by Katie Powner
“I just don’t know how you put up with them.”
Frank sighed, sliding over a to-go box from The Baked Potato so he could rest his elbows on the desk. “How did you put up with Caroline?”
The hairs on the back of Mitch’s neck rose. “What the heck—”
“No, listen.” Frank cut him off, serious now. “Caroline was an amazing woman, but she wasn’t perfect, was she?”
“Yes.” Mitch stumbled over the words. “She was.”
“No. She wasn’t. But you loved her anyway. More than anything or anyone else. Right?”
Mitch’s blood raced through his veins. How dare Frank bring Caroline into this? “Of course.”
“Even if she made a mistake or acted irrationally or was selfish sometimes, you loved her. You still do.”
Emotions clawed at the back of Mitch’s throat. Grief. Anger. Confusion. Sorrow. He would never stop loving her. Ever.
“It’s the same with the church.” Frank’s voice softened. The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out. “She isn’t perfect, and she never will be. But I love her anyway. Warts and all.”
Mitch stared at the box of takeout food on Frank’s desk. Studied the potato lying on a towel sunbathing, which was The Baked Potato’s logo. He understood what Frank was saying. Sort of. But it was hard to keep loving someone who hurt you over and over. Hadn’t Caroline done it, though? How many times had Mitch hurt her over the years with his stupidity and pride? Yet her love for him had never changed.
“Well,” he grumbled. “None of that means I have to like what they’re doing.”
Frank raised an index finger. “Like is a feeling. Love is a choice.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Mitch rolled his eyes. “But for the record, Caroline didn’t have any warts.”
Frank chuckled. “I’ll take your word for it.”
A thump and a whoosh made Mitch jump. Marge appeared beside his chair, breathless.
“Dorothy had so many creative ideas.” Her eyes were bright. “We set the date for Saturday, November twenty-seventh.”
“That’s great,” Frank said.
“It doesn’t give us much time, but everyone’s going to pitch in.”
Frank nodded. “Just let me know what you need from me.”
His eyes turned on Mitch, and Marge’s followed. They looked at him expectantly.
“Uh, yeah, me too,” he said, swallowing hard. “Whatever you need.”
FORTY-TWO
Bea peered at the screen. “This looks amazing.”
The website was simple but attractive. She scrolled through it on Jeremy’s laptop, clicking buttons and skimming the information. He had created an impressive internet home for Mr. Van Dyken’s store.
Jeremy nodded. “I’m pretty happy with it. Mr. Van Dyken still has his doubts, but he said he’s sold five pieces since he started posting on Facebook.”
“That’s probably more than he sold all last month.”
“Actually, more than he sold in three months.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Wow.”
“And you want to know the best part?” Jeremy leaned his elbows on the kitchen table.
“What?”
“He paid me twenty bucks.”
Bea laughed. “Twenty whole dollars?”
Jeremy shrugged. “I just wanted to help. I knew he had to have customers out there if he could just reach them.”
She pointed at the screen. “I like this graphic.”
“A guy named Spencer helped me with that. He’s interested in partnering with me. He’s really talented.”
She tilted her head. “Partnering?”
Jeremy moved the laptop away and took Bea’s hands. “I want to help people like Mr. Van Dyken. At least half of the businesses I visited over the past few weeks are struggling to find customers. Spencer and I were talking, and we think—we know—we can help them build or revamp their websites, come up with new marketing ideas, and reach new customers.”
“And they would pay you to do that?”
“Well.” Jeremy gave her a self-conscious look. “Maybe not much at first. Some of the people I’ve talked to have been kind of skeptical. But when the changes we make start bringing in business, people will realize that what we have to offer is valuable. In fact, I’m waiting to hear back from three potential clients as we speak.”
Bea loved the spark in Jeremy’s eyes as he talked about it. Loved the look of the website and even the idea of partnering with another person who could help share the load and responsibility. But how long would it take before there was a profit?
The assistant-manager position at Food Farm was looking harder and harder to resist.
“That’s really great, Jeremy. Really. But what about—”
A knock on the door cut her off. She glanced at the time. Dad should be returning from his day out hunting anytime now, but he wouldn’t knock. She frowned. Please, not Marge again.
She pushed away from the table with a groan. “I’ll get it.”
Jeremy and Steve followed her down the hall. She braced herself for a burst of Marge’s gusto as she pulled open the door.
A man about her dad’s age stood on the step in a very expensive jacket. “Hello.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Hi.”
“Is this the Jensen residence?”
He didn’t look like a salesman, and Mormons typically traveled in pairs. Who was this guy? He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. “Yes.”
He shifted on his feet. “I’m Ken. Ken Thurgood.”
“I’m Bea. Can I help you with something? Are you lost?”
You couldn’t exactly pass through Moose Creek by accident. How did he get here?
“Bea?” Ken’s eyebrows rose in an almost hopeful way. “You’re Bea?”
She nodded slowly, ready for this strange exchange to make sense. Jeremy cleared his throat behind her.
“Uh, honey?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “What?”
