nab seats in the back of a small auditorium to hear Senator Gordon Haywood, of Utah, speak. She had to admit the guy had charm and something probably best described as charisma. She didn’t like his politics, though, and was still irritated that he’d refused to give her the interview. She might get an article out of the opening of the time capsule, but was beginning to doubt it. If she’d been set on it, she should have spent the weekend talking to alumni, not riding in a golf cart and sipping wine. What a waste, she thought. A free-ranging conversation with possible presidential contender Gordon Haywood would have been an easy sale to any number of publications.
Now, on the final day of the weekend’s festivities and despite the blistering heat, Jakob leaned back against the substantial trunk of a big tree, arms crossed, seemingly prepared to enjoy the main event, too. He wore chinos, sandals and a bright red T-shirt. She’d forgotten that he had always loved bright colors.
Amy had stationed herself several feet away, needing a little separation for reasons she didn’t understand. Her arms were crossed, too, tightly. It was silly to feel on edge like this, but she did.
Great moment to have a revelation. Maybe I don’t want to know who Mom was, before I was born. Did I really think it would help me to know why she became a woman who couldn’t love her own child?
Because the answer was a resounding no. She still harbored more anger at her mother than she’d acknowledged even to herself. There probably wasn’t an explanation on earth that would make her go soft with sympathy and understanding.
And the truth was, given that Mom had intended to major in English, she and most of the other students had likely put their very best writings into the time capsule. Since she had ultimately majored in sociology with a minor in Spanish, whatever Mom had written at nineteen or twenty was probably less than a marvel of literature.
Fidgeting, Amy glanced at Jakob to see him watching with seeming amusement and interest as the college president triumphantly pulled the capsule out of the foundation of the damaged building. He hefted it onto a table set up for the purpose on the green sward that seemed to form the heart of the campus. The crowd surrounding them cheered and clapped.
Amy couldn’t seem to stay still. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and tapped out beats with her fingers unheard even by her. She’d find herself watching this face, or that. A couple of times, her gaze intersected with that of a man who stood with Madison Laclaire, the director of alumni relations who’d organized the event. He was paying more attention to the crowd than he was to what was happening up front. There wasn’t even a flicker of expression on his face when his eyes met Amy’s. Was he some kind of security?
Why do I care?
Amy knew perfectly well she was only trying to distract herself.
“Rob Dayton.”
She quivered with a kind of alarm when she realized the college president had begun to call out names. A tall, skinny guy without much hair stepped forward to take an 8½-by-10-inch manila envelope. There was some good-natured teasing as he retreated with his contribution.
“Linda Gould.” Lars Berglund, the president, glanced around, but no one responded and he set aside this envelope. The next couple, too.
“Ron Mattuschak.” A stocky, graying man claimed this one.
Now Amy stood absolutely still, as if she’d miss hearing her mother’s name if she so much as twitched. She didn’t even look at Jakob.
Half a dozen names later, it came.
“Michelle Cooper Doyle.”
What if this was a truly awful, horrible idea?
I don’t have to open it.
A knot in her throat, Amy went forward. A handsome man with silver hair and bright blue eyes, President Berglund handed her an envelope with a murmured, “I’m sorry your mother couldn’t be here.”
She said something—probably a thank-you—and walked quickly back to the tree where Jakob waited, his eyes keen on her face. He was no longer amused by the proceedings, she realized on one level. She had no idea what her expression showed, but whatever it was had him concerned. The fact that he was paying such close attention warmed her. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t come alone.
Not until she had reached him did the realization of what she held in her hand kick in. The envelope was heavier than she’d expected and harder, too—a book? she wondered. There was room for it to slide around in there, unlike a sheaf of papers that would have fit just right. Her fingers flexed as she became conscious there was also a softer lump. This didn’t feel like a short story.
Tension built in her chest.
For no good reason, she and Jakob stood there dutifully, trapped by good manners much like concert goers too polite to walk out midperformance, while name after name was called, and people went forward one at a time. She noticed that the alumni director took one of the envelopes. The hard-faced man at her side did, too, which meant he wasn’t here as security after all. Amy couldn’t help noticing that his expression became even more remote after he accepted the envelope for Joseph Troyer. She understood how he felt.
At the end, Berglund upended the capsule and something small fell out.
“A petrified Tootsie Roll,” the president said, and the grand occasion ended with a laugh.
“Do you want to get some lemonade or a cookie?” Jakob had stepped closer without her realizing it.
Amy wasn’t hungry, but she was thirsty, she realized. No surprise, as hot as it was out here. “I wouldn’t mind a lemonade.”
He grabbed a couple of cookies, too, and wrapped them in a napkin. They walked across the field toward the street where he had parked. Voices of the small crowd they had left behind were an indistinct buzz in her ears. She was hardly aware that they passed students—even though once she had to dodge a Frisbee. Ten seconds later she couldn’t have said who’d thrown it. Reaching Jakob’s red Subaru was a relief.
They opened the doors to release the heat and he got in, started the engine and cranked up the air-conditioning. Amy stood there, the weight of the package feeling more significant than it could possibly be.
“Hop in,” Jakob said, and she complied, fastening her seat belt and then staring down at the envelope.
I don’t have to open it.
She almost snorted. Right. Sure. She’d wasted an entire weekend to come to the glorious opening of the time capsule, and she was not going to open the package her mother had put in it. Who was she kidding?
She slid her thumb under the flap and the glue gave way. Wildly curious now, she reached in and pulled out...yes, a book of some kind. No, an academic datebook, the kind you wrote assignments in. And a small bundle of cloth with pink flowers on a white cotton background.
The tension swirling inside her coalesced into dread. Panties. That’s what she held in her hand. A pair of her mother’s bikini underwear.
Amy stared down at them, unable to think of a single good reason Mom would have put them in this envelope to be saved for fifty years.
Her hands moved fast, but clumsily, as she stuffed both items back into the envelope. Desperate to no longer be touching it, she put it in the canvas messenger bag
