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Open With Care

Excerpt From A Novel By

Tina Appleton Hendricks

Chapter One

Unexpected News

 

Normally, Edmund Lawrence Bayers was an amazingly attractive, even-tempered man – always happy, even when friends sometimes called him  “Teddy Bear.” On one golden autumnal afternoon, however, he was furious as he quickly left the girls’ dormitory at Glenbrook Junior College and climbed into his SUV.  His hands were shaking so that he could hardly start the engine. Sophie, his wife sat silently beside him.

“You idiot!”  Bayers raged at her.  “Everything had gone so well, all that junk we brought had actually fitted in the dorm room, the new computer was hooked up, we’d set up an account for Jennifer in the local bank and checked out her roommate – then you had to open your big mouth and tell her.”

He had never in 25 years of marriage behaved so cruelly to his beloved Sophie.  She was too busy crying to answer him.  Not another word was spoken during the two hours it took to drive from Glenbrook, located along the Hudson River about 45 miles north of Manhattan, to their Connecticut home.  When they finally pulled into their driveway Larry’s pallor had left him and his hands had stopped shaking, but Sophie’s nose was still running and her eyes were still puffy.

Finally, she cleared the huskiness from her throat and said, “I think she took it pretty well, don’t you?”

###

For several minutes after her parents left the room Jennifer Bayers lay on her bed, her long body curled in a fetal position.  She reached for a blanket and pulled it up to her chin.  With her eyes closed, she tried to erase the memory of her mother’s words.  A surge of nausea brought her to her feet.  As she lurched down the hallway in a search of a bathroom she collided with Gloria Pirro, her roommate.

“My God, you look terrible.  Are you all right?  Here, let me help you.”

Gloria was shocked at the sudden change that had come over Jennifer.  Two hours ago when she had met the Bayers they had all seemed exceptionally healthy and happy. The parents, like her own, were dark-haired and stocky, not handsome, but their tall blonde daughter, with her scrubbed complexion and remarkable violet eyes, was a standout.  They were an odd trio:  the short and the dark, the fair and the tall. Only their speech tied them together:  they all spoke softly and carefully.  Sophie’s voice had the vestige of a Southern accent, and in Larry’s there was a flat, almost nasal tone that suggested New England.  Jennifer’s speech habits were atypical of most young women.  The overworked phrases of “I was like,” and “Wow” were absent.  The word “awesome” was seldom used by Jennifer.  For much of her life she had been home-schooled by her teacher-mother and in her isolation from her peers had not been contaminated by the current clichés.  The result was a surprisingly mature, disarming way of speaking.

Jennifer had another distinction.  She could be funny. Unfortunately, on that day, the time of her introduction to college life, the day that marked her first separation from her beloved parents, her sense of humor died.

Try as she might, she had no reply when her mother blurted out as she started to leave, “Jennifer, we love you so much.  It’s so hard to leave you.”

Sophie could not control her tears as she said, “ We are so proud of you.  We fell in love with you from the moment Dr. Hall showed us your picture.  You were just three days old.”

Realizing what she had said, Sophie’s emotions broke down completely.  For years she had postponed telling Jennifer about her adoption.  She had felt a sense of guilt and shame about being unable to bear children.  As a teacher in kindergarten her work had fulfilled her maternal longing, or so she thought –until their doctor friend told them about a beautiful, healthy, 18-year-old who had for several months been a patient in an out-of-state shelter, known as a discreet haven for unwanted babies.  The mother-to-be had agreed to give up her baby on condition that she remained anonymous.

Larry gasped and clenched his jaws as Sophie continued her story. He looked over at Jennifer who was gripping the edges of her chair seat as she listened to her mother’s revelations.  The expression on her face revealed little.  She had long been curious about her birth to a 42-year-old, grey-haired woman and had sometimes wondered why she had outgrown her two short-legged parents.  By the age of 14, Jennifer had reached 5’8” and was still growing.  Now, not yet 18, she had finally leveled off – at 5’10.”

She remembered how at a family party, she had created an embarrassed silence when she laughingly said,  “I’m zooming up as fast as our Christmas trees.  You must be feeding me some special vitamins.” Unaware of the unease at the dinner table she continued, “Sometimes I think I must be some kind of foundling, or a mysterious visitor from another planet.”  The company quickly moved to the living room for after-dinner coffee.  Subject closed.

Making jokes about being a foundling was one thing. Actually believing it was another.  Until that day at the college Jennifer managed to keep those fears at bay.  Now the truth came tumbling out of the closet.  Jennifer barely heard the whole of her mother’s story.  She felt numb, as if her insides had been scooped out of her body.  Somehow she managed a crooked smile as she said goodbye to her parents.

“Don’t worry about me, Mother.  What you’re telling me is no surprise.  I figured it out for myself a long time ago,” she lied.

When she hugged her father his body was rigid as he muttered to her, “She shouldn’t have done this.  I’m sick for you, darling.”

“Believe me, Dad,” she called out to him as he walked on the brick path towards the parking lot, “I’m tougher than you think.”

When she returned from the bathroom, with Gloria’s help, she lay down again on her bed and immediately fell into a coma-like sleep.  Not since an emergency appendicitis operation ten years before had she felt such an extraordinary sense of floating in space, of detachment from life.  Dimly she heard sounds of laughter and commotion in the corridor and once in a while she was vaguely aware of a person moving about in the room.  For 14 hours she lay on her narrow bed, hardly moving until Gloria’s hands gently stirred her awake.

“Honey, would you believe it’s almost eight o’clock.  You slept through supper hour and you’re about to miss breakfast.”

It took a few seconds for Jennifer’s brain to click on. Where was she?  What was this cluttered mess all around her? Gloria sensed her confusion.

“I know it’s a shock to wake up in the middle of all this chaos. Believe me, I tried to straighten things up, but I was afraid to rouse you.  Trust me, we’ll find some place to stow all this stuff.Meanwhile, you better hurry if you want to get something to eat.  I had breakfast already.”

Jennifer tried to hide her emotion.  She had always lived a quiet, well-ordered life.  Dismay and depression overwhelmed her as she attempted to pick her way through the clutter and hunted for her hairbrush.

“Did you see a brush around here?  I’ve got to do something about my hair before I face my public.” The joke fell flat, as she knew it would.  Luckily, she found a comb in her purse.  It was better than using a stranger’s brush.  Gloria’s was in full sight and had been offered.

“Thanks, but I think the comb will do.”

With all that hair – never!  Gloria refused to feel offended. She was determined to get along with her roommate.  Tact and forbearance were two of Gloria’s major talents.  The third was brainpower, which had helped her to enter Glenbrook on a scholarship.

As she watched Jennifer struggling with the comb, she was more impressed than ever by her roommate’s height.

“Did you ever think of applying to UConn?  They would have loved you on their basketball team.”

For a moment Jennifer thought of saying, “But I’m not black.” Instead she said, “Strangely enough, I’ve never played the game.  You see, I never went to regular school.  This is my first.” She paused to watch the expression on her roommate’s face.  Gloria stared at her, mouth opened.

“Your first!  Wow, that knocks me over.  You’re probably smarter than any of us.”

On the way to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, Jennifer smiled for the first time.  “I may not be smarter, but I think I could beat most of them in the altitude department.”

###

To Jennifer’s relief, the dining hall was almost empty by the time she arrived.  She longed for some quiet.  The chatter and confusion along the dorm corridors had gotten on her nerves.  All those high-pitched, giggly female voices, the pushing and shoving, were foreign to her.  Where were the male students?  Wasn’t this a co-ed school?

Ah, she spotted a young man sitting alone at a table along the wall. He was as fair-haired as she and would probably stand about six-feet when he did stand.  Not bad looking either, she mused.  As she passed by she noticed some bacon and scrambled eggs on his plate.

She hesitated before she spoke.  “Last night I wasn’t feeling too well and missed supper. Right now I’m starving.  Do you recommend the bacon and eggs?”

He gave a wry smile.  “Do you want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? The eggs stink, and so does the bacon.”

She laughed.  “Well I guess you’ve answered my question.  I have another question.  What’s your name?  Mine is Jennifer Bayers, and I come from a small place in Connecticut called Waterville.  But why am I going on this way?  I must be light-headed from lack of food.”

Without waiting for his answer, she walked towards the breakfast buffet.  She had been mortified by her brashness.  What made her do it?  Her mind must still be muddled from yesterday’s episode with her mother. That was yesterday, she told herself. Today is a new chapter.  She was not the first person in the world to learn of being adopted.  Get on with life, she urged herself as she placed some coffee, a Danish, orange juice and some cold cereal on her tray.

Instead of choosing a table closer to the breakfast offerings she deliberately walked towards the section where the young man was still seated. He did not seem displeased when he saw her approaching him.  There was room enough for her tray after he had cleared a space for it on his table.

“You never gave me the chance to tell you my name,” he said. My name’s Blake Jennings and I’m from Connecticut, too. When you mentioned Waterville, I remembered a wonderful day there as a child.  Wasn’t there a famous place in the area called Christmas Cove?  Why, you’re blushing!  Don’t tell me your family runs the place?  I think we all had lunch at a restaurant called The Three Bears, and afterwards we all had a ride on a hay wagon.  It was one of the most exciting days of my life.”

As he talked he became more and more animated as if he were reliving that enchanted time ten years ago.  As she listened to him, Jennifer’s rosy cheeks had made her eyes look even more violet than ever.

