Unraveled

by Heidi McCahan

  She turned off the car and grabbed her purse. Let’s see what we can find. The story of Mallory and her boyfriend dying in that accident and leaving behind a baby haunted her. It probably wasn’t a matter of public record, but she desperately wanted to find her cousin. Please tell me that such a tragic story had a happy ending.

  Jogging up the sidewalk, she side-stepped a woman and a gaggle of preschoolers coming out of the library. Lauren smiled. Story time was one of her and her brothers’ favorite outings when they were little.

  Once inside, she drew in a deep breath. Yep. Still smelled like she was standing in the middle of a wood pile. The woman sitting behind the front desk looked up from her computer and smiled politely over the rim of her glasses, tucking a strand of long blond hair behind her ear. Well, one thing had changed. Lauren didn’t recognize her. Where was Mrs. Woods? She’d worked at the library for as long as Lauren could remember.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked with just a hint of a Southern accent.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Woods. Is she working today?” Lauren craned her neck to see down the aisles of books that filled the rectangular room.

  The woman’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. She retired about five years ago. I’m Olivia Gilmore. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Lauren’s sighed. Dang it. Mrs. Woods knew everything there was to know about Emerald Cove. “I’m looking for some information about an adoption that occurred in the mid-eighties. Maybe 1986. Does the library keep any kind of public records?”

  Mrs. Gilmore removed her glasses and set them on the desk. “Funny you should ask. We’re in the process of converting all those files from microfiche to digital. A ginormous undertaking, if I do say so myself.” She slid off her stool and came around the counter. “Follow me.”

  Her heart rate kicked up a notch as Lauren followed the petite woman in her lilac sweater set and gray pencil skirt into a small alcove not much bigger than a storage closet. File boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, with dates scribbled in black marker on the ends. There was barely enough room for two people to stand among the towers. Wow. The entire history of Emerald Cove, shoved into a closet. Wonder what other secrets these boxes could reveal.

  Mrs. Gilmore shoved a box aside with her low-heeled pump and reached around to flip the switch on the microfiche machine. It whirred to life and she dragged two old plastic milk cartons over, stacked them together and patted a bath towel serving as a makeshift cushion. “Not the best seat in the house, but it will have to do. Remember how to work one of these?”

  Lauren bit her lip. “I think so.” She glanced around. “Any idea where the eighties start?”

  “Well, let me see.” Mrs. Gilmore leaned over and lifted the lid on a box closest to the machine. “1980 through ‘88. I think this is what you need.”

  Dropping her purse on the floor, Lauren sat down on the milk carton and peered into the box. She carefully pulled out an envelope labeled ‘1985’. Okay, Aunt Mallory. Show me how this all went down.

  “Let me know if you need anything.” The librarian called over her shoulder as she returned to her post.

  Lauren scoured the headlines of the Emerald Cove Gazette from 1985. She smiled, recognizing the birth announcements of kids a year ahead of her in school. It mentioned deaths, a couple of marriages, basketball scores, annual snowfall--the minutiae of daily life in a small town, but no details of any snowmobile accidents. Must have the wrong year. She popped the next floppy plastic sheet into the machine and frowned. 1988. Maybe these were out of order. Going back to the stack, she tried several of the sheets, quickly scanning each one. Nothing. It was like 1986 had never happened. This is ridiculous.

  Lauren found the Mrs. Gilmore re-shelving picture books in the children’s section. “Excuse me? One particular year seems to be missing. Can I look in a different box?”

  Mrs. Gilmore frowned. “That’s odd.” She followed Lauren back to the alcove. “We rely on a handful of volunteers to help with the conversion process. The microfiche goes into a scanner, and then it turns into a PDF document.”

  “Where’s the scanner?”

  “At the museum. They have a bit more room and since the remodel, a temperature-controlled environment to store the converted films.” She got down on her hands and knees and searched behind a stack of boxes and under the microfiche machine. “Golly, I hope it didn’t get lost. That would be a shame.”

