True to You

by Becky Wade

  Her eyes rounded slightly. “Sure.” She turned. “Nikki?”

  “Yes?” answered the brunette. Had he imagined it or had she just winked at him?

  “I’m going out. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “You bet. I’ll hold down the fort.”

  A long rectangular lawn stretched outward from the steps that led down from the library’s door. Old-fashioned buildings of all shapes and sizes were positioned around the grass like houses on a neighborhood street, each one facing inward.

  John cut a glance at Nora as they walked along the gravel path that framed the lawn. The top of her head came up to about his chin. If he hadn’t carried her the other day, he’d have guessed her to be heavier than she was because of the way she dressed. The sweater she’d worn Saturday and the blue one she wore today were both huge. Her hair, her sweater, her long skirt, and her flat boots made her look very much like the librarian she was.

  “Have you visited the historical village before?” she asked.

  “No. This is my first time.” He’d lived in Shore Pine for five years and came to Merryweather occasionally. Both cities had approximately six thousand residents, both were popular weekend and summer destinations, both had historic downtown areas that had been revitalized in the last decade, both were situated near water. Merryweather was located on the southern “Great Bend” section of the Hood Canal. Shore Pine, to its west, sat on the edge of Lake Shore Pine.

  John knew that Merryweather was named after Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark fame. And he knew that the logging industry had built this town. He hadn’t visited Merryweather Historical Village until now because he spent his free time watching sports, on his boat, or working out. Girly little villages weren’t his thing. Some of these structures were so small they looked like what Snow White would have lived in.

  “When Walmart opened in Shelton,” Nora said, “this part of Merryweather turned into a ghost town. My father bought up the warehouses that occupied this site and tore them down. He and I both love history, so our intention was always to transport historical buildings here. Which, as you can see, is exactly what we did.” She didn’t fumble or pause or say umm. She spoke quickly and intelligently.

  “How long ago did your father buy this land?”

  “Eight years ago.”

  “I visited a historical village with my family once when I was growing up. We bought tickets and walked through houses that were set up inside to look like they had when they were new.”

  “Right. Most historical villages are like that.”

  Not this one. The buildings were all in use. He saw a women’s clothing store, an art gallery, a pottery shop, a flower shop. People were everywhere. Visiting the stores. Stopping to take photos. A few moms sat on blankets on the grass, watching their kids play.

  “We wanted to attract large numbers of people downtown,” Nora explained. “Also, it’s my personal preference to keep historical things alive by utilizing them, so my dad and I decided we’d rent out the buildings to local businesses.”

  “It sounds like you and your dad make a good team.”

  “We did—I mean, we do. My dad serves as an advisor these days. He gave the village to me as a college graduation gift.”

  He looked across his shoulder at her. Raised an eyebrow.

  Her lips curved. “I know. Generous gift, right?”

  “I got a tie and a silver pen for graduation.”

  She laughed. “My father gave each of us, my two sisters and me, a graduation gift meant to help us gain a foothold in our chosen professions. Each of us has been solely responsible for the gift ever since.”

  They reached the coffee shop, which was housed inside a clapboard house with a wooden porch. The interior smelled like butterscotch. Now that he was inside he could see that it was more of a pie shop than a straight-up coffee shop. The workers behind the counter greeted Nora like a friend.

  “What would you like?” he asked her.

  She ordered hot tea.

  “What else?” he prompted, drawing out his wallet. “Pie?”

  “No, thank you. Tea is perfect.”

  He ordered coffee, and they took their drinks outside. His coffee had come in a to-go cup. Her tea had come in a fancy china cup with a saucer. He led her to the wooden table set farthest out on the lawn.

  “How many of the buildings were here when your dad gave you this place?” he asked when they sat down.

  “Three. The library is still in its original location. The only buildings we’d moved here at that time were Montgomery House and Hudson House.” She pointed them out. “As soon as I took over, I started looking for locals willing to rent those two houses. Once I found them, I began renovating the library so it could function as a museum.”

  “How many buildings do you have here now?”

  “Twelve.” She took a sip of tea.

  One company owner to another, he was impressed. “How did you grow it from three to twelve?”

  “Rental income from the existing houses. Each time I’d saved enough money, I’d buy a new house and have it transported here. Somewhere along the way, Merryweather caught on. Tourists started to show up, just like I’d hoped they would, and they ended up giving new life to this whole section of town. B&Bs and restaurants opened their doors. Businesses moved into the office space near the village. Investors gutted old buildings and created apartments. Now we’re bustling.”

  “Is the historical village under the jurisdiction of the city of Merryweather?”

  She shook her head. “My dad and I have had to get permits and approval from the city every step of the way, but the village is privately owned.”

  “So you’re your own boss.”

  “Yes.” She met his eyes over the rim of her teacup. He caught a gleam of satisfaction and pride in her expression before she looked away and took another sip of tea.

