She nodded and pointed to the gray cat curled alongside the stove. “Georgia’s like me, old but still feisty.”
Although Floyd had no use for pets of any kind, he smiled, mumbled a few gushing words about the cat, then set the grocery bags on the table and moved on to asking questions.
“I’m looking for someone who used to live here. Tracy Briggs. Do you remember her?”
When Evelyn stood there looking puzzled, he pulled out the picture.
“This is Tracy,” he said, holding his thumb over the date on the photo.
Evelyn took the eyeglasses hanging from a string around her neck, set them on her nose, and took another look at the picture. She looked up and smiled.
“Sure, I remember her. Sweet young thing; used to stop by when she had errands to run and ask if I wanted anything. She knew getting out in bad weather was hard on me, so she’d pick up whatever I needed and carry it back. I watched her baby a few times; he was a cute little devil. I believe his name was Luke.”
“Lucas,” Floyd said. “Was Tracy married, or did she live with anybody?”
“She lived with a fellow, but I don’t think they were married.”
Floyd pulled the picture of Dominic from his pocket. “Is this the guy?”
She frowned and gave a nod. “Unpleasant as they come.”
Without needing encouragement, Evelyn went on to list a number of reasons for disliking Dominic.
“What puzzles me,” she mused, “is why a lovely girl like Tracy would bother with the likes of him.”
“Do you think it was because he was Lucas’s daddy?” Floyd asked.
Evelyn shrugged. “He might have been the baby’s father, but he sure wasn’t a daddy. He wasn’t even here the night that baby was born.”
“Why? Where was he?”
“Supposedly working,” Evelyn said and raised an eyebrow.
That afternoon, Floyd went from one apartment to another, asking questions. By the end of the day, he’d learned that to the best of anyone’s knowledge, Tracy had been a devoted mother who worked during the early part of the day, then spent evenings at home alone. Dominic worked off and on, and the last anyone knew he’d been bartending at a place called Rosie’s.
Michael Kudas, who lived directly across the hall from Tracy and Dominic, claimed it wasn’t Tracy who’d had the affair but Dominic.
“The afternoon she came home and found him with that blonde from the fifth floor, you could hear the ruckus a mile away. A few minutes after they stopped yelling, she took the baby and stormed out. That was the last I saw of her.”
“What did Dominic do?”
Kudas shrugged. “Stayed around a few months, then cleared out.”
When he finished at the apartment building, Floyd stopped in at Rosie’s and ordered a beer. As luck would have it, Rosie was behind the bar.
“How long have you worked here?” he asked.
She gave a husky laugh. “I don’t work here. I own the joint.”
“So you know Dominic DeLuca?”
Rosie rolled her eyes and gave a nod. “Unfortunately.”
“Why ‘unfortunately’?”
Rosie poured herself a beer, then leaned across the bar and told of how Dominic had quit with no notice, leaving her high and dry to find another bartender.
“He must’ve taken me for stupid with that cock-and-bull story about how he had to go home ’cause his grandma was dying.”
Rosie had a number of other things to say about Dominic, none of them good. Floyd listened for a while, then downed his beer and left. It was almost eight when he returned to the airport and hopped aboard a flight headed for Atlanta.
It had been a somewhat discouraging day. After talking to a dozen people, he had a dozen different opinions and not a single shred of evidence proving Dominic was or wasn’t Lucas’s father.
On the drive home from the airport, he decided to check out the Hawke School the following day. If Lucas was attending the school, maybe they had a record of his father’s name.
The next morning, Floyd drove to Barrington, and, as fate would have it, that Wednesday Lucas was attending classes.
Floyd spotted Tracy on her way in from the parking lot and recognized her from the newspaper photo. He quickly moved into her pathway and said, “Aren’t you Tracy Briggs?” When she nodded, he fell into step alongside her.
“I have a granddaughter who has a hearing problem,” he said, “and after I saw that newspaper article about how the school helped your son, I thought maybe I could ask you a couple of questions.”
“I’d be happy to talk with you,” she said, “but Lucas is on his way to class. If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll drop him off and come back.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Floyd said and parked himself on the lobby bench.
When Tracy returned, she sat beside him and answered question after question, explaining how she hadn’t at first realized Lucas had a hearing problem, and because of that, his deafness had gone undetected for fifteen months.
“What about his daddy?” Floyd asked. “Didn’t he notice?”
Tracy made it obvious she had no desire to talk about Dominic. “Lucas’s daddy is not in the picture,” she replied, then she moved on to telling of the cochlear implant surgery.
They spoke for almost an hour, and when there was nothing more to be said, Floyd thanked her and stood.
“If you want, I can take you back to meet Gabriel Hawke. He can tell you more about the school. He’s the founder.”
“Not now,” Floyd replied. “I’ll come back when I’ve got my granddaughter with me.”
As he pulled out of the parking lot, Floyd realized he was no closer to knowing whether or not Dominic was the father, but he’d learned that Tracy was indeed a very good mother.
