by B. E. Baker
He smiles broadly and bites his lip. “Well, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
Ugh. “Start with the bad, I guess.”
“You know that Brekka was prepared to compete in the Special Olympics next year. . .”
Oh, no. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why can’t she compete?”
Rob smiles so wide that I can practically see his tonsils. “Well, they won’t let you compete if you’re pregnant or if you recently had a newborn.”
“Huh?” Had a newborn? Wait. They got married in February, and now it’s May. My hands begin to shake like I’m using discount hair dye. “Are you kidding me right now?”
He shakes his head. “Not a joke, a honeymoon baby.”
And then I’m crying, and so is Rob, and I’m leaning across the center console of the car to hug him, and I’m screaming, and I’m a total mess. “Oh my gosh, Rob!” I shriek. “This is just the best news in the whole entire world.” I can’t stop shrieking.
“I had to tell you in person,” Rob says. “I knew you would be the most fun person we told.”
“I just. . .” I can’t think of the right words. “Oh my goodness, Rob, a BABY! This will be the most adorable child of all time, and don’t take this the wrong way, but let’s hope that baby gets Brekka’s brains.”
Rob laughs out loud, his belly laugh shaking the car. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“Do you know whether it’s a boy or a girl yet?” I ask.
Rob smirks.
“You totally do! You have to tell me.”
“My beautiful wife wants a huge party with a big surprise gender reveal after the formal twenty-week ultrasound, once we know things are all on track.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t not tell me now that you know.” My mouth drops open. “Wait, how far along is she? Don’t you have to be four months to know the gender? Or is it five?”
Rob laughs. “We’re eighteen weeks, but Brekka’s high risk due to her lack of mobility, so they did a blood test at ten weeks.”
High risk. A chill runs up my spine.
Rob covers my hand with his. “It’s going to be fine, Beth, I swear. Don’t fret. Brekka and her mom are anxious enough for everyone, believe me.”
I bet they are. “You’ll be in my prayers morning, noon, and night.”
Rob squeezes my hand and then releases it. “You need to get going. I don’t want to get you fired, but I wanted to see all that unbridled glee. Brekka did, too, but she had to tell Trig before we left. She’s in charge of some kind of graduation speech in Colorado again, and then she has a bunch of client meetings across the east coast next week.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “And I could not possibly be more excited for you. But get on that gender reveal party. I have some adorable baby blankets to knit.”
“It will happen soon.” Rob’s right eyebrow rises. “Wait, you knit?”
I laugh. “Not even a little bit, but how hard can it be?”
He grimaces.
“Oh please. If I can’t figure it out, that’s what Etsy’s for.”
He laughs this time. “Alright, well, drive safely to your fancy restaurant, and have fun.” He leans over and kisses my forehead, and then he climbs out of the car.
I can’t suppress my smile as I pull out and drive away. My brother is having a baby! I wonder whether he or she will have Brekka’s flashing golden eyes, or Rob’s deep blue ones. One thing is sure. It won’t have my squinty ones. No one in the family does—or my unruly curls, or my pasty pale skin. Because we aren’t really related, not genetically, anyway.
Not that it matters. I’ll love that baby exactly the same, no matter what.
My phone buzzes again, and I wonder whether it was Rob calling me earlier. Maybe he forgot to tell me something and he’s calling me again. Or maybe he’s rethinking the gender surprise thing. I never touch my phone while I’m driving, but it syncs with my Bluetooth, so with the press of a button, I answer the call.
“Hello?” I ask, expecting Rob’s baritone.
“Hello,” a smooth soprano voice says. A woman’s voice, and definitely not Brekka’s.
“Uh,” I say, “I answered in my car, so I can’t see who’s calling. Who is this?”
“Is this Elizabeth Graham?” The woman has a stiff accent, Germanic maybe.
“Yes, this is Beth,” I say. “Who are you?”
She clears her throat, but it’s not gruff, and it’s not choppy. Somehow, it’s elegant. Who clears their throat elegantly? “My name is Henrietta Gauvón.” The name is familiar, but I can’t quite place why.
“Uh, okay,” I say. “Well, I’m actually not looking to renew my warranty right now.”
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Why are you calling?” I ask. “Because if you’re trying to sell me something—”
“Actually, this is a strange circumstance,” she says. “And my English is not the very best of speaking. I don’t use it enough to make it really good.”
Henrietta Gauvón. I think about the name—and wonder whether it’s a name from the musical world. Then it hits me—she’s a singer! Very famous in Europe, but not so much in the United States.
“I don’t have any trouble understanding you,” I say. But why would a European singer call me?
“I was hoping you might have time to meet with me,” she says. “You see, twenty-five years ago, I gave birth to a child. I gave that child up for adoption.”
I yank my car over to the side of the road and slam it into park. My fingers tremble. “You did?”
“It was a closed adoption, so I was unable to find you for ah, much, no, many years.”
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the steering wheel.
“Are you there?” she asks.
“I am,” I say. “I am here.”
