Pulling out her cell phone, she pressed a button and swiped at the screen a few times. Then she passed the phone to me. “Here. I took this photo of an old picture that my father gave me. I didn’t want to lose the original somewhere while I was traveling.”
I stared at the picture, then moved my fingers across the screen to zoom in. The photograph was in color, but it must have been twenty or thirty years old, because it was slightly blurred and the colors were faded.
It was a picture of an infant in an old-fashioned baby carriage, parked on a sidewalk in front of a grand old Victorian home. The baby was tiny, probably no more than a month old.
I passed the phone to Mac, who squinted a few times, trying to focus on the image. He handed it back to me without making a comment.
Again I zoomed in and out of the shot a few times, trying to study the slightly fuzzy house in the background—and finally recognized the fretwork on the brackets atop the veranda posts.
“It looks a lot like the Jorgensens’ house,” I said, glancing up at Amanda. “But then, a lot of the old houses look alike. Do you know whose house it is?”
She nodded. “It’s the Jorgensen house.”
“Interesting.” I passed the phone back to her. “And your father gave you this picture. Okay. But whose baby is that?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure who the parents are.”
Mac leaned forward and spoke in a quiet voice, as if he didn’t want to spook her. “Do you know who the baby is, Amanda?”
I swallowed, oddly nervous as I watched Amanda. So far she hadn’t told us much, but my gut instinct told me to believe whatever she was about to say.
Her smile was tinged with sadness as she nodded again. “The baby is me.”
Maybe it wasn’t too early for wine after all.
My head was spinning. I went to the kitchen to make tuna sandwiches for everyone, and it gave me a few minutes to think.
How could someone whose earliest memories centered around being raised in a loving home in Baltimore have been photographed as an infant in a carriage outside a house three thousand miles away in Lighthouse Cove? There were at least two possible scenarios. Either her parents had taken a trip to the West Coast, or she had been adopted. Or maybe there was some other explanation. My mind was a jumble of odd thoughts.
I carried a tray into the living room and handed out the sandwiches along with some potato chips and more shortbread cookies. I glanced at Mac, who looked as gobsmacked by Amanda’s news as I felt.
He recovered quickly and took a bite of his sandwich. “I think we’re still missing some parts of the story.”
“Oh, definitely,” I said, turning to Amanda. “Do you mind filling in the blanks for us?”
“Are you sure you’re not going to fire me?”
“Enough of that talk,” I said with an edgy laugh. “I’m not firing you. You do great work and I already feel like we’re friends.” I waved my hands around for emphasis. “Well, except for the part where I don’t know who in the world you are.”
For the first time in a while she flashed a real smile. “I’m not sure who I am, either. That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“Were you adopted?” Mac asked.
“Yes, although I didn’t know it for many years.”
“How did you find the house in the picture?” I wondered.
“It took me almost three years. I did a lot of research on Victorian mansions, getting lots of close-up photos of styles and details. During that time, I sold the family home in Baltimore and worked out my finances. Then I made a map of all the places that looked most like the house in the picture and started driving across the country. I must have made at least a hundred stops before I got to San Francisco. I spent almost a month there, driving around for hours a day, but I didn’t find the house, so I drove up here. And even though Lighthouse Cove is a small town, it took me almost a week of driving around before I found the Jorgensen house.”
“So obviously that’s why you took this job with my crew, but how did you even find out we were working on it?”
She had the good grace to appear embarrassed. “This is where you might regret saying you won’t fire me.”
“Just tell me the truth,” I said softly.
“I will,” she said. “I promise. No more lies. But still, it’s not pretty.” She took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “I staked out the house for a few days, thinking I might be able to meet one of the family members. But then last week, I saw you and Wade walk inside the house. I saw your truck with the Hammer Construction logo on the side. Just to be sure, I peeked in the truck bed and saw your tool chest and your ladder. So I realized that the Jorgensens must have been hiring a contractor to do some work.”
Mac shook his head in amazement. “I’ve got to hand it to you. You did your homework.”
“I was pretty determined,” she admitted. “Anyway, I followed you around town that day, and when you went to the pub to meet your crew guys, I sat at the bar and watched all of you.”
“Wow, I had a stalker,” I said, only half kidding.
“It felt really weird on my end, but like I said, I was single-minded in my determination to get inside that house.”
I was beginning to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “So after I left the pub, you joined Sean at the bar.”
“Yes. I struck up a conversation with him and we talked about construction. I had no idea what it would take, but according to him, you were looking for someone who specialized in woodwork.”
“Sean is a pretty easygoing guy.”
“And I took complete advantage of him,” she said, her tone remorseful. “I admit it.”
“Well, I asked for the truth.”
“The thing is, I never heard from him again. After a few days I was starting to panic. I followed you again and saw you working at another house on the other side of town.”
“The Spauldings’ house.”
“Yes. I didn’t know if you’d gotten the Jorgensen job or not, but then I saw you pulling permits over at City Hall. As soon as you left, I went into the office and asked the building inspector about you.”