  “Any chance it was already converted? Maybe I could look at the PDF documents.”

  Mrs. Gilmore stood up, smoothing her skirt with French-manicured nails. “I suppose it’s possible.” She tilted her head toward the three computers stationed along the back wall. They were all occupied. “It looks like all of our computers with internet access are in use right now. But I could give you the website and you could look on your own.”

  Lauren sagged against the doorframe. What a wild goose chase. She should’ve known this wouldn’t be easy. Her stomach growled, reminding her it was almost lunchtime. “Sure, I’d like to take a look. Thanks.”

  “Come out to the front desk.”

  Lauren slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder and followed Mrs. Gilmore back out front. She waited patiently while the librarian jotted the website on a yellow sticky note. She passed it over the counter to Lauren. “Here you go. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Lauren’s smiled as she tucked the sticky note in her purse. “Thanks for your help. Have a nice day.”

  The rain had let up and she shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight streaming through the clouds. A thick layer of fog still clung to the base of the mountains and water splashed in the gutters as a car passed by on the street. A light breeze carried the aroma of French fries from the Fish House across the street. Her stomach rumbled again, more incessantly this time. Unlocking the van, she lifted her laptop off the passenger seat and slammed the door. Maybe the Fish House offered free Wi-Fi. She could do a little more investigating while she waited for her lunch.

  The restaurant was crowded, humming with conversation and punctuated by the cooks calling out orders in the kitchen. Weaving her way among the tables and chairs, she managed to score a small booth near the back of the restaurant. Lauren quickly claimed the table by sliding her laptop onto the orange Formica table.

  Returning to the front of the restaurant, she took her place in line at the counter. She smiled at the giant collage of pictures still hanging on the wall in greasy frames. Reaching up, she straightened the one of her second grade t-ball team, all twelve of them drowning in their pale blue and white Fish House uniforms and requisite oversized caps. We won every game that year. Once they graduated from t-ball and moved onto basketball, they celebrated every home win with large chocolate milkshakes and bottomless baskets of fries. Even in Portland, she’d never tasted milkshakes that were as scrumptious as the ones served here.

  “Hi.” The teenage girl behind the register regarded her with a bored stare.

  “I’d like the halibut and chips with a medium Diet Coke, please,” Lauren said. “Do you have free Wi-Fi?”

  “Yep. Password’s scallop.”

  After swiping her debit card and collecting her number, Lauren went back to her booth and scooted onto the bench seat with her back to the door. She popped open her laptop and in a matter of minutes, she was online. Instead of pulling up the web address Mrs. Gilmore gave her, she couldn’t resist surfing to her favorite blog. One post. That’s all she’d read. Sometimes she just had to look. Glancing around the restaurant, she gnawed her lower lip. Nobody in here knows me. As the page loaded, she drummed her fingers on the table. In the most recent post, the toe-headed little boy with the adorable dimple mugged for the camera from the back of a pony. Her heart ached. He’s perfect.

  “Wow. He’s cute. Who is he?”

  Lauren squealed and slammed her laptop shut. She gulped and looked over her shoulder, heart hammering in her chest. “Shannon. You almost gave me a heart attack. What are y
ou doing here?”

  Shannon arched a curious eyebrow. “I’m getting lunch. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just waiting for my order.” It was partially true, anyway.

  Shannon tipped her head toward the empty seat across from Lauren. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Please do.” Lauren managed a weak smile. Don’t panic. She doesn’t know.

  Shannon tossed her bag on the bench and sat down. “Are you a blogger?”

  “No. I just like to lurk. How about you?”

  Shannon’s eyes sparkled. “I love to look at the home décor blogs. But I don’t have time to start one of my own. Maybe someday.”

  Their numbers were called over the loudspeaker and they went to collect their orders. Shannon chattered the whole time, catching her up on the latest news, no doubt all of it gleaned from the other nurses at the hospital. As they settled back at their table, Shannon dunked a fry in a pool of ketchup and stared at Lauren. “So what else are you doing today?”

