But not all of the room was plastered. The side by the round window was unfinished. The lath had been put up, and the framework was in place, but he could see the back of the redwood exterior siding showing through, and on the floor near Robin's feet were buckets and tools for plaster work, left there as if the job had been stopped at the end of a day, and waited for the workman to return in the morning.
A morning many years ago.
He went over and looked at the construction materials more closely. The tools were covered in dried-out plaster. The buckets themselves were dry as bone, with the plaster long since turned into a granite-hard mess at the bottom. No one had ever come back to complete the work—or even put the buckets away. Another mystery.
There were some boxes and furnishings on the finished side of the room, as if pushed to that side to make room for the completion of this end of the attic.
He watched Robin walk over to a stack of possessions that contained a wooden crib, some old fruit crates filled with musty books, and a lamp with a beaded shade lying on its side. She pulled at something soft and bright orange, and it came loose from the pile in a cloud of dust. He wanted to laugh at the sight of the old feather boa, but she didn't. She just dropped it back on top of the other junk.
She moved on from there to a little desk and chair. Her hand reached out, slowly, and she brushed at a machine placed on the desk.
He took a couple of steps closer to see. She didn't seem to notice the sound of his footsteps coming up behind her.
It was a sewing machine. A glossy black one, with beautiful gold designs on it.
"It's a sphinx," he said in surprise when the pattern came into view. He loved good craftsmanship, and this old Singer sewing machine was a work of art in its own right, with golden swirls on the heavy steel body, and an amazing Egyptian pattern on its side.
Robin moved on from the sewing machine, leaving it half-brown with dust, but with her handprints showing on the black enamel.
She picked up a picture frame that was lying on the desk. Her hand swept across the face of it, rubbing off the grime that hid the image under the glass.
Then she dropped it.
The sound of the glass breaking as it hit the desktop seemed to bring her out of the daze.
He reached for her hand. "Did you cut yourself?" he asked.
She shook her head and pulled her hand away.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Why are you upset?"
She pointed one grimy finger at the broken frame.
He picked it up, and gently shook the shards of glass off the image so he could see the picture.
The woman in the photo was a real beauty. She stared into the lens with a smile a mile wide, as if the person behind the camera was someone very special to her.
The image could have come from a fashion magazine. The woman wore an orange plaid skirt suit, with white go go boots. She was stunningly beautiful, with copper skin, wide, laughing eyes, and a giant Afro framing her face.
"Like an angel," he said.
"What?" Robin's voice sounded hoarse, filled with tension.
"The hair," he said. "It looks like a halo around her head. Why don't you wear your hair like that?"
"You like it?"
"Yeah. She's a knockout."
"My hair won't do that," she said.
"Why not?"
She held up a hand. "Don't get me started on hair. You wouldn't understand."
He shrugged. "But when were you going to tell me?"
"About what?" she asked evasively.
She took the photo from him and stood looking down at it.
"About this," he said. "About the fact that we walked into a house that looks like it hasn't been touched in fifty years, and there's a picture in it of a woman who looks exactly like you."
"Do you think she does?"
"Of course she does. And you know it."
She nodded. She held up her flashlight to the photograph but didn't speak.
"Are you going to answer my question?" he asked.
"What year do those clothes look like?" she asked. "I mean the fashions."
She was being evasive, not revealing herself to him. If whatever she was holding back wasn't causing her such obvious pain, he would be mad at her.
"The clothes…," Robin said again, her voice sounding a bit hoarse.
"Yeah," he said. "It's an old picture."
"How old do you think?" she asked. "Do you recognize the style?"
"I'm not quite that old, Robin," he said dryly.
"—I didn't mean that," she started to stammer out, but then saw his grin and realized he was teasing.
She smiled weakly at him.
"1960s, definitely," he said. "Like she just came from a Motown concert or something."
"Yeah," she said. "The white go go boots are a giveaway."
"And the mini skirt." He arched his brows as he stared at her long, bronzed limbs. "Very nice."
"Dylan! That's not right! This could be my grandmother or something"
"She's a lovely woman. I shouldn't appreciate that?" he asked. Then he realized what she'd said. "This could be your grandmother? What does that mean? Don't you know who she is?"
She shook her head. "I have no idea who she is. I've never seen her before in my life."
"Well, you should ask your mom. She could tell you. We'll take the picture with us. I'm sure no one will mind."
He started to walk toward the stairs, then realized she wasn't following.
He came back to stand next to where she stood, as if stuck in place in the center of that little attic room, staring down at the photograph of the woman from long ago wearing her face.
"What's wrong?" he asked gently.
"I can't ask my mother about it."
"Why not? Is she out of town? The way your mom flies around the country running her business I can't keep up."
"No. She's…." Robin paused. "She'll be at her office. Linda Brenham, I mean."
"Yeah. Linda Brenham. Your mom. Come on. You can call her and tell her about the photo and we can find out where you get your amazing fashion sense from."
Robin shook her head, the tears that he'd seen glistening in her eyes finally spilling out onto her cheeks.