“The name Bayers – of course that’s how The Three Bears got its name.  With those eyes, you must have looked adorable as the Baby Bear.”

Jennifer was still red-faced as she answered.  The blushing came from pleasure, not embarrassment.  “Some day when you have a couple of hours, I’ll tell you all about the story of Christmas Cove. It’s a true American success fable.  Meanwhile, I have to check on some of my courses.  See you soon, I hope.”

A strange feeling, almost a lightness of spirit lifted her as she left the dining hall.  What was the cause – the much-needed nourishment?  Not really, but how could the words of a total stranger bring her so much comfort?  She had dreaded entering a real school for the first time.  Suddenly, Glenbrook Junior College did not seem like such a threatening place.  Who knows, she might even grow to like it

###

Gloria was waiting for her when she returned to their room.

“Whatever they fed you in that place, it’s done wonders.Guess you must have avoided the scrambled eggs,” she said smiling.

Jennifer laughed.  “You’re so right.  I was warned against them by a very nice guy by the name of Blake something.”

“Hey, you don’t waste time making friends, do you?  He must have been really cute to bring that color back to your cheeks,” Gloria teased.

“Cute” was a word never used by Jennifer.  She stiffened a bit.  “Well he was very pleasant, comes from Connecticut, too, and even recalled visiting the place my family runs.”

Gloria resisted an impulse to ask, “And where is that?”Instinct warned her that her roommate was rather an oddball who needed special handling.  She was attractive looking and poised, but was probably terrified and lonely at finding herself in a foreign atmosphere. Tactfully, Gloria changed the subject.  “How ‘bout this room? I worked like a dog trying to make some sense out of this mess.”

“Heavens, Gloria, the change is amazing.  And no thanks to me.  You seem to have found a place for everything.  How did you manage it?  I guess I’d better not look under the beds.”

On her way back from breakfast she had passed several open doors in her dormitory.  Compared to those rooms, their place looked like an ad in House Beautiful. A few years ago, before the college went co-ed, their room would have been a single.  In those days the young women needed more space for their possessions. Now, instead of trunks and suitcases, backpacks were used, and back then a complete wardrobe meant a closet full of party clothes, not two or three beat-up blue jeans. Though their lives were more streamlined, the women of today were as sloppy and careless as ever, but in Gloria, Jennifer had been paired with an exceptional roommate, as meticulous as herself.  She was thankful.

Gloria noticed Jennifer’s glance under her bed.

“I hope you don’t mind.  I put that big flat package there.  It was heavy and looked like some kind of picture, leaning there against the wall.  I was afraid it might get broken.”  She paused, hoping to hear more about the mysterious object.

To her disappointment, Jennifer made no comment other than “Thanks, it was really thoughtful of you.”

Actually, she was angry as she looked at the large, securely wrapped picture under the bed.  “I never wanted to take the thing to school with me, but my mother insisted. She’d said, ‘Going away from home is going to be tough enough on you as it is.  Maybe this picture will make you feel less homesick.’” she explained later.

Curiosity prevailing over tact, Gloria finally blurted out, “Why are you so edgy about this picture?  It can’t be that bad!  Let’s open it.  I’ll help you find a spot to hang it.”  The two of them pulled the package along the rug and began to remove the wrappings.

Jennifer watched her roommate’s expression as the enormous photograph was revealed.  It was an aerial view of Christmas Cove taken a few years before by a magazine photographer.

“My God!  Didn’t I see this in some article about New England places to visit?  I remember a kind of story about the history of Christmas Cove?” asked Gloria.

Jennifer blushed.  It was an embarrassing write-up, much too effusive and full of clichés. “The title of the piece still makes me cringe:  ‘A Legacy Turned into a Legend.’  Ugh!  Now you might understand why I didn’t want to take that picture to school with me.”

“Of course I do.  You’re very proud of your parents’ achievement but you didn’t want to look like a boaster.  What do you say we stash it under the bed again?  Maybe later, when you feel more secure here, we could put it up on the wall,” Gloria suggested.

The two women had reached a new level of friendship. Again, a feeling of light-heartedness came over Jennifer.  Her deep loneliness, her tension had abated.  Arm in arm, they left the room together.  Gloria had never had a rich friend before.  Jennifer had never had a girl friend.

###

A few days later, in their tidy house at Christmas Cove, Sophie Bayers was packing homemade brownies to send to her daughter.  Several phone calls had passed between them. What a relief it was to hear Jennifer’s cheerful voice.

“To think that I’d been so concerned ever since we left her,” she said to her husband.

“Darling, you’ve been concerned about that child ever since you first held her in your arms.  Thank God you finally cut the cord and agreed to send her off to college. I always was against that home-school thing.  Even if our local school were inferior, she would at least have learned how to make friends. Do you realize that apart from us, she never had a single friend other than kids who worked for us?  From what she says, it sounds as if she’s already made a couple of friends.  Who is this Blake guy she’s mentioned one or two times?  Apparently, he visited the Cove as a child and always remembered it.”

Sophie laughed.  “Now you’re the one who’s sounding over-concerned.  Why he’s attending an obscure junior college like Glenbrook is a mystery.  Maybe we’ll find out when he comes to visit us at Thanksgiving.”

“What did you say!”  In his agitation Larry almost dropped the box of brownies.  “You two must have had some secret conversations behind my back.  Doesn’t this guy have any family to see on Thanksgiving?”

“Jennifer tells me his parents are in Germany.  His father is Army brass, a Colonel, I think she said.  Let’s not get too picky.  Be thankful that Jennifer’s doing well in school and she’s made at least two new friends.”

“That Gloria seemed like a nice girl.  Rather a pleasant change to meet a dark-haired young woman. All those longhaired, pseudo blondes were getting on my nerves.  God knows what this Blake character looks like,” he said grumpily.

Sophie gave him a hug.  “Do I detect a note of jealousy in your voice?”

“How will we entertain him?  He’s a bit old to go on another hay ride.”

“Darling, you’re forgetting about our moonlight rides.  Your idea, remember.” said Sophie as she picked a trace of chocolate from his lips.  It had been one of Larry’s most successful additions to the Cove’s offerings.  “I’ll grab the credit for suggesting music, however.  Bruno’s a good driver but his guitar playing was a real surprise.  He has a beautiful, Calypso-type voice, too.”

Larry was amused.  The whole concept of Christmas Cove had been his own, from the day he inherited the land from his uncle Lawrence 25 years ago.  Granted, that from time to time Sophie had contributed an idea, like the design of the restaurant and small inn, but the big idea, the gradual transformation of the 100 acres into a prosperous tree farm, gift shop and weekend get-away had been his.  As a former adman from New York, he had dreamed up the name of the place. The small body of water on which it fronted was more of an inlet than a cove, a small indentation of the Connecticut shore, but he could not resist the alliteration, “Christmas Cove.”  It had, as Shakespeare would put it, a “mellifluous sound.”  “Yes, dear, music was a great idea of yours. Let’s hope Bruno doesn’t get any offers from a rock band. Well, I guess I’d better run down to the Post Office before they close up shop.  We’ll figure out what to do with this guy Blake when he gets here.”

###

Autumn always attracted a large parade of tourists to the Cove. The gold and orange spectacle at leaf-changing time was a huge draw to the Cove Inn.  For weeks the ten guest rooms had been reserved for what Larry had titled “A Country Weekend.”  For most motorists from New York, Boston and Philadelphia it was a pricey excursion.  But with a fireplace in every room, heirloom spreads on every bed, the luxury of European feather beds, real linen sheets and heated towel bars, it was to many visitors a bargain at three-hundred-and-fifty dollars a night (no meals included). Some of the repeat guests had handsome places of their own at home:  more pretentious and elegant, but lacking the old-time charm and warmth of the Cove Inn.

Very craftily the place had been built at a considerable distance from the Cove’s Christmas Shop and the Children’s Center, though the restaurant was conveniently located on the ground floor of the inn.  Few of the day-trippers on the distant parking lot dared to venture into the restaurant once they’d read the prices on the menu at the front entrance.  The regulars, therefore, enjoyed a few days of total comfort and peace in an isolated atmosphere. No TV sets were included in this refuge from the world.  Guests were tactfully urged to tone down their cell phones “for the privacy and comfort of others.”

As she glanced over the reservations for the coming weekend Sophie checked over the guest list.  It was, as she had feared, booked solid.  There would be no place for this mysterious Blake Jennings. Their small house, like all the other buildings in the Cove, was of post-and-beam construction.  It seemed, with its tidy, natural wood exterior, to blend in perfectly with the forest landscape and the personalities of its owners.

Neither Bayers could be called handsome.  They were both a shade too short and a few pounds too heavy.  There was an appealing directness about them, an honesty and kindliness that shone in their faces. After 25 years together they had begun to look alike, they way people sometimes come to resemble their favorite pets.  They were loved by all in the Waterville community.  Try as they might to avoid it, they eventually became known as the “Teddy Bears” or sometimes simply the “Teddies.”  They were uncomfortable with the names, but both were smart enough to know that to be “local characters” was good for business. Like it or not, the Bayers had become part of the cozy flavor that made Christmas Cove unique.

One time, after a gushing reporter had called them “icons” Larry laughed a long time.  “Well, I guess it’s a step up from being tagged “legends.”  A legend is someone dead, isn’t it?” he asked Sophie.

