Plain Roots

by Becki Willis

  “Let me kiss her goodbye.”

  After a soft kiss on the forehead, the girl turned away, before the baby even left for the nursery. She never asked for the normal statistics, like weight and inches. She pretended to sleep, but Helen remembered the way she cried quietly into sheets pulled high upon her face.

  Taryn didn’t need to know it was the only time her mother ever saw her. She didn’t need to know that when her mother snuck out in the middle of the night, she left her baby behind.

  Taryn already knew she was adopted.

  She didn’t need to know she had been abandoned, as well.

  Chapter 5

  Pushing her shades back on, sticky pie and all, Taryn left the coffee shop.

  It was déjà vu all over again. Another brick wall. Taryn knew little more now than she had before.

  She assembled the scant facts in her mind.

  Dressed in a drab winter coat, her mother arrived at the hospital on a snowy winter night and used a false name to give birth without anyone there to hold her hand. Not only had she refused a lucrative gift package, she skipped out in the middle of the night without paying her bill.

  The other bits and pieces made no more sense than the first. Somewhere along the way, Rebecca left a note to her daughter that wound up in the hands of Teresa and Paul, who also had a hospital bill marked paid in full. Had they been the ones to pay for the delivery? With Lancaster Memorial closed for good and the files God knows where, she would probably never know.

  Did it even matter? Taryn pulled out onto the busy roadway, unsure of where she headed. Perhaps she should just go back to Philly. She already knew the most pertinent facts. Her birth mother gave her up for adoption. Did she really want to know more about a woman who gave her away so easily?

  But what if it hadn’t been so easy?

  Why had her birth mother been so frightened?

  Why had she used a false name?

  The whys rode alongside Taryn as she drove, buzzing around in her head like a pesky fly. When the car in front of her turned left, so did she. It was the ultimate family vehicle: a sturdy navy-blue SUV, complete with stickers. Window decals depicted a stick-figure father, mother, four children in staggered heights, two dogs, and one cat. One bumper sticker boasted the American flag and the slogan I Voted for America, while two others bragged about parenting an honor student at Leola Elementary. A car like that had to know its way around in life. If a solid family car wasn’t sure of its destination, how could there be any hope for a wandering soul such as her?

  She dutifully followed the stick figures down Horseshoe Road, the whys and the flies still abuzz in her head. The car turned right onto Old Philadelphia Pike. Taryn trailed behind, wondering if her birth mother’s car boasted a similar stick-figure family. Did she have siblings? Oh, how she wished! The flesh and blood kind, not the decal sort. The kind that gathered at holidays and threw birthday parties and called at random moments because they missed the sound of her voice.

  Traffic grew heavier as the SUV merged onto US Highway 30. A green sedan and a white panel van slipped in behind it, separating Taryn from her lead car. Losing sight of the stick-figure family, panic set in. Where was she? Where was she even headed?

  She had no choice but to merge into the westbound traffic. The SUV was far ahead, moving across lanes and zipping on down the highway, leaving Taryn to fend for herself.

  She saw the road sign just in time. The next exit would take her back into Lancaster. Maybe the county courthouse had the answers she looked for. Sealed or not, maybe the courthouse had her original birth certificate.

  Taryn knew a recent state law allowed for adoptees to request their birth certificates, but she had chosen not to take advantage of the new benefit. It was a cowardly attitude, she knew, but she feared the truth would only lead to more heartache.

  It still could. Still would, most likely. But she couldn’t ignore Helen’s story of her birth. Taryn felt as if she no longer had a choice. She had to know the truth now. She had to open her sealed records.

  There was a process, of course. The man at the courthouse walked her through the steps. She could apply on-line, pay the twenty-dollar filing fee, and wait for her records to arrive in about forty-five days.

  Forty-five days! The same number of tear-streaked words had led her on this journey in the first place. The number seemed so insignificant written in a note yet loomed long and endless on the calendar.

  What was she to do in the meantime? Stay here? Return to Philly? Hang in limbo for six long weeks? Feeling the need to do something, Taryn combed through old records, first at the courthouse, then at the library.

  It was a long shot, of course. The courthouse was a bust, as she knew it would be. Her birth records were sealed by the adoption process. The library had all the newspaper articles of the day, the story exactly as Helen told it. The first local baby of the decade, born at Lancaster Memorial! The front-page headlines told it all.

  Taryn poured through each and every article. The names were there, just as Helen said, but only of the one o’clock babies. There was no mention of any other births that day. The headlines grew smaller over time, the stories buried further into the gazette. Only an occasional story made it back to the front, and none above the fold. The last headline came several months later, when Helen Fremont, RN, resigned from a stellar nursing career amid scandal and speculation. The article hashed out the sordid details one more time, lest readers had forgotten the previous heartache.

  Two hours later, Taryn had little to show for her efforts. An aching back from hunching over the computer, hours at a time. An aching heart from reading it all in print. The story seemed colder when told in black and white. The words told only the facts. They told nothing of Helen’s obvious devotion to her patient, none of her determination to keep a frightened and desperate woman safe. Nothing of the guilt she still carried with her to this day.

