"Yes, I'm still thinking about her. Do you think I should stop?"
Claire frowned.
"I think you should be careful."
"We're just friends," David said. "We're friends and neighbors. I think it's pretty obvious now that we can never be more than that."
"So it appears. I admit her little bombshell took even me by surprise. I have never known an engaged woman to leave her engagement ring at home."
"That makes two of us."
Claire turned her head and gazed at a painting.
"It's kind of sad when you think about it."
"What do you mean?" David asked.
"I mean you two are perfect on paper. You're both attractive, intelligent, articulate social studies teachers in your mid-twenties. You both like southern food and baseball and appear to have compatible personalities. That's more than Ron and I can say."
"She's easy to like. I'll give you that."
Claire turned back to her brother.
"She's very easy to like. She's one of the most likeable people I have ever met, but she's also one of the most mysterious."
"I don't follow," David asked.
"I can't put my finger on it. I just sense she has a secret or two."
"Everyone has secrets, Claire. We have a secret. We have a secret we're going to have to keep from everyone we meet for weeks and maybe months."
Claire laughed.
"That's the understatement of the century."
"Understatement or not, it's true," David said. "I almost blew it the other night when I mentioned the high school. Pacific Crest won't exist for thirty more years. Margaret could expose us as frauds with one or two phone calls."
"She won't though. She's not the kind."
"I agree."
Claire sighed.
"I wonder what she thinks of us."
"I'm sure she thinks we're nice and decent and a little exotic," David said. "People who spend their whole lives in the same town tend to flock to anything new and interesting."
"Do you think she likes us?" Claire asked.
David nodded.
"She invited me over for tea, Claire. She sat down with us at a restaurant and visited for more than an hour. That speaks volumes."
"It does."
"My guess is that she misses her fiancé fiercely and is starving for companionship, male and female. I think we should give it to her. We could use a new friend ourselves."
"I agree. Let's walk over tonight, if you want. We can even visit this afternoon," Claire said. She smiled warmly. "But first, let's find that rock."
CHAPTER 16: CLAIRE
Tuesday, April 10, 1945
Claire felt a surge of excitement as she rode an elevator from the second floor of the Family Aid Society to the sixth. She did not know what waited in the receiving room she had heard about many times, but she did know her life was about to change. After eight years of miscarriages, stillbirths, tears, and misery, she was about to become a mother.
When the elevator door opened a moment later, she tightened her hold on Ron's hand, stepped into a long hallway, and followed Marie Weatherford to a room at the other end. She wondered how many prospective mothers had walked through this same corridor in the agency's fifty-five years and wondered how they had felt.
Were they excited? Joyous? Fearful? Scared? Claire imagined they were all these things and more. When a woman reached this point in her journey toward motherhood, she was no longer this or that but rather this and that. She was a walking, talking spectrum of human emotions. She was the sum of everything she had ever felt.
Marie stopped when they reached an open door at the end of the hallway and turned to face her clients. She wore the smile of a woman who clearly liked her job.
"Are you ready?" Marie asked.
"I am," Ron said.
"Claire?"
Claire nodded but did not speak. She could not speak. She could only manage labored breaths and hold back a tidal wave of tears that was already starting to build.
Ron looked at his wife and then at Marie.
"I think that's a yes."
"I think so too," Marie said. She broadened her smile. "Please follow me."
The adoption counselor turned again toward the door and led Claire and Ron into a brightly lit room that was half preschool and half lounge. She stopped when the three reached the middle of the thirty-by-forty-foot chamber.
"What's this?" Ron asked.
"This, Mr. Rasmussen, is the Alfred P. Remington Receiving Room," Marie said. "It's where we have been creating families and making memories since Mr. Remington, a Chattanooga banker, educator, and philanthropist, founded this agency in 1890."
"I see."
"Sarah Preston, a granddaughter of the founder, will bring Hannah to us in a few minutes. Mrs. Preston is our current director and our number-one stork."
"I'll bet she likes that job," Claire said.
"She does."
Claire smiled as she thought of the reference. She could only imagine what it would be like to be the bearer of a gift as wonderful as a baby.
She pondered founders, families, and storks for a moment and then turned her attention to the amazing room around her. No matter where she looked, she saw something interesting, inspiring, or enlightening.
Claire released Ron's hand and wandered to the preschool half of the room, where she found shelves filled with books, boxes filled with toys, and little tables and chairs. She brightened when she inspected a few of the books and found one — Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr. Seuss — she had read as a young girl. She put the book away and looked at Marie.
"Are the books and toys for the adoptees?"
Marie shook her head.
"No. They are for the brothers, sisters, and cousins of the adoptees. Many couples bring their whole families here when they come to adopt. We encourage it, in fact."
Claire felt a tinge of guilt. She had not even asked David to come to the agency. She had assumed that this ceremonial act of family creation was solely for mothers and fathers. She now wished she had inquired about adoption protocol and brought her brother along.
