blanketed with dust.
He almost missed the footlocker in the corner. Shoved against the wall, it was partially hidden under a musty throw. Clay unfastened the clasps and tried the lid, gratified when it opened with a soft creak.
Papers and whatnot almost filled the cavity. The 16 Magazine on top caught his attention. Duran Duran posed on the cover, flashing ’80s-style hair and clothes—something a teen girl would like. The date on the cover was January, 1982, which was when Tammy Becker had lived here.
Beneath the magazine, Clay found a small, dark red journal covered in faux leather. Private diary! Stay out! T. B. someone had written. Judging by the hearts replacing periods and the looping script, T.B. was a teenage girl.
This footlocker belonged to Sarah’s biological mom. That sixth sense of hers had been dead-on.
A chill climbed his neck.
No snoop, Clay closed the lid and refastened the latches. He dragged the heavy trunk from the corner, the metal grating over the rough floorboards and his damn knee threatening to buckle.
Grunting with effort, he hugged the big thing with one arm and awkwardly made his way down the ladder. By the time he reached the floor, sweat beaded his forehead and he was breathing like he’d just gone a round with a feisty bull.
Sarah’s card was still in the hip pocket of his jeans. Leaning heavily against the wall, Clay slid it out and held it lightly in his palm. At this hour, she was probably still asleep. He’d wait awhile, and then give her a call.
* * *
AFTER A SOLID night’s sleep, Sarah felt more rested than she had in ages. She donned a robe and flip-flops and wandered downstairs in search of coffee. Even before she reached the bottom step, she smelled bacon and something baking. Still waking up, she wasn’t hungry yet. All the same her mouth watered.
Standing at the stove, dressed, aproned and humming happily, Mrs. Yancy greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Good morning. It’s going to be a beautiful day. The biscuits are in the oven.”
“They sure smell good. So does that coffee.” Sarah stretched and yawned.
“Help yourself, dear, and sit down. Was your bed comfortable? Did you have enough blankets?”
After sleeping in the twin bed of her childhood for over a year—Sarah couldn’t get herself to use the bed that had been Ellen’s—the double bed here had seemed a luxury. “Everything was great, thanks. Your neighborhood is very peaceful.”
So was Ellen’s street in Boise, but since her death, Sarah rarely slept through the night. Her friends thought she should put the house on the market and buy a condo or a cottage, something without the memories. Sarah agreed, but if she wanted a good price for the property, both the house and the yard needed sprucing up—tasks she would tackle later. “It’s not so peaceful with all those chirping birds outside,” Mrs. Yancy said. “Between the warblers, sparrows and crows, it’s impossible for a body to sleep past dawn. Not that I ever have. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”
Slipping on oven mitts, she launched into a monologue about her bird feeder and the types of birds that visited. Her words barely slowed as she pulled the biscuits from the oven and deftly transferred them to a basket.
Sarah didn’t mind the chatter, as long as she didn’t have to participate. She needed a moment to sip her coffee and get her mind up and running. Thankfully, Mrs. Yancy seemed content to carry on the entire conversation by herself, reminding Sarah of Ellen.
Her mother was the last person she wanted to think about right now. As angry as she was about the lies, she missed Ellen dearly. If only she were still around and they could argue and cry and talk through this whole mess and move on...
Abruptly Mrs. Yancy’s chatter died. “You look sad, dear.”
“I was thinking about Ellen—my mother. She died six months ago. Do you need help with breakfast?”
“No, but go ahead and grab a plate from the cabinet and dish up your eggs and bacon at the stove. I’m sorry about your mother. Were you close?”
Not as close as Sarah had thought. “Most of the time,” she said.
“It’s good that you put off the search to find your biological mother until now. This way, your actual mother can’t get upset at what you’re doing.”
Having filled her plate, Sarah sat down at the table. “How could looking for my biological mother possibly have upset Ellen?”
“It just can.” Mrs. Yancy didn’t say another word until she brought over the biscuits and her own plate and sat down across the table. She let out a sigh. “I was terribly upset when my son decided to search for his biological mother.”
Sarah masked her surprise. Had Mrs. Yancy also kept the truth from her son, and if so, what were her reasons? How had he discovered the truth? Those and a thousand other questions came to mind, yet as open and easy as her breakfast companion was to talk to, Sarah didn’t know her well enough to ask such personal things. “Does your son live in town?” she asked, settling for a harmless enough question.
“Sadly, no. Tom lives in Billings with his wife and their three kids. He’s a good son. I visit them several times a year, and they come here now and then, but we don’t see each other nearly often enough.”
She turned her attention to her breakfast for a few moments before continuing. “He was twenty when he decided he wanted to reunite with his biological mother. She lives in Albuquerque. I’m embarrassed to admit this now, but at the time, I worried that he’d choose her over me. My John assured me otherwise, but all the same, I lost many a night’s sleep.”
Sarah had never even considered such a possibility. “How did it all work out?” she asked.
“Tom’s biological mother was thrilled to hear from him. She’d gotten pregnant at fifteen and knew she wasn’t ready to give him the stability and family he needed, but she’d always wanted to know him. She’d gone on to college, where she met her husband. They have two children—Tom has met the entire family.
“From time to time they talk on the phone, and once in a while they see each other, but I’m the one Tom visits on Mother’s Day. He says I nursed him when he was sick, hollered at him when he needed it and helped him with his schoolwork, and that makes me his real mother.”
“I never even thought about any of that,” Sarah admitted. Now that Mrs. Yancy had opened up, she felt safe asking a question. “What made Tom decide to find his biological mother? Had he just found out that he was adopted?”
“Heavens, no. We talked about that from the time he was old enough to understand—even before then. We always celebrated his adoption day with a cake and presents. He just wanted to meet her.”
Sarah chewed a forkful of eggs, then voiced her own question. “How did your family celebrate your adoption day?”
“We didn’t.” Ducking her head from the woman’s questioning look, Sarah slathered a biscuit with jam.
Comprehension, then sympathy dawned on Mrs. Yancy’s face. “Your mother never told you.”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t even know if it was a closed