32
The Report
On Thursday, Floyd spent the morning preparing a report for Alice DeLuca. He felt none too good about it, seeing as how he’d spent twenty-two hours combing through records and talking to everyone who was willing to talk and still had nothing. At least nothing that would answer Alice’s question.
He recapped the document findings and stated that while the time frame of Lucas’s birth coincided with the period when her grandson and Tracy Briggs were living together, no paternal name was listed on the birth certificate. After he’d detailed the comments of the apartment neighbors, he went back to the previous paragraph and added another sentence saying it was possible that the absence of a father’s name on the birth certificate may have been nothing more than an oversight.
Floyd prided himself on his ability to judge people effectively. After a two-minute conversation, he could say if a man was straight up or leaning to the shady side. It was part of being an investigator—anticipating a person’s actions and knowing what to watch for—but this case stymied him. That gut feeling, the one that was almost always right, was telling him the boy was Dominic’s son, but he couldn’t come up with a shred of evidence to prove it.
He wanted to state Tracy Briggs appeared to be a concerned and loving mother, not the kind of woman who’d be living with one man and having an affair with another, but again that was his gut talking. It was fine to follow his gut instinct when he was working a case, but the final report had to be based on proven facts.
He concluded with a paragraph telling how Lucas was born deaf and currently attended the Hawke School for Deaf Children. Moments before he folded the report and slid it into an envelope, he added a single line telling of his conversation with Tracy.
“Outward appearances would indicate the child’s mother is a responsible person who is devoted to the boy’s well-being.”
That night, Floyd tossed and turned, unable to sleep because the investigation was still on his mind. It was a relatively small case, one he’d spent a number of unbillable hours working. Plus, there were expenses he’d paid for out of his own pocket. He’d done all he could do and knew it would be best to simply set it aside, consid
er it over, and move on. But he couldn’t.
He recalled the worn leather handles of Alice DeLuca’s purse and the odd way she reminded him of his own mama.
It wasn’t his job to have an opinion. His job was to uncover the facts and report his findings to the client. He had a reputation for being accurate, not speculative, and yet . . .
When morning finally came, he was up earlier than usual. He shaved, dressed, and went to the diner for breakfast. After two cups of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs that sat there and grew cold, he pulled out his cell phone and called Alice DeLuca.
It was not yet seven o’clock, but she answered on the first ring.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said.
“Not at all; I’m an early riser.”
“I wanted to let you know I’ve sent a final report, and it will likely be in today’s mail. The thing is,” he said, “a report tells the findings but not my observations, so if you’d like to hear those—”
“Well, of course I would,” Alice answered.
“Please understand, my intention is not to speak poorly about anyone,” he said, “but since you’re the lad’s grandma and paying to know the truth, I feel you’re entitled to my opinion.”
“I appreciate that,” she replied.
“Granted, there’s no hard evidence proving Lucas is Dominic’s child, but I have reason to believe he is. I know your grandson insists otherwise, so the only way for you to get proof positive would be with a DNA test.”
Alice gasped. “DNA test? Like on those crime shows?”
“Yes.”
“Dominic may have some less-than-honorable tendencies, but he’s certainly not a criminal.”
“I wasn’t implying . . .” He hesitated a moment, then softened the thought by saying, “It’s really nothing more than a paternity test. Nowadays, it’s a fairly simple thing.”
“I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
“It’s the only way to prove paternity.”
“No, it’s not,” Alice replied indignantly. “Why, given a mother’s instinct, I should be able to tell whether or not he’s my grandson’s boy.”
“But I thought you said—”
Alice cut him off. “It’s not as I would wish it to be, but since there seems to be no other choice, I’ll do what I have to do.”
“And what exactly is that?” Floyd asked.
“Meet with Tracy Briggs.” There was a momentary pause, then she added, “It will be uncomfortable perhaps, but if I can find a reason to call on her, she might let me see the boy. Once I can look into his face, I believe I’ll know whether or not he’s Dominic’s child.”
Floyd remembered his own mama’s ability to tell when a person was lying and smiled. “I think you might be right,” he said. “In fact, I’m certain of it.”
He ended the call and asked the waitress for a fresh plate of eggs.
“It seems these have grown cold,” he said.
For the remainder of the morning, Alice sat at the living room window, watching for the mailman. It was nearly eleven when she finally heard his truck rumbling down the road. By the time he reached her mailbox, she was standing there.
Normally, she would have stayed and chatted and passed the time of day, but not today. She thanked him, then took the mail and hurried back inside.
There were three pieces of mail, but her hands immediately went to the thick envelope with “Tompkins Investigative Services” printed in the upper left-hand corner. It was the report she’d been waiting for. She slit the envelope open and sat at the kitchen table to read.
It was pretty much a recap of what Floyd had told her, but she went through the items one by one. Nine residents of the building in Philadelphia figured Tracy to be a good mother. The neighbor across the hall knew for a fact Dominic had been caught with a blonde from the fifth floor but had no knowledge of Tracy ever having an affair. When she read how Lucas had been born deaf and now attended a special school, tears came to her eyes and blurred her vision.
