speak of his first wife in the present tense. He said she had a great deal of money and could assist his grandchildren with college expenses when the time came. Just before he died, he grabbed my wrist and made me promise to find Dani’s mother. He was very weak, and I could barely understand his words. He was highly medicated and I thought he was hallucinating.

  “A few months later, I was going through his papers and found a thirty-year-old, yellowed clipping about a child’s abduction. When I saw an article in the paper about Mrs. Farley and it mentioned her daughter’s abduction, I began to wonder. I know it’s a long shot, but what if Dani is Gladys Farley’s missing child?”

  “You did the right thing by telling Dani what you suspected,” Christie assured her.

  “I struggled with that decision. If it is true, Dani’s memory of her father will be ruined. George was a good man. If he was Gladys Farley’s ex-husband, he must have been a very angry man at the time of their divorce. If he later had second thoughts about what he’d done, he would have faced prison if he turned himself in. I don’t think he could have endured being separated from his child.”

  “For thirty years Mrs. Farley has been separated from her child,” Christie said.

  “Yes,” Jane Porter said softly. “If Dani is Gladys Farley’s daughter, my husband caused irreparable harm.”

  When Christie put the phone on its cradle, her hand rested there a moment. The conversation had been unsettling. Jane Porter’s suspicions were speculation, nothing more. You could begin to build a case on speculation, but eventually proof would be needed to reach a verdict. A verdict of gigantic proportions. A verdict that was in her hands.

  She thought about Drew’s remark: every time Gladys Farley’s name appeared in the paper, a dozen “Danielles” crawled out of the woodwork. Maybe this time was different, though; perhaps Dani was the missing piece in a lifelong puzzle. Christie had to find the answer.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It is next to impossible to compare printing with script. Christie sat on the couch, feet on the coffee table, contemplating the problem.

  What would Danielle and Dani have had in common during the first couple of years of schooling? Mrs. Farley had saved her daughter’s kindergarten and first-grade artwork, but what else? What item from the past could provide or dispute a connection?

  Didn’t primary-grade teachers have their students make Mother’s and Father’s Day cards? Dani’s father had been a single parent; perhaps he had treasured the childhood masterpieces.

  It was worth a call to find out. She reached for the phone and dialed Dani’s number. Christie apologized for calling so late, but Dani brushed the words aside and said that she was a night owl.

  “Dani, the journals don’t go back far enough to help with a determination on your identity.”

  “My identity. Somehow that sounds like a line out of an old movie script. I always knew who I was…until now. When my stepmother showed me the clipping, I brushed it off. My father often clipped articles from newspapers and magazines. That didn’t make him a kidnapper. Nothing indicates that I’m Gladys Farley’s daughter. I contacted her because Jane hounded me about it.”

  “It’s only fair to Mrs. Farley, and yourself, to investigate the possibility. When you were in first or second grade, did you make cards for your father? You know, Father’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s Day?”

  “That’s an odd question, but yes, I did. I wasn’t much of an artist, but I could rhyme, so I wrote silly poems.”

  “Did your father keep any of them?”

  “Jane would know. She had a box of odds and ends that she said we should go through after a while. We weren’t up to it when Dad died. She may have gone through it herself by now, and I imagine that whatever she didn’t want, she threw out.”

  Christie’s h
eart dropped.

  “I could call her and see,” she offered.

  “Would you call her now?”

  “It’s late, she’s probably in bed.”

  “It’s important. Very important.”

  “All right.”

  Christie asked Dani to call back after she talked to Jane. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. Christie felt as though she hadn’t taken a breath while she waited for the call.

  “Jane went through the box a few weeks ago,” Dani said. “My father kept every one of my drawings, every card. Nothing was thrown out. Does that sound like a callous person, a criminal?”

  “Of course not.” Christie kept the excitement out of her voice. This could be it! The missing link, offering proof one way or another. “Dani, please call Jane back and ask her to mail the cards to me first thing tomorrow, overnight mail. I’ll reimburse her for the charges.”

  “Why don’t I pick up the cards in the morning and drive down to San Francisco with them? I could be in the city late afternoon. The sooner the mystery is solved, the sooner I can get on with my life.”

  Sleep was hard to come by; the weight of the Farley case bogged Christie down. When she woke in the morning, she felt as though she hadn’t slept in a week. A cup of strongly brewed tea was her only defense. Maybe she’d give herself a break and go into the office late. The only crucial case right now was the Farleys’, and Dani wouldn’t arrive until the afternoon.

  She placed her teacup on an end table and settled onto the couch. She picked up one of the journals, disappointed that it hadn’t pointed her in a direction toward or away from Dani. Her thoughts were interrupted by Tosha complaining from the kitchen. Groggy from lack of sleep, she had forgotten to give the cat breakfast. She padded into the kitchen and opened a can of turkey giblets and gravy and ladled out a generous portion, then returned to the living room.

  She opened the journal and reread the first few pages. Tosha soon edged her way onto Christie’s lap and promptly fell asleep. Christie rested her hand on the cat’s back and every so often stroked the soft fur. In response Tosha lifted her head and gazed at Christie, purred for a few seconds, and then resumed napping. Christie rested her head on the back of the couch, and let her thoughts drift.