“Are you in Atlanta? That’s what my studier of people tells me.”
“Your investigator?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “I am sorry. Do you maybe speak German?”
I nod my head, but of course she can’t see me. “I do. My mom and dad made me take it for all four years of high school, but if I’m being honest, I’m not very good. Your English is probably way better than my pathetic German.”
“It was my one requirement for the adoption,” she says. “I wanted us to be able to talk if we ever meet. But then, I worried, and I tried to learn the English too.”
My heart swells until I worry it might burst. How can this be happening? I’ve been dreaming of this moment for at least twenty years.
“I’m only in Atlanta for the night,” she says, “but I would like much to meet you.”
“Can you come to a restaurant tonight?” I ask. “I’m working, but I’d love to see you. And I get a discount, so you would get a discount on your meal.”
“It would be my great pleasure,” she says. “Are you waitress?”
This time, I’m the one clearing my throat. “Uh, no. I’m actually a pianist.”
“Ah, you play the piano?” she asks.
“Right, yes I do,” I say. “At a place called Parker’s on Ponce. It’s in downtown Decatur, which is north of Atlanta. I can text you the address.”
“Is where?”
“It’s north of Atlanta, like above it, on the top side.” What’s the word in German for north? I can’t recall.
“I am already in the top side of Atlanta,” she says. “So it’s easy for me to get to you.”
“Perfect,” I say. “When you arrive, tell the host that you’re there with Beth Graham and they’ll seat you close and make sure you get the discount.”
“I’ll be wearing a red dress,” she says. “I can’t wait to hear you play.” Then she hangs up.
I breathe in and out several times before I put my car back into drive and pull back onto the road. I’m going to meet my mother, my real mother. I wonder what she’ll look like. Will she have freckles? Or smooth, pale skin? Will her eyes be brown like
mine? Or lighter? I’m still trying to imagine the face that would match her smooth, refined voice when I pull into a spot around back. I have three minutes to get inside.
I flip the visor down and smooth my hair back. No time to do more than apply some lip gloss and straighten my boring white shirt. I wish I could wear something dramatic, like a bright blouse, or a jaw-dropping evening gown. Oh, well. I glance every which way when I arrive, wondering whether she’s already here. Could she be? But everywhere I look, there are pairs of people.
Unless. Could she be here with my father? My heart stutters at the thought. It’s stupid, of course. If she and my dad were together, she’d have kept me, surely. And probably mentioned that she was with someone on the phone.
But why is she here? Work? Pleasure? Just to see me? My mouth goes dry at that thought. Could she have flown here from Europe to meet me?
Focus, Beth. You have a set to play. I wave at the manager, Stephanie, and sit on my stool. Tonight, for the first time, she wants me to start taking requests. It’s not as hard as it sounds, since she has limited the requests to a few hundred super popular songs, and they have sheet music for all of them. Plus, people aren’t as critical of flubs when you’re playing something they requested instead of a prepared piece. In fact, most of the restaurant patrons are just amazed that I can play at all.
None of them know I almost went to Juilliard, before I screwed it up.
They have no expectations of me, so they aren’t disappointed either. I pull out the songs Stephanie wants me to start with—classical pieces so that the guests can focus on their dinner conversation. I don’t start playing the fun songs until after eight, and requests don’t begin until nine. I fumble a bit on the first few songs, distracted every time someone new walks in, but eventually I lose myself in the music. Which is good—I can’t be bumbling around in front of my mother, the famous singer.
When I take my break at eight, I check with Peter, the host for tonight. “Has anyone said they were here for me?”
He shakes his head. “You’re expecting someone?”
A frog in my throat keeps me from explaining. I nod. “Henrietta is her name.”
“Cool,” he says. “I’ll save a table close to the piano.”
“Thanks.” I spend the rest of the break googling my mom. She’s a lot more famous than I realized. She started with opera and only branched out into pop music about a decade ago. She’s worth quite a bit of money, and she’s about to go back on tour for her new album, Sagenhaft. It won’t be released here for another eleven days, so I can’t listen to any of the songs yet.
But when I listen to one of her other albums, I realize why I recognized her name—she always has a pianist accompanying her. I’ve even played some of her songs. I had one piano teacher who adored her music. I scroll frenetically through one interview after another. In one, she mentions falling in love with the depth of the piano when she sang opera. I’m scanning through an interview about her new album when Stephanie taps my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m about to start again.”
“Peter wanted me to tell you that your friend came,” she says. “And I have to say, she’s really stunning. Who is she, and is she single?”
I almost laugh. My boss likes my mom? “Um, I don’t think she’s gay.” Although, I guess you never know.
“Pity.” Stephanie walks away.
My eyes sweep the area until they stop on a tall, thin woman with long, wavy curls that fall halfway down her back. Which is much more dramatic because her fire engine red sheath dress is backless. And unlike me, her skin is nearly bronze. But when she meets my eyes and smiles, her dark brown eyes crinkle up just like mine.
