True to You

by Becky Wade

  Frederick, their many times great-grandfather, had been a reasonably successful East Coast railroad man. He would have remained a minor footnote to tycoons like Vanderbilt and Hill except that he’d had the foresight to turn his gaze to the Northwest before anyone else. He moved to Seattle in the late 1870s and by 1881 completed the first rail line linking Seattle to Chicago. Suddenly a journey that had taken five months could be accomplished in five days.

  Several years later, the Klondike gold rush brought thousands of prospectors rushing to Washington via Frederick’s railroad en route to Canada. That did it. Frederick’s respectable net worth swelled into a bona fide fortune.

  He’d ended up falling in love with a young Englishwoman, marrying her, and taking her to her home country on a lavish honeymoon trip. According to family stories and his existing letters, he’d been so enamored with his bride that, while in England, he’d purchased a house on the hills of Northumberland for her as a wedding gift. He’d then had the house taken apart brick by brick, shipped around the cape, and reassembled in Washington. They’d named it Bradfordwood.

  Eventually Frederick’s mother-in-law had come to live with them. Either out of a gracious wish to give the woman independence or because she annoyed the tar out of him—accounts were mixed—Frederick built a dower house on the edge of his property for her.

  Several years ago, Mom had latched onto the idea of turning the dower house into an inn. She’d painstakingly renovated it and had been running it ever since with equal parts dedication and love.

  The moment Nora’s parents had decided to move forward with their bucket list missionary plans, Mom began looking for someone to take over the running of the inn for her while they were away. She’d found a wonderful candidate with plenty of experience in hotel management, but he had a family and lived in Vermont. He needed time to sell his house and move his wife and kids cross-country. He wouldn’t be arriving for duty until November.

  Willow had volunteered to take up the reins of the inn until the hotel manager arrived. Mom had only needed to close the inn for two weeks, just long enough to bridge the gap between their departure for Africa and Willow’s arrival.

  “Do you think it will be strange to live in this house again for such a long stretch?” Britt asked Willow.

  A pause. “Maybe,” Willow allowed. “This house is so familiar to me, and yet it feels like a time capsule . . . like a piece of my past more than my present.”

  “I reinstate my offer for you to come and live with me,” Nora said. “I can supply Ben & Jerry’s, excellent books, and all the tea you can drink.”

  Willow chewed a cashew, a pretty curve on her lips. “Tempting. But I think I’ll get along fine here with Valentina to keep me in line. Right, Valentina?”

  Valentina had been crooning and beaming during the preceding conversation. “Yes, miss!”

  “Will you make Belgian waffles sometime soon?”

  “Belg?” Valentina tilted her head questioningly. Valentina was sort of like Gilligan in the sense that she’d come to America with her husband on a three-hour tour and stayed more than thirty years. Even after thirty years, Valentina’s grasp on the English language was loose. Nora suspected this was partially because Valentina realized that if she didn’t understand what was being said to her, she could go ahead and do things the way she wanted and smilingly blame the end result on a lack of comprehension.

  “Do you still have the Belgian waffle iron?” Willow asked her, slowly and clearly.

  “Waffles! I make them for you, miss. So yummy!”

  “You can stay at my place,” Britt told Willow. “I have chocolate.”

  “Or at my place,” Zander said. “I’m handsome.”

  They all laughed. Except Grandma, who gave a disapproving tsk.

  Willow set aside her plate. “Are you dating anyone these days, Zander?”

  Every face turned toward him. Even Grandma’s. Especially Grandma’s. She wasn’t usually privy to conversations regarding their dating lives.

  He shrugged. “No one special.”

  “I’ve been trying to convince him to ask out this girl named Audrey that he works with,” Britt said. “I’ve met her and she’s very cool.” Britt rose and sailed toward the bar. “Anyone need an iced tea refill?”

  “It’s never a good idea to drink too much tea at this time of the evening. All that caffeine,” Grandma said accusingly.

  Nora cut a look in Zander’s direction and noted that his hooded gaze surreptitiously tracked Britt’s movements.

  When exactly was Britt going to wake up and notice that the very best man, the one who’d die for her, the one who’d been there for her in every moment big or small for the last ten years, was The One?

  So far none of the Bradford sisters had been lucky in love. In Willow’s case that was because she’d yet to find the right man. Nora was 95 percent certain that her own destiny included nothing but imaginary men. In Britt’s case, she already had the man. She just hadn’t recognized him yet for who he was.

  “How’s the book coming along, Zander?” Willow asked.

  “It’s coming along well.” For the past several months, Zander had been working on a manuscript. He’d finished it a few weeks back and was currently polishing it up before shopping it around. He hadn’t given any of them, not even Britt, so much as a peek at it.

  “Can we read it?” Nora asked him.

  “No.”

  “Still no?”

  “It’s nice to have a few secrets,” he said.

  Grandma moved her weight forward as if gathering herself to stand. Nora grasped her forearm and helped her up.

  “I hate to leave, but the knitting circle at church can’t function without me,” Grandma said. “I keep telling and telling the ladies that I don’t knit and they keep adding me back onto their roster and insisting that they can’t have their meetings without me. Since they knit baby blankets for underprivileged mothers I can’t very well not go, can I?”