  The day of the training exercise, his first impression of Nora Bradford had been that she was pitiful, with her dripping hair and her inability to get up and walk out of the building. His second impression had been that she was plain. His third had been that she dressed old but was probably younger than he was.

  He’d only been right about the young part.

  She wasn’t pitiful. And she wasn’t exactly plain. Next to her bright hair, her skin was the color of milk. She didn’t have the sort of features that would cause a man to do a double take. But her face did strike him as pretty in a gentle way. Nora Bradford was like the girl who was a sleeper in high school, then surprised everyone by going to Harvard.

  “Just to make sure I understand,” he said. “You’re a landlady, a historian, and a genealogist?”

  “Strictly speaking, yes. Nikki, who works with me, handles the landlady part. She’s the one who deals with the tenants and rental income. I oversee the big-picture issues concerning the village, but on a daily basis, I’m more focused on the library. I spend a good bit of my time helping people research their ancestry.”

  He drank his coffee, tasting its rich, nutty, bitter flavor.

  “The village required more of my attention back when I was acquiring buildings, but all that’s slowed down now. I just need one more building, and then the village will be complete. See that open space, at the far end near the bank of the creek?” She indicated the area with her teacup.

  He nodded. The library anchored one end of the development. The open space the other.

  “I’m going to put a chapel there. I already have the MacKenzie Timber Barn situated next to where the chapel will go. It’s been refurbished, so it’s ready for receptions.”

  “Have you not been able to find a chapel?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve found one. But I haven’t been able to convince Mr. Hartnett, its owner, to sell it to me.”

  “Then why not bring in another chapel?”

  “Because the Hartnett Chapel is perfection. It has a hand-painted stencil border along the top of the sanctuary and a bell tower.” She shook herself s
lightly. “Anyhow. Enough about me.”

  She didn’t say more, so he figured enough about me was her friendly way of inviting him to tell her his reason for today’s meeting.

  John shifted, peering at the empty space where Nora wanted her chapel to go. Her cup made a clinking sound as she set it on its saucer. A breeze rustled the branches overhead.

  Sharing personal information with other people had never come easily to John. His time with the teams had only driven deeper his habit of playing his cards close to his vest.

  He wouldn’t have called Nora if his need to know his medical history hadn’t become urgent. And his need to know his medical history wouldn’t have become urgent if he hadn’t been handed the diagnosis he’d been handed two months ago.

  His phone chimed. “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.”

  He read the text and sent a brief text back, then returned the phone to his pocket and centered his attention on Nora. Should he trust her?

  She was easy to talk to. She wasn’t interrupting him or speaking over him. She wasn’t too uptight or too mellow. She seemed smart and qualified and friendly. She made him comfortable. She was exactly the sort of person he should trust with this. “I wanted to meet with you because I’m trying to find my birth mother,” he said.

  She held his gaze calmly. “Okay. Tell me more.”

  “My birth mother put me up for adoption right after I was born. My parents adopted me shortly after that.”

  She sat still, hands in her lap. He could sense her mind turning. “Have your parents given you all the adoption agency paperwork they have concerning your adoption?”

  “Yes, they gave me the paperwork a long time ago. I haven’t talked to them yet about . . . my decision to search.” He didn’t want to cause his parents pain. Plus, he was well aware that he might never find his birth mother. If he didn’t, then what was the point in telling his parents about his search?

  “What do you know about your birth mother?”

  “She was young and unmarried. My parents never met her, and she’s never tried to contact them or me.”

  “I see.”

  “Washington unsealed adoption records a few years ago,” he said. “So I applied for my original birth certificate, and they sent it to me.”

  “In that respect, it’s fortunate for you that you were born in Washington. Only a handful of states have unsealed the records. In the states that haven’t, searchers typically only have access to adoption paperwork and the birth certificate that lists their adoptive parents.”

  She knew her stuff. “Right. My father’s name was left blank on the original birth certificate. My mother’s name was listed as Sherry Thompson. I was born in Shelton at Presbyterian Hospital.”

  “Shelton.” She chewed the edge of her lip thoughtfully.

  Shelton was located twelve miles south of Merryweather. Presbyterian had been the largest hospital in the area at the time of his birth, and still was. People from Merryweather and Shore Pine and the rest of the towns in a thirty-mile radius of Shelton all used it.

  “Where was your adoption agency located?” she asked.

  “Seattle.”

  “I’m inferring that you contacted me because you haven’t had success finding a woman named Sherry Thompson living in this region of Washington.”

  He wasn’t used to talking with people who used the word inferring. “Exactly. Thompson is a common last name. I went on several websites to look for Sherry Thompson and contacted that registry. . . .” He couldn’t remember its official name.

  “The one that pairs you with your birth parents if they’re also searching for you?”

  “Yes. I didn’t have any luck.”

  She tapped the pad of her thumb against the handle of her cup. Her forehead knotted like she was trying to solve a riddle. “I’m not surprised to hear that you weren’t able to find Sherry easily. Chances are good that she’s married and changed her last name at least once since your birth.”