“Darling, I can’t think of anyone less dead than you are.There are times when I’d prayed that you’d slow up.  At 60, your energy is absolutely obscene.  For heavens sakes, turn in that chain saw and let someone else do the cutting.”

This was a never-ending argument.  At the start of the holiday extra men were always hired to cut the trees for Christmas but Larry hated handing over the fun to others. “Those men don’t know what they’re doing” he would say.

Customers who wanted to select and cut their own trees, he said, were also nuisances.  They and their children would haphazardly wander around the fields, vacillating between this tree and that, “holding up the show.”

“Don’t be so crabby,” she would tease.  “ For some people, the annual jaunt to Christmas Cove is an adventure.  They could find trees as nice (and for less money) in their own bailiwicks, but they come here year after year because this place is unique.  Didn’t one travel magazine cite us for being the best family excursion in the state?  We’ve come a long way from being simply a Christmas tree farm.”

“Amen to that!  Sometimes I have nightmares about the public turning to artificial trees. Then we’d have to become landscapers and that wouldn’t be half as much fun.  It might be smart to import some blue spruce seedlings from Colorado, grow them a couple of feet or so and sell them in pots.  That might make those damned environmentalists happy, wouldn’t it?”  His cheerful mood was beginning to turn sour.

Sophie quickly changed the subject.

“Let’s not chew our nails about the future.  Our problem now is Jennifer’s friend Blake.  As they said in the Christmas Gospel, ‘there was no place at the inn’.”

###

Calls from Jennifer came less often as Thanksgiving approached. Larry was happy about it. Things in college must be going well.  Sophie tried to hide her feelings of being neglected.  A recent call left them both astonished and elated.

Jennifer had made the basketball team.

“I can’t believe it!  Why that girl’s never played the game in her life.  Sure, she’s well coordinated and both of us spent hours throwing balls through that hoop on the garage wall, but to be chosen for a team – it’s astounding.  I hate to think of the caliber of the sports program at Glenbrook,” he laughed.

“Remember, dear, she said junior varsity.

“Nevertheless, it’s a downright miracle.  Does the coach bring his seeing-eye dog to the gym?”

###

Sophie could not wait to call her best friend, Anna Lagano, about the news.  Mrs. Lagano was a sloppy looking, local celebrity who lived in a weather-beaten old house a mile from the Cove.  Her past was rather murky and she preferred to keep it that way.  Was she or was she not married?  And who was the handsome, dusky-skinned, young man who lived in the house with her?  It gave Anna rather a kick to maintain her mysterious history.  To her neighbors, she was an absent-minded, disheveled, but pleasant foreigner who just happened to be one of the finest potters in the country.  She had virtually no friends (other than Sophie) in the village, had no time for it, she would say to Sophie when they occasionally had a glass of wine together.  Anna, at 50, was not beautiful, but there was a haggard look about her that was curiously attractive. The enormous, deep-set eyes and the wry twist of her lips gave her the look of a woman who had seen and done much.

She and Sophie were unlikely friends:  the naïve versus the experienced.  It was through Bruno, Anna’s mysterious companion, that the women became involved.  He had arrived at Sophie’s house one day, looking for work.

“My mother thought there might be a job here,” he said, shyly.

“And who is your mother?  Do I know her?”

“Anna Lagano.  We moved here a few months ago.  Maybe you’ve heard of her.  There was a story about her in the local paper.”  He smiled at her.  Marvelous teeth.

“Of course I’ve heard of her.”  How could this strange young man have been her son?

As if he had read her mind, he answered.  “Not my real mother, she’s dead.  She died in Barbados, a few days after I was born.  I was adopted by Mrs. Lagano.”  After a pause, “I never knew my father.”

Sophie was tempted to say, “I have an adopted child, too.” but decided against it.  Jennifer’s adoption was never talked about at the Cove.  They had all assumed it when Sophie suddenly showed up with an infant in her arms.  Everyone knew the story of her seven-year struggle to become a mother.

Eventually, when the two women had become friends, Anna would tell her the story of Bruno’s birth:  his true mother, Elizabeth, from Barbados, who worked for her as a maid, had been seduced by a white man.  He was married, was a visitor to the island.  Must have been very handsome, Anna said.  When the baby was born, in Anna’s house in Barbados, she helped with the delivery.  After that, and the mother’s death days later, “I had always the fear that I might have done something to injure her.  Since his adoption, twenty years ago, she admitted, “I guess I’ve spoiled him.  Maybe I’ve loved him too much, given him too much.  He’s dropped out of college twice, been in a couple of scrapes, but basically he’s a wonderful young man.  Good, hard work in a healthy, wholesome atmosphere would bring out the best in him.”

Impressed by the youth’s intelligent face and well-muscled body, Sophie directed him to Larry.  He was pleased to find an extra hand with the tree planting and other chores around the property. This young man was different from the others, who gabbed constantly as they worked.  Bruno was not talkative – his mother’s influence, no doubt.  He worked swiftly in the fields, proved adept at painting jobs, and soon mastered the art of driving the two-horse team on hay-riding days during the weekends and holiday times.  In short, Bruno was a godsend.

When Anna Lagano heard the news about Jennifer she was as astonished as the Bayers had been.  “How did they lure her onto a basketball court?  She would have been wary about making a fool out of herself.”

“Evidently, she warned them that she’d never played the game, but the coach was entranced by her size and her skill at looping the ball into the basket, so he figured she was coachable. She’s played twice so far, for just a few minutes, and she hasn’t been too much of a disaster for the team, she told us.”

“Wait till Bruno hears this,” exclaimed Anna.  “He’s watched her shooting baskets with her dad and he says she’s incredible.  You say she’s bringing a young friend home for Thanksgiving?  What’s her name?”

“Prepare for another shock,” laughed Sophie.  “The name’s Blake, and it’s not a girl.”

###

On Parents Weekend the Bayers paid another visit to the school. The change in Jennifer was as heart-warming as they had hoped.  They hunted for her through the dorm building until they finally found her in a neighboring room, chatting happily with two friends.

“Good news, people.  I’ve got some of my mother’s famous brownies to share with you.”  She said as she introduced the girls to her parents.

“I hope this batch is as good as last week’s,” a redheaded girl called out as Jennifer and her parents walked back to her room.  To her chagrin, when the Bayers glanced around the room they immediately noticed that the picture of Christmas Cove was absent from the wall.

“There was so little wall space we didn’t know what to do with it.” Jennifer’s face flushed as she saw her father spotting it under her bed.  “It’s so big and kind of – er – showoffy.  I didn’t want my friends to think I was snotty.”

It was such a pleasure to hear their shy daughter talking about “my friends” that they were not offended by her treatment of the picture.

“Sure, we understand,” Larry said.  “This time there’s loads of room in the car.  We’ll just wrap our old blanket around it to keep it from getting broken.”

What a marvelous father I have, Jennifer thought.  In her mind she was smiling.  Then suddenly she thought, he isn’t my father.

“Is something wrong, dear?  There was such a strange look on your face.”

“No, mother,” she replied quickly.  “Today I just heard from Blake that he’ll be leaving Glenbrook after this year.  They’ve accepted his transfer to John Jay College next year.  He wants to be a forensic scientist.”

“Bad luck for you, Hon,” Larry said, “but really a wonderful opportunity for him.  I’ve always enjoyed those ‘Cold Case Files’ on the TV.  Who knows, we might see his face on the screen one of these days.  You don’t follow those law-and-order type of shows, Sophie.”

“No, but I do know about the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. I think it’s run by New York’s City University?”

“Dad, don’t tell him I told you.  It’s supposed to be a secret,” Jennifer begged.  “This afternoon you’ll be seeing him in action on the lacrosse field.  Every year the varsity plays a match against the returning alumni. Athletically, it’s not the greatest event, but it builds up a lot of support for Glenbrook.”

And they need it, thought Larry.  With the spread of community colleges, junior colleges had become an endangered species.  Glenbrook had been a good choice for Jennifer:  it was small, remote and hardly a star in social or academic circles, but it had opened up a new world for his daughter, and he was happy.

As they spoke, Blake Jennings came into the room.  He was as attractive as they had imagined. With his square jaw, deep blue eyes, straw-colored hair and dimpled chin, he was almost a prototype of the clean cut All-American Boy.  I didn’t think they grew ‘em like that these days, thought Larry.  Let’s hope he has a sense of humor.

Unsurprisingly, Blake had the posture of a military man, which made him looker rangier than his six-foot frame.  For a moment Blake Jennings stood in the doorway as if posing for a picture.  He was not arrogant, simply sure of himself.

Jennifer smiled as she watched her parents’ reaction.  Her own face seemed to express, “Not bad, eh?”

After introductions they walked down to the dining hall for lunch. In a pathetic effort to achieve a gala effect, the dun-colored walls of the place had been skimpily garlanded in autumnal orange and reds and miniature pumpkins were centered at each table.Fortunately, the foods provided at the enormous, room length buffet were more successful – not only decorative, but delicious.

“Lobster salad and sliced beef filets, scalloped potatoes and rows of delectable looking cakes – what more could one ask!” Sophie exclaimed.

Blake Jennings laughed.  “Mrs. Bayers, don’t let this spread fool you.  Ordinarily, our most festive meal is the chef’s famous meat loaf à la Glenbrook.”

The guy does have a sense of humor, thought Larry.  At first, when he appeared in the doorway of Jennifer’s room he’d looked like a cardboard cut-out of a handsome service man at an Army recruitment station – stuffy and earnest.

