When Love Returns

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Everyone offered the expected laugh, but Suzanne noted Alexa’s chuckle seemed subdued. Alexa eased around the table and placed her hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. “Mom, if taking on the responsibilities of the B and B is too much for you and you really, really don’t want me to go, I’ll stay.”

  Assuming Alexa’s responsibilities was the least of her concerns. How would she survive if Alexa found and bonded with her birth mother? How would she handle being with Anna-Grace every day yet unable to claim her as her child? She clamped her teeth tight to prevent any worries from spilling out.

  “Mom?”

  Suzanne pulled in a breath, praying for strength. “You go, do what you need to do, and…” Tears threatened, but she blinked and forced a wobbly smile. “Don’t worry for one minute about the bed-and-breakfast, your pie-making business, or me. Everything will be completely intact when you return.” Except maybe my heart.

  Indianapolis

  Cynthia

  After dropping the kids off at school on Monday after New Year’s, Cynthia drove straight to the private investigator’s office. She’d always hated driving in downtown Indianapolis. The congested streets, the buses blocking her view, the frequent stoplights—and impatient drivers who chose to speed through red lights rather than honor them—left her edgy. She’d stated her apprehensions during breakfast, and Glenn cautioned her not to allow negative thoughts to claim even a tiny portion of her mind. His words rang in her memory.

  “Today the search for your daughter begins. This is a day of hope and excitement, the first step toward dreams-come-true. A celebration day, Cyn.” She wished she could push aside the deep apprehensions and focus solely on the positive, the way her husband did. But the fear followed her like a black cloud.

  She parked in the second level of a six-story-tall parking garage and walked two blocks to the historic stone-and-plaster building hunkering in the midst of more modern granite or steel-and-glass structures. An icy wind gusted, chilling her frame even through her thick wool coat, and she shivered as she ducked into the tiny half-octagon-shaped alcove that shielded the wide, raised-panel wooden front door.

  For a moment she huddled in the alcove, her eyes closed and her heart pounding in a wave of intense nervousness. She pressed both palms to her chest and sent up what had become a familiar prayer in the past week—Lord, let her forgive me. The short communication calmed the frayed edges of her nerves. Even though her earthly father had abandoned her long ago, her heavenly Father was always available. She’d lean into His strength for the next several minutes.

  She drew in a breath, squared her shoulders, and closed her hand over the elaborately etched brass doorknob. But the knob didn’t turn. Old door, cold weather—it was probably just being stubborn. She curled both hands around it and tried again. No, it was locked. She frowned. Had she gotten her day wrong?

  She pulled the scrap of paper from her pocket and double-checked the date and time. January fourth, 8:00 a.m. Exactly right. And she was at the right place. Vinyl stick-on letters in a simple block font spelled out OWEN MALLORY, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR on the door’s glass window.

  The locked door on the old building, the unpretentious signage, and the fact that part of the retainer was nonrefundable swirled into the other worries she’d carried all morning long. Was this Owen Mallory a con artist, preying on desperate people? Glenn had assured her Mr. Mallory was well respected, a former police officer who’d turned to PI work nearly a decade ago—someone they could trust. So where was he?

  Cynthia chewed the inside of her lip. Should she stay or leave? The cold air discouraged her from sticking around very long, but she wanted to get the investigation started before she chickened out. She dug in her purse for her cell phone to retrieve Mr. Mallory’s number and give him a call. Before she located him in the phone’s memory, someone called her name in a growly voice. She spotted a man across the street, waving his hand over his head. Tall, salt-and-pepper haired, wearing a long leather coat and cowboy boots, he looked like a gunslinger from one of the westerns Glenn watched on late-night television. He hollered, “Are you Mrs. Allgood?”

  Shivering, she nodded.

  “Be right there.”

  Instead of moving to the protected crosswalk, he stepped to the curb, glanced right and left, and made a dash between honking cars with his coat flaring out behind him like a cape. She stifled a chortle. A former police officer had just jaywalked?

