by Terri DuLong
Ali pulled up a chair. “Things going any better with Monica?”
“Well, I haven’t had a repeat performance of what I witnessed last week. She didn’t say much, but she cleaned up the mess and has managed to pick up more after herself. It’s just tough—living with somebody else again.”
“And where’s the little prima donna today?”
I smiled. “Off to Gainesville again with Bree. Shopping, I imagine.
“Where the hell is she getting the money for all this shopping, and what the hell is she buying?”
“She’s buying clothes. Says it’s been a while and she needs an island wardrobe, whatever that means. Monica’s not hurting for money. She’s been working at a well-paying job since she graduated college and doesn’t normally shop so much.”
Ali shook her head. “Maybe there’s a reason I never had kids. She knows you’ve been sick with this cold—has she offered you any help at all?”
“No. But guess what?” I told her about Dora offering to help me in the shop.
“That’s great. Dora’s a special person. I’ve always liked her. Anything new with Sybile?”
“Not a thing. It’s hard to try and get information without being too obvious. I don’t want to offend Dora or Saren. Monica is certainly showing an interest in the search though.”
“Has she met Sybile yet?”
I shook my head. “No, but she’s met Dora and likes her a lot. I told her Dora and Sybile are like day and night. Just in case it’s true, I want her to be prepared. I sure can’t see Monica caring much for her either.”
I awoke on the morning of my birthday feeling considerably better. Spending two days in bed helped with getting over the cold.
I walked into the yarn shop at noon to find a huge set of brightly colored balloons tied to my spinning wheel. “Happy birthday!” Dora said, coming to embrace me.
“Thank you and I suppose you provided those beautiful balloons?”
“I did and I hope you’ll enjoy them.”
“Dora, you didn’t have to do this.”
“I know I didn’t—I wanted to.”
We both turned to the sound of the door opening. A young fellow approached me almost hidden behind a huge bouquet of yellow roses. “Sydney Webster?” he asked.
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“Then these are for you.”
I reached for the crystal vase full of flowers. “Thank you.”
Sybile? Could Sybile have sent them and was this was her way of telling me I was her daughter?
“My, my,” Dora said. “Those certainly are gorgeous. Open the card and let’s see who they’re from.”
I pulled the card from the envelope and mouthed a silent “oh.”
Dora looked at me expectantly.
“They’re…they’re from Noah Hale.”
“Oh, my. Now what a thoughtful thing for that man to do. How did he know it was your birthday?”
I couldn’t believe he’d remembered, much less taken the time to send flowers. “It came up in a conversation recently. Actually, yesterday was his birthday.”
“I see. Well, they’re just beautiful,” Dora said, leaning over to inhale the fragrance.
I left them sitting on the desk and walked into the back room. Now what the hell was I supposed to do? Send him a thank-you note? And why did he really send them? A man sending flowers normally indicated a certain interest. And this man had another woman in his life. I’m certainly not about to get involved in a triangle. Damn, I wish he hadn’t sent them.
An hour later, Dora was waiting on a customer and I headed to the front door. “I’ll be back in a little while. Are you okay here?”
“Sure, take your time,” Dora replied and I headed down Second Street to Noah’s gallery.
Walking into the shop I found it was empty and began browsing some of the artwork hanging on the wall.
“See anything that interests you?” Noah said, stepping from the back room.
I spun around. “Not really. Well, what I mean is I don’t know that much about art. But I’m sure yours is good.” Why did I always sound like a flustered teenager with him?
Noah laughed. “Based on sales, yeah, I’d say it’s pretty good.”
He never cut me any slack either. “I just wanted to thank you for the flowers. You really shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why? Don’t you like them?”
God, this man had an irritating streak. “Yes, of course I like them. They’re beautiful.”
“Then good. They accomplished what I hoped they would.”
“Which might be what?”
“A visit from you.”
“Oh,” was all I could think of to say.
“Happy birthday,” Noah said, a grin spreading across his face.
“Thank you and to you as well. A day late.”
Noah acknowledged the wishes with a nod. “So do you have big plans to celebrate tonight?”
“Alison and Paul are taking me to dinner.”
Noah leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “Speaking of dinner. I’d like to take you out for dinner sometime when you’re free.”
“Me?” I asked stupidly. “Thanks but I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” he asked in surprise. “Why is that?”
Why was he pressuring me? He had a damn girlfriend. What was I supposed to be, a replacement? “Well, uh…I just don’t think…” I was uncertain what to say and took a few steps backward. As soon as I did, I heard the sound of glass hitting the tile floor and spun around to see that I’d knocked over jars of water with paintbrushes in them.
Bending down to try and pick up the glass, I stammered, “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that table was there.”
I felt my wrist being snatched by Noah’s hand.
“Don’t touch it. You’ll cut yourself. Let me get something to clean this up.”
He disappeared into the back room and returned with a roll of paper towels and a broom and dust pan. Soaking up the water first, he then swept up the glass.
“I’m really terribly sorry,” I said, feeling like an errant child.
“You seem to say that a lot to me,” was all Noah replied.
