“At the commune?” He stopped his busywork and tossed the rag over his shoulder as he turned to face her straight on.
“That’s right. You’re looking at a genuine love child.”
“Wow. So you’re a native too.”
“I guess I am.”
“Well, then.” He reached beneath the counter and brought up a bottle and another glass to pour himself a shot. “Welcome home, Hannah.” They clinked glasses.
She watched his throat work as he downed the shot of whisky. She sipped her drink. It was nice to be distracted. Really nice. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For making me feel better.”
He leaned against the bar again, tightening the little circle of quiet around them. “So this isn’t just a walk down memory lane?”
“No. Not by half.” He watched her, his gaze steady. Maybe he was enjoying being distracted too. She decided to add a little flesh to the bones. “I don’t know who my mother is. We left California. She stayed here. I’m hoping she could still be around.”
“It’s not a big community. What’s her name?”
Hannah cringed and raised one shoulder.
“Ah. Secrets, indeed.”
She hid her embarrassment behind a smile. “I don’t suppose you know an old, incorrigible hippie woman with a taste for whisky and trouble? If so, send her my way.”
“I’ll keep my eye out.”
“Thanks.” Smiling couldn’t hide her embarrassment anymore, so she finished her drink and stood. “I’ll be right back with my wallet.”
“Don’t bother. It’s on the house.”
“Oh, come on!” she protested. “I don’t want your pity meal. Or drinks.”
Gabriel laughed, showing off slightly crooked bottom teeth that she found charming. “Pity didn’t even come to mind. Consider it a welcome-home gift.”
She tilted her head suspiciously. “Are you trying to keep me from coming back to pay? Want me to get out of your hair?”
“Definitely not. I already promised information to lure you back, didn’t I?”
“Ah. A devious plan. Tonight?”
“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll call around and see what I hear this afternoon.”
“Thank you again,” she said, not promising anything herself. “For everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took a few steps before remembering her jacket and cringed before she turned back to grab it. She was almost through the door when he called out.
“Hannah?”
“Yeah?” She stopped in the doorway and met his warm eyes.
“We close at nine.”
Her neck tingled as she pushed through the door, his gaze prickling her skin. Yep, she was coming back tonight. No doubt about it.
CHAPTER 10
Nancy Drew had never had to deal with the internet.
It should have given Hannah an advantage, shouldn’t it? All that information at her fingertips in an instant, just waiting to be found. But Hannah suspected the internet had only made her soft. When it failed her, she could only sit dumbly and stare at the screen.
She’d found only the same few stories about hippies in Big Sur. Plus, far too much information about people named Smith who lived in California. And although she’d found a hopeful link to Monterey voter registration records, the files only went to 1944. Not even close.
She wished she were back at the roadhouse, having another drink.
But all hope wasn’t lost. She discovered that she could access voter files at the Monterey County registrar’s office. She’d drive there tomorrow and check into it.
But property records. There had to be an online database somewhere. She tried several searches before she stumbled upon it. The database wasn’t user-friendly. Or intuitive. But it would do. She didn’t have a parcel number to look up, but she did have a name. Unfortunately, Peter Smith didn’t come up with any hits in fifty years’ worth of records.
“Okay,” she whispered. She could do this. She typed in “Tucker Neff.” And there it was. A deed granted to Tucker Neff from Jonathan Worley seven years before. Satisfaction at this small victory made her growl.
She typed “Jonathan Worley” into the search and found the deed that had moved the property into his hands. And so on. Six owners back, she tried one more search. The result punched her in the gut.
Smith. Her own name right there, lit by the glow of her computer screen.
It wasn’t Peter Smith. It wasn’t her father. Instead, it was a man named Jacob Smith, granting the deed to a new buyer in 1972. “Jacob Smith,” she whispered.
My God, was this man a relative? An uncle or a grandfather or a cousin? Smith was a common enough name, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d owned the land where she’d been born. Had it been a family farm? Had the commune come later? After 1972?
She searched his name and saw that the deed had been transferred to him in 1967 by an Abigail Freya. Hannah wrote down the names and both document numbers so she could see the actual deeds if she needed them.
And then she sat back and took a deep breath. She finally had something real.
Grabbing her phone, she saw she had no signal, so she sent Becky an email instead. Have you ever heard of Jacob Smith? I think he’s a relative of ours.
While she waited for a reply, she tried searching for “Jacob Smith” and “Big Sur.” Nothing came up. So she tried “Jacob Smith” and “Peter Smith,” leaving off a location.
And it worked. It worked. There were a few hits from random genealogy sites that had nothing to do with her family, but the fifth entry down was a link to a Santa Cruz newspaper.
She licked her dry lips and clicked on it.
The site was a scan of the front page of an old newspaper, and right there in the middle was a picture of her father. And this was the ’60s version of her father she’d expected. Glasses. A suit. Short hair receding halfway back on his head.
But no. That couldn’t be right. She glanced at the date of the paper. 1966. Her father had only been twenty. How could—
Then she saw the second man in the picture. A boy, really. Skinny and shy-looking. Wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt and a tie, but no jacket. He held a book in his hand, and his head was turned toward the older man.
