Suddenly, the door to the shop opened and twelve-year-old Tami Mogan came striding in. She was robust and healthy looking, and a great reader. Today, she went directly to the Classics section. Arden, knowing that Tami liked to talk, joined her there.
“Ms. Bell,” Tami said excitedly, “I just saw a really awesome movie about the Brontës. It’s really, really old, from 1973. But it’s really good, and poor Branwell! I think anyone could go mad living in such a gloomy place. At least, I probably would. Anyway, one day I want to visit Haworth and see for myself the house where they all lived.” Tami frowned. “I think it’s still there. I hope it is. I wonder if Charlotte’s and Anne’s and Emily’s spirits haunt the house? Or maybe their ghosts roam the moors at night, thinking about how their lives would have been different if they’d grown up somewhere else, like maybe London. Maybe they’re still sad they never really found true love.” Tami tolled her eyes. “I mean, I know Charlotte got married eventually, but, please, that wasn’t romantic. I bet Branwell was cute. In real life, I mean.”
“I remember seeing The Brontës of Haworth ages ago,” Arden told her when Tami had stopped to catch her breath. “I’ll try to find it on Roku. Do you know about Charlotte’s time in Brussels?”
“Not really.”
Briefly, Arden explained how Charlotte had fallen in love with the married man in charge of the school at which she had been hired as a teacher. “The Professor was Charlotte’s first novel, but it wasn’t published in her lifetime. In some ways, this book”—Arden turned to the shelves for a copy—“Villette, her last novel, is a reworking of the earlier novel. Both are assumed to be pretty autobiographical.”
Tami’s eyes shone with excitement. “Cool. I’ll get it, thanks. Oh, and I forgot.” Tami followed Arden to the checkout counter. “My mom and I watched a good miniseries adaptation of Jane Eyre. Ruth Wilson plays Jane, and this guy named Toby Stephens plays Mr. Rochester. You should check it out. I love Ruth Wilson.”
Arden thanked Tami for her recommendations and watched as the girl left the shop and joined her mother, who was just emerging from Chez Claudine, holding a large white bakery bag.
The exchange had been bittersweet for Arden. She might have had similar conversations with her daughter had she been given the chance. But did her daughter, whoever and wherever she was, like to read? Did she enjoy the works of the Brontë sisters? Was she a writer, herself? Arden would probably never know.
The sudden ache in her heart was keen, and Arden was briefly tempted to close the shop early, go back to her comfortable cottage, and hunker down with her cats.
But she would do no such thing. Instead, she would follow the example of Lucy Snowe. Only through steady exertion were results achieved.
Sometimes, it was almost impossible to remember that.
Chapter 22
Shortly after breakfast, Laura returned to her room at the Lilac Inn and got down to work.
She had learned that Victoria had not come back to Port George for Christmas or spring break her freshman year of college. Most kids did come home. At the least it was a chance to have someone do your laundry and see high school friends. Was it possible that Victoria hadn’t been away at Blake College or any other school from September 1984 through the spring of 1985? If not, then where the heck had she been?
Laura opened her computer and found a phone number for the alumnae office at Blake College. As nutty as it seemed—and it did seem nutty—Victoria Aldridge was shaping up to be the most likely candidate to be her mother.
“I’m looking for information about my aunt,” Laura told the woman who answered the phone in a pleasant voice. “My family lost track of her ages ago, and I’d very much like to find out more about her. I thought perhaps that you could tell me her current whereabouts, assuming she’s an active alum, or maybe the name of a former classmate who might still be in touch with her.”
It was a feeble story (if it merited the title of story at all), but lying was fast becoming a habit. Laura hoped it wasn’t indicative of a total decline in morals.
The woman politely told Laura that the only information the college would release about a student, even a former one, was when she had attended the college. Laura had half expected as much, as she had half expected what she learned next.
Victoria Aldridge had not registered for the academic year of 1984–85.
