Slumping in relief, she staggered back to the bed and sank down on the mattress. She rubbed her eyes, blinked twice, stretched, and then blew out a noisy breath. Now fully awake and in control of her senses, she understood why she’d slept so late. She, Tom, and Linda had sat up until well past two in the morning, planning her strategy for seeking her birth parents.
Excitement stirred in her chest. After weeks of protecting Mom’s feelings by squelching her own desire to uncover her past, letting everything spill out had been like breaking through a dam—an exhilarating rush. And now that it was Monday—Linda insisted, and Alexa didn’t object, on keeping Sunday as a day of rest—she could put the plan into motion.
Eagerness propelled her from the bed. She took a quick shower, forgoing washing her hair so she wouldn’t have to spend the time blow-drying it. Dressed and ready to face the day, she headed up the hallway toward the kitchen, where the smell of bacon teased her to hurry her steps. She entered the cheerful room decorated Linda-style, in bright turquoise and cherry red. Tom and Linda, still wearing their bathrobes, sat on opposite sides of the 1950s table in the middle of the red-and-white tile floor, half-empty plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of them.
Alexa plopped into a red vinyl-and-chrome chair. “Good morning! It smells great in here.”
Linda grimaced. “We didn’t know when you’d get up, so we didn’t fix you anything.”
“Oh.” A little embarrassed, Alexa rose. “Well, if you don’t mind me using your stove, I can—”
“Sit right back down.” Tom caught Alexa’s hand and gave it a gentle tug. “This place ain’t your B and B. I fix the breakfasts here. I’ll crisp some bacon in the microwave and scramble up an egg for you while you sit and talk with Linda.”
Alexa stood uncertainly next to the chair. “Are you sure? I don’t mind taking care of myself.” Actually she preferred it. Mom sometimes said she was too independent for her own good.
“I’m sure.” Tom planted his hand on her shoulder and gave a little push. Alexa sat. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Salt, pepper, and a little cheddar cheese in those eggs?”
If she were doing the cooking, she’d add sautéed mushrooms, leeks, and red peppers and then sprinkle the eggs with a blend of shredded parmesan and asiago. But Alexa smiled and offered a nod. “That sounds great. Thanks.”
Linda pointed to the drip coffee maker and pegged rack of mismatched mugs. “Help yourself. The sugar and powdered creamer are in the cabinet above the pot.”
Alexa wrinkled her nose as she spooned powdered creamer into the mug. She liked her coffee white and sweet, but she couldn’t imagine the powdered stuff tasting right. Back at the table, she took a sip. Not as bad as she’d expected. Even so, when she was out today, she’d buy some real cream to keep on hand for their morning coffee. She cupped the warm mug between her palms. “Last night after we went up to bed, I started thinking…”
Linda’s eyes twinkled. “Girlie, you’re always thinking.”
Tom chimed in from his spot by the stove. “And most of your thinking leads to good ideas.” He shook the spatula at her, crunching his brows in a teasing scowl. “Notice I said ‘most.’ That worm farm idea…now, that one was a flop.”
Alexa couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I was only five!”
Tom grinned. “Point taken.” He turned back to the skillet.
Linda tapped Alexa’s wrist. “What were you thinking about?”
“Visiting the home where Mom stayed.”
Linda rolled her eyes. “Like I told you last night, I can’t see any purpose in that. Those people won’t know anything about you because your mama didn’t take you inside. As far as they know, you weren’t ever there.”
Tom crossed to the table and placed a plate of steaming eggs and bacon in front of her. “I gotta agree with Linda on this one. I can’t see anything good coming out of you visiting that unwed mothers’ home.”
Alexa bowed her head to offer grace. When she finished, Tom was standing in front of her, a frown tugging the snow-white whiskers of his mustache downward. Suddenly she was five years old, trying to defend her little Popsicle-stick fences against his lawn mower. She picked up her fork and aimed an innocent look at him. “What?”
