Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (17 page)

“Is there a particular time that works best for me to come interview her?” Gemma asked.

“If you’re free tomorrow at noon, that works for her.”

“That’s perfect,” Gemma said.

It was Monday, barely seven o’clock, and time-wise, for the article, Gemma was right on track. Given all the information Pauline had provided, the pictures she’d taken with her phone camera, Bea’s story, and now a resident’s, she was right on schedule. Hopefully tomorrow and Wednesday she’d be able to interview past residents and perhaps an adoptive mother. She could have the piece written and sent to Claire at the
Gazette
by Friday morning, when Alexander expected her to head home to New York.

She did miss her husband. And granted, it was only Monday. But Gemma was not looking forward to leaving Boothbay Harbor. She felt so . . . herself here. Safe. Far, far away from
her husband’s opinions and so in tune with her own. He wasn’t hounding her the way she thought he might; he texted instead of calling, letting her have this time to herself. She leaned back on a chaise lounge, one eye on Allie, and let herself relax, the late June sunshine still abundant in the sky.

Allie began fussing in the swing. Gemma pushed the off button and scooped Allie up, but she was starting to cry. Oh no. Now what? Gemma bounced her, but she started crying harder, and her face was turning red.

The baby was squirming and crying hard. A couple who’d come out onto the patio were staring at Gemma.

How long had it been since she’d come out? Twenty minutes? Maybe she’d peek in and see if Isabel and Bea were finishing up? She didn’t want to interrupt the interview, especially an “interactive” one.

The baby screamed louder. Isabel’s face appeared at the window, and in moments she was coming toward Gemma. Gemma felt like an incompetent moron. She couldn’t handle a crying baby? She couldn’t do this for thirty minutes.

She’d confirmed what she already knew. She wasn’t cut out for this.

“What’s wrong, sweetcheeks?” Isabel said to Allie, taking her from Gemma. The baby continued to cry, which, Gemma had to admit, made her feel a little better. “Gas in the tummy? Teething? Let’s go try your favorite teething ring.” She smiled at Gemma. “Thanks for watching her. I forgot to mention she’s teething up a storm right now. Oh, and by the way, your friend Bea knows her way around a stove. Her scrambled eggs rivaled my aunt Lolly’s, and that’s saying something. I was called to
the front door to sign for a package, came back, and she’d even cleaned everything up in the time I was gone. I’ll check her references, but I’ll tell you, I owe you, Gemma.”

The baby was just teething. Gemma wasn’t the worst caretaker on earth. And Isabel wasn’t annoyed at her for not being able to handle Allie. Add Bea getting the job—if her references checked out—and Gemma would say today had gone from crazy to pretty darn okay.

At noon the next day, Gemma arrived at Hope Home for her interview with seventeen-year-old Chloe Martin. She recognized Jen and Kim, the pregnant girls whom Bea had been talking to yesterday. They were lying on the chaises under a tree, each reading a book on pregnancy. Another girl, who wasn’t yet showing, was doing some yoga moves. Gemma headed in and found Pauline at the front desk.

Pauline stood up. “Hi, Gemma, Chloe is waiting for you in her room. I’ll introduce you.”

The director led Gemma to an open door down the hall. A girl who looked to be around five months pregnant sat on one of the two beds in the room. There were at least ten posters above her bed. One Direction. Vincent Van Gogh’s
Starry Night.
Justin Bieber. Chloe was pretty, with silky brown hair to her shoulders, and hazel eyes.

“You can sit there if you want,” Chloe said, pointing at the chair of the desk near her bed. An identical desk was across the room near the other bed.

“I appreciate your interest in letting me interview you for my article. If you don’t want me to use your name, I can change
it to protect your identity. If there’s anything you tell me, and you realize now or later that you don’t want me to write about it, you just tell me, okay? And I’ll take it out.”

“Okay,” Chloe said. “That sounds good.”

“Is it all right if I record our interview?” Gemma asked.

Chloe nodded and leaned against the wall, her legs straight out in front of her. She held a throw pillow to her stomach, embroidered with “I love you.”

Gemma put her recorder on the desk and pressed play, then got out her notebook and pen. “Pauline told me you’re keeping your baby. Can you tell me about making that decision?”

Chloe put her hand on her belly. “I always knew I’d keep him—I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, but something just tells me it’s a boy. I’m going to name him Finn.”

“Finn, I like that name.” Gemma hadn’t even considered names yet. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Because the baby doesn’t feel real yet, she reminded herself. Because you haven’t accepted reality.

Chloe smiled. “Me too. It’s not after anyone.”

“Can you tell me about the father of the baby?”

Her face lit up. “Dylan. He’s my boyfriend. He’s stood by me when no one else has. My parents think I’m ruining my life. My mom said she’d be a good grandmother and she’d babysit on occasion but that if I was making this choice, it would have to be whole hog, that I couldn’t rely on her to raise this baby for me.”

Gemma couldn’t stop focusing on how young Chloe was. Seventeen. And about to be a mother in four months. “Where will you live after you give birth?”

“I’ve already got a job lined up. An elderly lady who lives
around the corner from us down in Massachusetts and needs a live-in caregiver hired me. There’s a small studio apartment attached to her house, and I’ll get room and board and a small salary. My boyfriend and I will get married when I turn eighteen, and then Vivian said he can move in too. He’s finishing high school and I’m getting my GED.”

Gemma hoped with all her heart that this would all happen. “Why did you come to Hope Home, Chloe?”

