True to You

by Becky Wade

  Beneath his feet he could feel his boat rocking as he called the law firm of the attorney who’d represented his parents in his adoption.

  “Smith and Morrow,” a young woman answered.

  “Hello. Does Harvey Morrow still work for the firm?”

  A beat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morrow retired twenty years ago and passed away three years ago.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t feel bad! People call all the time asking for him.” She laughed lightly. “He was a Seattle institution.”

  “He represented my parents in my adoption. Is there someone else I could make an appointment with? To discuss my case?”

  “Absolutely. His daughter, Melissa Morrow, is one of our partners.”

  Twenty-four hours later, John sat across the desk from Melissa Morrow in her high-rise Seattle office.

  “My dad practiced family law for forty-five years,” Melissa said. She was a heavy-set woman, middle-aged, and friendly. “He handled a lot of adoptions during that time.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “One of the joys of following in his footsteps has been getting to meet people like you, people who were in some way involved in my father’s cases.”

  John nodded.

  “We used to have whole rooms dedicated to files. No longer. We went digital a while back. As a result, my secretary was able to pull up your adoption records in no time.” She rested her palms on her desk blotter. “Thanks for supplying us with the waiver of confidentiality, by the way, and for letting us know which documents you had in your possession already.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “The only relevant piece of information we have that you were missing is the Petition to Adopt.” She reached toward a paper tray, pulled free a printed sheet, and extended it to him. “Here you are.”

  He scanned it. There. Right there, beneath the name Sherry Thompson . . .

  Was her address.

  Bingo.

  Written in a card from John’s mom, Linda, to John:

  I just wanted you to know that your dad and I watched Uncommon Courage again last night. We went with you to the premiere, and then saw it at least three times when it was in theaters, but we love watching it on our own TV. It gets better every time!

  You’ve proved to the whole country that you have the heart your dad and I always knew you had. We’re so proud of you, John. And we’re praying for you.

  You’re on my mind all the time. Ever since you told us what the doctors said, I’ve been asking the Lord to “strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being.” Ephesians 3:16.

  Dad and I are coming to Shore Pine next weekend, so we’ll check in on you then.

  I’ll bring lasagna.

  Love, Mom

  Facebook message from Duncan to Nora:

  Duncan: I can’t sleep again tonight. Insomnia bites.

  Nora: Cup of warm milk?

  Duncan: I wish. I gave up dairy and gluten last month.

  Nora: In that case, healthy eater, is there anything of actual value I can do? I’d like to help.

  Duncan: I’m just discouraged. I’ve been working quite hard, but no one seems to notice or care. I’m not getting the type of traction I hoped I would.

  Nora: You’re extremely talented, Duncan. Extremely!

  Duncan: If only you were a casting director.

  Nora: If only. I’m a very discerning layperson and believe me, your talent is a rare, rare gift. In time, you WILL gain traction.

  Duncan: Not every talented person does.

  Nora: You will. You must! I think it’s time for me to organize another email and letter-writing campaign to the show’s producers on your behalf. What say you to that?

  Duncan: I say thank you. What would I do without you, Miss Lawrence?

  Nora: Perish?

  CHAPTER

  Five

  Nora’s phone dinged to signal an incoming text message while she was skimming the village payroll Nikki had assembled. She’d heard once that constant distractions from text messages, social media notifications, and incoming emails had a deadly effect on deep concentration and productive work.

  Yeah, but . . . but . . . Look! A new text.

  The moment she saw John’s name, adrenaline bolted through her. “It’s only a text,” she whispered to herself. Nothing could come of her crush on John. Zero. He was already in a relationship. Nonetheless, her body continued its breathless clamor.

  It had been three days since he’d offered to follow up on the course of action they’d discussed earlier in the week. Rationally, she understood that three days was a perfectly appropriate amount of time. John was a busy man! Yet to her, the distance from Tuesday to Friday had seemed endless.

  Nora could plow through research more quickly and powerfully than oxen through fresh, soft dirt. Since her meeting with John, she’d been aching to pick up the phone and greedily make all the phone calls he’d said he’d make.

  She restrained herself because, regardless of how much she wanted to overstep, this was John’s search. He had the right to pursue it at his own pace, to handle as much of it as he wanted, and to keep as much of it private from her as he wished. She was restricted to her usual role: Genealogist Who Gives Advice.

  Her phone’s screen revealed his full text. The daughter of the attorney who handled my adoption gave me an address for Sherry Thompson. 3476 Regent Drive, Shelton.

  Her eyebrows climbed upward. An address already! Quite a development.

  If she opened his text immediately, scrolling ellipses would appear on his end. Not wanting to seem overzealous, she made herself wait several minutes before finally tapping on his message and typing her reply. She thought about it, deleted it, reworded it, then finally sent, Outstanding news! Good work. I’ll check the Central Appraisal District site to see who owns the house currently.

  Almost immediately, he answered. I already did. The house is owned by Travis and Whitney Hillcrest.

  She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed that he’d thought to check the appraisal district’s site or disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to do it for him. The latter would have allowed her to amaze him with her productivity. I’m pleasantly surprised! You may have skills above and beyond Navy SEAL-type stuff.