Blake could not tarry long after their coffee at meal’s end.

“Got to show my stuff on the lacrosse field.  We’ll make monkeys out of the alums,” he promised.

###

A chill wind was threatening as they gathered on the field to watch the game.  The seats on the simple stand were of steel, and reflected the cold. Sophie regretted that she had changed her mind about wearing her woolies.  She was not keen on sports of any kind but managed to hide her discomfort.  It was worth her suffering to see Blake’s team humble the returnees. All and all, the Bayers had been wonderfully pleased with the day, although they had not been able to watch Jennifer on the basketball court.

“Too bad Blake will be leaving soon.  Do you think Jennifer’s really smitten?  She had that look in her eyes.”  Sophie said as they began the two-hour drive to the Cove.  “Blake seemed a cut or two above the other men.  Or am I prejudiced?”

“Darling, you have meticulous judgment.  Wasn’t I a cut above your other suitors?  Fess up.”

Both knew that he had been the only man in her life, but Larry, in his kindly way, liked to make her feel like a Southern belle. Sophie had been a shy young girl, but not a loner, or a “wallflower” as the losers used to be called.  She was never brash or pushy, but when she saw something or someone that she wanted, she managed to get it.  So skillful was she that Larry was never aware that it was she who had done the chasing.  Theirs had been a marriage full of love and adventure.  It was childless for some seven years, until wonderfully fulfilled with the unexpected adoption of their baby girl, Jennifer Joy. Their baby’s middle name might have seemed corny to some, but as Larry said, “Damn it, that’s just what we felt.”

As they crossed the border into Connecticut they were still pondering how to house Jennifer’s first boy friend.  Would the sofa bed in their TV room do?

###

Unfortunately, their hopes for a last minute cancellation at the inn did not materialize.  A few weeks later, when Blake arrived he was shown into the Bayers’ TV room, which he would be occupying for the Thanksgiving weekend.  Jennifer had warned him about the sofa bed.  It had been as uncomfortable as he had feared.  Before they kissed goodnight she had slipped him an envelope.  In it were five small, white pills.

“Stole them from my parents’ medicine chest.  Take one before you settle down to sleep. It might help to smooth out some of the bumps from the springs.”

“But it won’t make this thing any wider or longer,” Blake thought, as he lay awake.  He restlessly kept changing positions but nothing helped.  Not even the pill.  During those hours before dawn he envied some of his fat, well-upholstered friends and regretted his years of striving to keep slim.  He switched on the lamp at the end table. A few minutes of reading might do the trick. Unfortunately, not even the magazine on forestry could bore him to sleep.  He was ready to give up till he spotted a small brochure on the other end table.  On its green cover was written The Story of Christmas Cove.  Larry Bayers must have used his skills as a top-flight copywriter and promoter when he wrote it a few years before, Blake thought.

 

Like many successful enterprises, Christmas Cove was born of hard work, imagination and just plain luck.  In 1975 Larry Bayers, a New York advertising man, received a letter from a law firm informing him that he had received a legacy from a forgotten bachelor great-uncle, Lawrence Nash.  The old man apparently was so pleased at having another Lawrence in the family that he bequeathed him 100 acres of Connecticut land. No money, just land.  The money went to more fortunate relatives.

Having grown up on a farm in New Hampshire, Larry was excited at becoming a landowner.  But what to do with it? He wanted to continue his advertising career in New York, where he had met and married Sophie Madison, a charming woman from North Carolina.  She, too, had come from a small town and had fallen in love with New York.  Neither wanted to leave a city where both had been successful.

As soon as they could, they made the 80-mile drive to inspect the property.  While Larry liked to think that he had the idea of turning the acreage into a tree farm, it was actually Sophie’s idea to use the land to grow Christmas trees.  A number of small trees were already on the place. North Carolina firs had long been the favored type of Christmas trees among growers.  They were valued because of their shapeliness and lasting freshness.  Through her family’s connections in North Carolina, the couple arranged for a modest shipment of fir seedlings.

Every Friday the Bayers drove up to Waterville, where they stayed in a motel near their farm.  For two days they did “stoop work,” laboriously planting their seedlings. It wasn’t easy, but they loved it. The years passed as the tiny trees grew large enough to harvest.  Bit by bit, their project expanded.  Workers were hired for selling, as well as planting and cutting the crop. Soon the tree farm became a full time business and the couple lived permanently in Connecticut.

The Bayers built their own place first.  Later a gift shop was added, followed by a restaurant and an inn.  It had become such a popular family outing, with so many children running about, that an addition to the gift shop, the “Children’s Corner” was needed, to keep the toddlers from breaking the costly ornaments and ceramics on display.  Eventually, the tree business consumed their lives, as “Christmas Cove” became known as a tourist favorite and a weekend retreat.

Over the years, like Topsy, their lucky legacy grew, as more and more features were added.  The Bayers’ daughter, Jennifer, now enjoys entertaining the youngsters in the Children’s Corner and sometimes takes the reins on the hayrides.  Will she spend her future life as the mistress of Christmas Cove?  Who knows?

 

Who knows indeed, Blake thought as he replaced the brochure and turned off the lamp.  Her ties with her family were super-strong, even though he had recently learned of her adoption. She never kept her promise to tell him the history of Christmas Cove, instead she told him about her history.

###

It had happened a week before Thanksgiving.  They had gone to a local movie and were having expensive coffee at a nearby café.

“I’m glad you liked my family.  (She did not say “parents.”) Everyone loves them.  Sometimes I almost wished that people would say for once, ‘I can’t stand the Bayers.  They’re just too good to be true!’  Or that I’d heard that they’d been wanted for bank robbery in three states,” she sighed.

Blake laughed and quickly took her hand and kissed it.“That’s why you’re so perfect.” He bit into another piece of coffee cake.  The girl was so beautiful and unpredictable and funny, he mused.

“Seriously, it’s quite a burden to be the daughter of the saintly‘Teddy Bears.’  Keeping up to expectations.”

“Sorry, dear, but I can’t share your problems.  My parents are OK, I guess, but they are Army types, live boring lives, made endurable by the daily cocktail hour on the post.”

“In other words, they’re drunks?”

“God, no.  I simply envy you your parents.”

Suddenly she burst into harsh, nearly hysterical, laughter.“That’s the joke.  Larry and Sophie aren’t my parents.”  She seemed unable to get herself under control. He took her hands and held then tightly, meanwhile glancing around to see if anyone had noticed the scene. The after-movie crowd was too noisy to hear her.

Blake was shocked by her emotional breakdown, but not by her news. The contrast, in body type and personalities, between Jennifer and her parents had been so strong when he first met the Bayers that he had been astonished.

“It’s all right Hon,” he said as he led her gently out of the café.  “We’ll talk about it later, when you’re feeling better.  To me, you’re wonderful.  And more interesting now than ever.”

Which was true.

When they reached his car he held her in his arms as she continued to tremble.  Both were silent until they arrived at the entrance to her dorm.  For Jennifer, who had never felt so naked and humiliated, there was also an enormous sense of relief and sheer happiness.  She had found someone to share her secret.

###

The full story of her adoption was not told until they were driving to the Cove for Thanksgiving.  At the end of it she said, “It was a terrible shock to get the news like that. I’d sort of suspected it, but when the reality hit me, I suddenly felt like, well like someone had stripped me of my, corny as it sounds, identity.  I was a nothing, a non-person.  If I’m not the Bayers’ child, whose child am I?”  She opened the glove compartment, searching for a Kleenex.

Blake said nothing.  Sympathy might open up the floodgates of her tears.  It might be wise to make a lunch stop at the nearest McDonalds.  How stupid of the Bayers to keep that knowledge from Jennifer for so long.  Sophie had seemed such a caring, intelligent woman. Perhaps she had become obsessive about this child of her middle age.  It was unhealthy.  Ruefully, he thought about his own mother, Marsha.  He remembered forever her remark after a third Martini, “You’re a great kid, Blake.  I wish I could feel more motherly about you.”  Afterwards he had heard his father say, “You bitch!  How could you say such a thing to your own son?” In her hoarse, whiskey voice his mother had replied, “In vino veritas, darling.”  For a long time, 11-year-old Blake had wondered what those strange words meant.  The thought of his parents in Germany made him all the more thankful to be spending Thanksgiving with the Bayers – even if they had been thoughtless in dealing with Jennifer.  As she said, they were wonderful people. How ironic, he mused, that his tough, worldly parents might have met Jennifer’s when the Jennings made that excursion to Christmas Cove so many years ago.

Neither Blake nor Jennifer spoke much as they ate a quick meal of “Big Macs,” fries and coffee.  It was a dreary place, filled with travel-weary parents of tired, whiny children.  The restroom was welcome, even though the odor of the cheap pine disinfectant seemed even stronger than usual.  Jennifer laughed as she emerged through the door marked “Women.”

“These places always have the same horrible smell.  Well, I guess it beats using the bushes!”

What a relief it was to hear Jennifer sounding like her normal self again, Blake thought.  The food had helped him, too.  As they set off on the last lap of their journey, the day boded brighter in every way.

###

Christmas Cove looked smaller than Blake had remembered.He dimly recalled a warning never to return to a place one had loved.  This was not true.  The 18-year-old Blake on the moonlight hayride had been even happier than the nine-year-old Blake had been on that first ride.  Moonlight and music did make a difference, he mused, especially when you’re lying back on the hay with Jennifer, her head in the crook of your arm.  There was only one thing about the evening that Blake did not like – the cockiness of Bruno, the driver.  His familiarity with Jennifer made Blake angry.