"What do you mean, no?" he asked.
"We can't call her."
"What's wrong, Robin. Please talk to me. Let me help."
"I can't call my mom."
"Why not?"
"Because she's dead."
Chapter Five
An hour later they were seated in the outdoor dining area at Matteo's, with Alonzo asleep at their feet.
The restaurant was at the very end of the wharf, in a prime spot. On the ocean side, the view was of the vast Pacific, dotted with colorful fishing and sail boats, and with the lighthouse island about a mile from the wharf serving as a punctuation mark to the bay.
She ate here at least once a week with friends, and knew that view well. Her heart always soared when she spotted the whales breaching out in the deep water, and she felt, somehow, like she belonged to this place, even though she'd only lived here for a few years.
On the inland side, where they now sat in the lee of the restaurant, protected from the wind, the view was toward shore, and the steep sandstone cliff that skirted the beach. At the top of the hill, Cliff Drive followed the edge of the bluff, with its famous lineup of Stockdale cottages perched where they could face out toward the breathtaking panorama of the bay.
Closer, on the left hand side of the wharf itself, lay the marina. The sight of the small boats bobbing gently in the noon breeze, flags flying proudly from their masts, should have made Robin feel cheery.
But of course she didn't feel that way at all.
She loved Pajaro Bay. She loved the charm of it. The silliness of it. The small-town feel, and the gloriously funky, offbeat vibe of it. She even loved the famous grapevine with its endless supply of gossip—unless she was the subject, of course.
But not today. Toda
y she wished she could crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after her. She wished she hadn't said anything to Dylan. She hated to feel so vulnerable and weak, hated sharing such a private part of herself with someone who might not understand.
But she'd been hit with such a shock at seeing the photograph that she'd blurted out the truth, and now it felt like it was too late to just say, "oh, never mind," and forget about it.
She had been mostly silent after her outburst in the attic of the little cottage on Songbird Lane.
She'd followed mutely as Dylan led her downstairs, and then watched as he'd closed up the cottage, hammering the plywood up over the window again, but just propping the cover over the door in case they decided to return the next day.
The next day? She couldn't seem to think beyond the next moment.
She'd trailed behind Dylan as he slowly led Alonzo back to the Jeep, and from there they'd driven back to town, and then on to the promised lunch at the wharf.
Now she was facing him across bowls of pasta primavera. She took a swig from the bottle of bittersweet Chinotto soda by her plate.
He studiously ate his pasta and looked at the view. And that, as much as anything, made her feel like telling him more. He didn't ask. Didn't force. Didn't seem to even be judging her, though she'd made a total fool of herself with him.
"Have I ever told you how patient you are?" she finally asked, breaking the silence.
"I'm a saint," he said wryly.
The wind ruffled his hair, and she almost wanted to run her hand over it and smooth down the wild curls. But of course she didn't.
"Well, I wouldn't quite call you a saint, but you are patient."
"Does that mean you're going to put me out of my misery?" he asked with a faint smile. "Or will I wonder forever what just happened?"
"Do you really want to know?" she asked, which was a ridiculous question. She knew he did. There wasn't ever any doubt that he cared, any doubt that he truly wanted to help her. But it was just not her style to ask for help.
"You don't have to tell me a thing," he said. "Really. I won't be angry, or hate you, or anything like that. But promise me something."
"What?" she asked warily.
"Tell someone. If not me, then please find someone you can trust, and share whatever it is that hurts so much. Don't keep it inside. All I want is for you to be happy."
She felt the tears in her eyes then, so she looked out at the sparkling water and listened to the rattle of the halyards for a while to give the tears time to dissipate.
While she did, Dylan fed a piece of broccoli to Alonzo, who scarfed it down with a satisfied crunch.
He offered the dog a second bite, this time of carrot, but when the old dog began to choke on it, he quickly knelt down next to him and patted him until he was able to swallow. "Sorry, old fellow," he whispered, but she heard it. "I'll be more careful next time."
He sat back down at his chair and took a big swig from his own Chinotto. He pushed aside his now-empty plate.
She stacked her own on top of his, clearing the middle of the table.
"My tote fell over," she said to him. "Would you hand it to me?"
He leaned down and got it, then handed it to her.
She opened the Miu Miu brandy tote and pulled out the manila folder she always kept with her. She took out two of the folded, near-tattered pages inside.
Then she added the photograph from the attic, which she'd removed from its broken frame and stuck in her purse as well.
She placed the photograph on the table between them. "I look like her, don't I?"
"Like twins, almost," he said. He turned the photo sideways and looked at it closely. "What's this?"
"What?"
Something's written on the edge of the photo. I can't make it out."
"Let me see," she said. "My eyes aren't as old as yours."
He stuck out his tongue at her and she laughed, a welcome break to her stress.
"It looks like the word birdie," she said. "Maybe it has something to do with the birdhouse cottage." She stared at the photo, at the woman whose face was so much like the one that looked back at her from the bathroom mirror every morning.
