She held up her palm. “Can’t talk now. I have to finish this.” She took another bite and enjoyed his hearty laugh.
“While you finish, I should let you know I spoke to my electrician friend.” Owen crumpled up his empty sandwich bag. “Said he’d try to stop by later today.”
“Okay. Everything is taking longer than I planned, but not much I can do about it.”
“Nope.” His eyes shifted away for a split second. “You can’t plan everything.”
Owen, so at ease, and yet every so often, he’d clam right up.
“Oh, thanks for those little ceramic dogs you gave Jilly. She played with them right up until bedtime.”
“Not a big deal. I figured she’d like them.”
He studied her, the power in his dark eyes wielding an intenseness that took hold of her. “It was a big deal to her, though.” His voice softened. “You made my daughter happy yesterday. Those moments mean a lot these days.”
A glimmer of sadness showed in his gaze before he pulled it away, concentrating on crumpling up his candy wrapper and stuffing it with the rest of his lunch garbage.
Willow wished she could offer something to ease his pain. “Well, she made me happy, too.”
He offered a sad smile and drew in a deep breath. “So what’s on the list to get done, boss?”
“Could we start by getting the old fridge out of the kitchen? It seriously stinks, and I can’t move it alone. Oh, if you know someone who can help get it to a dump, I’m happy to pay them.”
“I’ve got a mate with a truck. I’ll give him a ring. What else?”
“Want to help me pack up what’s inside the kitchen cabinets this afternoon? I cleaned in there this morning and guess it’s time to empty the cabinets.”
For the next hour, they worked hard, removing the refrigerator, then each going through the cabinet contents. Owen worked the upper ones and she found a spot on the floor to deal with the lower-level ones.
As she reached inside the last one, Owen said, “Take a look at this.”
She stood and walked over, watching him study a photograph.
He handed it to her. “It came from the utensil drawer.”
It was an old Polaroid photograph of her mother with a young man. A date in the corner showed September 1975, when Mom would have been around seventeen, close to eighteen. Hip-hugging bell-bottoms flowed down her mother’s slender legs and two long pigtails fell against her gauze shirt, right near her chest. The guy appeared about her age and wore baggy jeans, a white T-shirt, and a dark leather jacket. His long hair fell below his chin. He cocked his head with a certain swagger, the kind of confidence her mother appeared to like in a man.
She glanced up at Owen. “This is my mother.”
He leaned in to see the photo. “Huh.” He glanced at her then back at the picture. “There’s a slight resemblance, but I can see features of your dad’s in your face, too.”
“Him?” She pointed at the boy.
Owen nodded. “Oh, isn’t that him in the picture?”
“I-I don’t know. I never knew my father.”
He frowned. “Oh, guess I assumed because of the message on back.”
Willow turned the photograph over. Dear Chloe, I will love you forever… Sean.
She stared at the teenager, searching his face. Turning to Owen, she said, “You think I look like him?”
“There are some similarities in the shape of your face and his, around the nose and chin. Probably coincidence.”
“Probably…” But as her gaze drifted back to the photo, she focused only on the young man, trying to see him through unbiased eyes. The nose. The chin. Were they hers? “Do you know where this was taken?”
“The Roman Baths, right in town.”
“So that means my mother lived in England in September 1975.” September ‘75 Mom had been in England. Eleven months before July ‘76…when Willow was born.
The date. The idea this man once loved her mother. And what Owen saw…
“Excuse me a second.” She went to an oval mirror in the hallway and wiped away the dust. Again, she studied the teenage boy more carefully. Dirty-blond hair, slender and strong profile. She looked up. Yes, similar to the face she saw every time she looked in a mirror.
Her throat grew thick. Given all the pieces set before her, could Sean be her father? Why would her mother tell her she got pregnant after she arrived in the US, while modeling? The timeframe just didn’t add up.
Owen came up behind her and gently touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She met his gaze in the mirror and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. “Yes.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“My mother…” She drew in a deep breath. “She told me my father was American, conceived after she left England. She also told me my grandparents died long before I was born, but I know now it’s not the truth. Makes me wonder about everything she ever told me. The date on this photo suggests she conceived me one month after this was taken. I suppose she could’ve, but it’s becoming clear she wasn’t exactly the pillar of honesty.” The fog of confusion drifted over her, too many facts and not enough answers. “If only I knew the exact date she left England.”
Owen nodded. “Are there any records you could check?”
“Probably.” The woman Edna had mentioned. Of course! “You’re from Bitton. Edna told me about a close friend of my grandmother’s. A woman named Hettie McBride. Edna didn’t know where she might live now. Would you?”
“Matter of fact, I knew Ronald McBride. Played cricket with him in school. Hettie’s his grandmother. She lived with his family, but after we graduated, I heard they moved. Not sure where. How about I check around, see what I can find out?”
“That would be a great help.” He stood close, his nearness comforting to Willow. Grateful she didn’t have to face this moment alone, she twirled around and touched his forearm. “Thank you, Owen.”
He gave a no-biggie shrug. “Happy to do it.”