“I don’t like the way that guy looked at you and talked to you.”

“Oh, Bruno and I practically grew up together.  He’s adopted, too.”

“So what.  He’s just the hired help.”

Blake had an edge to his voice that she had never heard before. Was he a snob or a racist? She hoped it was simply jealousy.

“You met his mother the other afternoon at tea.  She’s a sort of celebrity,” she said defensively.

“Does that entitle her to look like some kind of gypsy – all those strange, layers of clothes?  What’s she a celebrity of?  Fortune telling?”

“Blake, I didn’t think you could be so mean,” she laughed.“Actually, she’s a well-known potter.  Her ceramics are very pricey. Did you notice the beautiful nativity scene in the Christmas Shop? She also creates bowls and vases to kill for, as well as smaller pieces for Christmas ornaments.  They’re sold under the name of Bari, the town in Italy where she was born. She’s rather a strange woman, keeps to herself and prefers to sell her work through us.  Those Bari pieces are the main reason why we try to keep children out of the shop.”

“Goes to show, you never know.  But I still don’t like the look of that son of hers.  He’s good on the guitar though, I’ll give him that.”  He said grudgingly. There was something about the man that made him uneasy.  A recent book about forensic science had made Blake acutely sensitive to people’s appearances, their facial expressions, clothing and body language. What did the experts call it? Profiling a criminal?  He looked forward to that course in his studies at John Jay College.  Meanwhile, he would warn Jennifer to keep a distance from Bruno whachamacallim.  The man was handsome, perhaps too handsome for his own good, and Jennifer’s too.  Those teeth, they were too perfect.  The bearing was too modest, a sort of fake humility that could mask an inner arrogance, and cruelty, too.  If he told his thoughts to Jennifer she would probably laugh at him.  So what.  Let her laugh.  She needed his protection.

###

Watching the pair as they drove off, Sophie turned to her husband. “Well, what did you think? Are they a good fit?”

“For God’s sake – they’re only teenagers.  Just seedlings. Give them a few years to grow up, then ask me.  I did notice one thing, though.  Blake hated Bruno.  To tell you the truth, I’m not as keen on Bruno as you are.  You, dear, are one of those trusting innocents who see the good in everybody.  I wonder sometimes how he treats his mother. You seldom see them together. It was good of Anna to adopt him.”

“And why not?  She was in on his birth, actually helped to deliver him, she told me. When the mother died, what else could she do?  Turn him over to strangers?  I know how she felt. She was lonely.”

“And she still is, from the looks of her.  Those eyes of hers – so deep-set and penetrating as if she were peering into your soul. Kind of creepy,” he replied.

“Yes, she an enigma, that’s for sure.  But what a talent she has.  She hasn’t looked too well lately.  She had a bruise on one arm when she fell in her studio the other day.  I hope she’ll be able to come up with enough things in time for Christmas.  She can’t stand being pressured.  Guess that’s why she prefers to deal with us.  The big stores keep hounding her, but she’s not tempted, thank God.”

While they were talking Bruno appeared with a huge carton.“Mom says not to worry, some more ornaments are in the works. These should keep you in business for a while,” he smiled.  Trying to seem casual, he added.  “How did you like the new boyfriend? How about that stiff back?  He walked like a snob.”

Sophie laughed.  “Bruno, how can you tell a snob from his walk?”

“The kind of way he held his head.  The careful way he spoke.  He seemed older than 18.  Maybe it’s his life in Europe. You say his father’s a colonel or general?  The guy has an attitude.”

Bruno was burning up with jealousy, no doubt about that.

 

Chapter Two

The Search

 

Three years later, as she sat at her desk in the office at Christmas Cove, Jennifer was busy addressing invitations to the most important party in her life, her twenty-first birthday.  Her parents had set aside all of the rooms at the inn for that weekend.  It was not as much of a financial sacrifice as it seemed.  In the post Christmas season the inn had few guests.  This time Blake would not be sleeping on the sofa bed as he had on his first visit.

In his final year at John Jay he had been living in New York in a studio apartment.  He had but one bed, a king-size, comfortable one, not a sofa bed, thank God, thought Jennifer, who frequently shared it with him.  It took up most of the space in the room, but never mind.  Blake never even tried to make it look like a living room.  The apartment was a modest one in a modest neighborhood, but neither Blake nor Jennifer really cared.  Except for some interesting old prints from the Police Gazette along its walls, the place had no distinction whatsoever.

Originally, the birthday celebration was orchestrated to be particularly meaningful.  In addition to making their engagement announcement Jennifer planned another surprise to spring on her family.  She had decided to set off on a search for her “real parents.”

Over the years she had been curious, to the point of obsession, about her true identity.  Blake had tried to calm her, “You’d better open that with care – you may find a can of worms. Can’t you be happy with the great parents you already have?”

She would become furious.  “Blake, you of all people, trained in detective work, must know what it would mean to me to be able to track them down.  You may not adore your parents, but at least you know who they are.  A search might be risky, I know, but I’m willing to chance it.”

“That’s the point.  This could be expensive, dangerous and downright disillusioning.  And worse yet, it could break the Bayers’ heart.”

Invariably her answer would be, “They might be unhappy, but just for a while.  They’re very intelligent, unselfish people.”  She paused for a moment before adding, “Perhaps I should simply run off some day without telling them where or why.”  Though she pretended to be humorous, both knew she was serious.

“The way your pal, Bruno, disappeared a couple of years ago and finally turned up in a rock band.  Just about killed his mother. Don’t take that route, Jennifer.”  Secretly he had been delighted to hear the news about Bruno, that shifty bastard.

Very reluctantly he had finally capitulated.  “There’s a lot of talk these days about finding one’s birth parents and sometimes there’s been a happy ending, but not always. Your story already has a happy ending.  Why take a chance? If you insist on doing this, I’ll see what I can do to help you.  But promise me you won’t say anything to your family until the celebration’s over.”

Ironically, neither of the big announcements was made at the birthday party.  The celebration had been as festive (and as costly) as planned and their 20 carefully culled friends would talk for years after about the “fabulous weekend” but Jennifer and Blake had experienced an attack of common sense at the last minute. To them, 21 years old suddenly seemed very young.  Their engagement and Jennifer’s plan to search for her real parents were put on hold. Once they had made up their minds about the delay, both were enormously relieved.

“It was a cockeyed idea,” Jennifer laughed.  “Whose was it any way, yours or mine?”

Their lives continued as before.  Jennifer became involved in the business end of the Cove. Blake became engrossed on forensic science.  It was a pleasant life for both, but in Jennifer’s mind the mystery about her parentage kept festering like a boil that needed lancing.  She began to have nightmares.  Some of them so terrible that she would wake up, sweat-soaked and trembling.

One evening she phoned Blake.  She could not erase the image of that loathsome dream. “Dear, I hate to be neurotic, but I keep on having nightmares.  There’s one in which I’m searching for my parents and I finally find them. I should say ‘one’ for it turns out they’re fused as one:  a coal-black centaur.  The body is a horse, a huge stallion.  The head is a beautiful, blonde woman with eyes like mine. I try to talk to her, but she won’t remove the cigar from her mouth.  I scream at her.  She still won’t answer me.  ‘I’m your child, I’m your child’, I keep yelling – then I wake up.  I can’t take these nightmares any longer. As you know, I’ve really tried to overcome my obsession about tracing my roots, my urge to find out who I am and why, but now I give up.  Once you told me that you’d help me. I need that help now.”

Blake was distressed.  He had dreaded the day when Jennifer would insist on pursuing her dream, and she was not to be dissuaded.  At 25, she was mature enough to have set her goals, but was she strong enough to achieve them?

###

There were experts who specialized in helping others in finding missing relatives or unlocking the doors to their pasts. Jennifer had seen them on “reality shows” on television and did not want any part of them.  The spectacle of those teary, blubbering reunions sickened her. Whatever happened to good taste and privacy?  A private eye might get results, but wouldn’t it be more exciting (and cheaper) to be her own detective?  With Blake’s help, of course.

First she had to tell her parents.  It was not easy.

They were shocked.  Jennifer had seemed so well adjusted and happy despite that unfortunate day at college.

“It’s these damned TV shows,” Larry said bitterly. “There must be millions of adopted children in this country.  Most of them contented with their lives, then programs like these come along and gets them all stirred up.”

“I suppose we can’t stop her?” said Sophie as she tried to control her tears.

“It’s as tough as trying to stem an avalanche once it starts rolling. All we can do is stay calm, try to be understanding, which at the moment, I find very hard to do.” He tried to smile at Sophie, who had begun to cry in earnest.  He handed her a tissue.  “Don’t let her see how upset we are.  Just remember, dear, this isn’t a reflection on us as parents. She’s still devoted to us. She’s not leaving us for good, just wants to find out where she came from and who she is.”

###

Shortly before Bruno’s disappearance Jennifer had had a conversation with him that fueled her fixation about tracing her parentage.

“Jennifer, you and I have one big thing in common, we’re both adopted.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotta know who I am.  There’s a big hole in my life and I won’t be happy till I fill it.It’s tough enough being half-black and even worse when you don’t know anything about your white half.”

