by B. E. Baker
Finding Home
B. E. Baker
Copyright © 2020 by Bridget E. Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Whitney
I am just as happy today as I was on our wedding day that we chose to find a home with one another. <3
Contents
Foreword
1. Beth
2. Cole
3. Beth
4. Cole
5. Beth
6. Cole
7. Beth
8. Cole
9. Beth
10. Cole
11. Beth
12. Cole
13. Beth
14. Cole
15. Beth
16. Cole
17. Beth
18. Cole
19. Beth
20. Cole
21. Beth
22. Cole
23. Bonus: Sample Chapter of Marked
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by B. E. Baker
Foreword
This book was a tricky one to write because I decided (for better or worse) to use a real country for Cole and Paisley’s home. That means that I spent hours researching the House Law and the Liechtenstein law. (I even read the Constitution—twice!) I did not want to write about the actual Princely family, but I wanted to use the real history.
That resulted in a sort of mish-mash of odd characters loosely based on real people, and also a bunch of characters who are entirely and utterly fictitious. For instance, Cole and Paisley’s father is entirely fictitious, as is Cole. Cole’s father’s brothers who are mentioned are also not real. However, I did draw on some family elements to come up with the dynasts.
So—if you’re reading something about their past, it’s probably spot on. (Or as spot on as an American who has only been to Vaduz once in her life can get!) If, however, you are reading about the present, assume it’s utterly fiction. I hope this enriches the experience instead of confusing you! Liechtenstein is a fascinating country and I had a wonderful time when we visited.
1
Beth
I botched my very first haircut.
Badly.
Luckily, the college student whose hair I was cutting liked that the sides of her bob were uneven—she asked me to make the difference even more dramatic, and I dyed her hair a deep ebony for free. I still recall the sound of her combat boots clomping against the Aveda Institute’s wooden floors as she strutted out. But now, six years later, my hands don’t shake, my heart doesn’t race, and my breath doesn’t hitch when a new client with ultra thick hair down to her bum asks, “Can you do a long feathered bob?”
I’m at least as comfortable now with a pair of scissors in my hand as I am without.
“Do you have an interest in donating to Locks of Love?” I ask.
She sighs. “I wish, but I went gray super early, and I color my own hair.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “Because you have a lot of hair.” Now that she mentions it, I can feel the color in her hair. I must have been distracted, to have missed it before.
“I have too much hair,” she says. “And I’m sick of getting headaches from all the weight.”
“We can take care of that.” I pump the seat up repeatedly. Being abnormally tall in my profession is a little obnoxious, but my boss, Persephone, ordered me a special, high lift chair, and that has helped my back tremendously. Watching all her deep brown hair falling to the floor in sheets when I start snipping is a high that’s hard to replicate.
“What prompted the change?” I expect one of the standard responses: new job, new baby, new relationship, or the most common of all, divorce.
“Nothing, really,” she says softly. “I just woke up this morning and realized that I’ve been in a rut. Same job, same boyfriend, same apartment. It’s time for a change. Does that sound crazy?”
“Do you like your job?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t not like it.”
“What about the boyfriend?”
“Same.” She laughs half-heartedly. “This sounds really depressing. But maybe I’ll start by changing my hair and go from there.”
“Not a bad plan,” I say, ignoring the buzz coming from the phone in my pocket. Probably a telemarketer.
Snip, snip, even, feather. My hands fly across Virginia’s hair, almost without thinking. Thick hair in cute, short styles is all about layers, layers, layers. By the time I finish and spread a little more smoothly on the edges, my spirits are lifted. She looks transformationally different. Younger, stronger, more energetic. I spin the chair around.
I expect her to grin from ear to ear. I expect her to gush. I did an amazing job, and she looks adorable. She should be delighted.
Her face falls. “What if Steve hates it? Oh no, oh no!” She begins to breathe in quick, shallow breaths. “What have I done?”
My phone rings in my pocket. Again. I ignore it. “I’m so sorry to hear that you don’t like it.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. But, oh, what was I thinking?”
“Sometimes it’s a shock at first, but it might grow on you.”
Her eyes widen and then pool with tears.
Good grief. “I’m so sorry that you hate it.”
She wipes at her eyes. “No, please, it’s not your fault. You did a beautiful thing. It really does look exactly like the picture I showed you. Thank you.” She chokes and drops her face into her hands.
My phone rings again. Geez. I sneak a look at it while she’s sobbing. Unknown number. Well, it’s not like I can take the call right now. Hopefully they’ll leave me a message. I pat Virginia’s back and murmur that things will get better. I’m not quite sure how, but a moment later she’s hugging me.
This is a strange job sometimes.
My last client is right on time—an uptight businessman who usually makes me nuts. But after the mess from earlier, Mr. Predictable is a real relief. I trim a quarter inch off his hair like I do every ten days without fail. He tips me exactly twelve percent, and I’m finally done for the day. I hang up my apron and disinfect my clippers and my scissors and wave to my boss on the way out. “Night, Persephone,” I say.
