She fussed with the lace peeking out high on her thigh, the tight, translucent skin on her face burning with color. “When I was young, I made a mistake and wrote things to a man. Private things. Take it from me, Abigail, if you have something to say to a lover—if you ever have another—don’t be foolish enough to declare it in writing. You see, I happened to be married to my second husband at the time, and this other man I fancied, the one I’d written to, decided my letters might be worth something to my husband.”
I couldn’t keep from smiling. She was more than capable of penning some real scorchers. “Go on. I’m waiting to hear about the attic.”
She glanced at Willis, who encouraged her with a nod. “Your father bailed me out. Paid the blackmailing scum. But Charlie kept those letters, kept them because... well, let’s say he had his reasons.”
“What reasons?” I pressed.
“To keep me in line. He said I’d cost him too much money over the years.” She folded her arms and her mouth drew tight. “But I never forgot about them, and when I had an opportunity Saturday, I found them. Who knows what hands they could fall into with the two of you moving out and stirring up a mound of dust better left swept under the rug?”
I wondered who she thought gave a flip about her ancient history. “And what did you do with them?”
“I destroyed them.” She raised her chin.
“Good move—but do me a favor, Aunt Caroline? The next time you go snooping around, clean up your mess. We ended up calling the police because we thought we’d had a break-in. You and your boyfriend left that attic a wreck, and what’s more, you forgot to close the door. Diva got stuck in there and—”
“Wait a minute,” Aunt Caroline said, shaking her head. “I didn’t disturb anything. I found the letters almost immediately, second box I looked in. Granted, I may have left the door ajar, but it wasn’t intentional.”
“Sure. If you say so,” I said. If she was telling the truth, that meant someone had come in after she left and torn the place up. I didn’t believe it for a minute. Either she was lying or good old Hans went back up there when she wasn’t looking, hoping to find something of value for himself.
“You have my admission, Abigail. Now could we please change the subject? Or would you prefer to humiliate me further in front of Willis?”
I glanced at him. He shook his head as if to tell me to leave well enough alone. “Okay, we can drop this. For now,” I said.
“Good,” said Aunt Caroline. “I’m hosting a dinner for the CompuCan board of directors tomorrow. Could you please show up this time? I will be entertaining the executives, as I have done in the past, but you and Kate should make an appearance. The country club, eight o’clock. Perhaps you could accompany Willis?”
“I’d be delighted to escort Abby,” said Willis.
“I... I sort of have a date,” I lied.
“A date? Not that do-nothing ex-husband, I hope?” said Aunt Caroline.
“Steven is not a do-nothing. He happens to be a very successful contractor.” Successful might be stretching the truth a hair, but I felt the need to defend him.
“Oh, I understand your attraction to him. Always have. There’s something sexy about those redneck types. Feel free to bring your gentleman friend, whoever he is.”
“Okay,” I said, and sighed. Now I’d have to make up another lie when I showed up without a man.
17
After returning home from CompuCan and my enlightening visit with Aunt Caroline, I decided to try on-line resources before contacting Catholic Charities. I logged on to the Texas Central Adoption Registry, and learned that only adoptees born in Texas, their siblings, and birth parents could even request information. And I discovered two other interesting facts. A list of thirty-three “voluntary child-placing agencies” on the site did not include Parental Advocates, but there were eighty-six such agencies in Texas. Why were those other fifty-three not included? Even more interesting, any out-of-business agency was required by law to forward their adoption records to the registry. This told me that even if Feldman had retired, perhaps in some file, somewhere, lay evidence of Cloris Grayson’s child. But who could access that information now that both Cloris and Ben were dead? No one. And maybe someone wanted it that way.
Chewing on the pencil I’d been using to jot notes, I considered hacking into the system to find Cloris’s records, if they existed. After all, any system was vulnerable.
Then I rose abruptly.
Not a good idea. The last thing I needed was to be arrested for a cybercrime involving a government agency.
I had to get out of this room, away from the computer, and think this through.
I hurried down the hall to the kitchen to sneak a diet Coke before Kate came home—she knew nothing about my stash of diet Cokes. I walked circles around the kitchen island, sipping aspartame and caffeine, hoping to find clarity. When had curiosity turned into an obsession to find answers?
And then it dawned on me that there would be nothing illegal about learning how the adoption system in Texas worked firsthand. Nothing illegal about me, an adoptee, searching for my own records. The state of Texas told me I had the right to do so on their very own Web site. Even provided an application form on-line. This would be a perfectly legal way to see what information was kept in the registry database. Then maybe Jeff Kline could take over from there.
I went to Daddy’s study and printed out the brief two-page document. Thirty minutes later I drove to Mail Boxes Etc and FedExed my application, surprised at how my hand trembled when I handed the envelope over to the clerk. This seemed all too personal now. And sending off the application reminded me that, though Daddy had shown us our court papers many years ago, I hadn’t seen them during all my searching for the mysterious safe-deposit box. Willis probably had them, I decided on the way back home.