  What’s our next step? he typed.

  We can find out who owned the house in Shelton at the time of your birth by visiting the Mason County auditor’s office and researching the house’s deeds.

  I can meet you there on Monday morning if that’s good for you.

  10? she asked.

  See you there.

  The next afternoon, Nora and Willow went to Britt’s shop in search of bliss by chocolate. “I’d like the dark chocolate cashew, please,” Nora said, mouth watering.

  “Creature of habit,” Britt accused. She plucked the asked-for truffle from the display case and handed it over.

  Nora admired the chocolate sitting on her palm, tucked into its pristine white paper crib. Then she took a bite. Britt had fairy-dusted salt on top of the dark chocolate cashew. That faint salty tang enhanced the perfectly balanced flavors of dark chocolate, cream, and cashews. Nora’s muscles relaxed by degrees.

  “Milk chocolate caramel for me,” Willow said.

  “Two creatures of habit.” Britt handed Willow the caramel with a shake of her head. “Go find a spot, and I’ll bring you something new to try. You guys need to branch out.”

  When Britt had returned from her years overseas and announced her plan to open a chocolate shop, Nora had insisted that she locate her shop inside the historical village. Britt, Nora, and their dad then launched a hunt for just the right old structure to transport to the village for Britt’s purposes. They eventually found a bank that looked like an escapee from a London set for Peter Pan.

  Despite its cuteness, Nora was at first skeptical of the bank. The building seemed too staid for Britt’s vivid personality. Britt, however, was able to envision its potential right from the start. Her
certainty had paid off.

  The bank’s faded brick façade had needed little restoration. Indoors, Britt removed the old partitions and counters. She dedicated the front half of the square footage to the store and the back half to her kitchen. After some debate, she left the scarred floors just as they were and whitewashed everything else.

  Windows marked two of the walls. Britt had covered the remaining walls with black-and-white photographs depicting America’s chocolate-making history. A display case highlighted row upon row of chocolates. On the wall behind the display case, a blackboard listed the prices per pound.

  Almost every day of the week, Britt stopped by the library or Nora stopped by Sweet Art. As much as she loved her library, Nora loved Sweet Art almost as much. It smelled of cocoa powder and the espresso beans Britt used in some of the chocolates. The bank’s windows invited sunlight in and multiplied it, so Sweet Art glowed with a welcoming and warm ambience. The shop portion of the building didn’t offer room enough for tables, so Britt had installed a bar and bar stools around the interior’s perimeter.

  Nora and Willow settled onto two of the stools and polished off their chocolates just before Britt arrived. She placed a cup of ice water and a chocolate before each of them.

  Ordinarily, Britt didn’t wait on customers unless there was a rush. She’d hired her friend to work the floor so that she’d be free to spend her time the way she preferred: in the kitchen, hair in a high ponytail, chef’s coat in place, sugar crystals floating. She always came out, however, to wait on Nora and Willow when they stopped by. It was their sisterly privilege: free chocolate plus personal service from the chocolate maestro.

  “I’ve been experimenting with gold flakes, slivers of almond, and candied citrus peel,” Britt explained. “This is my most recent attempt.”

  Nora and Willow both made a fuss over the beauty of Britt’s creation. The rectangular base of the chocolate swept upward into a firm curve. Gold flecks shone from just beneath the chocolate’s surface, like amber leaves poised beneath a frozen pond.

  “Is this real gold?” Willow asked.

  “Yes,” Britt answered. “Twenty-four-karat gold, pounded into extremely thin sheets, then flaked.”

  “I didn’t realize gold was edible,” Nora said.

  “It is in this form. Actually, the Japanese have been using it in food and drinks for centuries. It has a long European history, too.”

  As much as Nora liked to think of herself as the smart one, Britt’s knowledge of the culinary arts could probably give Nora’s knowledge of genealogy a run for its money.

  Willow reached for the chocolate—

  Britt made a tsking sound. “Cleanse your palate first, please.”

  “You haven’t been around in a while,” Nora said to Willow. “You’ve gotten rusty.”

  Both older sisters took dutiful sips of water. When tasting chocolate, Britt had taught them to cleanse their palate, smell the chocolate, ensure the chocolate was served at room temperature, and hold each bite on their tongues for ten or fifteen seconds to notice how the different elements melted.

  “Give it a rub and a smell,” Britt said. “What do you notice?”

  “A hint of orange?” Nora offered. “Vanilla?”

  “Mostly just dark chocolate smell,” Willow admitted.

  Britt made a gesture to proceed. “Okay, give it a try.”

  Nora did her best to eat the chocolate like an expert, instead of like the novice she still was. Only Zander, who’d educated himself on chocolate, was adept at picking up on nuances.

  Britt leaned forward, her features sharpened in concentration. “Does it have enough essence of wild strawberry?” she asked when the fifteen seconds had passed.

  “Huh?”

  A sheepish smile. “Essence of wild strawberry. Does it have enough?”

  “Mm, yes,” Willow said emphatically. “The essence of wild strawberry is coming through.”

  Britt narrowed her eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

  “Fine. Yes. I’m just saying that.”