He slid into his chair. “Listen, kiddo, your mama isn’t in any danger of facing charges for taking you. Like we talked about, the statute of limitations for kidnapping closed a long time ago. But child abandonment? I don’t know about that. It’s possible your birth mother could find herself in a peck of trouble if the people at the home knew she’d left you out in the cold that way. You don’t want to get her in trouble, do you?”
Alexa poked at the fluffy eggs, her appetite gone. “Of course not. I just want…” She sighed, seeking the right words. “I want to see the place where my life began. Well, technically, it didn’t begin behind the garage at the unwed mothers’ home, but that’s the first place I know about. I need to see where I was left. See where I met Mom.”
For long seconds both Linda and Tom stared at her with their brows furrowed and their lips pursed in indecision. Then, in unison, they shifted to gaze at each other. Although neither spoke, Alexa got the distinct impression much was being communicated. Finally Linda sighed and Tom gave a slight nod.
He placed his thick palm on Alexa’s shoulder. “I tell you what. When you’re done with breakfast, because you’re gonna eat those eggs instead of just playing with ’em, I’ll drive you over to the home. You and me will poke around in the alley, let you get your fill of the place.” His frown deepened. “But we won’t go knock on the front door, agreed?”
Alexa heaved a satisfied sigh. “Agreed.”
“Good. Now eat.”
She laughingly complied.
Indianapolis
Cynthia
“Why don’t you wait here in the car? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Cynthia folded her arms tightly across her chest and peered through Mr. Mallory’s windshield at the three-story Victorian home where countless young single mothers had delivered their babies. When the young woman carried Cynthia’s baby girl inside, what kind of setting greeted her? Was the home’s interior warm and homey or dark and cheerless? She wanted to see for herself. “I’m going in with you.”
The investigator huffed out a breath. “Mrs. Allgood, you might’ve convinced me to bring you along, but I’m not gonna let you intrude on the investigation. No offense, but you’re emotionally entangled in all of this. I’m not. So I’m the better one to be asking questions and analyzing the important parts of the answers.”
She knew he was right. Especially about the emotionally tangled part. Her stomach felt tied in knots. Her pulse scampered, and a cold sweat dampened her flesh despite the warm air flowing from the car’s vents. But she hadn’t taken the day off work to sit in the car like an unwelcome dog. “But—”
He held up his hand. “No. I mean it. You’ll only prolong things, and the clock’s ticking. Just stay put.”
The reminder of her limited budget kept her in place when he swung his door open and stepped out. She watched him stride across the cracked sidewalk, his long legs reminding her of a crane’s. He trotted up the slanting porch steps. Once on the porch, trellises woven with an overgrowth of brown vines hid him from view, but she envisioned him ringing the doorbell, shifting in place while he waited for a reply, then being ushered inside.
She stared hard at the shadowy spot where he’d disappeared, but her eyes failed to create a solid image. With a sigh she leaned against the seat and tipped her head back. He’d left the engine idling, and warm air continued to seep through the vents. Almost too warm—she was sweating underneath her wool coat. She unbuttoned the coat and then lowered the window a half inch. Cold air whisked in, raising goose flesh, and she shivered. Much the way she had that day she’d hunkered in the bushes, waiting for someone to hear her baby’s wails and come to the rescue.
She nibbled her lower lip. Mr. Mallory had t
old her not to come inside, but what would it hurt for her to go behind the garage, visit the place where she’d last seen her baby girl? The urge gnawed at her, too intense to ignore.
She reached across the console and turned off the ignition. The car wheezed into silence. She slipped the key into her coat pocket—this neighborhood had become run-down over the years, and she wouldn’t trust someone not to steal the vehicle—and then stepped onto the street. A cold blast of wind nearly chased her back inside, but with determination she folded the flaps of her coat across her front and headed across the carpet of damp brown leaves.
Windows draped with lace tempted her to sneak a peek inside, but Cynthia aimed her gaze forward and scurried past the side of the house. The garage waited at the far edge of the yard, its single door facing the alley. Back when she’d left her baby, the carriage house had been painted a crisp white with dark-green trim. Over the years the white paint on the lap siding had chipped and peeled, leaving gray patches behind, and the green was now faded to a dusty-moss color. But when she rounded the back corner and stepped onto the crumbling patch of concrete in front of the wide door, remembrance struck with enough force to weaken her knees.
