She was inordinately pleased that he thought so.
“Are you going anywhere in particular?” he asked.
“I’m just walking. Nowhere in particular. And you?”
“The same,” he replied. “Care if I join you to nowhere?”
They walked past the motel and on to where the river widened and rushed, overflowing with the spring melt. As they walked they talked in generalities, seeking clues to each other’s interests, intelligence, experiences. He was fascinating; he knew so much about so many things. Yet Jilly was stymied by his seeming reluctance to speak. She had to work to pry each word, like a pearl from an oyster.
He was very good, however, at asking her questions, mostly about her search. He grew very interested in her story, eager that she meet with success. As they walked, Pirate Pete ran to the woods and back, hunting. Or as Jilly said, looking for his next heist.
“How long has it been since you had your daughter?”
“Twenty-six years. Hard to believe.”
“And the father? Did you ever marry?”
She shook head. “No. I married three times, but never the father.”
“Three times?” He didn’t remark further, only looked off at a hawk circling overhead.
“It’s a long story,” she said with her nonchalant laugh.
“It’s a long walk back.”
She considered an old rule of hers: never talk about money and love with strangers—at least not her money and love. He seemed so unconventional, however, with his mysterious aura and his polite reticence. She looked up at his handsome profile and thought, what fun was a rule unless it could be broken?
So she started telling her story, hesitatingly at first, omitting details. She began with her arrival in France, an illprepared, tall, thin young girl totally unsuited for au pair work. She talked on about her quick success in modeling, her flirtation with film as a bombshell in Italian westerns while married to an Italian filmmaker, and how along the way to fame she married three very handsome, very wrong men. Jilly enjoyed speaking to Rajiv of things she hadn’t told anyone else about. Certainly not any of her husbands. They were not the type of men she could confide in. Not in any language.
It wasn’t simply because Rajiv was a stranger and she knew she could walk away from him without a look over her shoulder that gave her such freedom. Though this was true, Rajiv was an excellent listener. His face was serious and attentive and his eyes reflected what she told him with compassion.
“So now I’ve come home, seeking my fortune,” she concluded, walking slowly. “And who would have thought that the fortune I sought would be my daughter? And the treasures I’ve found are my sisters?”
They stopped at a small, charming, redbrick house tucked on a ledge at a high point of the hill. A black wrought-iron fence bordered it and seemed to keep the tenants from falling over the cliff. Beyond the fence lay a panoramic view of the meandering river and the small town of Hodges below.
“What a delightful place,” Jilly said.
“Thank you. I live here,” Rajiv replied.
“Really? I didn’t expect that you’d live in such a quaint house. I envisioned you in a dull, rather severe tract house. Made of cement blocks, perhaps?” She leaned into him, teasing.
He reluctantly gave up a smile. “It’s hard enough to work in such a place. God forbid I’d have to live in one, too.”
“How did you end up in such a, well.
“Let’s be kind to my father. Shall we say, such an architecturally uninspired motel?”
She laughed.
“He won it in a card game. I’m absolutely serious! I never was interested in the family business. I stayed in India, pursuing my own career. Did I tell you I was in software engineering?” He turned his head to smile at her, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “I know a little bit about the Internet.”
“I see,” she replied, enjoying their first joke. “So, what brought you to the illustrious River’s End Motel?”
His smile fell and he looked off into the valley at some point far beyond. “My father called and told me about this little place in Wisconsin that he had won. He talked to me about karma.” He released a short, bitter laugh. “Perhaps it’s best not to get into a discussion about that. I could end up leaping over that flimsy little fence.”
“I’d only have to jump over and try to save you.” She shrugged. “Karma.”
He looked at her askance. “I don’t think you understand about karma.”
She shrugged and said with a suggestive hint, “Perhaps you should teach me?”
A frown flickered across his face. “I’m afraid you won’t find me a very good teacher.” He looked at his watch, his face set. “I’m sorry, Jillian, but it’s getting late. I really must get to work. I enjoyed our walk.”
“I did, too.” Then, because she wanted to see him again, she said boldly, “Another time, perhaps?”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
“I’ll be walking tomorrow morning.” Could she be pushier, she thought to herself?
Their eyes met and she felt again the singe of attraction between them. Yes, she could, she decided.
“I’ll look for you,” she added.
“Until tomorrow then.” With a perfunctory nod of his head, he turned and walked through the wrought-iron gate into the redbrick house.
Jilly watched him leave feeling a shudder of frustration. “Nice dodge,” she muttered. She’d exposed her own past so freely but he clammed up pretty fast. At her feet, Pirate Pete sat staring at her adoringly, waiting for some cue.
“Well, at least you’re not afraid of me,” she said to the dog. “Come on, boy, let’s get something to eat.” She took off down the road back to the motel with Pirate Pete trotting at her heels. Jilly looked over her shoulder at the house, cursing herself for breaking her own rule. But she was intrigued, and definitely attracted to him. The more he pushed her away, the more curious she became. Curiouser and curiouser.
