can’t explain it,” her mom had said when she began the search. “The urge I have to find them—not just my birth mother, but the family—is almost overwhelming.”
Amy hadn’t understood her mom’s quest back then, but she felt compelled to honor it now—as a tribute, she supposed.
“Here we go,” Ron said as he opened the door and stood back to let Amy enter first.
When she stepped through the threshold and onto the hardwood flooring, the scent of dust and memories accosted her, as well as the hint of herbs and spice.
For a moment, she took another whiff, trying to detect a scent that could be marijuana, which she’d had more than one occasion to smell in the dorm hallway when she’d attended Cal State. She came up blank, though, and was almost disappointed that she couldn’t give Mrs. Rucker’s story a little more credibility.
“Are you interested in a purchase?” Ron asked. “If so, I’m sure we can have it emptied for you by the time escrow closes.”
Emptied?
Amy scanned the living room, where a brown tweed sofa was flanked by two plants that had died from lack of water. She spotted a fairly new television, an antique piano that took up the east wall, a hand-carved fireplace mantel that bore family photos, and a beige recliner.
A worn leather Bible sat on a lamp table, next to a china cup and saucer. She couldn’t help noticing a slight stain in the cup that had once held a brown liquid, and she wondered if it had been coffee or tea. Not that it mattered.
Still, Mrs. Rucker had left some of herself behind, and Amy found herself curious about the woman’s preferences, by the things she’d chosen for comfort.
As the Realtor continued to give her a tour of the house, both upstairs and down, Amy felt compelled to spend more time in each of the rooms than was appropriate, even if she’d truly been in the market for a house.
For the strangest reason, she’d been intrigued by the choice of wallpaper, by the plaques and pictures that adorned each room, by the handmade quilt that had been draped over the double bed that appeared to be the one in which Mrs. Rucker had slept.
As they returned downstairs, Ron paused at the bottom landing and placed his hand on the banister. “The owner’s grandson was going to fix up the place and pack up his grandma’s belongings, but he had a heart attack a week or so ago. I told the family that I’d line up the workers for them, but like I said, I’ve been playing catch-up ever since the baby was born. But I’ll try to make some calls as soon as I get back to the office. Just try to imagine the place after we power wash the outside, mow the lawn, and trim the shrubs.”
Ron was being incredibly optimistic. It was going to take more than a couple of days to get this house and yard whipped into shape.
They walked outside, and she waited as he secured the lock. Again, she glanced at the weathered structure, its shutters closed tight, its story silenced.
“What happened to the lady who used to live here?” Amy asked, hoping for a few more details and an adult version of the story.
“From what I understand, she’s living in long-term care.”
Amy paused a beat, struggling with an idea that was brewing, a wild thought, actually, yet one that suddenly held a lot of merit. She had an opportunity to spend some time in this house, if she acted quickly. But it would cost both time and money.
Somehow, that didn’t seem to matter.
“I’d like to sign a lease,” she said. “And it would be great if I could have the house furnished. So you can leave it as it is.”
“I’ll talk to Mrs. Davila about that. She’s the owner’s daughter. It was her son who had the heart attack, and so she’ll be making the decisions now.”
Would Mrs. Davila be Barbara Rucker, the woman who’d given up Amy’s mother for adoption? Or was she a sister or another relative?
“You know,” Ron added, cocking his head to one side. “The more I think about it, the more I like your offer. It’s possible that Mrs. Davila will go for it, too. Otherwise, she’d have to conduct an estate sale or put everything in storage. And from what I understand, she’s pretty worried about her son’s medical condition, so this house is the least of her problems.”
Amy tried to conjure some sympathy for the Ruckers and the Davilas, but she couldn’t quite pull it off. She might have biological ties to the people who’d once lived in this house, but unlike her mother, she’d been able to completely embrace the Rossi family as her own.
“When would you want to move in?” Ron asked.
“As soon as possible. In fact, I’d be willing to carefully box up any of Mrs. Rucker’s personal belongings so Mrs. Davila won’t have to bother with it.”
Ron stroked his chin, the wheels clearly turning. “You know, under the circumstances, she might really appreciate that. It’s possible that she’d even be willing to give you a discount on the rent. Let me call her and get back to you.”
“That’s fine.” Amy gave the man her telephone number. She probably ought to mention something about having a child and a small, well-behaved cocker mix that was housebroken, but she wasn’t really going to move in.
As Amy and the agent returned to their respective vehicles, she paused beside the driver’s door of the Honda Civic and took one last look at the tired old house.
If only the walls could talk, people often said.
Maybe, in this case, they would.
The call came in later that evening, while Amy and Callie were having dinner in the kitchen.
Amy blotted her lips with her napkin. “Keep eating, honey. I’ll tell them we’ll have to talk later.” Then she headed for the portable phone that rested on the counter.
When she answered, Ron Paige introduced himself and went on to say, “I have good news, Amy. Mrs. Davila is willing to lease you the house furnished. And she’ll either hire someone to come in and box her mother’s personal items, or you can do it for a discount on the rent.”
After Amy’s mom had died, one of the hardest things she’d had to do was to help her dad go through her mother’s closet, her drawers, her desk at work. But there was no way she would have hired a stranger to handle a heartrending task like that. And the fact that Mrs. Davila had readily agreed to Amy’s offer surprised her.
“So,” the agent continued, “if you’d like to come by my office tomorrow morning, we’ll run a credit check, which is just a formality. And then I’ll make a quick call to your current landlord.”
Amy didn’t have a landlord. In fact, she and Brandon owned both houses they’d lived in, but she’d deal with any explanations and the resulting questions later. Instead, she agreed to meet Ron at the real estate office at ten.
After dinner, she’d give Stephanie Goldstein a call. Stephanie’s husband, Jake, worked in the same law firm as Brandon, which had been reason enough to avoid the woman these days. But Amy and Steph had belonged to the same playgroup since their children were babies, and their daughters got along great. They’d also become friends in spite