“I think Ken might be your uncle.”
“What were you thinking?” If a whisper could be described as shrill, that’s what Bea’s was. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jeremy peeked around the corner into the living room, where Ken sat on the couch thumbing through a Jensen-family photo album. He hung his head. “I was afraid it might be a dead end, and I know what it feels like to get your hopes up for nothing. I was waiting for a response.”
She made a broad gesture in Ken’s direction. “There’s your response.”
“I was trying to protect you. We don’t even know if it’s really him.”
Bea glanced out the window, hoping to see Dad’s truck. She’d sent him a text as soon as Jeremy had told her who Ken might possibly be, asking when he would be home. He hadn’t answered, which meant he was either far afield and had no reception or was already driving back. He never checked his messages while driving.
“He does look a lot like Dad. And he seems to be the right age.”
“When I found him on the website, I thought it had to be the wrong guy. It seemed too easy. He never even wrote me back. He just . . . showed up.”
Jeremy had explained about the website he’d found, designed for people searching for their birth families. Explained how there was a way to send confidential messages in hopes of matching families up with their long-lost relatives.
She paced the floor. “When exactly were you planning to fill me in on all this?”
“I’m sorry.” He tried to grab her hand as she passed, but she pulled it out of reach. “I didn’t want to stress you out until I knew for sure there was something to it.”
“You don’t think this is stressful?” Her neck muscles strained with the pressure of shouting indignantly in a whisper.
“There was no way I could know he would show up like this.”
She realized her fists were clenched and forced them to release. She shook out her hands. Part of her understood the reasonableness of what Jeremy was
saying and the decisions he’d made. Another part wanted to wring his neck. Weren’t they supposed to tell each other everything?
Well. Maybe there were a few things she hadn’t been one hundred percent forthright about with him, either.
Her shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. “What do we do now?”
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but . . . I wish your dad was here.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. Jeremy caught her eye and smiled a sheepish half smile.
“See?” She chuckled. “He comes in handy once in a while.”
Jeremy gave an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. “Okay, fine. He might be good for something.”
“He’ll be thrilled to hear that.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I?”
He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, tickling her side. “I’m not letting go until you promise not to tell him.”
She squealed and gasped for breath. “Okay, okay. I promise.”
“Should we ask Ken some more questions?” Jeremy reluctantly let her go and peeked around the corner again. “Offer him a glass of water or something?”
Bea gave him a sly grin. “So we can pull his fingerprints off the glass?” A low rumble caught her ear. “That’s Dad’s truck.”
She hoped he was in a good mood. Hoped he wouldn’t freak out. Hoped it wasn’t all a terrible mistake. She held her breath as an awfully long moment passed. Then they heard the front door swing open. She and Jeremy stumbled over each other to meet her dad at the door.
He clomped into the house, indicating the road with a jerk of his head. “Whose car is parked the wrong way out there?”
Her mind went blank of everything except the peaceful look on Grandma June’s face the last time Bea was at her house. She’d been happy. Content. Bea didn’t want to ruin that. Should they have left the whole thing alone?
“Uh . . .”
Jeremy stepped up. “Well, you see . . .”
Ken appeared.
Dad’s eyes registered a quick flash of surprise before his manners kicked in. “Hello, I’m Mitch.”
Ken took her dad’s outstretched hand and clasped it, hope and hurt and hesitation in his eyes. “Ken. Ken Thurgood.” His voice cracked. “I’m your big brother.”
Mitch looked around the table, his eyes stopping briefly on each of the other people before returning to the mug of coffee Bea had set before him. “You’re telling me that my mother, Juniper Marie Jensen, had a baby, gave him up, and then lived the rest of her life as if nothing happened? And she never told a soul?”
“Dad.” Bea’s voice was sympathetic but firm. “We’ve been over the whole thing three times now.”
He wrinkled his forehead. “It’s just so hard to believe. I can’t wrap my mind around it.”
Even after Ken had shown him a copy of a birth certificate that listed J. Reynolds as the mother of a baby born on a date that was most definitely not his birthdate . . . even after Bea repeated her entire conversation with Aunt Gladys, which Mitch at first dismissed as the ramblings of a senile old woman before feeling bad and recanting . . . even after looking into his own eyes, the ones he and he alone had always shared with his mother, which stared back at him from across the table, he was still struggling to come to grips with the truth.
He narrowed his eyes at Jeremy. “And you just posted our address on the internet?”
Jeremy raised his hands. “No, I—”
“That’s my fault,” Ken interrupted. “Once I had some names to go on, it wasn’t hard to find your house.”
“But why come here?” Mitch asked.
Ken hesitated. “I thought it would be easier . . .”
Everyone waited.
“If I was going to find out my biological family wanted nothing to do with me”—Ken struggled to meet Mitch’s eyes—“I thought it would be easier coming from you.”