  “We’re only qualified to enjoy your chocolates, Britt,” said Nora. “You know we’re hopeless as critics.”

  “Hopeless,” Britt agreed. “How are things going at the Inn at Bradfordwood?” she asked Willow.

  “Since Clint cleans each day, I’ve mostly spent my time learning the reservation and billing systems.”

  “Have you made Mom’s baked French toast recipe yet?” Nora asked. Like a B&B, the inn served breakfast to its guests each day.

  “What about her egg and sausage casserole?” Britt asked. “Or cranberry scones?”

  “I’ve tried all of the above. The scones, especially, need more work.” Willow dusted chocolate from her hands. “Overall, I think I’m off to an okay start.”

  “Call me if the scone recipe continues to give you trouble,” Britt said.

  “Have you decided what Britt and I can do to help with the planning of Grandma’s party?” Nora asked.

  “Not yet. But I’ll assign responsibilities soon. You know . . .” she murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I might make a good critic, after all, Britt. Give me another”—she put out her palm and crooked her fingertips—“so I’ll know for sure if there’s enough essence of wild strawberry.”

  “Get out of my shop, freeloaders.” Britt winked at them and disappeared in the direction of her kitchen.

  “I think that was the first time I’ve ever eaten gold,” Willow said to Nora. “I wonder if that means I’m now worth my weight in it.”

  “You’re worth way more than your weight in gold, and you know it.”

  “You’re worth way more than your weight in gold, too,” Willow said.

  “Funny, Adolphus Brook told me the very same thing just last night.”

  Nora hoped her older sister would laugh. Instead, Willow’s extraordinary catlike eyes considered Nora without blinking. Willow was soft-spoken and well-mannered, but she was also incredibly observant.

  “Nora Bradford?” Willow asked.

  “Yes?”

  “How long has it been since you and Harrison split up?”

  The question impacted Nora the way a tiny sharp knife thrust deeply into her chest cavity might have. Which infuriated her. She’d been praying against bitterness and envy and hurt for so long now. She’d gone down on her knees and pleaded with God to cleanse her heart over and over and over. She didn’t want those awful, insidious emotions. Take them, she’d begged Him. Take them! Yet here she still was, experiencing pain at the mention of his name, which made her feel like a failure. She’d give away her house not to feel pain at the mention of Harrison’s name. “Three years,” Nora said.

  “Is he the last nonfictional person you dated?”

  “Um . . .” Nora pretended to think it over while scratching the side of her chin.

  “I’d like to punch him,” Willow said companionably, “right in his dumb nose. I never liked him very much.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I liked him. But not very much. I definitely never liked his dumb nose.”

  The conversations of shop patrons filled the air with a cozy purr. The pleasantness of her surroundings contrasted harshly with the gloom of this particular topic. “He and Rory are expecting a baby. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “She’s due in a few months.” As the words left her mouth, Nora could hear that she’d spoken them too lightly. They sounded suspiciously jovial.

  Willow blew out a breath. “After he broke off your engagement to start dating Rory, I wish the two of them had moved to another town. How often do you see him?”

  “Pretty often. Maybe weekly?” She didn’t add that her quickest route from home to work took her straight past his orthodontic office, which amounted to a twice daily reminder of him. She sometimes detoured around his office. But every time she did, the need to take the detour ended up reminding her of him anyway.

  “That must stink.”

/>   “I’d probably see him less if he didn’t insist on being so friendly. As it is, he catches my eye and waves or makes an effort to talk to me every time we come within a hundred yards of each other. He invites me to parties at their house. He even stops by the library.”

  Willow wrinkled her nose. “That’s not normal.”

  “I think it is normal for a lot of couples these days. An amicable split, you know?”

  “Amicable splits are for divorced couples with kids, not dating couples.”

  “I think they are for dating couples whose parents are friends, who grew up together.”

  “You were engaged, and he called things off two months before the wedding. You don’t owe Harrison amicable. You don’t owe him anything. He owes you about a thousand apologies and a replacement groom.”

  Nora chuckled, but it was a chuckle undergirded by heartache.

  She and Harrison were the same age and had gone through Merryweather schools together since kindergarten. He was outgoing, a bit of a showman, and classically handsome in an Ivy League kind of way. She’d been self-concious, bookish, and just a little bit smarter than Harrison in every subject. They’d operated on opposite sides of the same group of friends and kept in touch through college. Stanford for her, Duke for him.

  When he kissed her under a maple tree at sunset the summer after they graduated college and before he headed to dental school, she mostly remembered feeling overwhelmingly flattered.

  Merryweather didn’t offer many eligible single men. An extroverted dentist: her clear best choice. She and Harrison had gotten along beautifully throughout the four years that they’d dated. No fights. No uncontrollable passion. Just two mature people in a secure relationship. She’d wondered why other people found relationships so difficult. Relationships are a pleasure, she’d thought, with an enjoyable sense of superiority. She and Harrison were exceptional at this!

  When he’d proposed, she’d once again been overwhelmingly flattered. She was going to marry before either of her sisters, which seemed like a hugely surprising and fortunate outcome. Her future was settled, and whew, wasn’t that a load off her mind? She felt safe. Smug.