Then there was the matter of her birth father. Curtis Enright had said he wasn’t involved in the proceedings, but what did that really mean? Had he died? Deserted her mother when he found out she was pregnant? Maybe her birth father hadn’t known about her. Aunt Sis had said that her birth mother was very young and that her parents had arranged everything. Curtis may have confided those details to Jamie’s parents, and Jamie’s mother must have passed the information on to Aunt Sis.
Darkness crept around her while she was staring at her feet, deliberating her options. Nothing could—nothing should—be decided on a whim. While she knew this was a matter she wanted to pursue to find that missing piece of herself, she had to proceed cautiously for the sake of the woman whose identity she sought. If her birth mother had put the matter of Jamie’s birth behind her, as the attorney intimated, what right did Jamie have to remind her?
Even if she chose to pursue the truth, she still had obligations in Caryville. After much soul-searching, she came to two realizations: She would sell the family home once she’d finished with the task of sorting through it and cleaning it out. The second thing she realized was that the matter of sorting could not be done in one visit; nor did it have to be completed immediately. It had taken her family many years to accumulate the contents: It wasn’t practical or logical that she could make so many decisions in this one visit. But holding on to an older home indefinitely wasn’t practical, either, especially one so far from her own home in Princeton. There were the issues of maintenance through the seasons—lawn and garden care in the spring, summer, and fall, snow removal in the winter. Someone would have to check on a regular basis for water leaks, roof damage, vandalism, and break-ins, and after speaking with her parents’ homeowners’ insurance company, she learned that, after a year of vacancy, the only insurance coverage would be for fire damage. That pretty much sealed the deal. Then, too, was the matter of keeping the house heated in the winter and all the utilities turned on.
Unless she planned to live there or rent out the house—which she would never do—it would be best to make a plan to sell while she had time to make the right decisions.
It seemed that everything she touched had a dear memory attached, from the furniture that had been passed down from family members to the Christmas ornaments she found in boxes in the attic to the little gifts Jamie had bought for her mother over the years. The inexpensive ceramic baby animals Jamie had loved had been treated by her mother with as much care as the Lladró figurines of dancing ladies in their flowing dresses purchased by Jamie’s father.
“Mom, you can put away those little baby lambs and fawns and puppies,” Jamie once said. “I know they’re not fine china.”
“Bite your tongue.” Her mother had grinned. “My baby girl bought those for me with money she saved from her allowance. I cherish every one.”
Jamie’s throat constricted at the memory.
The new plan was to tag all the furniture—yellow tags for the eventual estate sale, blue tags for the pieces that would go into storage until she was ready to take them, green for the pieces that Sis had expressed an interest in. Next up: Box household items that neither she nor Sis wanted or needed, some things to be sold, others with more sentimental value to be shipped to her home. She’d been surprised to find that so much of her father’s clothing had remained in the house, as if her mother had been preparing for the possibility that at some point Herb would be back and looking for his favorite blue-and-white-striped sweater or his slippers.
Donate clothing to thrift shop made it onto her list at number four.
By the end of the week, she’d moved through most of the first floor, making what she considered were the best decisions, reminding herself that there wasn’t room in her home—or her life—for everything. It made more sense to pick out the items she loved best. She’d find room in her house for those that made the cut and would make arrangements for the rest. Having made a firm game plan, Jamie felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had headier matters to deal with than what to do with a cabinet filled with unmatched dishes, old appliances, and several years’ worth of bath towels and bedsheets.
She’d work one more week here, then she’d focus on the other task she’d set herself.
She called her literary agent, Lynne Manning, to say she’d finish that last week of her tour, but after that she’d need more time to recover from her mother’s death. Another month might be better, she told the woman. She was even thinking about taking a vacation.
“Of course I understand,” her agent sympathetically replied. “I think a vacation is absolutely in order right about now. Go someplace where you can relax, let go of the stress, enjoy yourself.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Some time off where I can relax.”
“Take all the time you need.” After a brief pause, she added, “Maybe you’ll come back with an exciting idea for that new book that’s been giving you so much trouble.”
“That’s part of the plan,” Jamie assured her.
Her laptop sat on her dad’s desk, open to the page she’d bookmarked earlier. She read through the avenues for information available to adoptees:
There are procedures whereby an adult adoptee (age 18 or older), or the parents of a minor adoptee, can petition the Orphans’ Court Division for access to either non-identifying or identifying information from their adoption files. The latter information can only be released if the Court successfully locates a birth parent and obtains his or her consent thereto. If the court determines that the birth parent is deceased, the name of the deceased birth parent can be released to the adoptee.
Jamie was sure that her birth mother was alive, since Curtis had spoken of her in the present tense. Non-identifying information would not answer any of her questions, so she scanned several pages for instructions on how to access identifying information.