Later that morning, two events got their search moving again. First, the mailman delivered the application for the Soundex Reunion Registry. Jilly completed the forms quickly, giving pertinent information and leaving Mr. Collins’s number as a contact. She returned the form by over-night mail, along with a donation. The second event was a name-address match.
They were in the library again, poring over the address books, when Rose leaped up from her chair in the library with a hoot of triumph. “I found it!” she cried, waving the paper over her head. “I found it!” She came rushing toward them with a squeal that had the librarian frowning.
“What did you find?” Birdie asked, already on her feet.
“A match! I found an address for Ann Josephine Neville. There’s a Neville in Lake St. George in 1973. Father David, Mother Susan.” She looked up. “About seventy miles from here.”
“Neville?” Jilly searched the journal. She ran her finger down the pages until she came to the list of names. She looked up, surprised. “It’s the first name on the list.”
“Who knows if the Nevilles are still there?”
“They’re still listed at the same address.”
She looked up and met their eyes. “It’s a start.”
Jilly sat by the phone, her hands clenched in her lap. She picked up the phone, then set it down again, amazed that her hands were trembling. She reached out again for the phone, but midway diverted her reach to her purse. Digging into the black bag, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit up, then exhaled slowly.
What was she so nervous about? She didn’t even know that this person was her child. It was simply a match. Even if it was, what was the worst that could happen?
Maybe that the woman would not be her daughter. Or she’d find out the Nevilles didn’t live there anymore. Or Ann—or her parents—could be angry that she’d tried to make contact. Yes, that would be the worst. If her daughter found out that she’d called and didn’t want to meet her.
She took another long puff. No, that was
unlikely. Ann was already twenty-six years old and probably wasn’t still living with her parents. Jilly’s best hope was they’d tell her where Ann was living, if she was married and what her new last name was. That wouldn’t be so hard.
She got up and paced the narrow strip in the room. In any case, she told herself, obsessing about it wouldn’t change the outcome. She might as well get on with it. Besides, she knew her sisters were hanging outside the door waiting for word. She took another drag from her cigarette then set it down in a plastic cup. She sat on the bed, picked up the phone and punched out the number before she could chicken out.
“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Hello, Mrs. Neville?”
“Yes?”
Jilly’s heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. “Is Ann there?”
There was a long pause. “Who is this?” The voice was suddenly guarded.
“You don’t know me. I don’t mean to intrude, but my name is Jillian Season and I believe I may be Ann’s mother. Her birth mother, that is.”
There was a pause, longer this time. “That can’t be right,” Mrs. Neville replied shakily. “No, that can’t be right.”
“Is Ann Josephine Neville your daughter?”
“Yes. She was.”
Was? Jilly felt a shiver run down her back. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“My Ann died four years ago.”
Jilly’s mind went blank.
“In a car accident. The Lord took her from us.” Her voice shook.
Jilly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was prepared for them to hang up when she called, or to say they didn’t want contact. She was ready to engage them in a long conversation to learn about birth dates and birth places, details that would help determine if this Ann was her Ann. But she didn’t have a response planned for this answer.
“I—I’m sorry.” Her hands trembled at her lips. Could her search for her daughter end like this? “I’m at a loss for words.”
“I don’t think you have the right family,” Mrs. Neville said after she’d collected herself.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if I intruded. You have my sympathy.”
“I said,” the woman replied more urgently, “I don’t think you have the right family. We’ve already met Ann’s real mother. Six or seven years ago. Ann wanted to find her when she found out she was carrying Ben. She tracked her down and they met, though nothing much came of it. I never felt that I mattered any less to Ann for her wanting the meeting. I know I was Ann’s true mother. I’m the one who took care of her and loved her for twenty-three years.”
“Of course,” Jilly responded. “I’m sure there was never any doubt.”
“I just wanted you to know that Ann was happy to have met the woman who gave her life. It meant a lot to her. And I’m happy knowing that she had that much before she died.” There was a deep sigh. “So…good luck to you. I hope you find your daughter.”
Her last words were choked in a sob. Jilly mumbled a heartfelt goodbye and hung up, then wept for Ann Josephine Neville and both her mothers.
“I need a drink,” she told her sisters when she staggered into their room.
When she told them what had happened, they were unified in their horror and grief.
“The scariest part is that it never occurred to me that something bad might have happened to my daughter,” Jilly said, clutching her throat. “I mean, in all these years, almost anything could have. She could have been in an accident. She might be paralyzed. Or missing a limb. Or what if she’s sick and dying?” She covered her eyes with her palm. “Or dead. She could be dead like poor Ann Josephine Neville.”
“Yes, she could be all of those things,” Birdie said calmly, coming closer to put her arm around her shoulder. “That’s part of life.”
“I don’t know, Birdie,” Jilly said, leaning her weight against her hip. “I’m not sure I could stand to go through that again. What if my Anne was the Ann the woman was talking about?”
“We’ve come this far in our search. We can’t stop now. What is, is.”
