Three Wishes

by Barbara Delinsky

  “About the wishes.”

  “About the wishes.” She snuggled closer, warm and suddenly sleepy again. “I’m happy for you, Tom,” she whispered.

  “Me, too,” he whispered back.

  The idea of wishing for her mother might have come on a whim, but Bree couldn’t believe how perfect it was. Getting engaged was something to share with a parent, and this woman was the only parent Bree had left. If ever there was a time to try to reach her, it was now.

  So while Tom was putting coffee on to brew one morning the following week, she came close to him at the counter and said, “I’m doing it, Tom. I’m wishing for my mother.”

  He stopped mid-scoop. “A real wish?”

  “If that’s what they are.”

  He finished measuring coffee into the filter. By the time he was done, she saw telltale lines between his brows and by his mouth.

  “What?” she asked.

  He turned to her. “I don’t want you hurt.”

  “By what? The wishes not being real? Or her not being what I want her to be?”

  “Either.”

  Bree had given both possibilities plenty of thought. “It’s okay if the wishes aren’t real. But I have to know one way or another, and I won’t unless I try something else. The fire may have been caused by the furnace. It may have been a coincidence at the time that I made my wish. This is different. What would be the chance of the woman materializing after all these years at exactly the same time that I’m wishing her to appear?”

  “Slim.”

  “Very. Her name was Matty Ryan. My father met her in Boston and followed her to Chicago. I was born there. He never brought her back here. So maybe she doesn’t know where I am. This would help both of us.”

  Tom looked pained.

  “Okay,” Bree conceded. “Maybe she could have found me if she wanted to. But what if she was afraid I wouldn’t want to see her after all this time?”

  “Do you know for sure that she’s still alive?”

  “No. But she was twenty when I was born, so she’d only be fifty-three now. That’s not very old. Think about it,” she said, when he remained doubtful. “What do I have to lose? Worst-case scenario, no one shows up, so I can forget the business about the dreams.”

  “Worst-case scenario,” he corrected, “she shows up and isn’t what you want her to be.” He took her face in coffee-scented hands. “As long as you recognize that that’s a possibility, it’s okay.”

  She wrapped her fingers around his wrists, wanting him to know how sure she was that making this wish was right. “My grandparents said she didn’t want me, and my father never disagreed. So that’s what I’ve believed all my life. Isn’t that the worst-case scenario? That she doesn’t want me?” Her eyes softened. She allowed herself to feel the excitement she had been trying to stem. “But what if she does? I’ve read stories about women who gave babies up for adoption and were reunited with them years later. What if I could have a reunion like that with my mother? What if there were reasons why she gave me up? My father loved her. I used to see a look in his eyes that I never understood until I met you. I feel it in me when I look at you, the same wanting I saw in his eyes. He never stopped loving her. But what if she didn’t love him? What if his love frightened her? What if she felt suffocated by it? What if she had no money at all and thought I’d be better off with my father? What if she just assumed he would pour some of that love into me?”

  A silence fell between them.

  “He didn’t,” Tom said sadly.

  “No. I wasn’t her. She must have been special.”

  He folded her in his arms. “So are you.”

  She could feel his conviction in the way he held her. It gave her strength. “I want to do this, Tom.”

  He took her face again and kissed her this time. She imagined she tasted vulnerability, even desperation, in him.

  “It’ll be okay,” she soothed. “Don’t you see? I could have gone looking for her years ago, but I didn’t feel strong enough then. I couldn’t take the risk. I didn’t have enough to hold me up if she turned her back and walked away. Now I do.” She rose on tiptoe, stretched her arms way up past his neck, and held on tight. The sense of fullness was back, richer than ever. She breathed it in and smiled.

  “And if it’s the second wish?” he whispered. “What then?”

  “No more wishes.”

  It must have been the right answer, because after another minute, he held her back and she knew she had won. The worry lines had left his face. Anticipation was in their place.