Hannah scrolled down, and a caption appeared. “Preacher Jacob Smith and his son Peter Smith hosted a revival meeting at the Santa Cruz fairgrounds for a crowd of hundreds before moving on to Watsonville.”
Preachers?
She reached a careful hand to the screen and touched the shape of Jacob Smith’s jaw. Her grandfather’s jaw. It wasn’t the answer she’d been looking for, but it felt important. A clue for her to follow, yes, but it was more than that. Her father had claimed his parents had both been dead by the time he was eighteen. Here was his father, still alive in 1966, and owning land until 1972.
Why would he have lied about his own parents?
Her email chimed.
Where are you? Are you okay? I just tried to call and I couldn’t get through. I don’t recognize the name. How did you find him? Is he a cousin? Please call.
Hands shaking, Hannah wrote back.
I can’t call. I’m on Wi-Fi but there’s still no cell signal. Jacob Smith is our grandfather. Dad said he died, but he was still alive in 1972. I found him through property records. Are you sure you don’t remember anything? Maybe you could ask Rachel.
She attached a link to the newspaper article and hit “Send,” trying to ignore the stab of guilt over revealing another of her father’s lies. It felt wrong, but what the hell else was she supposed to do? She wasn’t the one who’d lied. These weren’t her secrets to protect.
Her computer chimed in a tone she didn’t recognize, and she jerked back from the keyboard. Her eyes traveled around and around the screen until she spotted an icon bouncing at the bottom. A video call.
“Oh, crap,” she groaned. Becky had found a way to make contact.
Sh
e waited for a few heartbeats, then a few more, seriously considering rejecting the call. But in the end, her love for Becky won out and she opened the application.
“I’ve been so worried!” Becky said as the screen opened to reveal her face far too close to the computer. “Are you okay? Is everything . . . I mean, good Lord, Hannah. Is he really our grandfather? Is this serious?”
“Get your nostrils out of the camera, Becks.”
Becky pulled back a little, revealing her face and a wild mass of blond waves. She looked as if she’d been literally pulling her hair out with exasperation. “I thought you were looking for your mother!”
“I am, but I found him too.”
“Like . . . he’s there?”
“No, of course not. He’d be ancient. But we were born on land he owned. I’m on the property right now. He was here. You must have known him.”
“I was three.”
“Still, you must remember having a grandfather!”
“Why are you yelling at me? Do you remember anything from when you were three?”
Hannah sat back and bowed her head, waiting for her temper to pass. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is all so crazy. What was Dad hiding? Somebody must remember something.”
“If his father was a weird traveling preacher, I’m going to assume that growing up with him wasn’t easy.”
“I guess.” She made the video window smaller and looked at the newspaper picture again. “He married Mom the year this picture was taken. And then they moved with Jacob Smith to Big Sur.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so. They had Rachel here. Then you. And then I came along. How did that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Becky, there’s something else.”
Her sister groaned. “Of course there is.”
“This place was a commune.”
“A what?”
“A commune. Young people. Hippies. Free love.”
Becky stared into the monitor for a long time before she burst into laughter. “Oh my God, Hannah! You can’t be serious.”
“I am. There were a lot of them out here. And it explains where I came from.”
“Well, it doesn’t explain anything else! Mom and Dad as hippies? You’re insane.”
“They lived here. There was a big communal garden. Cabins. A bathhouse.”
“Hannah, I accept that you want to find your mother, but this is ridiculous. Mom and Dad were never hippies.”
“But—”
“You just called to tell me we had a grandfather who was a preacher and owned the land. How does that fit into this tale of free love and socialism?”
Hannah had opened her mouth to argue, but she snapped it shut. Becky was right. Jacob Smith had been a Christian preacher, so the truth must be more complicated. Maybe Jacob had bought the farmhouse and shown up to find a bunch of hippies living in the woods. Maybe he’d even let them stay. From what she’d read online, they’d all been squatters and rebels in those days, camping out on grand estates or in state parks. Refusing to leave. Claiming it was America and they had the right to go anywhere they liked.
So maybe there had been a commune, but the Smiths hadn’t been part of it until Peter had been drawn into sin and love with some dark-haired nymph. That certainly made more sense than the Smiths participating in LSD-fueled orgies.
“Maybe you’re right. I’ll know more soon. A local guy is helping me out.”
“Just some guy? Is he a weirdo?”
“He’s not a weirdo.” Feeling a blush rise to her cheeks, she changed the subject. “How’s Mom?” The word hung in the air for a moment. A lie. A mistake. But what else could Hannah call her?
Becky slumped a little. “Not great. She got another UTI.”
“Oh, no.”
“She spiked a fever yesterday. Got panicky. I think she was coming down with it before you left. That’s why she was acting strange.”
“I don’t think that’s why,” Hannah said dryly, but she swallowed her bitterness. “They’ve got her on antibiotics?” She’d spent her whole life with no idea of how dangerous urinary tract infections were for the elderly. A quiet, hidden illness that could kill them before anyone realized what was happening. But now she knew all the details and dangers because her mother got an infection every six months or so.