“Goodnight, Beth! I forgot to tell you that I can’t make it tonight, but I bet you have a big turnout.”
She almost always comes to see me perform on Thursdays. “No problem! See you tomorrow.” I unlock my Civic with the press of a button and pull my phone out of my pocket to see who called.
“Beth!”
The sound of my name makes me jump, and I very nearly drop my phone in the gutter. I look up and meet my brother’s bright blue eyes. “Uh, hey Rob. You startled me.”
“Sorry,” he says. “But I have some news, and Brekka and I leave tomorrow for a week in Colorado.”
“Is she skiing again?”
Rob laughs. “It’s May.” His tone implies that should mean something to me.
“Uh, okay.”
“The slopes all closed a few weeks ago,” he says.
“Right,” I say. “I mean, that makes sense.” I think of Colorado as the land of mountains and snow, but I suppose even there snow melts eventually.
“Do you mind if I sit in your car for a minute?” Rob mops his forehead with his sleeve. “A little air conditioning might be nice.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure, whatever, that’s fine, but I’ve got like five minutes, tops.”
Rob circles around and opens the passenger door. He slides i
nto the seat, shifting a box of Kleenex and a few empty protein shake containers without comment. “Are you headed to Parker’s tonight?”
I nod.
“How’s that going?”
“Well, I’d love to chat with you about it, or maybe have you and Brekka in for a dinner—I get half off on two separate meals every time I play—but if I don’t leave soon, I might be late. I’m too new at this to be late. We really need to get together soon, but for now, maybe just tell me what’s up.”
He smiles broadly and bites his lip. “Well, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
Ugh. “Start with the bad, I guess.”
“You know that Brekka was prepared to compete in the Special Olympics next year. . .”
Oh, no. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why can’t she compete?”
Rob smiles so wide that I can practically see his tonsils. “Well, they won’t let you compete if you’re pregnant or if you recently had a newborn.”
“Huh?” Had a newborn? Wait. They got married in February, and now it’s May. My hands begin to shake like I’m using discount hair dye. “Are you kidding me right now?”
He shakes his head. “Not a joke, a honeymoon baby.”
And then I’m crying, and so is Rob, and I’m leaning across the center console of the car to hug him, and I’m screaming, and I’m a total mess. “Oh my gosh, Rob!” I shriek. “This is just the best news in the whole entire world.” I can’t stop shrieking.
“I had to tell you in person,” Rob says. “I knew you would be the most fun person we told.”
“I just. . .” I can’t think of the right words. “Oh my goodness, Rob, a BABY! This will be the most adorable child of all time, and don’t take this the wrong way, but let’s hope that baby gets Brekka’s brains.”
Rob laughs out loud, his belly laugh shaking the car. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“Do you know whether it’s a boy or a girl yet?” I ask.
Rob smirks.
“You totally do! You have to tell me.”
“My beautiful wife wants a huge party with a big surprise gender reveal after the formal twenty-week ultrasound, once we know things are all on track.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t not tell me now that you know.” My mouth drops open. “Wait, how far along is she? Don’t you have to be four months to know the gender? Or is it five?”
Rob laughs. “We’re eighteen weeks, but Brekka’s high risk due to her lack of mobility, so they did a blood test at ten weeks.”
High risk. A chill runs up my spine.
Rob covers my hand with his. “It’s going to be fine, Beth, I swear. Don’t fret. Brekka and her mom are anxious enough for everyone, believe me.”
I bet they are. “You’ll be in my prayers morning, noon, and night.”
Rob squeezes my hand and then releases it. “You need to get going. I don’t want to get you fired, but I wanted to see all that unbridled glee. Brekka did, too, but she had to tell Trig before we left. She’s in charge of some kind of graduation speech in Colorado again, and then she has a bunch of client meetings across the east coast next week.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “And I could not possibly be more excited for you. But get on that gender reveal party. I have some adorable baby blankets to knit.”
“It will happen soon.” Rob’s right eyebrow rises. “Wait, you knit?”
I laugh. “Not even a little bit, but how hard can it be?”
He grimaces.
“Oh please. If I can’t figure it out, that’s what Etsy’s for.”
He laughs this time. “Alright, well, drive safely to your fancy restaurant, and have fun.” He leans over and kisses my forehead, and then he climbs out of the car.
I can’t suppress my smile as I pull out and drive away. My brother is having a baby! I wonder whether he or she will have Brekka’s flashing golden eyes, or Rob’s deep blue ones. One thing is sure. It won’t have my squinty ones. No one in the family does—or my unruly curls, or my pasty pale skin. Because we aren’t really related, not genetically, anyway.
Not that it matters. I’ll love that baby exactly the same, no matter what.