  The paper offered only one surprise, and it was irrelevant. Helen had mentioned a generous donor had come forward to offer a second scholarship for the slighted 1:01 baby, and as it turned out, Taryn actually knew the benefactor. The philanthropist was a client of Carver, Harris, and Harrison. Taryn was a bit surprised to learn he had connections to Lancaster County, but she supposed she shouldn’t be. The Philadelphia businessman had his eye on the gubernatorial seat. It made sense that a man as deliberate and calculating as Thomas Baxter would have started building his name and good will long ago.

  That good will was one of the front-page headlines, complete with picture. Naturally, he was much younger in the grainy black and white photograph, but Taryn recognized the same smug smile around his lips, the same superior gleam in his eyes. Those eyes gave her the creeps, following her the way they did each time he came to the office. Didn’t the man know he was much too old for her? Taryn avoided him as much as possible, but inevitably, his file would end up on her desk, forcing her to endure his leering gaze. The man was filthy rich and wanted everyone to know it, but what struck Taryn the most was the filthy part.

  At least this time, his money had gone to a worthy cause.

  So now, she had strained eyes and an aching back to go along with her forty-five days of limbo, and she still had to decide her next step. Stay here, or go home? The wind had picked up and thunderclouds gathered overhead, muddying the previously sunny sky.

  She headed east, just in case. US 30 would take her back to Philadelphia.

  Yet even as she contemplated getting home before dark, the car seemed to have a mind of its own, taking the next exit off the highway. It found its own way back to Horseshoe Road.

  I can still go home this way, she told herself. Highway 30 was a straighter shot, but really, what else is there? Short of hiring a PI, I’m at a loss for what to do. I’ll go home, regroup, and decide what’s next.

  Decision made, Taryn had every intention of winding back to New Holland and taking Route 23 straight over to the expressway. She could still be home by dark, if the storm held o
ff. Besides, what did she know about hiring a private investigator? She hadn’t the first clue.

  Before she reached Leola, the what ifs caught up with her again, tagging along for this leg of the journey. What if she did a quick internet search for private eyes in the area? Lancaster wasn’t a huge city, but surely, it was large enough for a decent investigator. What if she checked it out, purely for informational purposes? What if she kept that option open, just in case she decided to pursue it at some point down the road?

  She made it all the way back to New Holland. She traveled a full six miles, before the what ifs forced her to pull into a parking lot and take out her phone. She did a quick search for investigation services in the greater Lancaster area.

  Keystone Secure Investigations was the top pick, with a five-star rating. The blurb touted over twenty years of experience in security. It mentioned a career in the Navy, a handful of years on the police department, and five years plus in the private sector. Taryn scanned the first of fifty-something reviews, noting that most left glowing accounts of fast, efficient service. She gave a cursory glance to the few other companies listed, but she knew her decision was made. Keystone just had a good, solid ring to it.

  She dialed the number via her car’s Bluetooth feature and waited for the line to pick up.

  A man’s voice answered, brisk and direct, “Keystone Secure Investigations.”

  Ignoring the butterflies taking flight in her belly, she summoned her best senior administrative assistant voice and matched her tone to his. “Yes. May I please speak to Bryce Elliott?”

  There was only a slight pause on the other end. “This is Bryce Elliott. How may I help you?”

  A butterfly made its way up to her vocal chords, giving her voice the smallest of quivers. “I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation, please.”

  Another slight pause, amid the sounds of papers shuffling. “What about next Friday?”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to meet with you as quickly as possible.”

  “Unless you’re available this afternoon, I’ll be out of the office until next Wednesday.”

  She pounced on the opportunity. “I’m free this afternoon. I can be there in—” She glanced down at her phone’s search screen and hit the ‘get directions’ button. “Oh. Three minutes, apparently.”

  Oddly enough, the man sounded somewhat irritated. Perhaps he had hopes of closing early for the day. “Very well. I’ll see you in three minutes.”

  A single, fat raindrop hit her windshield. “Let’s make that five.”

  She whipped out of the parking lot, sensing that Bryce Elliott wasn’t a man to tolerate tardiness. All those years in the military, no doubt. It was a short drive, but the address was on the opposite side of the road, and rain threatened. Finding a place to turn around to park nearer the door would kill precious time. She stopped across the street, glaring up at the bloated thunderhead and daring it to dump its contents when she had no umbrella for protection. If it would give her two minutes, she could be across the street and safely inside. Then the sky could rage to its dark heart’s content.

  She made it halfway into the road before the heavens unleashed their fury. She yelped in surprise, startled by the loud boom of thunder. The noise seemed to rattle the rain from the sky, prompting the dark clouds to roll over and spill their weight upon her head.

  By the time she reached the sidewalk, Taryn was drenched.

  Chapter 6

  From his stance behind the window, Bryce Elliott watched the busy road out front. Cars zipped along the wet pavement, heedless of the rain that fell by the bucketful. After sunny skies all morning, the storm blew in unannounced.

  A hapless woman scurried across the thoroughfare, her hair and clothes already plastered to her body. Adding insult to injury, a car zoomed along, splashing a pothole dry as it passed. The woman barely gave the car a second glance. Keeping her eyes on the far sidewalk as if it were a lifeline, she bustled out of the road, wove her way through vehicles parked along the street, and almost collided with a parking meter.