A few days later Bruno was gone and with him went one set of Christmas ornaments, two small bowls, a vase and $600 in cash. Anna was devastated but never reported his disappearance or the theft to the police.  With their intrusion, they would only make things worse.  She looked even more haggard than ever, and grim-faced when Sophie visited her at home.  It was the loss of her son that she grieved.

“Forget the theft or the money.  I can always make more pieces, but why did he run off like that?” she would wail to Sophie. “Please don’t tell anyone about the stealing.”

“Don’t worry, dear, I won’t tell anyone about it, not even Jennifer or Larry.  Why disillusion them, she thought.

Anna’s house, which had never been neat or clean, had become more dirty and disorganized than ever.  Hesitantly, Sophie offered to help in straightening out the mess of clothing and old newspapers strewn about the living room and in coping with the food-encrusted dishes and overflowing garbage in the kitchen. “No, no, I’ll get around to it!” Anna cried.

Sophie wondered how a person could survive in such squalor.She also worried about Anna as artist.  Would she ever be able to return to her studio and work again?

The answer was yes.

Within a month Anna was turning out new pieces.  Her ceramics looked more beautiful than ever, as if her suffering had put an extra glow into the colors.  She had given up hope of seeing Bruno again and never spoke his name.

Only Jennifer knew why he had left.  She wished him luck, and at the same time, said a prayer for herself.

###

It was a glorious September day at the Cove.  There was a clear Mediterranean blue sky and Larry would normally have been briskly strolling through his fields, but he was lying on the sofa bed in his TV room.  He always did his best thinking when he was lying down, and since Jennifer’s recent news he and Sophie had plenty to think about.  One part of his mind screamed, “Jennifer, don’t leave us!” A calmer self sought practical ways to help her.  Sophie’s family doctor, the man who had in a sense been the agent in Jennifer’s adoption, must be old by now, but might still be living in Orange, the North Carolina town where Sophie grew up.  He had been pledged not to reveal the true name of the young girl who gave birth to Jennifer.  Without ethical sacrifice, perhaps he could be persuaded to name his doctor friend, the man who had tipped him off about that distant clinic where the baby had been born.  Solving problems was one of Larry’s greatest joys, and he was beginning to feel a lot happier.  Would Jennifer accuse him of meddling, he wondered.  Probably.  But isn’t that what fathers, even adoptive fathers, should do?  He tried to remember the doctor’s name, but could not.  Crazy, not to remember the name of the man who had brought so much joy to their lives.  Sophie would know.

“Sophie,” he called to her.  “Would you come here for a minute?  I think I have a solution.”

Though Larry’s usual response to a crisis had been to lie down, Sophie’s was exactly opposite.  Whenever she was worried she always went into a frenzy of housework: baking pies, taking down the curtains, switching the furniture around or cleaning out the refrigerator.  She was glad to have a reason to quit working.

“Oh dear, your solutions are sometimes so drastic,” she said as she rubbed the sweat off her face with the corner of her apron. She sighed, “What now?”

After hearing Larry’s “solution” Sophie said, “Of course I remember the name of that doctor.  He was Doctor Walter Grant. The man deserves a halo.”

###

Call it meddling or just plain manipulation, Larry managed to persuade Jennifer to wait before making any hasty moves.  A trip to North Carolina obviously was the first step and must be carefully planned.  The Bayers set about checking travel routes and looking up the addresses of long-forgotten relatives.  To be actively involved in Jennifer’s search made them feel less distressed about the situation

“Sometimes they treat me like a helpless child,” Jennifer complained to Blake on the phone.  “I just sit there, doing nothing, while Mom and Dad have a field day planning my life.  Dad huddles over road maps, Mom checks on my southern wardrobe. Ridiculous, isn’t it?  They carried on the same way when they sent me off to that one disastrous week in camp.”

“Think they’ll give you a box of cookies again before you leave?” Blake joked.

“Not funny, Blake.  Right now I’m simply trying to keep from blowing my stack until next week when I’m driving actually driving down the road.”

Jennifer had been growing more and more edgy with her parents as the time for her departure neared.  If only they would relax.  They were as excited about her plan as she was.  Better than having them look reproachful and resentful, she thought.  But they were getting on her nerves as they nagged her about every detail.

“Be sure to take a bottle of Pepto Bismol.  All that fried food could ruin your stomach.  And remember your manners with Southerners. They’re slower and more courteous than we are up here,” Sophie reminded her.

Larry had a few words of advice too.  “Better tone down your liberal views down there, and always carry a police whistle in your car, you might need it.  And for God’s sake, call us every night.”

Just before she left, Jennifer had to laugh when Sophie handed her a box of cookies.  Those long ago camp cookies had not helped to ease her misery then, but this time she had a feeling that she would be luckier.

###

The odometer on her five-year-old red Camry had climbed over the hundred thousand mark as Jennifer crossed the border into Maryland.  A late start had made her change her plans about driving non-stop to North Carolina.  The cookies had sustained her for a while but she was hungry and tired as she turned off the highway and checked into a motel. It was not the one suggested in the tour book and she could see why.  Its peeling wooden exterior had a sad, neglected look about it. The small neon sign in the office window had lost the “O” and ominously read, “pen.”  An enormous, grumpy-faced man wearing a grimy plaid shirt reluctantly put down his newspaper and signed her in.

“Sorry, no credit cards.”  He peered at her over his half-glasses and looked as if he’d expected her to walk out of the dingy office.  She would have, had she not been so tired.

“Is there a restaurant nearby?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind Chinese.”

She tried to smile.  “Oh, I was really looking forward to some Maryland crab cakes.”

“Lady, I think you’re in the wrong area.  There’s a place down the road a bit.  They’ll stick you a lot, but they’ll take credit cards. Their restaurant serves crab cakes.  You Northern folks go crazy for ‘em.  Can’t stand ‘em myself.”  That did it.  Suddenly she was no longer tired.  It was time to leave. He picked up his paper and continued reading as she quickly walked out.  So much for Southern hospitality.

He was right about the next place.  An impressive red brick building, it was indeed very expensive, but it was cheerful and clean. The room had two double beds and was large enough for a family of four. Its small mini-bar was well stocked, but Jennifer was not tempted.  She rarely drank anything and this was not the time or place for it.  The urge to lie down and rest was also resisted.  Food was what she really needed.  On the way to the restaurant she briefly checked the gift shop.  Nice, she thought, not too touristy. Not a patch on their shop at Christmas Cove, however. As she seated herself in the Chesapeake Room a waiter immediately came over to pull out her chair.

“Would you care for a drink before dinner?”  He looked at her with curiosity.  Young women with her looks rarely ate alone.Perhaps she was one of those bright, executive types, traveling on business.  She wasn’t a hooker, that’s for sure.  Conservative, well bred.  Not great tippers, though nice to look at.  The worst tippers were the family groups. They should have been the best tippers, thanks to the chaos and mess they created when they entered the dining room.  Until he became a waiter, Leonard loved children.

His hopes for a decent tip sank when Jennifer said,  “I think I’ll just settle for a glass of water, thanks.  Just plain water.”

They were the worst kind, the “plain water” drinkers.

When she ordered oysters for an appetizer and a double order of crab cakes, his spirits rose.  He was grinning when she chose the “Incredible Chocolate Delight” for dessert.  As it turned out, she was not the most bountiful tipper in the world, but with those eyes and that smile, who cares?

Thank God for the Pepto Bismol, Jennifer thought, as she slowly got ready for bed.  She had not intended to order dessert but there was a neediness about the young waiter that made her want to please him.  His eager look, those dimples?  When she had showered and enjoyed all of the little niceties that she found on the bathroom shelf, she eased into her bed and closed her eyes for a few minutes.  So far, so good.

###

The following morning the Chesapeake room was almost empty when she arrived.  She had hoped to encounter the same waiter to make up for the modest tip she had given him. There were very few in the restaurant, only laggards like herself.  There was no sign of last night’s waiter so she went up to the breakfast buffet table.  Looking at the rather pallid scrambled eggs she remembered that first meeting with Blake at Glenbrook.  He would have given these eggs an equally low mark.  Should she try the sausages?  No, too risky.

She became aware of a man standing next to her.  He seemed to be waiting for something.  His fingers kept tapping on the edge of the buffet and it was making her nervous.  He was staring at her and humming to himself.  Hope he doesn’t want to get friendly, better make it a fast choice, she decided.

Juice, coffee and an English muffin would do, she thought as she filled her tray and tried to move away as quickly as she could.

“They’re bringing us another batch of fresh biscuits,” he said.  “They’re really worth waiting for.”  He bared his large, crooked teeth at her.  Jennifer had a vision of Little Red Riding Hood and Grandma.

She made no attempt to smile back.  “I don’t have time for that.”  She said stiffly.

Undaunted by the snub, the man followed her back to her table.

What is this, she thought.  A pick-up, at this time of day? Forget it, Buster.  You’re not my type.

“Traveling south?  Bet you are, from the way you’re dressed,” he persisted.

“Sorry, but I’d rather eat alone.”  She glared at him.

“Take it easy, lady.  I was only going to warn you about a tie up down the road.  I just heard it on the radio.  A couple and a baby were traveling south and all of a sudden the mother throws her baby out of the car and jumps out after her. Terrible thing. Maybe, by the time you get there, the whole mess will be cleared up.”  He glanced at the buffet table.  “Oops, I see the biscuits have arrived.  Sure I can’t get a couple for you?”

Jennifer fled to her bedroom, nauseated.  She immediately turned on the radio.