Anger fused with embarrassment. “Well, for Christ’s sake, I didn’t do it on purpose. So crucify me. And let me know if I owe you anything for the broken glass,” I tossed over my shoulder before stomping out the door.
At 6:00 I flipped the sign on the yarn shop to CLOSED. “Now, Dora, it’s time for you to go, so scat,” I said, waving my hands in the air.
Dora laughed. “Okay. I’ll be on my way. You enjoy the rest of your birthday. Are you leaving now too?”
“I will be shortly. I have a few accounts to look at and then I’m outta here. Have to get ready for my birthday dinner.”
Dora reached for her sweater and handbag. “Okay, and have a lovely celebration this evening.”
Twenty minutes later tapping on the glass door caused me to look up from the accounting I’d been working on. Noah Hale stood outside waiting. Oh God, what the hell does he want now?
Getting up, I unlocked the door. “Can I help you?” I asked with a curt tone.
“May I come in?”
Blowing air through my lips, I stepped aside but said nothing.
“Thanks. Nice flowers,” he said, nodding toward the desk.
“Hmmm.”
“You and I seem to be like oil and water.”
I sighed. “Then why do you keep contacting me?”
“Because I like you, that’s why.”
“You coulda fooled me.” He likes me? Did he just say that?
“How about if we call a truce? Are you willing?”
“A truce? Sure.”
Noah smiled. “You don’t sound all that certain about it.”
“Well, what does this truce involve?”
“Nothing too strenuous. Just have dinner with me some evening.”
Oka
y, I thought, I’ve had enough of his game playing. “Look, I don’t want to be rude to you, but…” I took a deep breath. “I’m fifty-three years old. This isn’t high school. And at my age I don’t play games, nor do I get involved in other people’s relationships. Do you understand?”
Noah raised his eyebrows. “What games? What relationships?”
This man was truly dense. Why was he forcing me to spell it out? “The cheating game, that’s what I’m talking about and the relationship you obviously have with another person. There. That’s what I’m referring to.”
Noah ran a hand through his curls. “Forgive me for not understanding, but I don’t. Could you be a little more specific?”
“Tori. Is that specific enough? She’s your girlfriend and I’m not about to go there and be in the middle.”
Noah threw his head back laughing. “Tori? You know Tori?”
Why did he think this was a hilarious joke? “I don’t think it’s the least bit humorous. Yes, I know Tori because she’s one of my customers. I saw you a couple weeks ago in front of my shop hugging and kissing and then she came in here to purchase yarn for, and I quote, ‘a special person with the most incredible brown eyes.’ I assume that special person would be you.”
Noah shook his head while continuing to laugh. “I apologize for laughing. Yes, I guess I am that special person, but Tori…We’ve known each other since college days. She’s happily married to my friend Stan. There’s never been anything romantic between us. Not ever. We’re just very old and good friends.”
At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me up. College friends? Never anything romantic? Oh God, I must have sounded like a shrew and worse yet…like a shrew that had some feelings for him. I could feel heat burning my face and was certain it wasn’t a hot flash. “Oh…I thought…”
“I’m pretty sure I now understand what you thought,” he said as the laugh diminished to a smile. “No, there’s nothing like that between Tori and me.”
I ran my tongue along my upper lip and nodded. “Okay, so I guess I owe you an apology.”
“And I’ll collect on that apology with an acceptance to dinner some evening. Then we can call it even. How’s that sound?”
It sounded much better than I could have hoped for.
16
Seated at the Curl Up and Dye, I leafed through the latest issue of Vanity Fair while waiting for my color to process. I enjoyed the luxury of being pampered and, not for the first time, was grateful I had Dora to cover the shop for a little while.
I glanced up as an elderly, white-haired woman entered the salon. Greetings were exchanged with Polly and the other customers and then the woman turned to me.
“I don’t think we’ve met, but aren’t you the new owner of the yarn shop downtown?”
“Yes. I’m Sydney Webster.”
The woman pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and peered closer. “And I’m Margaret Johnson. You sure do look familiar to me. You have kin on this island?”
Here we go again. What is it about these people thinking I’m related to somebody here? But I smiled and said, “Nope. Afraid not. I only moved here five months ago. You’ve probably just seen me around.”
Shaking her head slowly, the woman raised an index finger to her chin. “Hmm, could be. But no…I know what it is. You sure do bear a striking resemblance to Sybile Bowden. Are you two related?”
Goose bumps rose on my skin, as a deep-seated emotion glided to the surface. Once again, I remembered staring into Sybile’s almond-shaped eyes while something familiar tugged at me.
The chatter in the salon dwindled to a hush as the other women also waited for my answer. Feeling like a child being admonished by a teacher, a sense of unease came over me before I replied. “No, I’m not related to her at all. I’m originally from the Boston area and have no ties to anyone on the island.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Margaret went to sit down. “Sure could fool me. I’ve known Sybile since we were born—although the high and mighty phony would probably deny it. Same age we are, ya know. Anyway, you sure do remind me of her.”
Polly prevented any further conversation. “Well, they say we all have a double. Come on, Syd, let’s get that color rinsed off.”