  “So how do you do it?” he asked. “Is there a ritual?”

  She felt a burst of excitement. “There were never any specific instructions. I guess I’ll just do what I did last time.” She laced her fingers and shut her eyes. In the next instant, they popped open again. “You won’t laugh, will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “This must look pretty silly to someone who doesn’t believe.”

  “Bree.”

  “Okay.” She closed her eyes tighter this time, brought her laced hands to her chin, and said, “I . . . wish . . . to see . . . my mother.” She conjured up an image of the being of light, waited until she felt the warmth of it and its calm, and said the words again.

  Then she opened her eyes. They met Tom’s expectant ones. Only their breathing broke the silence. Slowly, she unlaced her fingers, let her hands fall to her sides, and relaxed.

  For the longest time, they simply looked at each other. Finally, Tom whispered, “What now?”

  “Now we wait.”

  Chapter

  11

  Bree sat on pins and needles through breakfast and a morning of stripping gray paint from the pine moldings in Tom’s living room. Working side by side, she and Tom exchanged the occasional expectant glance. The slightest sound from outside brought their heads around, but the doorbell didn’t ring.

  Bree refused to be discouraged. “It could take a while. The fire didn’t happen until six hours after the wish. Maybe I have to be at work. You know, thinking about other things.”

  She was grateful, though, when, rather than dropping her off at the diner, Tom parked and came in. He read in his corner booth while she worked, then switched to the counter when the lunch business picked up. His presence reassured her, as did the ring on her hand. They made her feel less alone than she might otherwise have felt.

  Regulars came and went. Of the new faces that appeared, not a one was female.

  Lunchtime passed. Bree grew more edgy. “What do you think?” she asked Tom, back in his booth now.

  “She could be coming a distance. Let’s give it more time.”

  His voice held no mockery. He was as into the wish as she was. She would have loved him for that alone, if she hadn’t loved him already.

  “What if it takes days?” she asked, impatient now.

  He slid her an encouraging smile. “You’ve waited this long.”

  Yes. She had. Waiting now, she remembered those years. Bits and snatches of the old curiosity—questions about her mother’s appearance, taste, and personality—had been distracting her all day, so that she had forgotten things like Carl Breen taking his scrambled eggs dry and Travis Fitch wanting his chili with cheese. But Tom was right. She had waited this long. A little longer wouldn’t hurt.

  She returned to work. After another hour of only locals walking through the door, though, she had another thought. “A watched pot never boils,” she told Tom. “I think you should leave.”

  Tom shook his head. “I’m staying with you.”

  “What if she’s waiting at the house?”

  That gave him pause. “Do you think she might be?”

  “I don’t know,” Bree said, feeling bewildered. “I don’t know anything.” Pushing loose strands of hair back from her cheek, she eyed the door. “This is frustrating.”

  He closed his book. “What would make you feel best?”

  She weighed the comfort of his being there aga
inst the fear that her mother might be looking for her elsewhere. “If she goes to the house on South Forest and sees that it’s burned out, she might stop somewhere in town and ask. Most people would direct her here. Some might direct her to your place. Or she might just know to go there,” she added more softly, because there wouldn’t be any rational explanation for that. But then, there was no rational explanation for the idea of three wishes, yet here she was, having made a second one.

  “I think,” she said, “that we should cover our bases. Just to be sure.”

  He nodded. “I’ll go back there and check. I’ll check South Forest, too.” He slid out of the booth. “Will you be okay here?”

  She looked up at him and swallowed, pressed her face to his shoulder, breathed in the clean, male scent that was his alone. In that instant, she knew that she would never, never have been able to do this without his support. He was her safety net if the wish went all wrong.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I have ordering to do. I can set the computer up right here and watch the door. No one much is coming. Suppertime’s still a ways off.”

  Promising to be back before then, Tom left. Bree opened the laptop at his booth, from where she could see both the diner and the parking lot entrance. Her eye kept wandering to the latter.