  He crossed the wide sidewalk in two strides, forcing other pedestrians to step aside or be mowed down, and stuck out his hand. “Good morning.”

  Cynthia placed her hand in his and grimaced when his fingers clamped tightly. For a slender man, he had a powerful grip.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” His voice was gruff, as if he had gargled a throat full of gravel. “My car’s in the shop, so I had to take the buses this morning. Of course they weren’t on schedule.” Disgust colored his tone. He released her and jammed a key into the lock, his movements so precise and forceful, Cynthia subconsciously drew back. He swung the door open and held his hand out in a gesture of invitation.

  She hesitated. His intensity, as if he pulsated with nervous energy, intimidated her.

  He bobbed his hand. “Well? Are you going to get out of the cold?”

  She met his gaze. His eyes, almost as silvery gray as the salt strands in his hair, blazed with passion and purpose. In that moment she decided she could trust him. With a nod she stepped over the threshold.

  Arborville

  Paul

  Paul hurried through the back doorway of his house and closed the door firmly behind him. He shuddered as the warmth of the room touched him. He tossed his coat over the back of a chair and moved to the stove, where he’d left the half-full teakettle sitting. With a snap of his wrist, he lit the burner under the kettle. A second cup of instant cocoa might warm him up again.

  As he waited for the water to boil, he listened to the wailing wind. Was there some saying about January coming in like a lion? He didn’t think so, but maybe there should be. This year was starting off with a fury. Most of December he’d let Danny walk to school. Only six blocks—not too far for a boy his age to walk. But the outside temperature today was the coldest he could remember. His breath had seemed to turn to ice crystals when he exhaled. Danny might get a frostbitten nose. Maybe it was good he didn’t have any big jobs lined up for January—he’d be more available to see to his son.

  He frowned, worry nibbling. What had gotten into Danny lately? He’d always been a good boy—curious and rambunctious, yes, but respectful. And cooperative. But his midyear report card from school had included a note from the teacher, Mr. Brungardt, about Danny’s failure to complete several assignments and his displaying an attitude of flippancy. As soon as he read it, Paul sat his son down for a stern talking-to and instructions to change his behavior, and Danny had promised to do better. But this morning when he’d dropped Danny off for the first day of school after Christmas break and issued a reminder to keep his focus on his work, the boy scowled and bounced out of the truck without a word.

  The kettle whistled, startling Paul out of his musing. He’d enjoy a cup of cocoa, spend some time in prayer—after all, God was better equipped to carry this worry about Danny—and then he’d start drawing the plans for an expansion to the Josts’ toolshed. As he emptied a packet of cocoa mix into his mug, the telephone jangled. Still holding the empty packet, he moved to the telephone and plucked up the receiver. “Hello, Aldrich Construction.”

  “Paul?”

  The familiar female voice sent a jolt of reaction through his middle. He dropped the little packet onto the countertop. A puff of cocoa powder burst from the wrapping and dusted the once-clean surface. He turned his back on the mess and gripped the receiver with both hands. “Yes, this is Paul.”

  “Thank goodness you’re home. This is Suzanne Zimmerman.”

  His thundering pulse told him he’d already identified her. He swallowed hard and forced a casual tone.
“What can I do for you, Suz…anne?” It was so hard not to call her Suzy, the way he had all through his growing-up years. The way he had when he’d accompanied her to the barn loft when she was seventeen. The way he continued to think of her.

  “I went to our basement to hang a load of wash this morning, and there’s water standing an inch deep. I called Clete, but Tanya said he’s on his way to Wichita to pick up a part for his truck, and she suggested I call you.”

  So he wasn’t her first choice as a rescuer. Why did that bother him? He coughed out a short laugh. “I’m not really much of a plumber.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think it’s a plumbing problem. I sloshed through the water and checked all the exposed pipes. None of them are wet. So the water has to be coming from something other than a leaky pipe. I’m afraid it’s a foundation problem.”