“Two ambulances removed the victims from the scene of the incident. The baby’s condition is critical but the mother should recover, they say.”

But what about the young sailor, the husband – will he ever recover? she wondered.  According to the radio account, James Schwab and his wife, Sarah, were driving to her family’s home in Florida when the incident occurred.  Sarah “seemed normal,” he said.  How often had those words been said after a tragedy?

“As part of their services to the military, the radio announcer continued, the Red Cross would find a place to house Schwab until the mother and child were released from the hospital.”

Jennifer remembered reading of post-birth traumas that made young mothers do the unthinkable – drowning, smothering, even strangling their infants.  Leaping out of a moving car after tossing her baby out the window seemed even worse, if that were possible, she later thought as she drove down the highway.  Thinking about it gave her a headache but the Pepto Bismol had calmed her stomach.  There would be no need for any food until she reached her final stop, thank goodness.  The encounter with that greasy-haired, odious man at breakfast stayed in her memory.

Orange, North Carolina, was off the major highways, but easy to find, thanks to the Trip-Tik provided by her AAA automobile club.  It was not a large town.  While other towns had prospered over the years, its 25,000 population had stayed the same.  Textile mills and furniture factories in the north had gone south to larger cities, but Orange was a one-industry town.  It exported Christmas trees.  Its Fraser firs were considered the Cadillac of trees among the growers. Yet, there were those who feared that one day the nation, brain-washed by the crazy conservationists, would turn to artificial trees.  Many young people left the town, some for employment reasons, others because of sheer boredom.  Small wonder that Sophie Madison had gone off to New York.

What was there to do in Orange?  Its lone movie house had closed, due to the huge, multi-screen theater four miles away.  Its only real department store, the hundred-year-old Farlands, had called it quits after the new shopping mall opened next to the movie complex. For sports fans there was not even a high school nearby. Students were bussed five miles away to Central, a regional high school.

Main Street looked like the Main Streets Jennifer had seen in old movies:  a drycleaners, deli, bakery, barber, beauty shop, grocery, bank, and a drugstore.  At the end of the street stood a dignified old house, Firestone’s Funeral Parlor.

She found an empty parking space in front of Lou’s Deli. Lou had the leathery, lined face of an old farmer.  He peered suspiciously at her as she walked up to his counter and tendered a slip of paper.

“Can’t help you till I get my glasses.”  After retrieving them he said,  “Looking for Walter Grant, are you?”

He stared at her.  Pretty young woman, but he was wary of giving out information to strangers. “You new around here?  Got relatives in town?”

Where was this warm, southern charm? thought Jennifer.

She smiled at him.  “I think I’d like some coffee first.”  As an after thought she added, “please.”  She also ordered a fried egg sandwich.  As she ate she told him about her search for the doctor who had taken care of the Madison family years ago.

“I remember the Madisons.  Had a few acres, which they sold to the tree farmers. Both gone now, I’m sorry to say. What did you say your name was?”

Jennifer smiled.  “I didn’t say.  My name’s Jennifer Bayers and I come from Connecticut.”

At last he got around to telling her about Dr. Walter Grant.“He was a nice fella.  Must be creeping on to 85 by now.  Back in the old days we played poker together.”  He poured her another cup of coffee.  “Last I heard he was at Smith’s nursing home. That’s a place you want to keep out of.”  He gave her the directions to Smith’s and called out to her as she walked out the door, “Come again soon, hear?”

###

In a town as small as this Smith’s shouldn’t be too hard to find, she thought.  It was located at the very end of a sandy lane that twisted this way and that through some forested acres.  A faded sign almost hidden in the bushes marked the way to Smith’s Rest Home.  The rambling old house had once had a cheerful coat of yellow paint and bright green shutters, she imagined.  Now it had the look of some old mansion whose glory days had long vanished. A wide porch wrapped around the front and both sides of the house.  Its row of rocking chairs seemed eerily empty.  The entrance hall was equally forlorn.  There was a high desk on the left, with a bell on it.  After a second ring a sullen-faced woman in a blue cotton dress appeared.  There were sweat rings under her arms.

Was she staff or perhaps Mrs. Smith, the owner?  No, a staff member would probably be black, Jennifer reasoned.

“I was told that I might find Dr. Walter Grant here,” she said hesitantly.

The woman looked belligerent.  “I’m Grace Seeley, the manager.  Yes, he’s here.  What do you want him for?”

Haltingly, Jennifer told her about the doctor’s long ago connections with her family.

“Sure, I remember the Madisons.  Good people.”  The woman’s expression softened.  “The Doctor’s not doin’ too well now, but I guess he’d like to see you. He gets very few callers these days.  If you’ll follow me . . .”  The halls were wide, built for wheel chairs.  Sitting in one of them, a haggard-faced, bald man kept chanting over and over, “It’s in the box, Jake.  It’s all right, Jake.” Over and over, over and over.  Must drive everyone crazy, she mused.

Jennifer could not restrain herself from asking, “Who’s Jake?” and “What’s in the box?”

“Beats me.  He’s been goin’ on like that for two years.  He should be in the dining room with the rest of them.  We’re servin’ lunch in a few minutes, if you’d care to join us?”  Mrs. Seeley was trying to be friendly.  Business was bad.

They passed through a big square room.  Seated at tables some fifty residents, many of them in wheelchairs, were being readied for their lunch.  Everyone was being fitted with a very large, grey bib of terry cloth.  They looked like elderly babies as they silently waited to be fed.

As if reading Jennifer’s mind, the woman said, “We give ‘em clean ones for every meal.  You’re lucky, today’s fish chowder day. The doctor loves it.  Usually he has a tray in is room.  It’s right here, close to the dining room.”

The manager knocked on the door outside the doctor’s room. “It’s Grace, Doctor.  I have a visitor here.  Not your nephew.  It’s a young lady from Connecticut.”  They waited in the hall until the door was opened half way.

Walter Grant had once been tall and handsome, Jennifer could guess. He still had an aristocratic look in his fine-boned features but age had stooped his shoulders and his pale face had a purple spot on one cheek.  There was a transparency to his skin, as if it were stretched too tightly. His eyes, as he looked sharply at Jennifer, were young and full of life, however.

After being introduced Dr. Grant said, “Come in, come in.  I was just finishing off my lunch. Did Grace invite you for lunch? She has a way of doing that. Wise of you if you regretted,” he laughed. (The manager had left the room.)  “I never eat in the dining room if I can avoid it, especially on Wednesdays.  A volunteer comes in then and plays the piano.  Means well, but he plays even worse than I do.  Sings too.  ‘Golden Oldies’ they call them.  Young woman, whatever you do, avoid getting old.  And if you must, keep out of places like this.”  He flashed a charming smile.

Jennifer laughed but she felt a deep pity for the man.  What circumstances had brought him to this dreary end?

Thank God his mind had stayed intact.  He leaned toward her, listening closely as she told him of her search.

“You’re a sweet thing, I can see that and I wish I could be more helpful to you.  I haven’t laid an eye on my doctor friend for years.  At my age, the memory grows weak.  I hate to admit it.  But three years in this place can rot one’s brain.”

He leaned back in his armchair, right hand across his brow.“Give me a few seconds. Maybe his name will come to me.”

It seemed a long time before Walter Grant spoke.  “Roger was his name.  We called him ‘Red.’  That’s it!  Red Pollack.  Sounds like some kind of fish, doesn’t it?”

Jennifer kept still though she wanted to shout, “Get on with it – where can I find him?”

He spoke very slowly.  Jennifer tried to mask her impatience.

The old man continued, “Last thing I remember Pollack was in deep trouble.  It was some years ago. He was in the papers.  I remember being shocked at reading about him.  Oh yes, it was a real shock.  He had helped so many childless couples . . .”  His voice trailed off.

Finally Jennifer burst in, “What did he do?  Why was he in trouble?”

“Would you believe they accused him of selling babies? It’s true that money had passed between us at the time of your adoption, but as I told your parents at the time, that was to cover the lawyers’ fees.  Maybe some of that money went into his own pocket, which I find hard to believe. He was a nice guy, met him at a medical conference about 30 years ago.  Drank a little bit, but was good company.  I guess the jury didn’t buy his story.  As far as I know my friend Red wound up in jail. All of this was about ten years ago.  The trial took place in New York.  I always liked the man.  Can’t believe what happened to him.  Lost his license of course.  If you could find him, I’m not so sure he would tell you where he got the babies.  Did I tell you he was an obstetrician?”  He looked hard at her before continuing.  “Telling you your true mother’s name?  I doubt it.  Even if he could remember it.  As for you, I’m really happy to see how you’ve turned out.  Give my best to the Bayers.  I remember them well.”

Jennifer was in tears as she drove off.  Blake had warned her against the search.  It might be tricky and dangerous, he said, but she was stunned by Dr. Grant’s story.  There was no point now in remaining in North Carolina.  Or telling the Bayers about Grant’s revelation. She felt heartache enough – why make others miserable?

###

As she passed through Maryland she thought of the nice place where she had spent the night, but resisted the temptation to return and enjoy another round of crab cakes and a good sleep.

She had phoned Blake from Orange and made other plans.

As usual, he managed to raise her spirits.  “Of course it was a shock and an anticlimax to hear the old doctor’s story.  Glad you kept some of the details from your parents.  What you need now is a rest for a few days, and a little fun in New York.  In your honor, I’ll even put some clean sheets on the bed.”