  At half past three, daylight was waning, but it wasn’t that as much as the late-January cold that reduced Panama to grays and whites. The ground was snow-crusted, the roads were dirty. The evergreens looked drab and withdrawn. Frost lined most everything in sight, from windows to truck bumpers to tree limbs to breath.

  With the disposal of Christmas decorations, the job of providing color fell to the human population of the town. As Bree watched, a group of neon-jacketed students from the regional high school piled out of a souped-up red Chevy and came in for snacks. A truckload of telephone company workers, wearing orange reflecting vests and ruddy cheeks, ordered hot coffee and sandwiches. Angus, Oliver, and Jack shuffled in for sticky buns, wearing their plaid jackets and bright wool caps. Julia Dean pulled up in her yellow van, with a load of fresh flowers.

  Bree always admired Julia’s work, but never more so than in the dreary winter months. Julia saw color where others didn’t. She could walk into the woods and return with arm-loads of shrubbery stems, fir fronds, and berry sprigs. Alone, they were beautiful. With the addition of a single hothouse flower, they were striking. Of all the bills Bree paid for Flash in a month, the one she did with the most pleasure was the one submitted quietly, almost apologetically, by Julia.

  A car turned off East Main. Bree’s eye was back on the window in time to see it pull up beside the front steps in the space reserved for the handicapped. Though the marking was hidden under the snow, regulars to the diner knew not to park there. That was the first thing to alert Bree. The second was the car itself, a sporty little Mercedes that should have had the same winter muck on its flanks as all the other cars in the lot, but didn’t. The third thing was the driver. She rose from the car to an average height and ran a hand through hair that was shorter than Bree’s, though just as dark. When the wind caught that hair seconds later, she turned and quickly locked up the car. Holding the lapels of a stunning navy suit closed against the cold, she trotted up the steps.

  Bree’s heart began to pound. She watched the woman enter the diner, straighten her collar, and look around, more curious than searching. Her gaze touched Bree and moved on. Bree was trying to decide if it had lingered a second longer on her than on others, when the woman strode toward her.

  Bree didn’t breathe.

  The woman slid in two booths away, set a briefcase-type purse on the table, loosened the silk scarf around her neck, and studied the menu.

  Her coloring was right, Bree decided. So were her features. Her skin looked young, and her hair had no gray, though Bree knew that both qualities could be artificially achieved. But the neck never lied. Nor did the hands. Judging from the two, this woman could easily be fifty-three.

  LeeAnn rounded the counter, and in a flash Bree was up, waving her off. “I’ll take this one,” she said, fumbling nervously for her order pad. She was at the table before she managed to fish a pen from her apron.

  “Hi,” she said, with a breathless smile. “Welcome.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, wishing she had done something more with it, fearing she looked a mess. The wind might have caught this woman’s hair when she had stepped from her car, but every strand had fallen back into place. She looked professional and sophisticated and smelled expensive, all of which was consistent with the car, the suit, and the large emerald ring on her hand.

  She glanced at Bree and back down without a smile.

  Bree wasn’t discouraged. She figured that if the woman had any character at all, she had to be scared out of her wits, seeing her daughter for the first time in thirty-three years. She had taken pains to look nice. That much was clear. The diner hadn’t seen anyone dressed as well in years. Nor had the town, for that matter.

  Bree searched for an opener that was less threatening than just coming right out and confronting the woman. “Is this your first time in Panama?” she finally asked.

  “Definitely.”

  “Are you just passing through?”

  “God willing.” She waved a negligent hand at the menu, put that same hand to her throat, and raised direct eyes to Bree. “I am parched. Could you bring me some Perrier, please? And I’d like to eat something hot but light. What do you recommend?”

  The CEO of a large corporation, Bree decided. Being a take-charge type was necessary and commendable for someone in that kind of position. No doubt she had hundreds, even thousands, of employees on her payroll. No doubt she had more than one office and more than one home. No doubt she had frequent-flier mileage piling up right and left. She had been to exotic places and met exotic people. She had ambition.

