The second photo she’d taken of Simon was on the set of The Soup Kitchen. He was behind the camera, setting a shot, his shoulders slightly curved, his face focused. She allowed herself to stare at this one for several minutes. But tonight the tears didn’t come. She hadn’t had enough wine. Instead the cavern in her chest opened wider until all that was left was the terrible emptiness that had once been him.
Next, she held the manuscript to her chest, knowing the story of the Seattle girl and her young mother dying of cancer not only because she’d read it so many times but because she’d lived it once. It was her story before Simon captured it so beautifully in his manuscript. And now it was nothing but these sheets of fading pages in her hands.
Lastly, she picked up the slip of paper. The last words he’d ever written to her. Gone for donuts. Gone. Never to return.
She put everything carefully back into the box and returned it to the closet, next to her ordinary things - this Pandora’s box of another time and place.
Then she went to her stereo, kneeling on the floor as she rifled through her old LP’s for music to suit her mood. There was every type of music, much of it from her mother’s collection but some added in the last several years because of the resurgent interest in old LP’s as collectors’ items. She was embarrassed to say how many hours she spent on the Internet finding and ordering from vinyl sellers all over the world.
She chose Pink Floyd. As the lyrics to Wish You Were Here engulfed her as only music could, she grabbed her wine and curled up in the blue chair closest to the stereo. The rain continued outside, cascading down the window in sheets.
From her purse by the door, her cell phone rang. She uncurled from the chair and reached into the bottom of her bag. What was this number? Should she answer?
Against her better judgment, she answered.
“Hi, Cleo. Scott Moore here.”
“Hi, Scott. How did you get my number?”
“One of your teacher friends gave it to me. Hope you don’t mind? I promise I’m not calling to ask you out.”
“All right.” What was wrong with this man?
“That’s a lie. Actually I am.” He sounded amused, which annoyed her further. “No, I’m calling because I just talked with someone from my office and it turns out we have several birth mothers who specifically put in their profiles that they wanted musical adoptive parents. I couldn’t help but remember you said your friend is a music professor.”
She shivered. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. What did this mean? Was it a sign? Just then her phone buzzed in her hand, indicating another call. She held it away from her ear and looked at the small screen. It was Sylvia. Was it another sign? She looked out the window. The rain still pounded against the pane. “I’ll let her know,” Cleo said. “I’ll have her contact you if she’s interested.”
“Does this mean you’ll agree to go out with me?”
She hesitated. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s see what she says first.” She said goodbye and clicked over to Sylvia.
“Can you meet me at Cooper’s?” asked Sylvia.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” she said, already heading towards the bedroom to find her favorite sweater.
ALSO BY TESS THOMPSON
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Sometimes we must face our deepest fears to find hope again. A redemptive story of forgiveness and friendship.
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