She lifts her hand at me, and I reach for the piano keys. And I play like I’ve never played before—smoother, more easily, as if her presence somehow boosts my natural ability. Somehow she focuses me on what I could always do.
When Stephanie announces that we’re open for requests, I’m not even nervous. That means I only have another hour to play before I can talk to my real mother, face to face, for the first time in my life. My fingers fly over the keys, note perfect. And when I finish “Piano Man,” for the second time, and I realize it’s four minutes after ten, I stand up and curtsy. “Thank you for being such a gracious audience tonight.”
For the first time since I began playing here, nearly every guest claps. They clap and clap. Just when I’m worried they’re going to demand an encore, from a stupid background piano gig, the applause tapers off.
Thank goodness.
I sling my bag over my shoulders and walk the fifteen feet that separate me from Henrietta. “Hi,” I say, suddenly unaccountably shy.
“That was beautiful performance,” she says. “Please, sit. I order food for you, too. Your very nice boss told me you are finished at ten.”
I glance at the plate on the table—filet with a béarnaise sauce. My very favorite, and somehow she just knew. “That’s the best thing on the menu,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
She grins, displaying beautiful, pearly white teeth. “I don’t eat meat, but your boss tells me is your favorite thing.”
Wow, she’s vegetarian? She must really care about animals. I feel a little guilty eating the filet in front of her, but not too guilty. After all, I don’t want to waste it. “Well, thank you.”
I sit across from her and realize that since she’s not eating, I look and sound like a slobbery bull in a china shop. “Uh, did you already eat?”
Henrietta smiles. “I don’t eat a lot.”
Of course she doesn’t. She looks like she weighs under a hundred pounds. Holy wow. I must have a good twenty-five pounds on her at least. “Oh. Well, that’s impressive. I eat all the time.”
“You look very active. I’m sure that’s perfect.”
“Thanks,” I say. “So what did you think? It was a little stressful, knowing that my famous musician bio-mom was watching me play.”
“Your playing is absolutely stunning,” she says. “I was very impressed. I wish I could play half so well.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “That means a lot coming from you. But of course, I can’t sing anywhere near as well as you can. I mean, no one really can.”
She turns her hundred-watt smile on me, and my heart soars. “I am so happy I took the chance to meet you. I was nervous to call, and I hope your parents will not be upset.”
“Please.” I shake my head. “I’m an adult. Besides, they’re really supportive. I’m sure they won’t care.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “I requested to talk to you several times over the years, but they always declined. I finally hired a professional to search for you.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I can’t tell her that. Not here, not now. I blink a few times. “Um, well, they’re pretty protective, but I’m sure they’ll be happy we’ve met. You know, since I’m twenty-five years old. Besides, it’s not like you need their permission anymore.”
“I am happy to see how musical you are. Do your parents play or sing?”
I shake my head. “I’m the only musician in the family. Both my parents are practically tone deaf.”
She frowns. “That’s too bad. Do they still support you?”
“Of course they do, all the time. With all of it.”
“Good. Many people do not understand the life or heart of an artist.”
My heart lurches a bit. “They don’t always get it, but my mom likes to sew and that’s similar.” Sort of.
“Sew?”
“She takes fabric and makes it into clothing.”
Henrietta’s mouth turns down slightly, her lips compressing.
“But tell me about you! Your new album! Your tour, all of it. You’re so fascinating.”
She talks about her inspiration for her new songs, the irritating woman at her record label, her amazing manager. I barely blink, and I realize Parker’s is closing.
“I am so glad you called me,” I say.
>
Henrietta sighs. “Me as well. I only wish we had more time.”
I nod my head vigorously. “Me too. Can you extend your stay at all?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t. My tour starts soon, and I’m only traveling because. . . for a press engagement. I had a layover here when I heard that you were living here. I extended the layover, but I must leave tomorrow at the latest.”
“I read about that online,” I say.
“Ah,” she says. “Well, my manager told me yesterday that my pianist is pregnant and quite ill. He’s working to find a replacement, but. . . after hearing you tonight, perhaps you would like to take the position. Would you be interested in joining me on tour?”
The pianist for my internationally acclaimed mother? Going on a European tour that runs all summer? Uh, yes. A million times yes.
The ramifications of such a decision crowd around me—my chair at the salon, Brekka’s high-risk pregnancy, the part-time gig here that I only recently landed. I’d have to give up my chair, I’d lose my spot here, but. . .
Going on tour with a real celebrity, who also happens to be my mother. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I already blew one of those. Most people don’t get a second one.
“I would love to,” I say. “Yes.”
If you enjoyed the sample, grab your copy of Finding Home now!
Acknowledgments
Thank you, as always, to my husband. He is THE BEST and he makes my writing possible. He also gives me all his gobs of money, all his time, and all his love. I hope he knows that I give it all right back. MOSTING.
Thanks to my son Eli for cheering me on whenever my energy or excitement flags.
Thanks to my parents, both of whom support this endeavor in every way possible.
Thanks to my readers. I love you guys more than you know. My early review team is also THE BEST. I appreciate your guts.
About the Author