After she’d read each page three times, she refolded the report, slid it back into the envelope, and tucked it away in the kitchen drawer where she kept spare keys and important papers.
She knew without a doubt what she had to do.
33
Alice DeLuca
You never want to believe the worst of your own child or grandchild, but there comes a time when the truth is staring you in the face and the only thing you can do is see it for what it is. I believe now is that time.
I only wish Joe would have allowed me to be firmer with Dorothy. Maybe things would have turned out differently. He had an excuse for every irresponsible thing she did. Either it was growing pains or learning to spread her wings or not the way they did things anymore. He didn’t see that each time she got away with something, she became a bit more irresponsible and devil-may-care. She didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to shuck off the responsibility of her child. It took years and years of not having to answer for her actions that led her to it.
It’s too late for me to do anything about Dorothy, and maybe it’s too late to do anything about Dominic, but it’s not too late for that little boy. If he is Dominic’s son, I’ve got to set things straight.
This cycle of irresponsibility has to stop somewhere.
No one ever said being a parent is easy. It’s the hardest job in the world. There are no days off or vacation time; there’s no such thing as being too busy or too sick. From the time the nurse lays that little baby in your arms until the day they bury you, that child is your responsibility.
Daddy DeLuca understood that, but Joe never did. And unfortunately, Dominic is more like Joe than I care to admit.
This afternoon, I’m going to go see Miss Tracy Briggs, and I don’t plan to beat about the bush, either. I’ll come right out and ask if her little boy is Dominic’s son.
It’s a yes-or-no question. If it’s no, then it’s no, and that’s the end of it. If it’s yes, then I’ll have some heavy thinking to do. I’ve never met this girl, but if she’s as good a person as Mr. Floyd Tompkins seems to believe, she’ll be willing to hear an old woman out.
I’d like to pretend I’m not nervous about doing this, but the truth is I’m scared to death.
34
The Visit
Alice waited until Dominic left for work, then changed into the blue dress she wore for church. She pinned the matching hat in place, checked her reflection in the mirror, and then removed the hat. It somehow seemed too formal, intimidating perhaps.
She wanted this to be a friendly conversation, one in which both parties would feel free to speak their minds.
True, driving was a bit of a problem, but Alice was certain she could manage. After all, she’d driven that car for a number of years and knew everything there was to know about it. So what if it had sat idle for a while? Driving was driving, and it was not something a person forgot.
She’d considered asking Charlie to come along and handle the driving, but if Tracy Briggs slammed the door in her face, the embarrassment would be too overwhelming. No, this was something she had to do herself.
She tucked a spare hankie into her purse, nervously lifted the ring of keys from the peg where they’d hung for as long as she could remember, and started for the garage.
Once inside the car, she sat there for a full two minutes remembering the step-by-step process. Since she’d been ill, she was getting more forgetful, but driving was almost like walking. It was something you did without having to think about it.
She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine sputtered but didn’t catch. She switched it off. There were other times when the car had refused to start, and she remembered having to pump a pedal a few times.
Is it the gas or the clutch?
Uncertain, she did both and tried again. This time the engine caught but clicked off seconds later. She slid her seat as far forward as it would go, pumped the pedals again, then tried for a third time. When the en
gine grumbled and came to life, a sense of relief washed over her, and she smiled. I can do this. She checked the rearview mirror a third time, inched back until she was clear of the garage, then pulled out onto the road.
The telephone book had a single listing for Briggs. Since G. Briggs was the only one in Magnolia Grove, she’d copied the address in large block letters, the kind she could see without her reading glasses. Starting out, she’d felt rather confident, but once she turned onto the main road that ran through town, her palms grew sweaty and she felt her heart thumping against her chest.
Talking to no one but herself, she said, “Nothing to be nervous about. I’ll flat-out ask if the boy is Dominic’s son, and if she says no, I’ll turn right around and come home.”
A small voice inside her head argued, But what if she says yes?
Following a route she hadn’t driven for seven, maybe eight years, she made a left onto Lakeside and a mile later turned onto Baker Street. Going at the speed of a turtle, she drove along the street, checking the house numbers until she came to the Cape Cod with a brick walkway and freshly painted black shutters. She pulled to the curb and sat, taking it in. With impatiens overflowing the flower beds and a weathered swing hanging from the roof of the front porch, the house had a welcoming look. Hopefully that was the case.
Alice summoned her last ounce of courage, tucked her purse beneath her arm, opened the car door, and started toward the house. Her finger trembled as she pushed the doorbell and listened to it bing-bong.
A woman with streaks of silver in her hair answered. She looked a bit like the photograph in the newspaper but older. Too old for Dominic.
Alice tried to smile, but her face felt frozen. “Tracy Briggs?”
The woman laughed. “Heavens, no, I’m Tracy’s mom. Did you want to talk with Tracy?”
Alice nodded and this time managed a feeble smile. “If it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Lila pulled the door back. “Come in, make yourself comfortable.” She turned toward the back of the house and hollered, “Tracy! You’ve got a visitor.”
A Year of Extraordinary Moments (A Magnolia Grove Novel) Page 11