In Daddy’s study once again, I renewed my search through the remaining canceled checks for any clue to the safe-deposit box. I’d never realized how many pieces of paper a human being could accumulate in a lifetime. Daddy could have saved a hundred trees, maybe even a thousand, if he had used cash even occasionally. But he’d told me once checks always came back as proof you took care of your business, and I guess that made sense.
By the time Kate arrived home from her evening therapy session, I had one last stack to go through.
“Any luck?” she asked, carrying two glasses into the study. She placed one in front of me and sat down in the red leather wing chair.
“Not yet,” I answered, removing the mint sprig and silently praying this concoction wasn’t herbal. But alas, it tasted suspiciously like grass. “Mmm, yummy,” I lied. “I have to say this check hunt has produced some interesting moments.”
“Interesting? How?”
“Aunt Caroline profited from Daddy’s generosity more than I ever knew. Every other check seems to have her name on it. No matter which one of her husbands she was married to at the time, Charlie Rose kept her outfitted in green.”
“I didn’t think she needed Daddy’s money. I thought she only married rich men.” Kate took a hefty swig of her drink and I half expected her to bleat like a goat.
“I think the husbands ended up rich by marrying her,” I said. “By the way, I ran into her this morning. She told me a boyfriend blackmailed her over letters she wrote to him while she was still married to Number Two. The one with the odd first name. Remember him?” I pretended to sip my drink.
“Marion something. Hand me a bunch of those checks and I’ll help you.”
“Be my guest.” I handed her a stack.
“She told you about these letters willingly?” asked Kate, removing the rubber band. “Had she been sipping brandy at Willis’s office?”
“I confronted her about searching the attic and she confessed.”
“She actually admitted she made that mess?”
“She says she went up there, but emphatically denies disturbing anything, which has to be a lie, of course.” I continued
scanning checks, pulling a few current ones that didn’t help with the safe-deposit box situation, but matched the two already in my shorts pocket.
“What about this one?” Kate said. “Community Savings and Loan. Thirty dollars. Dated last fall.” She passed me the check with a satisfied grin.
“I’ve spent endless hours searching; then you bop in and bingo! Does that tell you who inherited the strand of DNA with the luck genes? You should go out and buy a lottery ticket.”
I picked up the glass of herbal whatever, making her think I might be interested in actually consuming this iced horror. “We can visit the bank tomorrow, but now that you’ve released me from this thankless task, I can run an errand.”
“Pretty late for errands,” she said.
“I need to pay someone a visit.” I headed for the hallway, carrying the glass with me.
Kate called after me, “You don’t have to drink it, Abby. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
I smiled and poured the contents in the sink before leaving.
Nights on Houston’s freeways bear great resemblance to the days. Nothing keeps people out of their cars in this city. I joined the stream of traffic on the Southwest Freeway and followed a thousand taillights past the glossy office buildings populating this side of town. It could take as much as an hour to navigate the sprawl of Houston, depending on where you came from and where you were going, but I arrived at the Greenleaf Apartments in thirty minutes.
“This is a surprise,” said Steven when he opened his door.
“I had a surprise myself this afternoon.” I dropped my purse on the table by the door and walked past him into the living area.
“How’s that?”
He’d redecorated since the last time I’d visited—or someone had redecorated for him. Steven never had much sense of color. The expected grays and tans had been transformed into a salute to the Southwest, with pale green, blue, and mauve fabrics on the couch and love seat, and various desert scenes hanging on the walls.
“This is sure different,” I commented.
“A friend told me a change of everyday scenery might help me readjust to being single.”
“Did your friend help you with this or did you hire someone?” I asked, sitting on the sofa.
“She helped. Can I get you a drink?”
“If you swear on the Bible no herbs are involved.”
“Another reason you should take me back, if only to serve as a buffer between you and Kate the holistic. How about a Dr Pepper?”
“On second thought, I’ll pass. This won’t take long.” I took the canceled checks from my pocket and held them out. “Can you explain these?”
He looked at them briefly, then shoved them back. “Yeah. But I’m not sure I will.”
“I thought we were friends,” I said softly. “You borrowed money from Daddy behind my back, didn’t you?”
“I needed help, okay? And Charlie offered.” Steven’s face tightened with tension, and his green eyes darkened.
I was sorry then, sorry I’d come here without thinking through how to confront him more tactfully.
“Must have been hard asking him for money,” I said.
“I had debts after my rehab, and I didn’t think you’d help me out. Charlie agreed to tide me over.”
Oddly enough, I felt a certain relief at hearing this information. “Daddy would help you with something like that. He really tried to like you. Still, I’m surprised you didn’t do a wide dance past him and ask me for the money.”
“You stopped hanging your wash on my line the day that paper made us officially divorced. I wasn’t about to ask you for anything.”
“No, especially since you left right after I stopped financing your self-destruction,” I said.
Though Steven’s expression indicated he didn’t like what I had to say, he didn’t shoot back with something sarcastic. Instead an uncomfortable silence followed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm. “That’s the fairy story you like to tell yourself about why I left. In truth, I had to get my head together. And yeah, it took me longer than I thought. And yeah, I’ve regretted losing you every day since I got sober.”