  Paul pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment, gazing at it in surprise. Then he put it close again. “I’m impressed. I don’t know any other woman who would even step into a waterlogged basement to search for the source of the leak.”

  “I’ve had so many years of taking care of things on my own, it didn’t even occur to me not to check things out.”

  Sympathy swelled. She’d shown amazing strength to raise a daughter to adulthood by herself and handle all the responsibilities a husband and wife normally shared. He’d only been widowed for three years, and too often he floundered with Danny. How had Suzy managed so successfully?

  “Are you available to come out?”

  A hint of desperation crept into her voice. So there were some things she couldn’t handle on her own. He couldn’t resist teasing. “You sound as nervous as the day you found a garter snake in the girls’ outhouse at school. At least water isn’t slithery and creepy.” Funny how he recalled the exact words she’d used to describe the intruder.

  A soft laugh carried through the line. “Yes, well, but it is cold and bothersome. And I’m no more eager to deal with it than I was that snake.”

  So she remembered, too. His heart expanded. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out as quickly as possible and see what I can do.” Concern smote him, and sternness entered his tone. “But don’t go into the basement again. Your farmhouse has electricity, and electricity plus standing water can be dangerous.”

  “Oh.” Both contrition and sheepishness colored the simple exclamation. “I didn’t think about that. I had my mind on Alexa and—”

  He waited, but she didn’t finish her thought. He said, “Do you know where the breaker box is located?”

  “Yes. Oh! Just a minute, Paul.” Her voice became muffled, as if she’d turned the telephone against her shoulder, but he still caught her words. “Anna-Grace, don’t go down there. There’s standing water in the basement, and Mr. Aldrich says it could be dangerous.”

  He nearly groaned. Anna-Grace Braun was there, too? Just what he didn’t want to do—spend a day under the same roof as Suzy Zimmerman and the daughter they’d conceived but hadn’t raised.

  A mumbling reply came, and then Suzy’s voice, strong again, met his ear. “Sorry about that. The breaker box is in the pantry.”

  He closed his eyes and wrestled his emotions into submission. “Okay. While you’re waiting for me to arrive, go to the box and turn off the breakers for anything in the basement.”

  “How will I know which are for the basement?”

  “They should be marked.” Should, but they might not be. Not unless Cecil Zimmerman had taken the time to indicate which breakers went with which rooms. “If they aren’t marked, just wait for me, but please don’t go downstairs again, all right, Suzy?”

  “All right, Paul. And thank you.”

  The connection ended. Not until Paul settled the receiver back in its cradle did he realize he’d called her Suzy. And she hadn’t corrected him.

  Indianapolis

  Cynthia

  “All right, Mrs. Allgood, let’s go over the information you gave me and make sure I have it all down correctly.”

  During their hour together in Mr. Mallory’s musty-smelling office with a cold draft chilling her feet and traffic noise constantly intruding, Cynthia had adjusted to the sound of his gravelly voice. She’d even managed to stop staring at the toothpick he poked in and out of the corner of his mouth with his tongue when he was listening intently. But the emotionless tone he employed continued to rankle. She’d poured out details of the most painful time in her life. Couldn’t he inject at least a tiny element of warmth in his voice?

  He angled his laptop, raised his chin, and squinted at the glowing screen as he began reciting in a near monotone: “ ‘Baby girl delivered in basement of a friend’s home morning of December 3, twenty years ago. Baby never weighed, not taken to hospital, no birth certificate issued. Baby wrapped in towels and left in cardboard box—sturdy liquor box—behind the garage of the Indianapolis Home for Unwed Mothers on morning of December 4.’ ”

  He glanced at Cynthia, and she was certain she glimpsed condemnation in his steely eyes. She cringed, imagining what he was thinking. What kind of person leaves a baby that way? Defensiveness rose as she recalled the fear and desperation that had prompted her choices. One of Glenn’s favorite sayings tiptoed through her mind—“Don’t judge until you’ve walked in that person’s shoes.” She started to recite the phrase, but Mr. Mallory went on.

