What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (20 page)

“Dear Ms. Hugo,” the letter inside began. “We are in receipt of your request.” Her eye skipped over the boilerplate verbage and landed on the first pertinent bit of hard information. She hardly realized she was quietly reading aloud: “Unfortunately, most of our records were destroyed in a 1970 fire.”

She flung the letter onto her desk, then headed back to the door which she yanked open. Susan looked up, startled again, but Sam sailed past her toward the small office kitchen. She pulled a plastic water bottle from the refrigerator and marched back into her office and closed the door again without giving Susan any sort of explanation.

Sam took a long pull on the cold water and then picked up the letter to read the rest of it. “From the remaining files, we have been able to ascertain that your son was probably adopted within the state of California. We regret that we do not have an actual name or address to which we can refer you.”

This is almost worse than hearing nothing … this limbo of knowing and not knowing
. She brought the water bottle to her lips, but the liquid dribbled down her chin. Darting her hand up to sweep away the drops before they hit her blouse, she set the bottle down on her desk, walked to her window and stared at the trees outside.
Gregory. I wonder if they changed the name I gave him. Probably so. They’d have given him a name they liked, even if they did find the embroidery—or perhaps especially if they found it
.

Before she could stop them, the images rushed through her mind: the upturned face, the size-one shoes, the firm grasp on her finger, the first word, the trips to the Cove.
How he used to love that place. But he couldn’t possibly remember any of it
.
Bitterly, she realized that somewhere there was a thirty-one-year-old man who’d once been her son, and that she didn’t even know his name.

Kevin Ransom stepped into the opening of an unfinished door frame, reached up to place his palms against the crossbeam. Pressing his weight to stretch his shoulders and back muscles, he reveled for a moment in the slight rush of blood to his head.

“Ahh, that feels better.” Pulling his hands away carefully to avoid splinters. His stomach rumbled, and he glanced at his watch. Though it was only mid-morning, he’d already put in several hours of work.
I do have that cinnamon roll Sally gave me at the restaurant earlier. Nice of her. Funny how she always knows when I’m gonna want one later
. Inspired by the idea of munching it now, he nodded at a couple of his co-workers as he crossed the room and moved outside.

Inhaling a gust of fresh ocean air, he took a moment to gaze northward toward the view of the lighthouse. As he turned to walk down the driveway, he glanced over and noticed Burt changing the tire on his truck where it was still parked on the far shoulder.

Glad he finally made it back to work. Burt’s a bit odd. Doesn’t hang out with the rest of us much. He has other quirks too, but he’s a good worker. Don’t want to judge the guy on his personal issues
.

Dismissing Burt for the more important matter at hand, Kevin arrived at his own truck, reached inside for the sweet roll, unwrapped its protective paper, and sank his teeth into the confection.

Deputy Delmar Johnson strode into Sally’s Restaurant, carrying his manila envelope. If he wanted to gather any local scuttle-butt, this would be the place to do it.
I could eat something too … not sure whether I want a mid-morning snack or an early lunch
.

He glanced at the counter, pleased to see his favorite seat was available. All the stools but one faced the wall separating the dining room from the kitchen, on which were hung various calendars, local artist’s offerings and a white-board with today’s specials scrawled in colored markers. The lone stool Del favored was situated at the far end where the counter bent to form an “L.”
Just never been comfortable with my back to a door. From there, I can watch the comings and goings—get the whole picture
.

As he took his seat and bent down to lean the envelope on the foot rest, Sally came out of the kitchen carrying a full pot of
coffee. Catching sight of him, she called, “Hey there Dep’ty, how’s it flyin’?”

Del couldn’t keep from smiling when he heard Sally talk.
Her expressions… they’re not exactly familiar. Yet sometimes it feels like we’ve got common roots back in the south somewhere
.

But Del was city born and bred, a native Angelino who’d been on the job with L.A.P.D. in South Central. Now he roamed the highways of the Central Coast, catching glimpses of the small-town life he’d never known. Certain aspects of human nature, he’d found, were essentially the same, no matter the skin color or the location. But people could always surprise him, whether for good or for ill.

Now that he’d moved here, his once-narrow world widened, and his monochromatic palette become a more colorful spectrum. The people he met in this part of the state provided this window for him. And he was among the few African-American locals they’d see.
They’re a rainbow for me. Maybe I’m a prism for them
.

Indeed, he and Sally would never have known each other had they not both gravitated to Milford-Haven. Prejudice stood like a well-tended wall between races in Arkansas, and fear acted like an electrified fence in L.A., segmenting neighborhoods as surely as if they were in different time zones. Now the unlikely pair had become friends.

His gaze followed her as she grabbed an upside-down mug from the just-washed shelf, slung it right-side-up and filled it with a deep splash. “I hear congratulations are in order,” she pronounced. “Or maybe I should say Milford-Haven’s the one that needs to be congratulated for gettin’ a new Senior Deputy!”

He felt the heat come into his cheeks. “Thanks.”

“You’re shy about it!”

No way am I that obvious
.

“But … there’s somethin’ botherin’ you. Not havin’ a great day, huh?” Sally patted his hand sympathetically. “Don’t tell me you’re gettin’ ready to skip one of my fabulous, gooey sticky cinnamon buns!”

She’s tracking me as if I were hooked up to a lie detector. How did she get so good at reading people? I should ask for lessons
.