“Started them last night.”
“Once she’s better . . .” Hannah cringed before she could even get the words out. Her conscience tried to keep them in, but she pushed hard against it. “Once she’s better, maybe you could ask her about Jacob Smith.”
“I’m not doing that.” Becky sounded as hard as Rachel in that moment. As if Hannah were asking the unthinkable.
“Right. Okay. I’ve gotta go.”
“Hannah, just—”
“Bye. Love you.” She hit the button to end the connection.
She didn’t need their judgment. How could they possibly understand? She was upsetting their comfortable, cozy lives, and they hated it. Fine. But she’d never felt cozy at all. She’d felt strange. And now she knew why.
Until now, the lie had only been about her. But now her sisters were involved too. They’d had grandparents they’d known nothing about. A family they’d been denied.
Good. Now she wasn’t alone. They were all in this. They could feel a little of what she was feeling.
She closed the video window and got back to work.
CHAPTER 11
She was going to have to call her ex. Not for emotional support, but for actual, concrete information. Jeff was a professor of American history, and the 1960s was history, wasn’t it?
Granted, his area of specialty was the industrial revolution and nineteenth-century trade, but he covered classes right up through the modern age. And loved it all, really.
But even if he had little knowledge of 1960s California, he’d know where to get it. If he still cared enough about her to help.
That was a damn big if.
Her stomach tightened and rolled at the idea of reaching out. She was trying to move on, and she hated looking back. The past was so much easier to deal with when it was getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.
She didn’t want to reach back, did she? Or was she actually using her grandfather as an excuse to bring Jeff closer again? No. She needed him gone. She wanted him gone. Probably.
“Shit,” she groaned, glancing at the clock. It was already ten fifteen in Chicago, and she couldn’t call from here anyway. She’d try tomorrow when she got to civilization. But now that she’d decided to do it, she couldn’t just lounge around and live with it. She needed to take action. It was her way of coping with life. Better to make a mistake than spend days rehashing the same questions and doubts.
Hannah opened an email window and typed in his personal address. In the subject line, she wrote a simple “Hi.”
“Shit,” she groaned again. But then she dove right in. I’m sorry to bother you. I know things are . . . complicated. But I don’t know who else to ask.
She typed, “I’m sorry,” again, then deleted it with a grimace of disgust. She’d opened with her sorriness, and she wasn’t going to pepper it throughout the note.
She was sorry, though. For a million things. For everything.
Flexing her fingers, she stared at the screen.
She ran from problems. That was her standard MO. Maybe because early in life she’d convinced herself that leaving Coswell, Iowa, behind would be her key to happiness. That if she could just get far enough away, she’d find the right place. She’d transferred that belief to relationships too. So she ran, and that meant she had to live with regrets instead of facing consequences.
A fair trade. So Hannah ignored her guilt and sorrow and typed up the facts instead.
She didn’t reveal all of the truth. Just some of it. The part about her father, but not her mother. She wrote:
But the story feels all wrong. I don’t understand why my dad would have lied ab
out his own father. And I don’t understand some of the things I’m hearing. But I’m running into a dead end online. Do you have any suggestions for finding more information about this man? If you’re willing to help . . .
She added a link to the photo she’d found, hoping he wouldn’t be able to resist looking into this mystery whether he wanted to or not. Despite their recent differences, she knew him. Knew what he liked. What he loved.
Blowing out a long breath, she nudged the mouse up and clicked “Send” before she could second-guess herself.
When she looked up, she realized how dim it was in the cabin and glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. Hannah slammed the laptop shut and jumped up. She wanted to at least brush her hair and put on lip gloss before she saw Gabriel again.
Thank God she had something to do tonight; otherwise she’d sit around incessantly checking email.
She brushed her hair and rubbed a face wipe over her skin so she’d feel slightly less old and tired. After putting on powder, blush, and a little gloss, she changed from tennis shoes into boots and chose a different shirt. Then she grabbed her black leather jacket and headed out.
The old-fashioned key didn’t seem secure enough to her. It was charming, sure, but it felt like there could be dozens of them floating around with the cabin number written in giant font on each of them. But she locked up tight anyway. She’d lived in the city too long.
As she stepped off the wooden platform into the dirt, she caught movement from the corner of her eye and swung to the right. Cabin four was there, and she thought maybe the quick rush of movement she’d seen had been someone ducking between the two cabins. Frowning, she crept forward, eyes locked on the edge of the wall, hands fisted in defense in case someone jumped out at her.
The key bit into her hand, and she was happy for the damn thing now as she twisted it around to stick out between her fingers, just as she’d learned to do at eighteen when she’d gone off to college.
She moved slowly, even as she wondered why, what difference could it make, why bother when whoever it was knew she was there? But her internal argument didn’t bolster her courage, and it didn’t quicken her steps. It felt like her heart raced through a thousand more beats before she drew even with the corner of the cabin and peeked around it.
Half Past: A Novel Page 12