Chloe glanced away for a moment and gripped the pillow tighter. “My mother made it clear that if I was insisting on having the baby, I’d have to do this on my own, she wasn’t going to make this easy on me. She researched homes for pregnant teenagers and there was a spot open, so here I am.”

“What do you think about this kind of ‘tough-love’ approach?”

Chloe shrugged. “I’m getting through it is all I know. I’d rather be home than here, especially because Dylan can only visit me on weekends for only a whole Saturday. It’s okay here, though.”

The home did seem like a warm, inviting place for these girls. “How did you feel when you found out you were pregnant?”

“Scared. But I love Dylan, and I can’t imagine giving our baby up. I know most of the girls here are but I just can’t.”

That had to be a big topic of conversation among the residents. “Does that affect your relationship with them?”

Chloe shrugged again. “Some think I’m making a huge mistake, that at seventeen I won’t know how to be a good mother, that I’m not giving my baby his best possible shot at life. But I think I’ll be a good mother. Everyone says I’m kidding myself, that I don’t know anything about what I’ll be facing.”

“Do you feel ready to be a mother?”

“I know I’ll take care of him. I’m not some irresponsible loser. I’ve been reading some of the books on baby care. But you know what? The reason I’m not really scared?”

Gemma leaned close.

“I love the little guy like crazy already,” Chloe said.

Gemma sat back. She talked to her stomach sometimes, but again, the baby still didn’t feel real. Maybe once it did, Gemma would feel a bit like Chloe felt.

“Do you have kids?” Chloe asked, looking at Gemma’s wedding ring.

“No, but I’ll tell you a secret. I’m pregnant. Just seven weeks. I haven’t told anyone but a girlfriend. Even my husband doesn’t know yet. I’m waiting for the blood test confirmation.”

Her doctor had told her the blood test results would be in by tomorrow or Thursday at the latest. She’d get the positive results, and there would be no excuse for her not to pick up the phone and tell Alexander. It would be wrong not to tell him.

She’d get the results and then she’d tell him. She’d go over her plan before she called, lay it out for him, how she saw their future. But he’d steamroll her, she knew it.

“You’re so lucky,” Chloe said. “You’re married, you’ve lived life, you have a career. It must feel like a real blessing. God, I wish I were in your position. I’m so jealous.”

Gemma sat back on the chair, the breath knocked out of her for a moment.

On Wednesday morning, Bea woke up in her little room at the Three Captains’ Inn, her bed much more comfortable than at the super-budget motel. On the second floor, a former large utility closet had been transformed into a cozy room with a small arched window out of a fairy tale, pale cabbage rose wallpaper and a full-size bed with a beautiful wrought iron headboard and a soft old quilt embroidered with seashells. There was also a small dresser with a round mirror above it, a soft rug, and a painting of a distant lighthouse. Bea could live without a private bathroom; there was a large bathroom right across the hall that no one used because the other three second-floor rooms had private baths. And Gemma’s room was just upstairs on the third floor, a tiny one like Bea’s, across from the honeymoon suite, which was now taken over by three very serious Colin Firth fans.

Bea had moved in late last night, just a day after the interview with Isabel. Her boss at the Writing Center and Bea’s old boss at Crazy Burger—not Crazy Barbara—had apparently given Bea glowing references. She was starting work this morning, which was perfect because she had very little money left. She was responsible for cooking the guests’ breakfast, leaving the order taking and schmoozing to Isabel. After breakfast, she’d clean
up the dining room and kitchen, tidy up the common rooms and patio, and keep a running list of what grocery items the inn was running short on. Her workday began at six and ended at eleven, and for that, she received a room, free breakfast, use of the kitchen for all other meals, and a small salary. The inn was beautiful and cozy and so close to downtown. After what had happened Monday afternoon at Hope Home, Bea had felt so adrift, so unsure of what the hell she was doing here, but thanks to Gemma, Bea now had some grounding. Even better, Isabel said she was okay with Bea’s inability to commit to the entire summer. July fourth was booked solid, the week before and after, and Isabel had said as long as Bea could promise to stay until mid-July, she could have the job.

Of course, now that she felt more grounded, she felt a bit more ready to contact her birth mother. Maybe today was the day. She could call her, they could meet for lunch or something like that, and since Bea was staying in town for a few weeks, they could have coffee now and again, so that Veronica wouldn’t have to feel obligated to spill out her entire life story in one hour-long first meeting. Unless she wanted to, of course.

At least, that was how Bea envisioned it would go. They’d meet for lunch and talk. Bea would ask about Veronica’s life, about her family. She’d ask who her biological father was and if Veronica thought he’d be open to contact. Then their lunch would be over, and they’d go their separate ways. But now that she was here, with a place to stay and a job, she could meet with Veronica a few more times, and perhaps they could get to know each other a little.

The sun was just starting to rise. Bea got out of bed and moved over to the narrow chair wedged by the beautiful little
window and looked out at the breaking dawn over the huge oak trees. She loved this room. On the small dresser, she’d put her two favorite family photographs next to the collection of pretty seashells that were here when she’d arrived. She moved to the dresser and picked up the photo of herself as a four-year-old with her parents. “You are my parents, no matter what,” Bea whispered, setting the picture down and picking up a seashell, which reminded her of her father. Keith Crane had loved the ocean, and had told Bea when she was very small that if she had a question she couldn’t figure out the answer to, all she had to do was find a seashell, big or small, hold it up to her ear, and listen.