  “ ‘Mother observed woman taking baby from the box into the garage.’ ”

  Despite his flat delivery, Cynthia experienced enough emotions for both of them. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the young woman lean down and peel back the edges of the towel, ribbons from her Amish-style cap trailing down to touch the flaps of the box. Her face had exhibited shock, but after only a moment’s pause, she scooped up the wailing baby girl and hurried into the garage with her.

  Cynthia had wanted to follow, make sure her baby was okay, but her friend had yanked her to her feet and dragged her away, whispering, “C’mon. We gotta go. We don’t wanna get caught out here.” Numb, weak from childbirth, heartsore, she allowed herself to be tugged up the alley. And she’d never seen her baby again.

  She swallowed a knot of sorrow. “Do you think you have enough information to find her?”

  Mr. Mallory slapped the laptop closed and rocked in his squeaky chair. “It doesn’t seem like much written out that way, but it ought to be enough. You know where the baby was left. You saw her picked up and taken inside. So that gives us a starting point. I’ll do some digging at the library in the newspaper archives, see if I can locate an article about an abandoned baby around that time. Lots of times there’ll be follow-up articles, too, about the kid finding a home. I might be able to find the names of the adoptive parents just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  Cynthia’s stomach churned, but she forced a smile. “It…it would be nice if it all happened quickly.” Then she could bring an end to the wondering and worrying.

  He didn’t smile in reply. “But you need to remember, just because I find the name doesn’t mean we’ll automatically find your kid. Some names are so common. There are a dozen Bill Phillips or whatever in town. Takes a while to find the right one. Sometimes people move out of state and I have to track them down. The name is just the first step. There’ll likely be lots of steps before I connect with the folks who raised your girl. Might take a year. Even two.”

  Two years? How would she survive a two-year wait? The past week had left her battling nausea and sleeplessness.

  “Of course, the longer it takes, the more it costs. Your retainer covers twenty hours of billed time. So you’ll have to decide if you want me to keep looking once the money’s gone.”

  Cynthia cringed. She and Glenn couldn’t offer anything more than they’d already committed. If the retainer were refundable, she’d take the money back right now and pretend Glenn had never given her the gift in the first place. Not proceeding meant squandering the sacrificed dollars. She sighed. “Mr. Mallory, what we gave you is all we can spare. So if y
ou use up the money before you find my daughter, just close the file and be done.”

  “Whatever you want, Mrs. Allgood.”

  She left his office, conflicting prayers hovering in the back of her heart. She wished she knew for sure what she wanted concerning her long-lost baby girl.

  Arborville

  Suzanne

  Suzanne perched on the second step from the bottom of the creaky basement staircase. The dampness of the cellar-like space beneath the house always felt cool, but today it was frigid. Paul had used a garden hose to siphon out as much water as possible. The shoebox-sized basement window was still cracked open, the hose dangling toward the floor like an exhausted snake, and chilly wind whistled through the gap. The warmth of the upstairs beckoned, but she crisscrossed her arms, hunched her shoulders, and stayed put.

  Only a tiny beam of sunlight penetrated the dusty pane of glass, not nearly enough to expose the entire basement, but she knew Paul was still working. The scuff of his footsteps, an occasional bump as if he had collided with something, and the swing of his flashlight beam proved his busyness even though she couldn’t see him in the deep shadows.

  And he likely couldn’t see her. She should let him know he wasn’t alone. She cleared her throat. “Paul?”

  The scuffing sounds stopped, and the flashlight beam aimed in her direction. “Yeah?”

  “What’s the verdict?” She held her breath, half-afraid of the answer. After all the money they’d spent renovating the house to accommodate Mother’s wheelchair, their funds were sorely limited. She prayed whatever he’d found wouldn’t require a costly fix.

  The beam of light grew closer, his frame a dark mass following it. When he reached the stairs, he stretched his hand toward her. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  The last time she’d taken his hand and allowed him to lead her, she’d created consequences that still haunted her more than twenty years later. She drew back. “It’s okay. I don’t need help.”