“No cinnamon bun today, Sally.”

“I know.”
Ahhh noou
, it sounded like.

At the screech of Sally’s front screen door, Del glanced up to see Ms. Hugo walk in, apparently too preoccupied to look up.
Sally sees her too. She doesn’t miss much of anything that goes on in her place
. “I’m not sure what I want yet”.

“You jus’ take your time. I’ll be back before you can spin ten times on that stool.” She smiled and walked away, placing her coffee pot back on its burner and grabbing a fresh glass of water.

Samantha Hugo glanced around looking for an empty corner table.
I guess Miranda isn’t here yet. I’m in no mood for Sally today. But that never stops her from needling me
. Sure enough, Sally approached Sam’s table, humming again, of course. Sam braced herself for whatever Sally would say first.

“Here’s some water, Samantha. On your own today? You usually don’t come in without Miranda.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Mean? Why, nothin’. Jus’ what you might call an observation.”

Sam stared up at her.
Was this an opening salvo, or an attempt to be nice? I have no idea which. Is it a thing Southern women do, masking their ulterior motives with a sugar coating?
“Could you bring me a cup of coffee?”

“Caffeine’s bad for you, Samantha, especially on a day like today.”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“Well, do your hands always shake like that?”

Sam looked down before she could stop herself.

“Here’s a menu,” Sally said sweetly.

“Fine!” Sam reached for the menu but succeeded only in tipping her water glass. Sally reached for it, but instead of righting the glass, she only changed the direction of the fall. Water splashed across Sam’s placemat and onto the front of her blouse. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Sam pushed back from the table and popped out of her seat.

“See what I mean? I knew you were jittery. I’ll get somethin’ to mop that up and be right back.”

While Sally hurried toward the counter, Miranda arrived. Seeing the mess, she grabbed napkins from the holder and went to work on the table, where pooled water was beginning to spill over the edge.

A moment later, Sally returned with a wad of paper towels in hand, and aimed at Samantha’s chest—which met Sally at eye level. “It’s only water so it won’t stain. Of course, on that print nothin’ would show anyway.”

“Stop!” Sam demanded, pushing the woman away. “I can clean it up myself,” she muttered through clenched teeth. She grasped the wad of paper towels and began stabbing at the front of her wet blouse.

Sally rolled up the soaked placemats, used paper towels to wipe the table, then put back the stainless steel rack that held salt and pepper, napkins and sugar. “You still want coffee, Samantha?”

Sam nodded.

“And I’ll have tea.”

‘You got it,” Sally replied, heading off to the kitchen.

Sam, checking to make sure her chair was dry, sat, and looked once again at her blouse.

Miranda took the adjacent seat. “I think it’ll be okay when it dries. So, I got your call. Further developments?”

The question helped Samantha stop spinning in frustration. “I got something in the mail.”

Sally reappeared with a pot of hot water in one hand, two mugs with tea bags in the other. “Gee, I wish I would get something in the mail. Sorry about that, Samantha. Here you go, girls.” She placed the two mugs and filled them. “Anythin’ else?”

“That’s
all
Sally,” Sam declared dismissively.

Sally, looking as though she’d been slapped, turned and walked away.

When she’d gone Miranda looked at her friend. “I uh … I have to get some work done, and I still haven’t planted my calla bulbs. And, uh, I agreed to have dinner with someone tonight.”

“That’s nice, Miranda. You deserve to have a night out with someone you enjoy.”

“Thanks, Sam. So what was in the mail? Is this about the adoption agency?”

Sam nodded.

“Did they give you the name of the people who adopted him?”

“No. They don’t have it. Their records were destroyed in a fire.”

It’s like sitting on a train, and being told it won’t be going any farther
. Samantha dabbed at a tear collecting in the corner of her eye. She tore open a packet of sugar and let the granules spill into her cup, then she swirled the mixture with a spoon. The two friends sipped their drinks in silence.

“Don’t they know anything about where he might be?” Miranda asked after a while.

“Chances are he remained here in California,” she said. “California’s an awfully big place.”

“But, that
does
narrow it down a little. What if you ask them—the State agency that wrote you the letter—if they could refer you to a different kind of agency, one that looks for missing children?”

“How can that help when I don’t even know my son’s new name?” Samantha protested.

“Well, you give them all the information you
do
have, like his birth date, and where and when he entered the system.”

“If I weren’t so close to this, and so upset, I guess I’d be thinking more clearly. But you’re right, finding an agency is a good suggestion. I’ll call the Associated Agencies as soon as I get back to the office.”

Sam swirled her coffee, then straightened her shoulders and felt her vertebrae align.
Maybe this isn’t the end. If I really want to find my son, maybe I’m just getting started
.

Sally O’Mally walked through her busy kitchen, nodding at June and the cook—who were prepping for the upcoming lunch
time rush—and walked into her private office. Still smarting from the sting of Samantha’s dismissal, she sat for a moment in her comfortable chair, reaching automatically for the homemade quilt she always kept thrown over its side.
I’ve seen her in a bad mood before, but not like this. I mean, I know the water spilled and all, but it wasn’t really my fault. And Miranda … well, she didn’t even say nothin’ about the message I left her about paintin’ my wall. And usually she stands up for me at least a little. I know she’s Samantha’s friend, but she’s my friend too. That was so awkward! When I stood there, the mood was thick enough to spread on toast
.