  Lauren paused, a chunk of halibut halfway to her mouth. “I’ve started a little investigation.”

  “Taking after your dad, huh?”

  “Not exactly. Did you know I had an aunt who died in a snowmobile accident?”

  Shannon’s brow wrinkled. “My grandmother told me about it one time. Why?”

  “Did you know she had a baby before she died?”

  “No way.”

  “True story. But somebody adopted her and I want to find out who. My mom says it was a couple that couldn’t have children of their own.”

  “You think the baby grew up here in Emerald Cove?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Wow.” Shannon took a long sip of her drink. “We would totally know her. That’s wild.”

  “You’re telling me. I went to the library to look up any birth or adoption records, but a big chunk of the eighties is missing.”

  Shannon pulled her chin back, blue eyes cloudy with confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Lauren shrugged. “The microfiche films from 1986 and 1987 are missing. As in gone. The librarian thinks maybe somebody lost or misplaced them during the conversion process.”

  Shannon narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “Or somebody doesn’t want you to find them.”

  Lauren laughed out loud. “You think somebody took them? That’s crazy.”

  “Who knows. Nothing about this little town surprises me anymore.”

  “Do you think your grandmother might know who adopted the baby?”

  Shannon tapped her index finger against her lip. “She might. She worked as a nurse in the orphanage for a while. She’s on a Mediterranean cruise but when she gets home, you’re welcome to stop by and visit. Sharp as a tack, that one.”

  The orphanage. Lauren recalled a few headlines about the orphanage in the old newspapers but hadn’t bothered to read the articles. Maybe that was worth a second look. “I’m so curious. I just want to know what happened.”

  Shannon popped the last of her fish sandwich in her mouth and wiped her face on a napkin. “That’s pretty scandalous information. I think I’d probably work pretty hard to keep that under wraps, too.”

  Lauren shoved her lunch aside and propped her chin on her fist. Who would go to such great lengths to conceal the details of an adoption that everyone would have known about anyway?

  twelve

  Lauren curled up on the window seat in the loft, her laptop open on the cushion next to her. A steady rain pelted the window and fog rolled in off the water. An incoming email caught her attention. It was from a friend of the Putnams, a physician who worked for a family practice in Portland.

  Scrolling through the email, Lauren’s pulse increased as she read the details. The practice was hiring experienced medical assistants and she’d received an ‘impressive’ recommendation from Dr. Putnam. The message indicated she should contact the business manager if she was interested.

  Despite the townhouse age, its rent wasn’t cheap. There was enough in her savings account to cover August, but after that things could get tricky. Not to mention a down payment on a different car if the Honda was, in fact, toast. Given the circumstances, she wasn’t about to ask her parents for a loan.

  Clicking the browser closed, Lauren sighed and stared out the window. A message like that couldn’t be ignored indefinitely, but the thought of leaving her family right now sent a wave of anxiety coursing through her.

  She eyed her suitcases still lined up against the wall. If they sat there much longer, she wouldn’t have to unpack them. Maybe a hot bath would get her motivated. But the claw foot tub in her old bathroom downstairs was probably clean and awaiting guests. She would have to make do with a shower.

  The bathroom had not received the same attention as the rest of the loft. Mom and Dad really needed to step up their game in here. The faded wall paper screamed 1987. Faint pink smudges of nail polish still stained the laminate countertop. While she waited for the water to warm up, she peeled off her sweaty clothes and dumped them in the hamper. Rummaging under the sink, she found a bottle of body wash. Almond coconut vanilla. Twisting off the top, she sniffed. Not bad.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Lauren?” Dad called.

  “I’m in the shower, Dad.”

  “You have a phone call. It’s Blake.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Why would he call her?

  “Can you take a message?”

  Dad paused. “Sure.”