She sagged against the door, barely aware of its complaining creak, and stared at the spot next to the old cinder-block foundation where she’d pushed the whiskey box that had served as her baby’s cradle. The garage door was inset, and she’d chosen to place the box at the south edge of the door, reasoning the north wind would be somewhat blocked by the garage wall. Dead leaves had accumulated in that spot, forming a sloping pile of brown and rusty red. An image of the beach towel she’d used to wrap her baby—yellow-and-brown plaid with rusty-looking splotches from the blood she’d cleaned from the baby’s head—appeared briefly in her mind’s eye and then whisked away, leaving her staring once again at the leaves.
Shifting her gaze to the alley, she located the spot where she’d hidden with her friend—why couldn’t she remember the girl’s name?—but the lilac bushes were gone now, a toolshed standing there instead. The shed’s white metal siding reflected the sun, and Cynthia squinted against the onslaught. Something warm trickled down her cheek. A spider? Panicked, she swatted at the tickle, and her fingertips came away moist.
Not a spider—a tear.
She huddled deep into her coat and bit her lip to stave off further tears. She’d cried the long-ago day she was here, and it hadn’t accomplished anything. No amount of tears today would wash away the choice she’d made back then. Crying couldn’t bring her baby back. But Owen Mallory’s explorations could. Excitement flickered to life inside of her. She jolted upright and turned to head for the car. Just as she rounded the corner, Mr. Mallory stepped into her pathway.
“Thought I might find you out here.”
From his flat tone she couldn’t determine if he was annoyed or apathetic. She replied tartly, unintentionally injecting defensiveness in her tone. “I needed to…visit her.”
Not a hint of understanding showed in his expression, but he bobbed his head in a brusque nod. “Gotcha.”
She pulled his key from her pocket and held it out to him.
He curled his fist around the key and glanced up and down the alley. “You done now? Because I’m finished here.”
Her heart leaped with a hope that both startled and delighted her. “Did you get the names of the couple who adopted my baby?”
“No.” His blunt answer trampled the glimmer of hope. “Did they refuse to tell you?”
“It’s cold out here. C’mon.” Mr. Mallory caught Cynthia’s elbow and guided her to his car. He opened the door for her, then jogged around and climbed behind the wheel. He started the engine, fastened his seat belt, curled his hand over the stick shift, and finally angled a bland look in her direction. “Mrs. Allgood, the director told me the only record they have of someone abandoning a baby here was the year after the home opened—1964. And it was a boy.”
Cynthia shook her head, confused. “That can’t be right.”
“I checked the books. They’ve kept meticulous records of every birth—mother’s name and home address, baby’s gender, weight, height, adoptive family’s names…But there isn’t one reference about an abandoned baby girl.”
Cynthia stared at him with her jaw slack.
He snapped the gearshift back and forth from Park to First, the repeated kerthunk a jarring sound. “There was another home for unwed mothers run by the Catholic church on the other side of town, but it’s closed now. You sure you didn’t leave your baby there?”
“I’m sure!” Uncontrollable shudders rattled her frame. She hugged herself. “It was here. Behind this garage. I hid in that alley and watched a woman—an Amish woman—take my baby out of the box and go into the garage with her. I know this is the place.” How would she forget where she’d left her baby?
He shifted his jaw back and forth and gazed at her through narrowed eyes. “Hmm. Well, you might’ve left her, but no one from the home found her.”
“But I saw the woman take my baby into the garage!” She pressed her fists to her temples and closed her eyes, replaying the memory like an old movie reel. Opening her eyes again, she fixed him with a look of frustration. “If she wasn’t part of the home’s staff, why would she go into their garage?”
“I dunno.” He grabbed the door handle and gave it a yank. Cold air washed into the cab. “But I changed my mind about being done here. I’ve got one more question to ask before we leave.”