She stored the photograph in her purse, filled with hope that this would lead her to her birth father.
* * * *
“She’s coming soon.” Owen chuckled, watching Henry hanging his head out the van’s passenger window, his usual vigil as they waited for Jilly to get out of school.
Henry whined for a bit. Owen ignored him, instead thinking about Willow. Finding a connection to the man who might be her father qualified as a pretty big deal. Tonight he’d check the internet to see if he could find Ronald.
He’d pegged Willow as a woman with no problems. Head of a company. Earning a salary that most likely allowed her to live quite well in Manhattan.
Yet something seemed off.
Why all the worry while here about spending money on improvements with her wealth? And why the rush?
His phone rang. He grabbed it from the van console, glancing at the display. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, Owen,” he said, his tone curt. Dad always sounded a little annoyed by life in general. “Your mother said you’d called looking for me?”
“Yeah, any chance you could stop by my cottage and take a look at the roof?”
“Got a problem?”
“Not me. The property owner is in town and wants a professional to tell her if the roof needs work. There’s an area that’s in need of a repair. She’d pay you.”
“Sure.” He paused. Owen braced himself, certain what would come next. “A few years back you would’ve been able to help her.”
Boom! Every single time. “Twenty years ago, Dad. Not a few years,” Owen snapped, but right away softened his tone. “And I can tell it needs some work, I just think you’d be able to give her a more thorough answer.”
“Well, I can’t come tomorrow,” he said, almost defensively. “Next day, okay? Early morning, before I get working.”
“Sure. Thanks.” He drew in a breath, remembering to be nice. “How you feeling?”
“Back is a little sore. I thank God every day I have your brother there for the heavy lifting.”
Another dig. A lifetime of digs. Often mean comments that tore away at Owen’s self-esteem during childhood. “I’m glad you have someone there for you.” Owen again considered helping his dad part-time. He could save some cash, making it easier for him and Jilly to afford a place that took dogs. But at what price to his pride and the self-esteem he’d salvaged after moving away from here?
The shrill school bell sounded before he could ask. “I’d better run. Jilly’s about to get out of school.”
They hung up. No. He’d never work for his dad. Never. Leaving him with one option. To work hard to get Willow to love the Cotswolds, even if a love for this place didn’t exist in his heart.
Somehow, he’d have to get her on a tour. But how? Guilt slowly wormed through him, catching him off guard. Maybe it was wrong to convince her to like England just to get her to keep the land.
Jilly exited the building and her gaze landed on the van. “Henry!” She ran over, her pink backpack bouncing on her shoulders.
She went straight to the passenger door, arms outstretched. Henry leaned further out the window and licked her face to the point that she squealed.
The sound of happiness. Owen’s heart swelled. He got out and opened the sliding door. “Hop in, honey. I’ve got to get back to helping Willow with her house.”
Jilly got inside and the dog leapt from the front seat to the bench seat near Jilly. “I’m supposed to help her today, too. She invited me yesterday. She’s my new friend.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Bea could probably use an afternoon off from watching his daughter. He quickly called her with the change of plans and they left the school grounds.
Glancing in his rearview mirror, he could see Jilly staring out the window. “What’d you learn today?”
“Nothing. We should bring Willow some tea. She liked it when I did yesterday.”
“I guess we could stop and pick up something. I could use a cup of coffee. How ’bout we get her coffee?”
“Can I have some?”
“No.” One time he’d let her try a sip and couldn’t get her to bed later. “But if we stop at Josie’s Café, she has hot chocolate, too.” She frowned and he added, “How about we get biscuits, too?”
“Yes!” She shouted and smiled. “And one for Henry, too?”
“Sure.” He laughed. Always something for Henry.
“Do you think Willow will be glad to see me again?”
“I have no doubt.” He glanced back, catching a glimpse of his daughter’s smile. “You like her, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Willow is a pretty name.”
“It is. Very pretty.”
“I like her hair. It’s blond and soft.”
Owen did too. The day he’d first seen her rushing to the car of the train, the frazzled blonde garnered his attention. In part because of her determination as she joined the line, standing firm when anybody tried to sneak in front of her. But also he’d noticed the bounce of her hair and the way it fell along her long neck. Joining her hadn’t been planned, but it was one of only two seats remaining and an easy choice.
“Right, Daddy?”
“What, Jilly-Bean?”
“Her hair. It’s like Mum’s.”
“Yes.” He braced himself for an upset, ready to pull over if she cried.
“And I love her eyes. I wish mine were blue.”
He breathed a relieved sigh. “Willow’s are nice”—Mesmerizing, actually—“…but nothing is as gorgeous as your brown eyes, my love. And don’t you forget it. Did you notice Henry has big brown eyes, too? So you two match.”
At the sound of his name, Henry looked over and bellowed a low howl. Jilly leaned across the seat and patted the dog’s head. “Hear that, Henry? We match.”
“Here we are.” He pulled in front of the shop, parked, and turned around. “There’s a famous singer from Northern Ireland who wrote a song about a brown-eyed girl.”
“A whole song?”