"But you don't know who she is?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I'm sure we're related. But I don't know her."
"But—what you said before—you can't ask—?"
"My mom? No."
She took one of the pages she'd removed from the folder, and placed it beside the photograph.
"This is my mother. So I can't ask her."
He picked up the paper and read it. She knew every word he was reading by heart: Genie Smith Walker, age 24, died on Tuesday, February 27, 1992. She leaves behind a daughter, Robin Walker, age three. She was predeceased by her husband, Anthony Walker. There was no photograph with the obituary. Even that had been denied her.
She handed him the next page. It was worse than the first, if that was possible. This one, dated only two days earlier, was a screaming headline about a woman who'd interrupted a burglar in her home and had been BRUTALLY SHOT IN BACK. The woman had been identified as Genie Walker, a local school librarian. Police warned people not to enter their homes if there were signs of a break-in, but instead to call the police.
When he set the paper down she handed him the third. This, too, he read, and she, in her mind, read along with him: August 17, 1990. Airman First Class Anthony Walker was killed in a training accident. He was 23 years old. He leaves behind a wife, Genie Smith Walker, and a 20-month-old daughter, Robin. At least that page had included a picture, and she'd memorized every line in the face of the serious young airman who had posed for his official photograph in front of an American flag only months before dying in a crash.
"So your mom…?" he asked slowly. "I mean, the one I know?"
"Linda Brenham? She adopted me out of foster care. I was very lucky." She was. She knew that. She had barely been placed into foster care at the age of three when a wealthy real estate mogul in San Francisco qualified to join the foster-to-adopt program. They had been matched up, and that was that.
"I lucked out," she said to him. "I became the only daughter of one of the country's most successful Black real estate developers." She said briskly, "I am very blessed. I have never wanted for anything in my life."
"And she's great—your mom, I mean. Or your adopted mom, or—"
"—My mom," Robin said. "That's what she is. My mom. None of this takes away from that."
"Does she know?"
Robin smiled. That, at least, was the good part. "Oh, yeah. Of course she does. She knew I needed to find out where I came from. And I did. Sort of."
"But—I don't really understand," he said. "I never knew any of this about you."
"Because it's personal. What am I supposed to say? 'Hi, there. Nice to meet you. My biological parents died when I was a baby so I have no idea where I come from'?"
"Of course not." He looked at the two xeroxed obituaries. "But you do know where you come from. That's a comfort at least. Isn't it?"
"You'd think so."
"So if you know who they are, can you find out who this woman is? Maybe ask your other relatives? The biological ones, I mean?"
Robin shook her head. "I don't—actually—have—any biological relatives. At least, none that I know of."
He held up the pages. "But—"
"This is my best guess." She waved her hands over the pages. "This is all just guesswork." She leaned forward. "You still don't understand. I don't actually know anything. I just guess. I just look, and search, and try to find clues. But I don't know."
"So where did this all come from?"
She almost asked again if he really wanted to know, but she realized that was just stalling.
She pulled out more papers from the folder.
"Do you know how adoptions work?" she asked, and he shook his head. "Well, in California at least, it's not public information. If you are adopted, your records are sealed, unless the people pu
tting you up for adoption specifically ask for them not to be. That's what an open adoption means."
"Got it," he said.
"So, mine was not open. I was given to my mom, but she got no information about me except that I had no biological relatives willing to take me. That's it." She said it all very matter-of-factly, pushing down the pain those simple words caused. The social workers hadn't told her mom anything about her past. Her mom had asked, and been told that it was best for Robin to make a fresh start, and surely she was so young she wouldn't even remember her life before adoption.
"So how did you find them?" he asked. He picked up her father's obituary and looked at the picture. "I see a bit of you in him." He held up the photograph from the attic next to it. "But they don't look alike. So I'm guessing she is related to your mother."
"I know she is," Robin said.
"But… I thought you didn't know who she was."
"I don't. I don't know her. But I know the house."
Now he looked really confused.
"Join the club," she said when he said so. "I'm totally confused, and have been since I was a little girl."
She explained. "When I turned eighteen, I wrote to the state to ask for my adoption record." She pulled it out of the folder as well. "You don't need to read the whole thing, but basically it's what they call non-identifying information. Like how old my parents were, what their medical history was, education level, stuff like that."
She put her palm on the letter. "This was how I found out they were dead."
She looked up at him, saw the kindness in his eyes, and had to look away. "Can you imagine? All through my childhood I thought they hadn't wanted me. That my parents, whoever they were, either threw me away or that I was taken from them for some reason."
She cleared her throat. "But they were dead. They were good, normal, loving people. And they died."
"That must be a comfort, at least," he said softly.
"You'd think so," she said wryly. "You'd think that would have been enough. But it wasn't. I just couldn't let it go. All the report said is that they died. And from there, and knowing my age when I was adopted, I had a place to start. The letter was sent from the county social services, so I was able to search for women who died in that county that year."
Songbird Cottage Page 4