“Whoa,” Mac said. “You talked to Joe Scully about the permits Shannon pulled?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mention this to Chief Jensen?” I asked.
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God. Do you think that makes me look guilty of murder?”
“Maybe,” Mac said. “You could’ve wanted to shut him up. Or maybe he tried to blackmail you.”
She looked completely baffled. “But why?”
Mac shrugged. “I know it’s weak, but what the heck? Motives come in all shapes and sizes.”
“You’re scaring her, Mac,” I murmured. “Don’t tease.”
Mac grinned. “Sorry. Go ahead with your story, Amanda.”
“You are kind of freaking me out.”
“It’s a gift,” he said lightly.
“Don’t mind him, Amanda,” I said, smacking Mac’s knee. “Go ahead.”
She blew out a breath. “Okay, so, meanwhile, I realized I needed a job, so I took on some freelance construction work. And somehow, you happened to hear about my work from one of the guys on the site.”
“Bob the brick guy.”
“Yeah. So in the end, I got exactly what I wanted. I think.”
“Yeah, I guess you did, and I’m glad.” I paused, then added, “I’m not so glad that I got played.”
“I know you’re angry.”
“Angry?” I thought about it. “Not really. I’m mainly just wondering why you thought you had to lie to me.”
She grabbed a potato chip, but then just stared at it instead of eating it. Finally she gazed at me and Mac. “I’ve been alone and desperate for almost three years, ever since my father died. When I finally found the Jorgens
en house, I didn’t know which approach to take. I thought about going right up and knocking on their front door and asking them, point-blank. But I couldn’t. How do you ask someone if they’re your real mom or dad? How do you ask them why they gave you up? I had actual stomach pains just thinking about it. So when I saw you show up with Wade that first day, the pain went away and everything came into focus. I had a way to get in there that I hadn’t counted on.”
“Do you think the Jorgensens are your parents?”
It was her turn to pause. “To be honest, I didn’t think so until Matthew showed us a portrait of one of his relatives from a few hundred years ago. She looked just like me, so that’s when I started to believe it might be true. Except . . .”
“Except it would mean that Petsy is your mother,” I muttered. “God help you.”
I realized what I’d said and covered my mouth in horror. “I’m so sorry. I mean, if she’s your mother, I’m sure you can learn to love her. I’m not sure how, but she might grow on you and . . . I mean . . . Oh God. Never mind. I’m not thinking.”
“Don’t be sorry, Shannon,” she said quickly. “You’re right. It would be terrifying to have her as a mother. Look at Lindsey. She’s practically downtrodden when Petsy’s around, but otherwise she’s pretty and smart and successful.”
“This woman doesn’t sound like much of a mother figure,” Mac said.
“She’s not.” Amanda shook her head vigorously. “Not at all. And besides, I already have a mother. Even though she’s gone now, my mom was amazing, like some kind of dream mother. She loved working at home and taking care of the house and my dad and me. She insisted on making a big breakfast every morning and she always had dinner on the table when we would get home from work or school. She was the most thoughtful person and so smart. Nobody will ever take her place in my heart.”
Mac nodded. “Of course not.”
She gave me an imploring look. “I need you to tell me the truth, Shannon. Do you see the slightest resemblance between us?”
“Between who? Oh. You and Petsy?” I took my time and studied her face, then had to blink and look away.
“Oh my God.” Amanda’s eyes widened. “I can tell by your reaction that you do.”
“Wait,” I said hurriedly. “No. Okay, yes. I guess there are some superficial similarities. You both have dark hair and a similar facial shape. But other than that, it’s hard to say, because I know you’re nothing like Petsy. You’re nice and funny and smart. And Petsy is just evil. I mean, talk about the mother from hell. So no, I don’t see much of her in you, if that makes sense.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “It does. And thank you. Seriously.”
“Do you feel anything when you’re around her?” Mac asked.
“You mean, like some kind of mother-daughter connection?”
“Yeah.” He winced a little. “It sounds clichéd, but those things have been known to happen.”
“I’m sure they have,” Amanda said, “but in my case it’s a big no. The only thing I felt in that house was sorry for Lindsey and Matthew for having to live with that woman.”
“Me, too.” I took a bite of sandwich and munched for a moment while staring at Mac. “I wish there was a way for you to meet Petsy. I’d love to hear your opinion of her.”
“That’s easy,” he said, with a rascally grin. “I’ll just follow her.”
“She wouldn’t like that,” Amanda said.
He grinned. “She wouldn’t know.”
I smiled. Mac had been a Navy SEAL for years before turning to writing thrillers. His protagonist, Jake Slater, was a SEAL, too, so Mac’s mind was always focused on stuff like this.
“If nothing else, she’s quite a character,” I said. “You could make her a bad guy in one of your books.”
“I’ve got to meet this woman.” Mac reached for a cookie, then turned to Amanda. “So, let me ask you this. What did you hope to learn by going to work in their house? Were you planning to search for some documentation or something?”