  “No. It’s probably best that you go and suffer cheerfully,” Britt answered.

  That night Nora lay in bed concertedly trying to keep her thoughts focused on Adolphus Brook. Replaying her favorite swoon-worthy scenes from books, movies, and television in her mind usually staved off loneliness and ushered in sweet dreams.

  Tonight? Not so much.

  She couldn’t sleep because she couldn’t get John out of her head. John, who was the most man man she’d ever met. John, who was not on the market. John, who was adopted and wanted, for a reason he had not disclosed, to find his birth mother.

  Why did he want to find his birth mother now, at this particular stage of his life?

  She knew enough about adoptee search to know that there was often a catalyst that flipped a switch in the life of the adoptee, driving them to take action. Usually the people she assisted gladly told her why they’d decided to research their history. That John hadn’t relayed this information made her doubly curious. She wanted to know that piece of his puzzle. She wanted to know the why of his search.

  Irritated with herself, she tossed back the covers, revealing her purple pajama top and drawstring plaid bottoms. She padded in the direction of the living room.

  Her glorified shoe box of a house sat in a secluded spot on a wooded hillside overlooking the canal. Canal was a misnomer. The body of water known as the Hood Canal was actually a fjord, and she wished it had been named appropriately way back when. She valued proper nomenclature.

  She’d decorated her house in a country-meets-the-1950s vibe. The shades of distressed white, cherry red, and Dutch blue she’d chosen spoke to her of welcome. The bookshelves covering her walls spoke to her of old friends and adventures.

  She slid a disc from season two of Northamptonshire into her DVD player. Five minutes later she’d settled into her chair, holding a mug of her homemade concoction of decaf chai tea. Gently, she tucked a throw blanket around herself.

  This little obsession with John wasn’t the healthiest th
ing in the world. She couldn’t have John. She could, however, have the company of Adolphus.

  Nora had always been an avid fan of period dramas. Three years ago, when her heart had felt like ground beef, they’d become somewhat of a lifeline for her. She’d watched them whenever her heartbreak had threatened to drown her.

  She’d sighed over Richard Armitage in North and South. Tumbled into love with Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice. Spent a great deal of time considering the merits of William Hurt’s Rochester next to Michael Fassbender’s Rochester next to Timothy Dalton’s Rochester. She’d shaken her fist at Julian Fellowes when he’d killed off Matthew in that famous season-ending car crash on Downton Abbey.

  And then, then, she’d discovered the BBC’s Northamptonshire.

  She’d become an instant addict. The gorgeously produced and acted series was set in England’s Regency era and followed the loves, dreams, trials, and intrigues of both the lowly and the gentrified residents of the British county of Northamptonshire.

  Most of the show’s female viewers clucked and cooed over the dark and powerful Earl of Cumberly or the brawny and earnest horse trainer, Craddock. It took a very discerning and erudite woman to notice the appeal of Adolphus, the Viscount of Osgood and Lady Amelia’s scholarly and bespectacled younger brother.

  Upon discovering Northamptonshire, Nora had joined every online gathering of fans she could find and gone on to found the Devotees of Adolphus Brook group on Facebook. Through the Devotees, she’d caught the attention of Duncan Bartholomew, the actor who played Adolphus.

  To her utter astonishment, her initial fawning correspondence with Duncan had developed into a genuine online friendship. They didn’t talk on the phone. They’d never met. However, they communicated often via Facebook.

  She actually knew THE Duncan Bartholomew! She was his pal! She was! Every single time she received a message from him, joy sang through her. He’d even taken to calling her Miss Lawrence after he’d found out that she, like the Lucy Lawrence character on the show, was a librarian with a heavy case of amour for Adolphus.

  Much to Nora’s frustration, Northamptonshire had only attained moderate success in England and in America via PBS. Also, despite the valiant support of Nora and the Devotees, Adolphus could not be considered one of the stars of the large cast. His supporting role was far too small.

  Nora had spearheaded numerous social media and email campaigns aimed at increasing the show’s visibility and securing more and bigger plot lines for Adolphus. So far, without measurable success.

  She nursed her tea as she watched Northamptonshire through weary eyes. When Adolphus strode into the picture, she smiled. Hello, darling.

  The quote emblazoned across Nora’s purple pajama top:

  “I am happily married to academia.”

  —ADOLPHUS BROOK

  Text message from Willow to Nora and Britt:

  Willow

  I just remembered that Grandma’s 80th birthday is coming up at the beginning of July. Since Mom and Dad are gone, I do believe that means the birthday fanfare is up to us.

  Nora

  I nominate Willow as Handler of Birthday Fanfare.

  Britt

  I second.

  Willow

  Slackers.

  Britt

  We could take Grandma out to lunch at Flemings again this year. Eating at the most impeccable restaurant in town makes it difficult for her to find things to complain about. You know how she enjoys a worthy challenge.

  Nora

  I don’t think we can get away with lunch at Flemings for an 80th birthday.

  Willow

  I agree. An 80th birthday = a party at Bradfordwood.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  Until now, Nora hadn’t realized that she found punctuality sexy in the extreme.