Cynthia’s chest tightened. “What?”
He grinned—a wry, knowing twist of his lips. “Mrs. Allgood, just sit tight and leave the investigating to me, okay? If the answer gives me anything promising, I’ll share it with you. Sit tight.”
Indianapolis
Alexa
As Tom drove, Alexa gazed out the window at familiar yet somehow new-to-her businesses and streets. Strange how only a few months in Kansas had changed her view of Indiana. She’d grown up in the Hoosier State and had always considered it her home. How many times had she and Mom driven to Indianapolis to shop at the mall? or bowl at Applegate Lanes? or share a hot fudge sundae at Aunt Betty’s Ice Cream Shoppe? More times than she could count. But now the place of her birth, her childhood, her youth seemed foreign. How had her heart so quickly adopted Kansas as home?
She glanced at Tom, who stared ahead with his lips crunched together and his eyebrows pulled into a V. He wasn’t happy about her insistence to go to the home where her birth mother had abandoned her. But he was taking her anyway. Affection swelled in her heart. She might have been dumped in an alley, but she landed with good people. Mom, Tom and Linda, the Martens, her church family, and now all of the Zimmermans and the fellowship in Arborville. Her life was richer by knowing them and being loved by them.
“Tom?”
He flicked a look at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for taking me. I love you, you know.”
His mustache twitched. “Would you still love me if I flat-out said, ‘No, I’m not taking you’?”
She grinned. “Yes. But I’d pout.”
He blasted a laugh. “Your mama never put up with you pouting. I can still hear her. ‘Alexa Joy, someone’s going to think your lip’s a stairstep and try to climb on your head.’ ”
Alexa giggled, remembering her mother’s mild scolding.
“But that lower lip sticking out sure got you your way with me when you were little.” Tom shook his head, his eyes on the traffic while an indulgent smile played on his lips. “Linda and me prayed and prayed for children, always hoping to be Grandpop and Grammy someday, but never in all my born days would I have suspected I’d grow to love a Kansas Old Order Mennonite unmarried teenager like a daughter and her baby like a granddaughter.” He reached across the console and gave her arm a light squeeze. “You and your mama, you’ve been a blessing to Linda and me.”
She cupped her hand over his and offered him a wobbly smile. “No more than you’ve been
to us.”
“Well, then, I guess God knew what He was doing when He brought us all together, huh?” He put his hand back on the steering wheel and began to whistle.
Alexa shifted her gaze to the side window to a quiet residential street lined with towering oak and maple trees. The leafless branches stretched outward like gnarled fingers and formed a canopy over the brick pavement. Turn-of-the-century houses, tall and timeworn yet somehow dignified even in their battered state, sat well back from the curb. For reasons she didn’t understand, Alexa shivered. Tom’s comment echoed in her mind. If God had chosen Mom to be her mother, should she even be trying to find the woman who’d given birth to her?
“Tom, stop!”
He applied the brakes so quickly they both jolted against the restraining seat belts. Tom jammed the car into Park and peered over the hood, searching the street. “What’s wrong? Did something run out in front of me?”
“No, nothing’s out there.” She clutched her hands against the scratchy bodice of her plaid wool peacoat. “All of a sudden I’m not sure what to do.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror, shifted into Drive, and eased the car to the curb. He parked and angled himself slightly, his elbow draped over the steering wheel. Concern lined his face. “You mean about snooping around behind the home?”
“Not just that.” A lump filled her throat. She swallowed, but it remained. “About snooping at all. Trying to find my biological parents.”
His eyebrows shot upward. “You’re asking this now? I thought you were all gung-ho about finding your birth mother and maybe even your father.”
“I was. I mean, I am. But…”
“But what? Either you wanna find them or you don’t. Which is it?”
She sucked in a long breath and blew it out. She held her hands wide. “Both!”
Tom burst out laughing.
Alexa considered swatting his arm but decided it wouldn’t be respectful. So she glowered at him instead. “It isn’t funny.”
When Love Returns Page 9