Mitch tried to put himself in Ken’s shoes. Though it had taken a lot of courage on Ken’s part to come all this way, the man had no definitive proof to back up his claims. Yes, Mitch’s mother was in Chicago the summer Ken was born. Yes, her maiden name was Reynolds, and Great-Aunt Gladys had corroborated the story. But still. Mitch just couldn’t believe—
“I know what you’re thinking.” Ken drummed the table with his fingers, something Mitch often found himself doing, as well. “Maybe this whole thing is a long shot. But I’d really like to visit her and see if she can explain.”
Right. That. Mitch shifted uncomfortably in his seat. As far as he knew, Ken was completely unaware of his—their?—mother’s tenuous condition. Unaware of how unpredictable her grip on reality was and how catastrophic a meeting like Ken was suggesting could be for her mental clarity.
“Should we call Grandpa?” Bea asked.
“Your grandpa.” Ken cleared his throat. “Is he my . . . ?”
Mitch shook his head. “No. He would’ve never allowed my mother to be sent away. There’s no way.”
Ken hung his head. “I don’t suppose you have any idea . . . ?”
“I think there’s only one person who can give you any answers about that. If, and I do mean if, there’s any truth to this whole thing.” Mitch sighed. “I’ll call my dad.”
He pushed away from the table and left the kitchen. The whole thing was inconceivable. Could it be real? Could his mother have kept this a secret his entire life? He’d always wanted a brother. Used to beg for one like it was a puppy you could pick up at the store. But he never dreamed it would happen like this.
If it was even true. For all he knew, Ken could be some kind of scammer. A con artist with fake papers. What if he did know about Mitch’s mother’s condition and was planning to use her confusion against her? Against all of them?
Mitch slipped down the hall to his room and stepped inside. Oh, great. Another carpet puddle. As if he needed another mystery in his life.
The water seeped through his sock as he dialed up his parents’ landline with shaking hands.
One ring. Two rings. Three. Maybe this was a bad idea. He should hang up.
“Hello?”
The gruff voice his father always used to answer the phone brought the situation into sharp focus. If Ken was who he said he was, it would change everything. It could destroy his parents and the forty-four years of marital trust they had established. It could compromise the progress his mother had recently made with her health. It could mean this Ken person had some sort of claim on the house Mitch grew up in. His mother’s house.
His father spoke again. “Hello?”
Mitch plunked down on his bed and pulled off his wet sock. He could try to avoid bringing it up, but Ken could easily find his parents’ house and confront them anytime he wanted now that he’d come this far. Better to get it over with on his own terms and not leave it up to Ken. Better to get to the bottom of it.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s Mitch.”
“Any luck out there today?”
“No.” His usual go-to spots for hunting had failed him so far this season, but that was the least of his worries. “Listen, are you and Mom up for a visit?”
His father chuckled. “You can come by anytime; you know that. You don’t have to call first.”
“I know. It’s just, we all want to come. Me and Bea and Jeremy. And . . .”
His dad waited. Settled into the silence.
Mitch looked up at the ceiling. “And there’s someone else who wants to see you. Er, Mom. See you both, I guess. Is that okay?”
“Who is it?”
“It’s a little hard to explain.”
More silence.
“How’s Mom doing today?”
“Oh, about the same. Kind of quiet.”
Mitch didn’t want to upset her. Maybe he could ask Ken to let them all sleep on it for a couple days before doing anything. What harm could a few more days do after so many years?
He stared at his one bare foot and thought ab
out how quickly his mother’s mental faculties could change. How quickly she could deteriorate. If he wanted the truth, maybe a couple of days did matter.
“We’ll head over soon, then.”
His father grunted. “Well, all right. See you in a few.”
“Sure. See you.”
He hung up and stared at his phone. He’d never missed Caroline more.
FORTY-THREE
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. Goose bumps prickle on my arms, but the thought of going inside to find a coat is overwhelming. I just want to sit here watching the clouds cast moving shadows on the mountain.
“You’re cold.”
Rand’s voice startles me. I forgot he was here.
I turn my head slowly to look at him in the rocking chair next to mine. “I’m okay.”
He pushes out of the chair with a groan and takes a shuffling step toward the house.
“No, don’t.” My hand feels as if it weighs a hundred pounds as I raise it in protest. “I’m okay.”
“I’ll just grab a blanket.”
I do not answer. A lump forms in my throat. I don’t deserve that man. I never did.
I turn my face back to the mountain and blink, clearing my vision. Won’t the light be appearing soon? I’ve lost all sense of time. I sit up a little straighter, suddenly feeling it’s very important that I see the light.
Rand returns and tucks a blanket over my lap. It feels nice.
He peers into my face. “What’s wrong?”
“The light.” I shift to look past him, around him. “I can’t see it.”
He tugs his rocking chair a little closer and sinks into it. “It’s early yet.”
“But I can’t see it anymore, Rand.” I shove my hand in my pocket and grab the penny tightly in my palm. “I need to see it.”
“You just gotta wait is all.” He rubs my knee. “Just a little longer.”
Okay. Wait. My grip on the penny loosens, and I examine his hand. It’s so wrinkled and worn. So familiar and comforting. Of all the memories I stand to lose, the feel of his hand will be one of the most precious.