Birdie took her turn at the phone. She went outdoors and sat in her car, running the engine for warmth and listening to the radio. The sun was setting on another day and the evening chill was making itself felt in the blue-gray skies. The others were getting dressed for their evening walk to the diner. Maude had promised them her world famous beef stew tonight.
The easy listening station was playing “Unchained Melody” and Birdie took it as a positive omen. That was her and Dennis’s favorite song while they were dating in college. She thought back to the very evening when she knew this would be “their” song. They were at a party at her sorority house celebrating Northwestern’s swim team’s state championship. Birdie had won a new record for the team and was exhilarated not only for the win, but because Dennis Connor had been cheering her on. They’d met again at college and had been dating for a few months. On that particular night, Dennis was walking toward her carrying their drinks while this song was playing. They were margaritas. She watched him carry the drinks with the seriousness that had always endeared him to her. Looking down, one lock of his long blond hair fell from behind his ear into his face. Just then, another guy drunkenly bumped into his shoulder causing him to spill most of a drink down his shirt and pants. Birdie gasped. The guy apologized profusely, succeeding only in spilling more margarita down Dennis’s shirt in his slobbering attempt to help. Dennis looked up and, instead of cussing the guy, he met her gaze, smiled a crooked, self-mocking smile and shrugged. Birdie, who had lived in a household of ill humor and tight lips, knew in that moment that this man was right for her.
Oh, my love, my darling…
She’d worried about getting too attached to Dennis Connor, knowing that Jilly had dated him. But she couldn’t help herself; she’d always been in love with him. She had looked into his brown eyes later that night, eyes so dark and fathomless that she felt she was looking into his soul, and believed him when he’d told her that Jilly was a summer’s high school fling, nothing to compare with what he felt for her.
“And what is that?” she’d asked him, only half-teasingly. “What do you feel for me?”
“Love,” he’d answered with devastatingly sincerity. And then he’d kissed her slowly, tenderly, as though he had all the time in the world. She closed her eyes and she was swimming again, stroking her arms and moving through wave after wave of lust and limbs. She heard his intake of breath as he plunged into her. She gulped for air, drowning.
I’ve hungered for your touch….
They made love for the first time that night to this song, and they danced to it at their wedding a year later. It occurred to Birdie, sitting alone in the car staring at the cell phone in her hand, that they had not listened to the song together in a very long time.
She lifted the phone and quickly dialed her home phone number in Milwaukee. The phone rang five times. She exhaled each time. Then the dreadful machine answered and she heard his voice, so cold, talking to strangers. Beep.
“Dennis, it’s me. Birdie. Call me on my cell phone. Please.”
She hung up without saying more. Tears flowed down her cheek as the song reached a crescendo, filling the car.
Are you still mine?
Rose took advantage of being alone in the room to quickly turn on the computer and check her e-mail, something she’d not done in the past several days. She told herself that she just needed a day to think about it, then one day turned to two, then three, four, until she’d built up a wall of fear against replying to DannyBoy at all. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, right?
But when she saw Jilly confront her fears and place the call to the Nevilles, Rose knew she was just being a chicken-heart. Only a coward would leave a man like DannyBoy hanging after he’d asked to meet her.
There were four e-mails waiting for her from DannyBoy. She couldn’t not read them. She clicked the first letter and it flashed on the screen.
/> Dear Rosebud,
There was some bad weather in the southwest today. Tornadoes were flying around a dime a dozen. Trucks were pulled off the road and we had to find what shelter we could. I was lucky to get off the road and into a room and not have to wait it out under an overpass like I’ve heard some other poor fellows did. But it was a tense night of waiting. When that Texas sky turns a murky green that stretches for miles and the humidity is so thick you can cut it with a knife, all eyes are turned toward the heavens. Have you ever been in a tornado? I have. It’s not an experience you ever forget.
I see the weather has been pretty good up in Wisconsin. You’re getting a little bit of spring. I’m glad. There’s nothing more beautiful than the hills of the Midwest when they start turning green and the air smells so fresh your lungs hurt. I can hardly wait to go home. I’d like to take you to some of my favorite hiking places, that is, if you’d like to. There’s one spot where there are so many wildflowers you won’t believe it.
This tornado delayed my trip. I won’t be back for a week.
Gotta go. The surge protector is flicking. It must be those storms.
DannyBoy
Dear Rosebud,
I’m wondering if there was a problem with the e-mail on account of the storms. I haven’t heard from you. Maybe you’re having trouble with your connection on the road? If you receive this, write back so I know all is okay.
The weather here is clear again. A town twenty miles away got clobbered by a twister, poor folks. Houses were torn up and three dead. Makes you realize every day how lucky we are just to be alive.
DannyBoy
Dear Rosebud,
Not finding your letter waiting for me at the end of the day is a real disappointment. It makes me realize how important your letters…you…have become in my life. I’d hate to lose your friendship.
I know you said right off that you were the shy type. I like that about you. I’ve tried not to do or say anything that might make you uncomfortable. I went over my old mail and I see where in my last e-mail to you before you stopped writing I asked you if we could meet. Now I’m wondering if that is why you stopped writing me back.
The Four Seasons Page 23