  John strode through the doors of Shelton’s library five full minutes ahead of their scheduled meeting. Nora was glad that she’d made an effort to arrive even earlier. The extra time had allowed her to select a table, arrange her office supplies, compose herself, and smooth a stray piece of hair into her Victory Curl updo.

  He’d dressed more casually today than in the past, wearing jeans and a brown T-shirt with Hurley written across it. Even so, he walked toward her like a high-ranking naval officer ready to brief his team on their mission. All broad shoulders and relaxed leadership.

  “Hi, Nora.”

  “Hi, John.”

  “The requested documents.” He handed her a manila file folder.

  “Thank you very much.” She motioned to the table. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” Wait here, John, while I slip into something more comfortable—

  Stop it, Nora! This is a business meeting.

  They settled into side-by-side chairs and, wow, he smelled good. Like some edible, very appealing combination of cedarwood, bergamot, and maybe a hint of . . . rosemary?

  She rolled the fragrance around in her mind, entranced by it and priding herself on the fact that she knew what bergamot smelled like. She’d been congratulated on her excellent nose more than once during the courses she’d taken on tea.

  “Right. Well.” She may have just spent a few too many moments smelling him. “Let’s see what we have here.” With an air of clinical professionalism, she opened the file folder.

  Nora was a naturally curious person. The genealogies of the people she assisted never failed to interest her. John’s genealogy, however, interested her keenly.

  His birth certificate sat on top. It contained the information he’d related to her at their last meeting as well as a few details he hadn’t mentioned. Sherry Thompson, his birth mother, had been twenty-two at the time of his birth. Oregon was listed as the state of Sherry’s birth, and John’s delivering physician had been a Dr. Paul Douglas.

  Nora pointed to the name of the physician. “If Sherry was a patient of this Dr. Douglas and if he’s still practicing, then his office will likely have a file on Sherry, her pregnancy, and your delivery. That file should contain her address at the time.”

  “Can you explain how her address at the time of my birth could help us find her now? She’s probably not still living at that address, right?”

  “Right,” Nora agreed. “However, at this stage of our search, our goal is simply to collect as much information as we possibly can. So, for example, if we could meet and speak with Sherry’s old landlord, then maybe he could tell us something about her that might prove to be useful. Or, say her old address leads us to an outreach for unwed mothers. The outreach might have further documents about Sherry.”

  “Got it.”

  “It’s impossible to know which innocuous piece of information might later become the clue that makes all the difference. So . . . no detail is too small.”

  John studied her in a way that caused her pulse to throb in her neck. “Okay.”

  Nora flipped to the next page, an information sheet that the adoption agency had no doubt given to John’s parents. The name Sherry Thompson wasn’t listed here, but other pertinent facts were.

  Physical description: 5' 7", 135 pounds. Brown eyes. Brown hair.

  Birthdate: March 18

  Nationality: American

  Religion: Christian

  Occupation: Teacher

  “Could the fact that she was a teacher help us at all?” John asked.

  “Absolutely, it might.” She turned her ring around her finger a couple of times, pondering. “I’ve seen a few background sheets like this in the past. In those cases, information about the birth father was also provided.” She glanced at him.

  His eyes were a mellow shade of hazel that brought to mind glinting rocks at the bottom of a mountain stream. The attention he leveled on Nora through those eyes was anything but mellow, however. It was concentrated, smart, forceful.

  “My birth father wasn’t mentioned on the birth certificate, either,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Do you think that’s because Sherry didn�
�t know who he was? She may have had more than one boyfriend at the time I was conceived.”

  “It’s possible. Or maybe she knew exactly who he was but had a motive for wanting to keep his identity to herself.”

  More of that crackling silence. She was bookish! She had no experience at holding eye contact with Navy SEALs. All the practice she’d put in with Mr. Darcy and Rochester and Adolphus didn’t seem to be holding her in good stead. “I suppose,” she said, “you can ask Sherry about your birth father when you meet her. If you want to.”

  He nodded.

  She tugged her focus to the tabletop, where his hand rested. His black watch with its black band, round black face, and white numerals whispered to her of the precision timing necessary for special ops so far away and dangerous that they boggled her mind.

  Nora turned to the next sheet in his folder. “Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?”

  “This waiver of confidentiality that your parents signed means that they rescind their rights to any implied or explicit confidentiality they had with their attorney or adoption agency. In other words, they’re opening the door for you to learn all the facts you can.”

  He looked unsurprised. “This waiver’s been with these other documents for years.”

  “According to the date, you probably would have been in . . . high school at the time your parents printed this out and had it notarized.”

  “The date listed there was my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Had you mentioned to your parents that you were interested in finding your birth mother?”

  “No.”

  “Well, this paper may make our search easier. Individuals and companies are hesitant to share information they think other people might want kept secret. Because of this paper, they’re likely to be more willing to work with us.”

  John’s parents may have had reservations about John connecting with his birth mother while he was still a child. But at eighteen, he’d technically become an adult and this paper indicated that on that day John’s parents had decided to give him access to his history when and if he wanted it.