The path to the truth was clear. All Jamie had to do was to send a written request for her birth mother’s identifying information. The court would have thirty days to notify Jamie if an authorization form was on file. If her birth mother had signed a consent form authorizing release of her information, the court would have 120 days to send Jamie a copy of the record or to “use reasonable efforts” to locate Jamie’s birth mother and try to obtain written authorization, if none existed in the file.
Jamie was pretty sure the latter would be the tricky part. Assuming that she chose to request the information—and assuming that reasonable efforts resulted in locating her birth mother. If she were the person doing the search, she knew where she’d begin.
She clicked on the link to the website extolling the wonders of St. Dennis, Maryland. Scenic views of the Chesapeake, beautifully preserved historic buildings, an active arts community, fine dining at world-class restaurants, etc, etc, etc. The list of B and B’s was extensive, and someone had taken the time to describe each in great detail, from history to amenities. Some of the smaller establishments oozed charm, but the beautiful Inn at Sinclair’s Point was more her style. If she were ever to go to St. Dennis, that was where she’d stay.
She found herself scrolling from page to page on the town’s website, reading about the historic sights and following the links to several of the restaurants. When she realized that her casual wanderings had left her wondering if her birth mother dined out in St. Dennis and, if so, whether she preferred the elegant Lola’s Café to the more casual dining ascribed to Captain Walt’s, Jamie turned off her laptop and closed it. There was no point in thinking along those lines if she wasn’t going to follow up.
It could take the court all of the allotted time to complete reasonable efforts to locate her birth mother, but Jamie knew exactly where she’d begin her own search. Her decision made and her path no longer in doubt, she picked up the phone and entered the number for the Inn at Sinclair’s Point.
“Yes,” she replied when her call was answered. “I’d
like to make a reservation . . .”
Chapter 4
DANIEL Sinclair stopped in the kitchen of the still-slumbering Inn at Sinclair’s Point and poured himself the first of several cups of coffee he savored every morning. There were few times of the day he enjoyed more than that first hour before the guests made their way into the dining room and the stately, historical inn began to come alive.
He wandered out onto the lawn, looking the part of a man of leisure, though he was anything but. As the owner and proprietor of the current most-talked-about place to stay on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, he took his responsibilities very seriously. He used that early-morning walkabout time to check on the exterior maintenance—no faded paint or overgrown shrubs permitted, thank you very much—as well as the weather and the condition of the outside activity areas, the children’s playground, and the tennis courts. Later in the morning, if he had time, he’d check with the crew building the putting green on the far side of the inn. Back inside, there would be other issues to deal with, like making sure there was enough housekeeping for the sold-out week ahead and checking on the event schedule for the weekend. His sister, Lucy, was in charge of event planning, and he knew there were two weddings coming up. He’d been meaning to call her to confirm that all the arrangements had been made and the required staff was on board and there were no last-minute glitches. Not that he needed to check up on her—no one was better at the whole wedding thing than Lucy—but he felt compelled to keep his finger on every pulse. He knew it drove her crazy, but he couldn’t help himself.
He walked down to the dock and stood at the end, admiring the peace of the morning. The water of the Chesapeake lapped gently against the shore, and the rising sun shed a sweet glow over the place to which he’d devoted the last eighteen years of his life. Having picked up the reins for the family business following the death of his father when Dan was newly graduated from college, he’d taken the rundown, rambling old building that had fallen into the red, and through sheer hard work, smart planning, and extraordinary vision, turned it into a premier destination. He was justifiably proud of his accomplishments, though as the widowed father of two teenagers, he rarely had time to pat himself on the back.
Next on the tour was the front of the inn. He circled around the building from the bay side and crossed the macadam driveway—would it need coating before the summer got into full swing? should they think about widening it?—and held one hand over his eyes to shield them from the rising sun while he inspected the facade. Built in the Federal style with three stories of white clapboard and pillars that extended upward to form a balcony that served the second-floor rooms, it had a welcoming veranda that led to the front entry. Huge urns, painted black and filled with tall dark green ferns, stood on either side of the double doors. A row of black and white rocking chairs lined the porch, and here and there, planters bursting with bright petunias and trailing lime-green vines hung over the railing. All in all, the inn appeared to be exactly what it was: a gracious historical home that promised rest, restoration, and relaxation to its fortunate guests.
He inspected a few suspect leaves on a rosebush near the front walk, making a mental note to ask the landscaper to check it out soon, before making his way to the back of the inn. There, the tiny guesthouses reserved for summer interns stood in a row reaching down toward the water. Staff parking was nearby, and the large lot for guests led to the rear entrance to the building and the double doors into the lobby. His morning stroll complete, his mental checklist in order, Dan went into his office and dove into the day’s emails.
His phone alerted him to an incoming text. The front desk was letting him know that the large party they’d been awaiting had arrived. He’d be there to greet them, of course he would. It was part of the ritual his father had established long ago with certain guests who for years had been planning vacations around their time at the inn, some for generations. Honoring those families was a way of honoring his father, a sacred trust, and in all the years Dan had been running the inn, a trust he’d never broken. There were things that mattered to him more than anything else. The Sinclairs considered some of the old-timers part of their extended family, and he knew that at this very moment his mother, temporarily wheelchair-bound following a fall some months earlier, was headed toward the freight elevator so she could be at the reception desk before the Marshalls had finished checking in. One of the things he loved most about this place was the continuity, the predictability, down to knowing that certain guests would return again and again, at the same time every year, requesting the same rooms each time.