“There’s a note here that indicates she was accepted for matriculation back in the spring of ’84,” the woman explained, “but that she never actually registered as a student at Blake.”
Laura felt a frisson of excitement, thanked the woman, and ended the call.
“Where were you, Victoria?” she whispered aloud. Even if Victoria Aldridge was not her birth mother, she had been a flesh-and-blood young woman, and Laura had become intrigued by what she had learned of her story.
So, Laura wondered, what next?
Once again, Laura turned to her laptop and chose a search engine with which to look for anyone with the name of Victoria Aldridge residing in the New England states. There were only three people with the name, and none fit the age of the former Port George resident. Of course, the Victoria Aldridge Laura was seeking might be living anywhere in the United States or even abroad. She might have married and changed her name. She might, for all Laura knew, have become a nun—she had, after all, attended a Catholic grammar school. She might, indeed, be dead.
Exasperated, Laura turned again to the Wilder Academy yearbook. Those awkward formal photos, under which the student’s name was printed, followed by a nickname in quotes. Silly names. Cute. Possibly meaningful. Possibly not.
French toast. There was no obvious clue in the photo of that pretty girl to explain why she was called or had chosen to be called a piece of bread dipped in egg and fried.
Mouse. The boy had large ears. Like Mickey Mouse? That wasn’t very nice.
Grumpy. This boy was grinning widely. Irony? Affection?
Puff. Laura sighed. The photo of the ordinary-looking girl offered no clue as to the relevance of her nickname.
Kathy Murdoch’s nickname had been Cheesy; she had told Laura it was because she ate a bag of Cheez Doodles every day with her lunch.
Under the photograph of Victoria Aldridge—the Viking princess—was the word Arden. Arden had a note of seriousness about it. Didn’t it?
Laura sent a text to Kathy: What did the name/word Arden mean to VA?
Kathy responded almost immediately: No idea. An in-joke?
Laura turned again to her laptop and searched the word Arden. What did it mean? Would she find a clue in its etymological origins as to why Victoria had chosen the word, or why it had been chosen for her? Though the Internet hadn’t yet been in existence in 1984, research certainly had. A curious student would have had access to reference books at the library and might uncover the origin and subsequent history of a word.
Arden. Possibly from the Hebrew word for Garden of Eden. Now that might be a clue, Laura thought. Anytime the Bible was referenced there was a wealth of information and opinion to review.
Elizabeth Arden, the queen of cosmetics. Nothing there, not given what Laura had learned about Victoria Aldridge, a girl who had cared more for her studies than for makeup.
John Arden was an important British playwright in the 1950s and ’60s. Laura had never heard of John Arden, but maybe young Victoria Aldridge had and was a fan of his work. It wasn’t impossible. But it didn’t seem likely.
In Hindi, arden meant valley of the eagle. Laura nodded. There might be something there. In many cultures the eagle held great symbolic meaning. It represented mankind’s connection to the divine. It stood for courage and honesty. Yes, this might be something to think about.
Laura scrolled on. There was a village in Delaware called Arden. Unlikely to be a lead.
Was there a town in Maine called Arden? Not according to this search engine.
The Ardennes, or Ardennes Forest, was located in southeast Belgium and extended into Luxemb
ourg, Germany, and France. Sadly, it was the scene of terrible battles in both World War I and World War II. Laura couldn’t imagine even a serious young woman such as Victoria Aldridge choosing such a depressing moniker. Besides, Arden was obviously an English version of Ardennes; why make the change?
Suddenly, Laura’s fingers began to fly over the keyboard even before her mind had fully remembered that Miss Thompson had told her that Victoria Aldridge’s favorite Shakespearean play was As You Like It. The play was set in the Forest of Arden. There was such a place in real life, Laura learned, extending from Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire to Tamworth in Staffordshire. But Shakespeare’s Arden was a forest of fantasy, a place where the spectacular might happen, where happy endings were possible.