  His footsteps were heavy on the stairs. Although she planned to hang out and unpack, curiosity might drive her downstairs to get Blake’s number. How ironic. After the hours they spent talking on the phone in high school, she still had his parents’ number memorized. But he probably wasn’t sitting at home with his parents. He had a business to run, maybe plans to grab dinner with that blond who draped herself all over him at Jess’s.

  “Stop it.” She scolded, her voice echoing off the tiled wall. She gave up the right to know how Blake spent his evenings when she left town. His free time was no longer her concern.

  Lathering shampoo in her hair, she replayed those last agonizing minutes before she headed for Oregon. Alone. Blake had come over at four in the morning and waited in the freezing rain. He’d begged her to stay, those amazing blue eyes brimming with tears. Other than the summer his dog died, she’d never seen Blake cry. Why had she been so stubborn?

  Lauren shut her eyes against the incessant flashbacks and rinsed the shampoo from her hair. If only she could wash away the guilt and shame, too—wave goodbye to her unwanted companions as they swirled down the drain. Turning off the water, she brushed back the shower curtain. Like it’s that simple. Cocooned in two fluffy brown towels, she went in search of clean clothes. The sundresses, skirts, and t-shirts she hastily packed were not going to cut it in this weather. Surely she’d packed more than one pair of jeans. She shivered and plunged her hands through the layers of clothing. Her fingertips grazed denim at the very bottom of the suitcase.

  “Yes, perfect.” She squeezed and tugged. The jeans came loose, spilling a stack of shirts and dresses onto the floor. Guess that means it’s time to unpack.

  After she was dressed, the contents of both suitcases found homes in the old dresser her grandfather built. Scooping up one last dress from the floor, her foot caught the edge of her tote bag and she stumbled forward.

  The bag tipped over, releasing the carefully concealed white box from its hiding place. With trembling fingers, she unwrapped the blue t-shirt and glanced around the loft. This had to be hidden. Getting to her feet, she pulled open the closet door and found a large plastic bin on the top shelf.

  Dragging a foot stool over, She stepped up on it and pulled the bin down. The opaque plastic prevented her from seeing the contents, but it wasn’t heavy. Setting it on the carpet, she pried the lid off and the faint smell of lavender greeted her. She smiled. The ‘ugly’ quilts. Granny had gone through a phase several years ago, insisting that her grandchildren ea
ch needed a quilt. They all watched as she tackled her new hobby with fierce determination, taking classes, toiling late into the night over each square. But her fabric selection left something to be desired and the end result was a mishmash of brown, lima bean green and burnt orange that defied description. Apparently the infamous quilts had found a home here in the loft.

  Lauren tucked the box within the folds of the top quilt. There. No one would bother to open that bin. She hoisted the bin back on the closet shelf, climbed off the stool and shut the door.

  A distraction, a project—anything—to occupy her mind. That’s what she needed. Maybe her parents would listen to a few ideas she’d brainstormed for the Inn. Grabbing her laptop, she went back downstairs. The crack of a bat and distant roar of a crowd floated in from the living room. Dad must be watching a game on TV. Mom stood at the kitchen counter, swaying and humming “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” with Gavin swaddled in her arms. Lauren’s heart ached. If only Mom could have held her baby that way. No. Don’t go there. She shoved back the bitter emotions, squared her shoulders, and breezed into the kitchen.

  Mom turned around, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Did Dad tell you Blake called?”

  Lauren nodded and sat down at the counter, casually flipping open her laptop and trying to pretend like she didn’t care. “I’ll call him later.”

  Mom shifted Gavin in her arms. “Well, you can call him whenever you want, but he indicated it was kind of important. Something about needing extra help on a kayak trip.”

  A kayak trip? “Maybe in a few minutes. I wanted to talk to you about a few ideas I have for the Inn before the guests get here.”

  Mom’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. “What kind of ideas?”

  “For one thing, your calendar method is so out of date. It would be much easier to generate a spreadsheet for reservations. I could add a column to track how the guests heard about the Inn. Then you could use that info to—”