My phone buzzes again, and I wonder whether it was Rob calling me earlier. Maybe he forgot to tell me something and he’s calling me again. Or maybe he’s rethinking the gender surprise thing. I never touch my phone while I’m driving, but it syncs with my Bluetooth, so with the press of a button, I answer the call.
“Hello?” I ask, expecting Rob’s baritone.
“Hello,” a smooth soprano voice says. A woman’s voice, and definitely not Brekka’s.
“Uh,” I say, “I answered in my car, so I can’t see who’s calling. Who is this?”
“Is this Elizabeth Graham?” The woman has a stiff accent, Germanic maybe.
“Yes, this is Beth,” I say. “Who are you?”
She clears her throat, but it’s not gruff, and it’s not choppy. Somehow, it’s elegant. Who clears their throat elegantly? “My name is Henrietta Gauvón.” The name is familiar, but I can’t quite place why.
“Uh, okay,” I say. “Well, I’m actually not looking to renew my warranty right now.”
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Why are you calling?” I ask. “Because if you’re trying to sell me something—”
“Actually, this is a strange circumstance,” she says. “And my English is not the very best of speaking. I don’t use it enough to make it really good.”
Henrietta Gauvón. I think about the name—and wonder whether it’s a name from the musical world. Then it hits me—she’s a singer! Very famous in Europe, but not so much in the United States.
“I don’t have any trouble understanding you,” I say. But why would a European singer call me?
“I was hoping you might have time to meet with me,” she says. “You see, twenty-five years ago, I gave birth to a child. I gave that child up for adoption.”
I yank my car over to the side of the road and slam it into park. My fingers tremble. “You did?”
“It was a closed adoption, so I was unable to find you for ah, much, no, many years.”
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the steering wheel.
“Are you there?” she asks.
“I am,” I say. “I am here.”
“Are you in Atlanta? That’s what my studier of people tells me.”
“Your investigator?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “I am sorry. Do you maybe speak German?”
I nod my head, but of course she can’t see me. “I do. My mom and dad made me take it for all four years of high school, but if I’m being honest, I’m not very good. Your English is probably way better than my pathetic German.”
“It was my one requirement for the adoption,” she says. “I wanted us to be able to talk if we ever meet. But then, I worried, and I tried to learn the English too.”
My heart swells until I worry it might burst. How can this be happening? I’ve been dreaming of this moment for at least twenty years.
“I’m only in Atlanta for the night,” she says, “but I would like much to meet you.”
“Can you come to a restaurant tonight?” I ask. “I’m working, but I’d love to see you. And I get a discount, so you would get a discount on your meal.”
“It would be my great pleasure,” she says. “Are you waitress?”
This time, I’m the one clearing my throat. “Uh, no. I’m actually a pianist.”
“Ah, you play the piano?” she asks.
“Right, yes I do,” I say. “At a place called Parker’s on Ponce. It’s in downtown Decatur, which is north of Atlanta. I can text you the address.”
“Is where?”
“It’s north of Atlanta, like above it, on the top side.” What’s the word in German for north? I can’t recall.
“I am already in the top side of Atlanta,” she says. “So it’s easy for me to get to you.”
“Perfect,
” I say. “When you arrive, tell the host that you’re there with Beth Graham and they’ll seat you close and make sure you get the discount.”
“I’ll be wearing a red dress,” she says. “I can’t wait to hear you play.” Then she hangs up.
I breathe in and out several times before I put my car back into drive and pull back onto the road. I’m going to meet my mother, my real mother. I wonder what she’ll look like. Will she have freckles? Or smooth, pale skin? Will her eyes be brown like mine? Or lighter? I’m still trying to imagine the face that would match her smooth, refined voice when I pull into a spot around back. I have three minutes to get inside.
I flip the visor down and smooth my hair back. No time to do more than apply some lip gloss and straighten my boring white shirt. I wish I could wear something dramatic, like a bright blouse, or a jaw-dropping evening gown. Oh, well. I glance every which way when I arrive, wondering whether she’s already here. Could she be? But everywhere I look, there are pairs of people.
Unless. Could she be here with my father? My heart stutters at the thought. It’s stupid, of course. If she and my dad were together, she’d have kept me, surely. And probably mentioned that she was with someone on the phone.
But why is she here? Work? Pleasure? Just to see me? My mouth goes dry at that thought. Could she have flown here from Europe to meet me?
Focus, Beth. You have a set to play. I wave at the manager, Stephanie, and sit on my stool. Tonight, for the first time, she wants me to start taking requests. It’s not as hard as it sounds, since she has limited the requests to a few hundred super popular songs, and they have sheet music for all of them. Plus, people aren’t as critical of flubs when you’re playing something they requested instead of a prepared piece. In fact, most of the restaurant patrons are just amazed that I can play at all.