She pondered that missed opportunity for a few seconds and then continued her tour of the room. When she reached the first of four framed windows that punctuated the room's north wall, she leaned forward, looked through the glass, and gazed at the city's bustling downtown core and picturesque riverfront. Somewhere down there was a bookstore — a bookstore on Second Street that would someday be a coffee shop on Aquarium Way.
Claire wondered what kind of people ran the business. Were they industrious? Honest? Kind? She guessed all three. She recalled meeting the man who had sold the space in 2012 and remembered him to be pleasant and forthcoming. He had agreed to sell Ron and Claire the store only after they had agreed to leave a plaque on a wall. The plaque touted the fine deeds and civic contributions of the store's original owners, the man's great-grandparents.
Claire turned away from the window and continued toward the east side of the room as Ron and Marie carried on a light conversation. She reached the lavish sitting area a moment later but paid little attention to its turn-of-century sofas and chairs.
The mother-to-be instead made a beeline for a string of framed photographs that hung from the wood-paneled wall. Starting with a picture of the founder himself, Claire reviewed the portraits of the seven men and one woman who had run the Family Aid Society.
Most of the men, including Alfred Remington, cut a fine figure. Frederick Pierce, in fact, looked like a movie star. Pierce, the agency's director from 1920 to 1928, bore a striking resemblance to one Gary Cooper.
Claire smiled when she reached the last portrait. She didn't know if Sarah Preston was a good director or a bad one, but she did know she was strikingly attractive. She guessed that the current chief, a dark-haired woman with warm eyes, was about forty-five years old.
Claire admired the current director's photo until she noticed that the spacious room had gone quiet. For t
he first time in at least five minutes, she did not hear laughter or voices or even movement. She heard nothing but silence.
Sensing that she had been temporarily abandoned, Claire turned her head toward the middle of the room. She hoped to see two people. Instead, she saw four.
From that moment on, April 10, 1945, became a blur. It became a jumble of smiles, greetings, hugs, and tears, an emotional procession that lasted for hours.
Slowly, tentatively, and unsteadily, Claire advanced. She stepped toward a smiling counselor, a tearful husband, and an adoption agency director who had lost none of her luster since sitting for a portrait. Claire stepped toward a little angel who, with one easy smile, managed to open the floodgates that covered her eyes.
Marie did not wait for Claire to walk the whole way. She met her client about halfway and then escorted her to the middle of the room. She spoke when they reached the others.
"Claire, this is Sarah Preston."
"Hello," Claire said in a barely audible voice. She rubbed her wet eyes and feebly offered a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Sarah extended her free hand and accepted the greetings.
"The pleasure is mine, dear."
Claire turned to Ron.
"Have you held her?"
Ron shook his head.
"I wouldn't let him," Sarah said. She beamed. "We have a tradition here at Family Aid, one that goes back fifty years. When we place children in new families, we pay homage to the women who will shape their lives. We give the children first to the mothers because mothers are the givers of life."
Claire wiped away more tears.
"I understand."
"I know of your struggles," Sarah said. "It's why I canceled a trip to Nashville this week. I wanted to be here when a very deserving woman became a parent."
"Thank you," Claire said.
Sarah tightened her hold on the baby, a smiling, gurgling, blond-haired cherub, and took a step toward Claire. Then she turned the child toward her mother.
"Claire, it is my pleasure to introduce you to a little girl who has stolen every heart in this building. Take her, love her, and give her the home she deserves."
Sarah gave the baby to Claire.
"Say hello to Hannah, Mrs. Rasmussen. Say hello to your daughter."
CHAPTER 17: DAVID
Thursday, April 12, 1945
David shook the hand of the friendly, talkative, beer-bellied principal, closed the door to his office, and stepped into a hallway at Moccasin Bend High School. He did not see an administrator, faculty member, or student, but then, he did not expect to. Most schools were devoid of human activity at five in the afternoon.
David had come to the high school, unannounced, following the last bell of the day for three reasons. He wanted to see the place, learn a little about public education in the 1940s, and establish his cover as a California man scouting local schools.
A minute later, he descended some steps, pushed open an outside door, and walked into a bright spring day. He walked to a sidewalk on Broad Street, turned south, and started for home. He didn't take three steps before hearing a familiar voice.
"Hello."
David turned his head in the direction of the voice and saw Margaret Doyle get up from a bench. He noticed right away that she was alone.
"Hello," David said. "Did you stay late to grade papers?"
Margaret smiled.
"I stayed late to speak to you. Mrs. Dennison, the school secretary, told me that a young teacher from California stopped by to see Principal Wiggins. I didn't need to know more to know that the teacher was you."
"Can I walk you home?" David asked.
"Of course."
David extended his arm in a welcoming manner and waited for Margaret to join him. Then he began walking with her toward Alton Park, St. Elmo, and their houses a mile away.