  Bree wondered if that ambition was what had made her decide to give up her child. And if she had decided the other way, what might Bree’s life have been like? One thing was for sure. This woman—a onetime free spirit, if the story was right—had left Haywood Miller in the dust.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said. “You are here to take my order, aren’t you?”

  Bree dropped her pen. She bent to pick it up. “Yes. I’m sorry. You wanted Perrier. And something hot and light. Did you see the specials board?”

  “No. Is there anything on it that’s hot and light?”

  Bree started to point to the board, then caught the woman’s expression. Its impatience said that she didn’t want to look herself but wanted a recommendation. Wondering if this was a test, Bree suggested, “Homemade vegetable soup. Flash purees the vegetables, so the soup is healthy and hearty without feeling heavy. He serves it with toasted Parmesan bread sticks.”

  “That sounds fine,” the woman said, and turned to her purse. She drew out a pair of glasses, a pad of paper, and a thick fountain pen that looked luxurious to hold. She uncapped it, then looked up at Bree. “Is there a problem?”

  Bree hurried off for the water, all the while telling herself that if the woman was short-tempered, it was nerves. Even the most skilled CEO would feel awkward in a situation like this. Running a business was one thing. Dealing with a sensitive family matter was something else. Bree couldn’t imagine anything more sensitive—and intimate—than mother and daughter meeting this way.

  “Here you go,” she said, and set down a tall glass. Normally, she would have set the bottle of Perrier beside it. This time she did the pouring herself. When the glass was full, she carefully set the bottle behind it. “The soup will be right up.”

  The woman frowned. “I wanted a twist of lime.”

  Bree left. She sliced a fresh lime and returned. After setting the plate down by the glass, she smoothed the narrow band of her apron. It was an unconscious gesture, meant to ease the nest of knots in her stomach, but in the doing, Bree saw a side benefit. No thinking, breathing woman could miss her ring. It was just as stunning a
s this woman’s emerald. Surely, it was an opener.

  The woman didn’t take it.

  Casually, Bree asked, “Where are you from?”

  The woman darted her a glance over the top of her glasses. “New York.” Setting the pen aside, she took several lime slices, squeezed them over the water, dropped them in, and took a drink.

  “Are you on your way there now?”

  She shook her head. “Montreal.” She picked up the pen and began writing.

  “On business?”

  A nod this time.

  Bree would probably have been just as tight-mouthed, had she been in this woman’s shoes. Nobody in her right mind would tip her hand too soon or put herself in a position of vulnerability unless she knew she would be well received.

  “My dad had a friend once. Actually, more than a friend. He was madly in love with her. The way he described her, she could have been you.” It wasn’t quite true. Bree’s father hadn’t done much describing, despite Bree’s pleas. But the fib was for a good cause.

  “Hm,” the woman said in acknowledgment but little else. She sounded unimpressed, even uninterested. Bree wondered if that, too, was a cover.

  “Were you ever in Boston?”

  Sighing, the woman set down her pen. “I grew up in Boston.”

  “You did? Not California?”

  “No. Not California.”

  “Did you ever live in California?”

  “No.” She glanced toward the kitchen, then looked back at Bree. “Is my soup ready yet? I have to get some work done here.”

  “I’ll check.’

  Bree dashed straight through the kitchen to the employees’ bathroom. She brushed her hair, pinched her cheeks hard, reglossed her lips. Cursing softly, she brushed lint from her black jeans. Then she washed her hands, buffed her ring on her thigh, and went for the soup.

  By the time she returned to the table, the woman was talking on a cellular phone. In the process of sliding the soup bowl onto the place mat, Bree caught phrases like “grand jury” and “show cause” and excitedly revised her theory. She left to give the woman privacy, but the minute the phone was set aside, she returned.