After his family, the inn meant more to Dan than anything else on the planet. It had been his for as long as he could remember; he had always known that he would be the keeper of the Inn at Sinclair’s Point someday. It had never occurred to him that the title would pass to him when he was barely twenty-two years old. It had been a tremendous undertaking for a man so young, but he’d taken on the responsibility of keeping the inn afloat without hesitation. Over the years, his careful management had allowed them to grow the business, to upgrade the guest rooms and baths, eventually adding a few luxury suites in the east wing. The dining room was completely redone, then the lobby and the exterior. Before long, Dan had started looking into adding other attractions that would bring in new customers. The old tennis courts were unearthed and restored, the pool area renovated, and a new kiddie play yard constructed. The old boathouse was rebuilt, and new kayaks, canoes, and rowboats were purchased. Over an almost twenty-year period, Dan had taken the inn from a slightly shabby Eastern Shore hotel to a fabled resort that his father would have been proud of.
“Your vision far exceeds anything your dad and I would have thought of,” Grace had said to him while the new playground was being completed. “We never thought to add something like this.”
“I don’t know. Dad was pretty smart. I think if he’d watched how other places were evolving, he would have done much the same.”
“I doubt it,” Grace had disagreed. “Your father was content with keeping things the way they were. He’d have been of the mind that the old girl had held up just fine for well over a hundred years, so she’d be good for a few hundred more. He wouldn’t have spent the money on the upgrades or on the construction of the new suites. It never would have occurred to him that things could be done better or different. He might have had a coat of paint slapped on from time to time before he headed out fishing, but that’s about it.”
“He might have surprised you, Mom.”
“Dear, in twenty-seven years of marriage, your father never surprised me, not once. He was as predictable as the day is long.” Grace had smiled. “We understood each other perfectly.”
Dan had smiled then, and he smiled now as he made his way to the lobby to greet their guests, wondering how his creature-of-habit father had won the heart of his freethinking, open-to-anything mother.
Four hours later, the Marshalls having been duly greeted, their newest grandchild fussed over, and bags efficiently delivered to the guests’ respective rooms, Dan stood at the top of the main stairwell and watched the steady flow of people pass through the double doors that opened from the parking lot.
“Not bad for a Tuesday morning in June.” Grace joined him on the landing, a newspaper tucked under her arm.
“Not totally unexpected, though,” he noted with satisfaction. “Not after that article in last month’s issue of Your Chesapeake Destination declared the Inn at Sinclair’s Point the ‘crown jewel of the Eastern Shore.’ ”
“Your father would have loved that.” Grace chuckled. “He definitely would have been proud of all you’ve done here.”
“Just doing my job, Mom.” His phone buzzed. He checked the number, saw that it was his sister, and realized he was late for a meeting with her and one of her bridal clients, who wanted them to move the gazebo to the water’s edge for her big day. It would be up to him to be the heavy and explain to th
e woman and her parents why it couldn’t be done. Lucy—as the feel-good wedding planner—always got to play good cop.
The lobby doors opened again and a woman dressed in black leggings, a pale blue tunic, and thong sandals came into the lobby dragging what might have been the biggest suitcase Dan had ever seen. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that draped over one shoulder, and huge dark glasses covered half her face.
“Well, Lucy’s waiting for me to—” He moved toward the top step, but his mother grabbed his arm.
“Dan, one of our guests appears to need help with her luggage,” Grace said. “Go give her a hand.”
“Where are all the busboys?” Dan frowned and scanned the lobby.
“Helping other guests, one likes to think.” She tapped him impatiently with the newspaper, which she’d rolled up. “Go. She shouldn’t have to be struggling so.”
“Aaron should be coming back this way any second. Send him down.” Dan looked at his watch. “I’m late for—”
“Lucy can wait,” his mother insisted. “That poor young woman cannot.”
Dan sighed and jogged down the steps.
“. . . on Good Morning America week before last,” Karen, the receptionist, was saying as Dan approached. “I ran right out and bought your book. It’s wonderful. Really a whole new way of looking at relationships.”
“Thank you,” black leggings/blue tunic replied. “But I think you’re giving me too much credit.”
“Oh, no, I totally agree that we don’t seem to place as much emphasis on honesty anymore, and I . . .” Karen looked up as Dan lifted the guest’s suitcase. “We were just waiting for a bellhop.”
“I’ve got this one,” Dan told her. “Room number?” He held his hand out for the key.
“Miss Valentine is in Captain Tom’s suite,” Karen told him.
That Chesapeake Summer (Chesapeake Diaries Book 9) Page 5