Laura took a deep breath. Could that be why Victoria had chosen the nickname Arden? Or was that stretching things just a bit too far? How, Laura wondered, putting her hand to her aching head, did one go about this sort of detective work without making a fool of oneself several times along the way? Leaping to conclusions based on the flimsiest of connections, imagining solutions to puzzles that might prove to be unsolvable.
Still, Laura pressed on and began a targeted search for people and businesses—anything, really—employing the word arden in the state of Maine. And if nothing helpful came to light, well, she would start on the next forty-nine states. Where else did she have to be? she asked herself grimly. No family, no husband, on leave from her job—
“Oh, my,” Laura breathed.
A bookshop in Eliot’s Corner, Maine, was called Arden Forest.
Laura easily found the shop’s website. It was professionally done. The home page showed a picture of the storefront with its two large display windows and old-fashioned awning over the center front door. Arden Forest: A Haven for Book Lovers.
Laura clicked on the About page. The shop had been founded in 1971 by Margery Hopkins. In 2008, Margery had passed away. There was a photo of the current owner. Her name was Arden Bell. She looked to be in her fifties. She was blond. Her eyes were blue. The only biographical detail was that the owner was a native Mainer.
Laura stared at the photo of the woman. Every nerve in her body was tingling. Arden Bell wasn’t necessarily Victoria Aldridge. She wasn’t. Laura reached for Kathy Murdoch’s yearbook and opened to Victoria’s formal portrait. The resemblance between the two faces was strong. Very strong.
Hands shaking, Laura placed a call to Lenny Tobin. He was a journalist. He would know how to proceed from this point. He had better know, Laura thought, because she was too shaken to think clearly.
Lenny Tobin didn’t answer his phone so Laura left a message on the voice mail. She hoped she had been coherent but she couldn’t be sure. Mr. Tobin didn’t return her call for an interminable hour and a half. If he was curious as to why a podcast journalist didn’t know how to proceed in a simple investigation, he didn’t say. Generously, he provided Laura with information he thought might be helpful.
“Good luck in your quest,” he said finally. “For whatever it is you’re really after.”
Laura gulped hard. She had been right. Lenny Tobin had known from the start that she was keeping her real purpose from him. “Thank you,” she said unsteadily. “Thank you.”
Referring to the notes she had taken during the call with Lenny, Laura went to Whois Lookup & IP, a reputable database of domain names, registration possibilities, and availability.
The owner of Arden Forest’s website was listed as Arden Forest LLC.
All right, Laura thought. Onward. Now she accessed the State of Maine’s database of registered businesses in search of a license. And there it was, right on the screen in front of her.
Victoria Aldridge DBA Arden Forest LLC.
Laura’s heart began to beat madly. She squinted at the screen through a mist that had suddenly come over her eyes; yes, she was reading correctly. She had found Victoria Aldridge. She had found her.
Still, there was nothing to prove that Victoria Aldridge was Laura’s birth mother. But . . . But this woman and her bookshop were all Laura had at the moment. She had no choice. She would go to Eliot’s Corner, no matter how far from Port George it was, and see this Arden Bell. And with any luck . . .
Laura buried her face in her hands and sobbed as she hadn’t done since the deaths of Marty and Cynthia Huntington.
Chapter 23
“Success,” Arden announced to herself as she replaced the receiver of the landline on its base.
She had just persuaded a young, Maine-based, African-born novelist to give a reading from her first published work. Already the book was being praised as the effort of a significant young immigrant voice. Arden had read the debut novel in one sitting, impressed by its beautiful combination of harsh realism and genuine hopefulness. The way the author handled the relationship between the protagonists, a young brother and sister from the Democratic Republic of the Congo who had lost their parents to one of the many armed groups that routinely resorted to violence, committing atrocious abuses of human rights, was particularly deft. The siblings, now living in Portland, Maine, with an aunt and uncle, faced the unique challenges of asylum seekers in a strange new culture, as well as the universal challenges of childhood. Arden was sure the October event would be popular with the residents of Eliot’s Corner.