“Yup. Want me to sing it?”
“Yes, please.”
Owen sang a verse and the chorus from Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl,” savoring Jilly’s delight.
But a new worry crept up on him. Was her quick attachment to Willow a good or a bad thing? After all, the American wouldn’t be here for very long.
Chapter 10
Willow sat on the living room sofa, staring at the photo of her mom with the mysterious young man.
Sean possessed mesmerizing eyes and a confident grin, making it easy for Willow to understand why her mother might have fallen for him. But she couldn’t understand why her mother left behind this kind of love. Willow squinted at the picture, wishing the people could come alive and spill everything.
There had to be something in this house that might give her more clues. Of course! She dropped the photo on the coffee table and raced upstairs. Her belly trembled with each step. If the truth remained hidden somewhere in her mother’s room, was Willow ready to hear it?
She slowly turned the crystal knob, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. Moving through the room, she pulled sheets off the furniture, tossed them in a corner, then looked around.
A pink shag rug. Posters of Led Zeppelin, Queen, and David Bowie. A twin bed with a dainty white-spindle headboard and a tie-dyed bedspread. A bookshelf holding stuffed animals. This room showed the story of young girl evolving into a teenager.
She walked to the closet and opened the door. On the floor sat a cardboard box and she opened it to find dolls of varying sizes. She stretched on tiptoes and lifted a plastic container off the shelf, filled with small things: postcards, old nail polish, hair clips. She put it on the floor and from the shelf removed a chocolate brown hat, decorated with a white ribbon tied where the crown met the floppy brim.
Heaviness bombarded her chest, a wave of sadness making it hard to breath. If only she could’ve seen this room through her mother’s eyes. Learned why she’d saved those postcards, or found out her favorite Queen songs.
The closet blurred behind her tears, but she blinked them away and put on the hat. She took a pretty red-and-white sheer scarf off a peg and wrapped it around her neck. The soft silk caressed her skin like the gentle touch of her mother’s hand. Her heart twisted into a ball of grief, blended with the bittersweet joy over finding this part of her mother’s childhood intact.
Dresses stuffed the small clothes rack. Long and short. Wild patterned prints and denim. All vintage by today’s standards, but stylish at the time. She smiled, thinking of the Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar magazines always on her mother’s nightstand, along with weekly shopping trips to Bergdorfs.
Strange how many clothes she’d left behind when she moved, though.
The thought nagged at her as she went over to a nightstand next to the bed and pulled open the top drawer. Hair clips, headbands, a pack of gum. The next drawer held a teen publication featuring David Cassidy called Jackie Magazine.
She lifted a gold box of cigarettes marked Dunhill Slim Size. Willow chuckled. What kid didn’t try cigarettes? She removed one, imagining her mother smoking these with her friends.
Willow put the pack away, stood, and went to a walnut-veneer desk. On the wall to the right of it hung a calendar. American Cities 1975. Her mother must’ve liked America, given that she moved there.
Pinned open to December, the monthly photo showed a collage of three pictures taken in New York City; the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, the Empire State Building on a snowy night, and a winter-scape near the Central Park pond. All sights Willow had seen many times, often with her mother. Yet, Mom had never hinted they were places she’d dreamed of seeing whil
e growing up in England. Not once.
Red felt pen lettering stood out on various dates. A shopping trip to Bath on the 9th. A Christmas party at Rachel’s on the sixteenth. December twenty-seventh showed the last entry and it simply read L.
Willow repeated the date over and over. Nothing of special significance popped out and L meant nothing to her. Was it someone’s initial? A place? Someone’s birthday? Or could it have meant leave, as in leaving home for good?
Then a thin thread drew an unexpected parallel to the date… Willow had been born seven months later.
Meaning her mother had been pregnant with Willow while living in England.
Numbness pounded her. The deep deception slashed open a new wound, leaving her stunned and grappling with a way to process this new reality. Willow sank into the desk chair, the truth slowly taking form until it spun into the rage of a tornado. With each passing second, it picked up speed as she reflected upon lies she’d been spoon-fed over a lifetime. So many lies.
Willow yanked open the desk’s middle drawer and pushed around pens and pencils as her irritation escalated. A small key made her pause and she removed it, but with no clue what the key went to, she dropped it and slammed the drawer shut. She tugged open the side drawers and searched each one. Slamming them shut, she glanced around the room. Where would a teenage girl hide something from her parents?
Her gaze landed on the bed. She took three quick, long strides, dropped to the floor next to the mattress and slipped her arm beneath the bedspread to the space between the mattress and box spring. Running her hand along the bed length, she found nothing and plopped on the mattress, one step from giving up. A trunk stuck out from behind the bedroom door.
She rushed over and grabbed the handle on the end, dragging it away from the corner. Although it felt light, something inside shifted as it moved. She kneeled and worked the two brass locks. No luck. She stood to run downstairs for the hammer in the kitchen and stopped.
Her heart raced as she hurried back to the desk and removed the key. Once it was inserted it into the trunk, both tabs flipped open. Her heart pounded in her ears as she slowly opened the trunk.
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