  Bryce turned back to straighten his desk, in anticipation of his impromptu client. Not a single item needed his attention, but he was a stickler for a neat, orderly work environment. As he glanced at the grandfather clock that came with the house, the front door chimed out an arrival.

  The impromptu was here, in exactly four minutes.

  Bryce knew the entryway of the old Victorian house offered the perfect buffer for his clients, particularly the first timers. Seeking the help of a private investigator seemed an ominous task for most people. A last resort, of sorts. The elegant foyer made a nice transition area for clients to collect their thoughts and calm their nerves before stepping into his office. There was something oddly relaxing about the ageless beauty of parquet oak flooring, genuine wainscot, and hand-stenciled wall coverings. The craftsmanship spoke of a gentler, more tranquil time, before life became complicated with modern nuances. If only for a moment, clients could inhale a deep breath and imagine themselves a part of that tranquility.

  When he purchased the stately old house five years ago, Bryce had every intention of following the local trend, slicing and dicing the aging residence along Route 23 into multiple office spaces. But when it came down to swinging the sledgehammer, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tear down a single wall. It would be practically sacrilegious to alter the beauty and dignity of the old girl. Bryce, a man who prided himself on having a steady head and a hardened heart, found himself getting sentimental over a pile of sticks and stones.

  But, oh, what a pile it was! Dark-red brick, made right here in Pennsylvania, well over a hundred years ago, fashioned into a three-story dwelling, plus basement. Tall and trim, with graceful white columns along the porch, black shutters on all the windows, and dormers and turrets for interest. Inside, the mahogany trim was intricately carved, the floors were original, and all six fireplaces were in working order. What few changes Bryce made were executed with meticulous care and integrity.

  While his client lingered in the foyer, Bryce straightened his shirt and ran a quick hand over his head, soothing his hair into place. Both actions were more from habit than necessity. Barely longer than a buzz, his closely clipped dark hair shouted of a military background. The sentiment echoed in the sharp creases of his shirt collar.

  “Hello?” a tentative voice called from the entryway.

  A flash of irritation surged through him. The foyer boasted doorways on all sides. The paneled double doors on the left were closed. A large potted plant effectively blocked the hallway that flowed from the center of the foyer. How difficult was it to understand that the only option was to turn through the opened doors on the right, leading straight into his office?

  Not for the first time, Bryce wished he could ignore the protocol of politeness drilled into him by the military. Sometimes, being an officer and a gentleman did not suit his cranky nature.

  Regardless, Bryce forced a note of civility into his voice as he strode toward the doorway. His voice preceded him. “Please, do come in. To your right.”

  To his surprise, it was the woman from the street. She wasn’t more than five feet four at most, but every inch of her now dripped water onto his floor. A damp circle already seeped into the antique Oriental carpet. He suspected that, before the rain and the car that splashed her, her khaki trousers had been clean and neat. In their current state, he would never know for sure. They were hopelessly streaked with mud.

  That, too, dripped onto the carpet.

  “I’m a mess,” she realized, looking down at herself with disgust. “And I’m destroying your carpet.”

  Bryce looked around for a solution. “Give me a second,” he said. He turned and disappeared from the room, returning moments later with a full-size bath towel. “Here.” He thrust the towel toward her. “Dry yourself off a bit. You won’t hurt the leather chair.” He motioned toward the wingback chairs stationed around his desk.

  To Taryn’s relief, he tu
rned his back and strode toward his desk, offering her a bit of privacy as she rubbed the towel over her wet clothes.

  Embarrassed, she realized the rain had plastered her once-crisp white blouse against her, turning it practically translucent. She didn’t mind revealing her bra’s lacy trim as much as she minded revealing the dimples along her waist. She could stand to lose a few pounds.

  Tugging the offensive fabric away from her skin, Taryn fanned it to create airflow. She peeled the khaki away from her thighs with a deep sigh, knowing there was little hope for her mud-streaked pants. The entire outfit was practically brand new. She had doubts any of it would ever be the same.

  Hurrying to the chair in hopes of minimizing damage to the carpet, Taryn knew she made a less-than-stellar first impression. So much for professionalism. The best she could hope for now was competent.

  Toweling her hair dry with one hand, Taryn reached the desk and thrust her other hand forward, hoping to gain lost ground. The man’s demeanor was a bit intimidating, particularly when she knew she resembled a drenched rat.

  “I apologize for my soggy entrance. That storm took me by surprise. An hour ago, the sun was shining.” Her handshake was firm. “Taryn Clark.”

  “Bryce Elliott. Please, have a seat. And don’t worry about being wet. These things can’t be helped,” he said generously. They both knew an umbrella would have made a difference.

  He wasted no time in addressing business. “You have an issue to discuss with me?”

  “Yes.”

  She said the word quickly enough, but she was slow to elaborate. Bryce’s dark brows spiked upward in anticipation.

  Taryn drew a deep breath and forged ahead, determined not to falter. “I’m adopted. I need your help in finding my birth mother.”