She made a face. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I was hoping I could find some of their hair in a hairbrush and have a DNA lab run it against my own.”
“Not a bad idea,” Mac mused.
With a firm shake of her head, she said, “No, it’s ridiculous. Who would I give it to? The police? I don’t know any private crime-scene investigators. And even if I did, don’t those tests take forever?”
“You don’t need an investigator,” I said. “Just a good lab.”
Mac spoke up then. “I have a friend at a forensics lab in San Francisco. It usually takes about four weeks.”
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. “Why don’t we just go the direct route and ask Matthew if he and Petsy had a child that was given up for adoption? He showed us the painting, so he must be curious about you.”
“I wasn’t prepared to take the direct route,” she admitted. “But maybe if I’m working there for another few weeks, we might develop a rapport.”
“He likes you,” I reminded her. “Or he wouldn’t have shown you that painting.” But then I frowned. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Mac repeated. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I glanced at Amanda. “I was so distracted earlier that I forgot to tell you something.”
“Oh no.” Amanda said. “You’re scaring me.”
“It’s nothing,” I insisted. “It’s just that after you and Matthew and I walked away from the painting, I looked up and saw Petsy march over and stare at it.”
“You think she overheard the conversation?” Mac asked.
“It’s entirely possible,” I said. “Those old hallways with their arched ceilings can sometimes create an echo chamber.”
“Oh great.” Amanda sighed. “What if she thinks I’m Matthew’s love child or something?” She buried her head in her hands.
Mac leaned forward. “But what if you are his love child?”
She raised her head and moaned, “Oh God. My life is suddenly a soap opera.”
“Look on the bright side,” he said cheerfully.
“There’s a bright side?”
“Sure. If it’s true, it means that Petsy isn’t your mother.”
It was just the right tack to take. A short, sharp laugh shot from Amanda’s throat before she slapped one hand across her mouth as if to hold back budding hysteria. Her shoulders began to shake and I could imagine that she was close to reaching her breaking point. Oh boy.
I jumped up and rubbed her shoulder in sympathy. “It’ll be okay. Please don’t cry.”
“Oh, Shannon. You’re so sweet.” She glanced up at me and that’s when I saw that there were no tears in her eyes, except maybe a few tears of laughter.
“Ah, you were laughing. Okay, then. Good.” I sat down, feeling a little silly. On the other hand, I was pleased to know she wasn’t the type to burst into tears, even when she had every reason to do so. “Glad you’re taking this well.”
She laughed again. “Honestly, I’m not. But you guys are so great to humor me and show me the upside of this situation. I’m not sure how I’ll ever thank you, but I really appreciate it.”
“Always here to help,” Mac said with a wry smile.
She turned to me. “I feel so lucky I met you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Well, you won’t have to find out,” I said staunchly.
Mac sat back in the big chair. “So, what do you know about your adoption?”
“Not much, to tell the truth,” she said. “I was raised by a wonderful mom and dad who never told me I was adopted. My mother died when I was nineteen and I stayed home to keep my father company. I guess I could’ve moved out, but I never felt like I wanted to. My dad and I always had fun. He was smart and talented and was always trying to make me laugh. And we worked together. He taught me everyt
hing I know about carpentry and construction.”
“He sounds like a good guy,” Mac said.
“The best. But about four years ago, he got sick. I thought he would recover, but he never quite did, even though he was in remission. Then he relapsed and had to stop working altogether. When he realized he was close to dying, he called me to his bedside and gave me that photograph.”
“Did he tell you anything specific about it?” I asked.
“He said that the lawyer who handled the adoption gave it to him and my mom. Other than that, I don’t have any details. Mom never wanted me to know I was adopted. She was afraid she would lose me, but she wouldn’t have.”
“Of course not,” I murmured.
“I understood her feelings, though,” Amanda said. “They were a little older and had never had any luck having children of their own, so when I came along, they were ultracareful about everything. But not in a stifling way. They loved me so much. We laughed a lot. Oh dear.”
And that’s when she burst into tears for real. I jumped up to grab a box of tissues and put them next to her on the couch.
“I loved them,” she said, sniffling. “They were good people, you know?”
“I do. Mine were the same. I still have that same sort of relationship with my dad that you described having with yours, so I can relate to your feelings.”
“Mom was also afraid that I’d worry that I hadn’t been loved enough by my birth parents. She thought I would get a complex or something.” Amanda balled up a tissue in one hand and shook her head. “They loved me enough to prevent any kind of complex, for heaven’s sake. Dad said it couldn’t be true that I hadn’t been loved, but I have trouble believing that. I mean, why else would someone give up their child?”
“There are plenty of reasons,” Mac said. “It might not have had anything to do with loving you. They might’ve been too young, with no money. Maybe their parents forced them to give up their child. You’d have to have some sympathy for them if that was the case. Then again, maybe they were just horrible people and didn’t want you. Who knows? But look, whatever the reason, by giving you up, they made it possible for you to have the life you’ve had.”
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