I returned to the shop to find Twila Faye talking to Dora.
“Hey, Sydney. I’m doing so well with Chelsea’s sweater, I’m going to make another one.” Reaching into her bag, she removed pale pink yarn that clearly resembled a child’s sweater.
“It’s gorgeous,” I told her. “See, and you thought you’d never learn to knit.”
She smiled with pride. “I never thought I could do something like this. Now I’d like to buy some multi-color yarn for the next one. Do you have that?”
After choosing what she wanted, she brought the skeins for me to ring up.
“Oh, did you know they’re having a Bloodmobile here on Monday? They’ll be doing it in front of City Hall.”
“No, I hadn’t heard about that. With my blood type, I suppose I should donate.”
“I’m Type B. What’re you?”
“Type AB. It’s a bit rare. Only four percent of people in the world are AB and the blood banks are always wanting mine.”
Twila Faye laughed. “Think you’re descended from royalty?”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” I said, filling a small shopping bag with yarn.
After Twila Faye left, Dora questioned, “Are you really Type AB? Is that true?”
The serious look on her face caught my attention. “Yes, why?”
She concentrated on filling the shelves. “I was just wondering. It’s fairly uncommon, as you said.”
I had a feeling there was more to this subject than Dora was willing to discuss.
Later that afternoon I sat at my spinning wheel while casting furtive glances at Dora. The shop was empty and she was working on the Aran sweater. I recalled Margaret’s conversation and for the first time began to seriously consider the possibility that Sybile could be my mother. Could that be possible? Highly unlikely. Or is it? While I had to agree that the chance wasn’t even remotely possible—there was still a chance. I realized that my mother could be anybody. But Sybile Bowden? It was inconceivable to think that I’d come to a small island in Florida and end up finding my birth mother.
Feeling compelled to bring up the subject, I broke the silence in the shop. “I haven’t had much luck in searching for my birth mother since we last discussed it,” I told Dora.
She put her knitting in her lap and looked over at me. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. That’s a shame, because it seems like you’re interested in finding her.”
I nodded. “Well, yes, I think I am. But Monica has shown an interest in meeting her biological grandmother.”
“I can understand that. Family is important. I may not see Marin and the boys as much as when my grandsons were small, but I know all of them are just a phone call away. So besides Monica, do you have any family left?”
“Not really. A few elderly aunts that I was never close to, but that’s it.”
Dora remained silent and in that moment, I blurted out, “Do you think I look like Sybile?”
Surprise covered Dora’s face. Chewing on her lower lip, her eyebrows formed two perfect arches, while her fingers rubbed the knitting needles in her hand. “Well, now, that’s quite a question. They do say everybody has a twin.”
In that moment, I knew. Dora’s reaction confirmed the suspicion more than any birth certificate could. Neither affirmation nor denial. Without anything more concrete, I sensed puzzle pieces tentatively sliding into place. The room began closing in on me, making it necessary to grip the edge of my spinning wheel. Despite the cool air, perspiration formed on the nape of my neck and when I spoke my voice sounded unfamiliar. “Your sister gave birth to a baby years ago, didn’t she?”
Without looking up from her lap, Dora nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
“It was a baby girl?”
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br /> Once again, Dora nodded.
“And what blood type is Sybile?”
After what felt like hours, I heard her say, “She’s also Type AB.”
That night in bed I tossed and turned for hours. Glancing at the bedside clock I saw it was 3:05. Giving up on sleep and trying not to wake Monica, I put on a robe and sat on the balcony. Lilly came out, plopping down by my feet.
“I’m sorry I’m keeping you awake, girl,” I said, lighting up a cigarette.
Blowing the smoke into the night air, I replayed the afternoon again in my mind. I’d had no intention of being quite so blunt in the conversation with Dora. But I felt like I was on a roller coaster and there was no turning back—none whatsoever. And each question that Dora confirmed had pushed me further ahead.
“You think I’m that daughter too, don’t you?” I had asked her.
“From the first moment I laid eyes on you, yes, I felt you were my sister’s child. I never even knew of your existence until Sybile was back on the island at least five years. For some reason, she broke down and told me about your birth and made me promise that I’d never mention it again. And I didn’t. Not until I saw you.”
“What does Sybile think?” I’d asked Dora.
“I’m pretty sure she thinks you’re her daughter but she won’t admit it to me. Won’t allow me to even discuss it with her. Said it’s all insane and I’m crazy to even consider such a thing.”
Dora and I discussed the improbability, the denial of Sybile, and where to go from here.
I looked up at the star-studded night sky and sighed. I heard Dora asking, “Do you want to pursue this? Do you want Sybile to know that you figured it out and based on the evidence you want her to confirm that she’s your birth mother?”
With those questions I contemplated the word rejection. Rejection was never an easy emotion to deal with, but in those few moments I knew I’d come too far not to take the risk and replied, “Yes, talk to her and let me know what she says.”
Mashing out the cigarette in the ashtray, I stood up. “Come on, Lilly. Time to go back to bed. I’ve set the wheels in motion and all we can do now is wait.”