Good old Blake.  He never once said, “I told you so.”

The drive to New York would have been uneventful, except for a tractor-trailer rig from Florida that somehow had tipped over on the side of the highway.  Thousands of oranges had spilled out across the wide grassy shoulder of the road.  Highway patrol and emergency vehicles blocked the highway, forcing Jennifer to a stop some distance down the road from the site of the accident.  She refrained from leaving her car to pick up some juicy bounty, as many of the other drivers were doing.

As she waited out the delay Jennifer felt so weary that she dozed off, only to be rudely awakened an hour later by the tooting horns of angry motorists behind her.  Her trip to North Carolina had not been as successful as she had hoped, but at least she had found one piece of the puzzle in her search – the name of the doctor who had made her adoption possible.  He must have been a shifty sort, apparently a felon, not the rosy-faced, Santa Claus figure in her imagination.  As she drove on through Delaware and New Jersey her exhaustion and disappointment was almost overwhelming.  She was determined to continue the search, however. Blake would give her a hard time, she knew.  How could he understand the confusion in her mind, the loneliness of being, literally, a nobody.

Blake’s apartment was located on the West Side, the less pricey side of Manhattan.  At other times Jennifer had occasionally used a nearby parking garage to house her car.  This day she was lucky again and found a space.  It was only a one-block walk to Blake’s place but she was too tired to carry her tote bag and backpack so she phoned him.  “Dear, I’m back.  Just about a block away in the garage, but I need your help.”

At the garage the parking attendant was a bit surprised to see the ardor of the welcome Blake gave to Jennifer when he arrived. And so was she.  You never could tell with Blake.  His moods varied from red-hot to merely passive. Depended on his day on the force, she decided.

Tired though she was, she felt elated as she entered the apartment. It looked larger, cleaner and even smelled better than before.  And yes, he had as promised, put clean sheets on the bed.

“Let’s not talk about it,” she said.  “I just want to lie here with you and forget the whole thing. As ever, you are my rock. And you don’t know how much I need you.  I’m going to sleep now. And please, don’t take that personally.”

She closed her eyes, and true to her word, she did just that.

###

When she awoke she was alone.  Blake has risen early, had his cereal and coffee and had gone off to the police precinct.  There were two jelly doughnuts and a jar of instant coffee sitting on a narrow shelf near the stove.  That was enough for now.  She would treat herself to some good stuff at Starbuck’s later. Meanwhile, there were plans to be made.  No matter what Blake urged, she was not going to take a vacation from her search.

Her first stop was at the landmark Main Library on Fifth Avenue at 42^nd St.  As she approached the clerk at the information desk she realized that Blake might have easily answered her questions.  But she wanted to get at the truth herself.

“I wonder if you could help me, please.  I’m trying to read the records of a trial that took place in New York some years ago.”

“What year?” the thin-faced clerk inquired.

She felt like a fool.  “That’s the problem.  I don’t know.  It involves the fraud trial of a physician.  His name was Roger Pollack. (“Was” sounded as if he were dead.  Perhaps he was.)

The clerk smiled at her.  “I think I might be able to assist you.”

(Why did people always say “assist” instead of “help”?  Made them feel more important, Jennifer guessed.)

“You mean misconduct?  It’s such problem, now, isn’t it,” the woman said.

Jennifer blurted out, “No, I mean baby-selling.”

For a moment the clerk was stunned.  She had never dealt with that kind of inquiry before.  “The New York Times Index is amazingly well organized.  Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to explore it with you.  You might look it up under the doctor’s name for a start.  Too bad you don’t know the year.”  She turned to help another person.

“Blake, where are you?”  Jennifer agonized as she began to look for the Index on one of the library’s computers.  She typed in the doctor’s name but found nothing, only the damned computer’s infuriating comment, “We have no record of this name.  Are you sure you spelled it correctly?”  Perhaps she should begin with a general headline listing, like “Baby Selling Scandal” or “Obstetrician Cited” or possibly “Good Samaritan Unmasked”?  No, that was tabloid stuff, not the solid, conservative New York Times. The category of “Medicine” and the year might be the answer.  She remembered the old doctor’s rather wandering account of his friend’s scandalous end in prison.  Obviously the fraud had been revealed long after Grant’s only arrangement with him, the time of her adoption, 25 years ago.  Hadn’t he said something about ten years?  It might take a long, long time to search through ten years, but never mind, she would persist.  Who knows, she might get lucky and hit gold after a few tries.

From time to time the information aide would lean over Jennifer’s shoulder and check her progress.  She had been intrigued by Jennifer’s good looks and by her strange request as well.  “How are we doing?” she would ask.  “Would you like me to bring you a drink of water?”

The woman meant kindly, but she had bad breath.

Doggedly, Jennifer sifted through the medical headlines.Researchers were still looking for cures for the deadly diseases and, ironically, at the same time coming across new diseases.  Her brief visit to Smith’s Rest Home still haunted her.  The accoutrements of old age – blindness, deformed joints, loss of hearing, and mental erosion – they were as lethal as cancer, she thought.  As she grew more and more tired and depressed her luck suddenly changed.Hidden away among the news items of 2003 she found a modest, two-column heading:  Roger Pollack, MD, Charged with Fraud

Eureka!

Had the story been covered by the tabloids, there might have been a front page picture of the doctor being led away in shackles, followed with a lurid account inside.  The Pollack story as presented by the Times was restrained:  A respected obstetrician, who had for years given volunteer hours at a home for unwed mothers, was arrested and indicted on a charge of accepting fees or “selling” infants to adoptive parents.  Roger Pollack had pled non-guilty, citing the ten thousand dollars as a normal fee for the required lawyers.  If found guilty, the physician could face a prison term of up to ten years.  This news was merely a confirmation of what she had heard from Doctor Grant. Perhaps the man was still in jail. She continued her search through the Index.  An item listed a couple of weeks later described the doctor as “weeping” as he was sentenced to a maximum term.  The woman judge was termed “stern-faced.” On the same day the newspaper had featured an article on the Op Ed page. It bewailed the growing numbers of teen-aged unmarried mothers, whose infants were being used as merchandise in a scandalous baby-selling scheme.  The mothers were not to blame. They had given up their babies without recompense, happy when told that a fine adoptive home had been found for them.  One fraud was particularly odious as it involved a doctor whose work had once been honored for its generosity, the editorial said.

The “home for unwed mothers” had not been named, but with Blake’s help, it should be easy to find.  There was no need to confront the doctor in his prison cell. The whole idea appalled her.To think that this hateful man had once held her in his arms. Besides, even a man with such slippery ethics might be loath to identify the name of the baby’s birth mother.  In any case, how would he remember one young mother out of hundreds?

“Did you find what you wanted?” she was asked as she left the information desk.

“Well, not entirely, but I’m really grateful for your help,” Jennifer said smiling.

There was something terribly sad about that young woman, the clerk mused.  Could she possibly have been one of those unfortunate infants?  Never.  With those wonderful, violet eyes, what mother could have given her away?

The work had left Jennifer extremely hungry, as famished as if she had been working out in a gym.  She worked her way a few blocks west until she found a small French restaurant.  It had survived competition for almost 70 years.  On its walls were photos of long-ago customers, some of them well-known figures in music and the theater.

“I guess I’m just a hick from out of town.  I can’t identify any of these pictures,” she told the elderly waiter.

“You’re far too young, Madame,” he said.

Madame.  How strange to be called that.  And rather nice. Made her feel worldlier.  When she and Blake were married the title would be more fitting.

“I think I’ll have a glass of wine.  What do you suggest?”

“Madame is celebrating?”  A cheeky question, but she was not annoyed.

“Perhaps.  I don’t know yet.”

###

At the Cove Larry and Sophie had a sense of anti-climax.Jennifer’s call from Orange had said little.  Perhaps they had expected too much:  an enthusiastic, detailed account about her impressions of the town and its people and a hoped-for meeting with some Madison relatives.  The Bayers were so proud of their adopted child, wanted her to be seen and admired.  Evidently, she had been disappointed by her visit with Doctor Grant and had left town quickly without making any effort to find any of the Madisons.

“Except for locating Grant and learning that other doctor’s name, she didn’t gain much information.  Maybe Grant’s gone a little ga-ga in his old age,” said Larry.

Sophie sighed, “You know it must be awfully trying for a man in the South to have to go through life with the name of Grant.  As I remember him, he was a particularly attractive, even handsome, man when we saw him.”

“Darling, you’re a trifle prejudiced.  Any man greeting us with a beautiful baby in his arms would have seemed an Adonis,” Larry laughed.

“She said she’s planning to stay with Blake for a few days.What do you suppose that means?”

“Dummy, she’s crazy about him.  That’s what it means.  I guess she’s hoping he’ll help her with her search.  Somehow I sense that he’s not too happy about this obsession of hers.  But what can he do? Meanwhile, you and I will just have to hold our breaths until her fixation fades away.”

The “Teddy Bears” of Christmas Cove were very patient people.

###

True to her promise, Jennifer continued her daily reports to the Cove.  Deliberately, she did not mention her trip to the Public Library.  Instead she enthusiastically raved about the delights of the city.

“Blake took me to the ballet last night.  The poor man pretended to enjoy “Cinderella” but dozed part of the time.  Only perked up when the two males who danced the roles of the Wicked Sisters did their stuff.  The entire audience adored that scene.  I had bought the tickets.  It wouldn’t have been fair to make