This was a new wrinkle in an old shirt. Might even pass for insight. “I’m sorry, Steven. I made a mistake. This is really none of my business.” I rose and circled around him to retrieve my purse.
But he reached out and grabbed my arm.
“Hold on.” He pulled me to him, his lean body fitting into mine the perfect way it always had. Though my brain screamed for me to break away, I couldn’t pile rejection onto distrust. His sobriety might be too tenuous.
He lifted my chin. “I think that’s a first. You said four words I never thought I’d hear from you.”
“Four words?”
“ ‘I made a mistake.’ ”
He kissed me then, with all the passion I remembered, and it was the best thing that could have happened.
There were no lights, no sirens, no stomach flip-flops. None of the things I had dreaded for months happened. Could this be the beginning of the real end to my wanting him? I drew back and rubbed my knuckles against the stubble on his cheek. “We can be friends, Steven. I know we can. That’s all I can handle.”
He released his grip on my arms and stepped back. “Whatever you say, Abby. But I’ve changed. Changed because... Never mind.”
I turned to leave.
But as I walked to the door, I noticed a pair of shoes tucked under the coffee table, a name brand I recognized, Pappagallo. I could never wear a pair of those shoes in a million years. They were designed for tall, skinny women with matching long, thin feet. One shoe had a pair of black panty hose stuffed in the toe.
I didn’t say anything. If a woman had left her entire wardrobe at his apartment, it meant nothing to me, because I no longer felt the presence of that maddeningly ambivalent voice saying, I want you, Steven; I hate you, Steven.
Tonight I neither wanted him nor hated him. And maybe, just maybe, I could simply accept him for the flawed, overgrown boy I had lusted for but never truly loved.
Back home half an hour later, I found Diva sitting on the counter awaiting my arrival, her amber eyes matching the light on the answering machine as it flashed eerily in the darkness of the kitchen.
Kate had left me a message on the two-way memo telling me Terry had called with information about Feldman.
My hand hovered over the phone; then I glanced at my watch. Past midnight. “Come on, Diva; let’s go to bed. It’s too late for phone calls.”
18
The next day, Terry wouldn’t reveal what he’d learned over the phone, but rather asked me to meet him at his office. As I sat by his desk around nine A.M., I recalled how I had keyed on his computer right after Ben’s death, determined to discover the truth—something that had proved far easier said than done. But Daddy always said that lick by lick, any old cow can polish off a grindstone.
Terry, wearing a soft green shirt and lightweight sports jacket, had a gleam in his eye. A good sign. After our meeting with Hamilton, he had seemed almost as interested in this case as I was, so maybe he’d caught the detecting bug, too.
He opened a manila folder and said, “I haven’t located Feldman, so no address. But an old desk sergeant named Grant, who started out as a bailiff at the Galveston County Courthouse years ago, remembers a lawyer named Feldman who made regular appearances in family court for his adoption business.”
“You’re kidding. This is fantastic, Terry.”
“Grant says Feldman was a shady baby broker linked to hints of a judicial scandal. A judge named Hayes left the bench after being tied to Feldman and some questionable adoptions.” Terry leaned back and smiled.
The rush of pleasure I felt at finally getting a solid lead surprised me with its intensity. “We could search back,” I said, “and if Feldman has a record, maybe Jeff Kline will help me locate him.”
“Hold on. I said there were hints of a scandal. When Hayes left the bench, the inve
stigation ended. Apparently lots of wheeling and dealing went on behind closed doors. She resigned and everything quieted down. Feldman wasn’t seen around the courthouse much after she left.”
“Did Grant tell you anything else?”
“He remembers the judge better than he remembers Feldman. Quite a few of the ‘good ol’ boys,’ Grant included, said they knew she played dirty. Their take was that if she wanted to make it in a man’s world, she had to cheat.”
“How typically Texan of the boys. Is Judge Hayes still around?”
“I don’t know, but her son is a big-time real estate salesman in Galveston. Here’s his number.” He handed me a piece of paper. “If Mr. Hayes isn’t happy that you’re resurrecting unpleasant rumors about his mother, do me a favor and don’t tell him who sent you.”
Several hours later I was cruising toward Galveston for the umpteenth time in a week, excited at the prospect of following this lead. David Hayes, the judge’s son, had been more than cooperative. He gave me Eugenia Hayes’s address with his blessing, as well as directions so I could visit her. I didn’t mention her past indiscretions and he didn’t either. I simply told him I was a reporter writing a story about pioneering women in the judicial field. If he knew anything questionable about her past, he made no mention. But then, she probably didn’t share the bedtime story of how she nearly got kicked off the bench. David Hayes might not have a clue about her questionable past.
The fact she now resided in a nursing home might present a few problems. Not to mention her Alzheimer’s disease. But I wasn’t discouraged. In fact, I hummed the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun” as I followed the brick-lined path leading to the front door of Faircrest Haven.
A kind-looking woman, with tight salt-and-pepper curls and wearing a name tag with Lorna printed in giant letters, greeted me from behind a U-shaped desk several feet beyond the entrance of the two-story building. She abandoned her People magazine to offer a friendly smile.
“I’m here to visit Judge Hayes,” I said.
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