“Rats!”
Arden looked toward the back room where Brent was unpacking boxes and seeing to it that this storage area for everything from toilet paper to light bulbs didn’t descend into utter chaos.
“You okay?” Arden called.
“Yeah.” Brent sounded frustrated. “This stupid old box cutter was jammed again. I got it unstuck but managed to nick my finger in the process.”
“You know where the first aid kit is, right?”
“Exactly where I put it the last time this happened. I’m fine.”
Arden believed him. Brent was an extremely competent young man, used to taking care of himself. Probably, Arden thought, because he had experienced more than his fair share of woes while still a child. His father, a rough sort who routinely spent too much of his salary on beer and the lottery, had been furious when he learned that his only son was gay. He had treated Brent, only twelve at the time, badly, more than once resorting to physical violence. Finally, tired of trying to talk sense into her brute of a husband and unable to protect her child, Mrs. Teakle had threatened to leave the marriage, taking Brent and his siblings with her, if her husband didn’t get his act together. Mr. Teakle hadn’t reformed overnight, but he had come around enough to keep his hands off his son and his mouth shut when the mood to say hateful things came over him.
As soon as Brent had graduated from high school, he moved out on his own. It took him six years to put himself through college but he had done it, graduating with honors. Two years earlier, he had met his partner, Kurt, and they were now living together and planning to marry. If Brent still suffered the psychological and emotional effects of his father’s abuse, he didn’t say. He couldn’t have forgotten, but Arden believed that he had forgiven.
Brent had been lucky to have at least one parent who loved and supported him. So many children were left to fend for themselves either in an unsafe home or out on the streets. Arden thought of the two orphaned children who were the protagonists of the novel that had so moved her and found herself hoping yet again that her daughter had grown up in a safe and loving home. Biological parents, adoptive parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents, friends—it didn’t matter who cared for a child as long as the child was cared for, loved, protected, and championed.
The bell over the door of the shop announced an arrival. It was Deborah. Arden literally sighed in relief. Her thoughts were beginning to take a gloomy turn.
“I came to steal you away for a bit,” Deborah announced. “How about we get something to eat at Chez Claudine and take it to my place? Brent is here today, isn’t he? And everyone is entitled to a lunch hour.”
“True. Hang on just a moment.”
Arden found Brent taking inventory of printer paper. A Band-Aid was on his right forefinger. “I’m going to pop out with Deborah for lunch. Hold the fort?”
Brent pushed a lock of hair away from his forehead. “Only if you promise to bring me a croque madame.” He smiled. “And a large coffee.”
Arden promised and returned to her friend. “Let’s go. And whatever you do, don’t let me forget to get a sandwich and a coffee for Brent. Really, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Chapter 24
Laura had changed her date with Kathy to a day earlier so she could be on the road to Eliot’s Corner as soon as possible. She had been sure to return the Wilder Academy yearbook with many thanks.
Kathy had been good company at dinner, and Laura had learned more about life in Port George than she might ever have thought to ask. The Christmas festivities put on by the Episcopal church were always a big hit, even with members of other congregations. For years, there had been no movie theater, and if you wanted to go to a fancy multiscreen cinema, you had to drive over thirty miles to Spurlink to see the latest Batman or the next in the Star Wars series. The historical society had lost its building to a notoriously greedy landlord about ten years back; since then it was located in the basement of the public library, though every few years the society was rumored to have somehow found enough money to relocate to their own, freestanding space. People bought a good deal of their produce directly from farms in the surrounding area, and much of their day-to-day needs at the mom-and-pop grocery store in town, traveling to the chain store one town over for all other needs.
When, at the end of dinner, Laura told Kathy that she was leaving Port George, possibly not to return, her new friend was disappointed. Laura didn’t say where she was going or why; she let Kathy assume she was returning home to resume work on the podcast with her colleagues.
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