"Do you walk to school every day?"
Margaret nodded.
"I like the exercise. Do you walk to your school?"
"No," David said. He laughed. "I'm more of a commuting type."
"Oh."
"So what did you want to talk about?"
"I don't know," Margaret said. "I guess a lot of things. Let's start with why you came to see Principal Wiggins today."
"I told you already. I'm investigating the schools."
"So naturally you started with mine."
David smiled.
"I figured I'd start with a close one."
"What did you learn?" Margaret asked.
"I learned a lot of things," David said. "I learned, for example, that schools in Chattanooga, Tennessee, are a lot like schools in Long Beach, California. They focus on the basics and stress excellence. I like that."
"Is there any other way to educate?"
David chuckled.
"There shouldn't be."
Margaret looked at him.
"Did you learn anything else?"
"I did. I learned that the principal thinks highly of a certain history, geography, and civics teacher — a teacher who has blazed a few trails in her first year."
"You brought me up?"
"No," David said. "He did."
Margaret tilted her head.
"I don't understand."
"When I asked Principal Wiggins to explain why his school works, he told me it was because he has innovative educators. Then he singled you out. He said you have made 'boring' subjects like geography interesting by demonstrating their relevance."
"I assign book reports."
"You do more than that," David said. "You invite experts to speak to your classes. I heard about the Navy commander you brought in last month. Because of him, I'm sure your students have a much better understanding of Wake Island and Guadalcanal."
"They do. I think the best way to learn about a place is to visit it in person or listen to someone who has."
"I rest my case."
Margaret smiled.
"I should invite you to speak about California."
David laughed.
"Maybe you should."
"Maybe I will," Margaret said.
David let the matter drop and thought of other things. He thought of his new niece, the crystal he still had not found, and the fiancé that Margaret had barely mentioned. He brought up the latter when they hit a fork in the road and started down Tennessee Avenue.
"Speaking of Navy officers, tell me about Tom Pennington."
"What would you like to know?" Margaret asked.
"Let's start with the basics," David said. "What's his background? How did you meet? When did he join the Navy? How long have you been engaged?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"That's because I'm a student as well as a teacher. I believe the best way to learn about a subject is to ask a lot of questions."
Margaret smiled.
"Is my fiancé a subject, Mr. Baker?"
David chuckled.
"I guess he is."
Margaret took a breath.
"I met Tom four years ago at Middle Tennessee. He was a senior from an old money family. I was a freshman still learning my way around college. We bumped into each other at the library one day looking for the same book. He asked me to a dance that weekend and proposed eight months later. Then Pearl Harbor happened. I haven't seen him in more than three years."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I can't imagine how difficult that must be," David said. "Do you hear from him often? Does he send you many letters?"
"He does. He writes once a week."
"That's good."
"I think so. His correspondence is a lifeline," Margaret said. She looked at David. "How about you? Do you have a girl back home? Is there someone special in your life?"
David shook his head.
"I haven't had a serious girlfriend in two years."
"Oh."
David smiled.
"But I have fallen in love with a local girl."
Margaret raised a brow.
"Is that so?"
<
br /> "Yes, it's so," David said. "She's a stunning blonde with dazzling blue eyes and a smile that could launch a thousand ships."
Margaret blushed.
"What's her name?"
David laughed.
"That's the problem. I don't know. Ron and Claire haven't named her yet."
"You're funny," Margaret said.
"I'm a proud uncle. That's what I am."
"You're both."
"If you insist," David said.
Margaret smiled but did not respond. She kept to herself for several minutes as she walked with David through Alton Park, a mostly commercial district that stood between St. Elmo and the main part of Chattanooga. She broke the silence when the two teachers reached yet another fork and started down St. Elmo Avenue.
"I saw her yesterday," Margaret said.
"You what?" David asked.
"I saw your stunning blonde. I saw Claire play with her in your front yard. I wanted to walk over and say hello, but I didn't want to intrude."
"You wouldn't have intruded at all. You would have made Claire's day. She likes you. I know for a fact she likes you and wants to get to know you."
"You're being nice," Margaret said.
"I'm being truthful," David said. "You should come over tonight and meet the baby. Claire and Ron would like that. I would like that."
"In that case, maybe I will."
David started to respond but stopped when he saw a fiftyish man he had met six days earlier. The man, the neighbor who had told him how to find the Sweet Magnolia Café, leaned against the side of his Ford pickup and stared at the ground as if deep in thought. David slowed his step as he approached the man. He spoke when he reached the truck.
"Hi, Mr. Bierce," David said. "Are you all right?"
Robert Bierce turned his head.
"No, Mr. Baker, I am not."
"What's the matter?"
"I just heard some news on the radio."
"What news?" David asked.
Bierce sighed.
"Roosevelt passed away this afternoon. The president is dead."
CHAPTER 18: CLAIRE
Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5) Page 8