  “True. Since I’ve already done the only things I know to do, I’m at a point where I could use some expert advice.”

  “I’d love to give you advice,” she said immediately. Then hesitated, her cheeks turning pale pink. “However, I need to tell you that this isn’t my particular area of expertise. I’ve only worked with a few other adoptees and only read three, perhaps, four books on the subject of adoptee search and reunion.”

  “That’s more books than I’ve read on the subject.”

  “I’m certainly willing to educate myself as needed along the way. If we reach a dead end that I can’t navigate past, then I’ll put you in touch with organizations or private investigators who might be able to take you the rest of the way toward a reunion. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

  “No, no.” She raised both palms. “I make my living from revenue generated by the village. I never charge the people I assist. Never. You’re no exception.”

  “I am an exception.”

  She leaned forward, stacking her hands on the edge of the table. “Just between you and me, I adore history. I’m the one who should be paying my clients for the pleasure of getting to conduct their research.”

  “Good try, but no. I’m not going to work with you on this unless you’ll let me pay you.”

  She frowned.

  He frowned back. He wasn’t a charity case. Nor was he a man whose mind was easily changed. Redheaded librarians who used big words didn’t scare him.

  “Really,” she tried, “I’d much prefer not to charge you. It wouldn’t be right to charge you for the same assistance I give to others for free.”

  “Email me a bill to cover the time you’re likely to spend on my case over the next two weeks. If we’re still at this two weeks from now, bill me again.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it over.

  “I’d rather—”

  “No.”

  She sighed, looking down at his card.

  “John!” A woman called to him from across the grass.

  He twisted in his seat and saw Allie walking toward them. When she’d heard he was coming to the village today, she’d immediately pitched the idea of joining him for shopping, followed by dinner. He’d explained where she could find him in the text he’d sent a few minutes ago.

  “Are we agreed?” he asked Nora, standing up.

  She stood, too. “We’re agreed. Can you gather all the documents you have? I’d like to go over them together at our next meeting.”

  “Sure. As soon as you send me your bill, we’ll set up a time for our next meeting.” He’d taken whole courses on negotiation.

  “Hey.” Allie gave him a warm smile as she drew near.

  “Hey. Allie, this is Nora. Nora, Allie.”

  Nora grinned as wide as someone who’d just been told she’d won the lottery. “So nice to meet you!”

  “Likewise.” Allie interlaced her fingers with his, and the two women exchanged small talk.

  John half-listened while wondering how long he’d have to pretend to enjoy shopping and whether any of the restaurants around here served steak. “We better get on our way,” he said to Allie during a gap in the conversation.

  “Sounds good.”

  “See you later, Nora,” he said.

  “Yes!” Nora responded. “Indeed. Indeed!”

  The librarian was a little odd.

  ———

  Nora stood like a statue, watching John walk toward the building known as Doc Hubert’s office. He was still holding the hand of his girlfriend. Could—could Allie be his wife?

  No, no, no. Nora’s thorough study of John would have turned up information about a marriage. Allie must be his girlfriend. His very attractive girlfriend with long, dark blond hair, a fit body, and lots of natural, relaxed confidence.

  Nora’s smile ached with effort. It felt like the Cheshire’s cat’s smile, except more foolish. Of course he has a girlfriend, Nora! Of course he does.
How could you have imagined that he didn’t? He’s the definition of handsome masculinity and full of legendary bravery to boot. She wasn’t the only woman in America who’d noticed his appeal. Every woman he came into contact with every day, all day long, had to notice.

  She’d been in her element during their entire exchange, talking first about her village and then about his search for his birth mother. Nora loved nothing better than when people turned to her for help. She relished being useful, and she’d been lapping up his need of her and feeling somewhat cute in the new cardigan and skirt she’d bought last night especially for this meeting. She’d even dared to think that John might be picking up on the chemistry between them, too.

  Disappointment solidified in her midsection like concrete.

  It was only because she’d been on such a high that the return to reality felt so steep. Once she’d had more time to think about this, she’d feel better.

  The Dreaded Harrison and Rory, his pregnant wife, chose that moment to exit the children’s boutique housed in Golding’s Mill. Harrison gave Nora a friendly wave. She returned the gesture, Cheshire cat style. No doubt the two of them had been busily accumulating tiny newborn clothing and lovely little accessories for the nursery.

  Cold envy shafted like an arrow through Nora’s heart. She rapidly bustled her teacup back to The Pie Emporium.

  The Dreaded Harrison and his wife were shopping for baby things.

  And the Most Delectable John had a girlfriend.

  Text message from Nora to Willow Bradford:

  Nora

  I’m self-medicating my emotional distress with ice cream. How much can I safely prescribe? I wouldn’t want to overdose on Ben & Jerry’s.

  Willow

  Just one pint.

  Nora

  Uh-oh.

  Willow

  I’m arriving in Merryweather tomorrow, so from then on we can eat ice cream together. Ice cream eaten in the company of a sister isn’t nearly so pathetic.

  CHAPTER