Drive Time (29 page)

“T
here she is. Middle of the back row. She’s gotten so tall!”

I point to Penny, who’s jockeying with her classmates for position on the steep steps of Main Hall. The Bexter photographer has finally arranged the fourth graders in some semblance of order. After a few false starts resulting from two-fingered rabbit ears, funny faces and a whole row of tongues sticking out, Penny’s first BEX photo is on the verge of taking its place in Bexter history.

“She did so well this year,” Josh says. “I wasn’t quite sure how she would handle it. A new school in the middle of the year. You. Being away from her mother for the first time. But look at her. She’s a happy girl.”

Penny’s laughing, then whispering something behind her hand, into the ear of the little girl next to her. In one motion, they both throw a kiss, big drama, then dissolve into giggles.

“I’m happy, too,” I say.

The photographer comes out from behind her camera, long blond ponytail swinging, hands on hips. “Listen. No kissing. No funny faces. This is the BEX. You can deal with me. Or I’m going for the Head.”

The fourth graders go silent. The photographer goes back to her camera.

Awards Day at Bexter. Josh and I are arm in arm, in
Bexter sweatshirts and blue jeans and Red Sox caps, standing in a crowd of parents all watching the rambunctious students and reveling in the April sunshine.

“Charlie?”

I feel a tap on my shoulder. There are Wen and Fiona Dulles. Holding hands.

“We’re waiting for Tal’s and Lexie’s photos,” Wen says, gesturing toward the steps. “But we wanted to tell you—”

He stops, and looks down at his wife. “Go ahead, honey,” he says.

I almost can picture them thirty years younger. In love and with the whole world ahead of them.

“I told Wen about my daughter,” Fee says. She puts one hand on my arm, clutching hard. “And now, Joan Covino is helping us contact her. We’re thinking, we’ll let her know we’d like to meet her. Let her decide what she wants. If she wants. You know? Thank you, Charlie. For giving me back my heart.”

“I—well, that’s lovely,” I say. “But I’m not sure it was me who—”

“Thanks, Charlie,” Wen interrupts. His voice is still gruff, but his eyes are soft. “You certainly know how to keep a secret.”

“He’s right,” Josh whispers as the couple walks away. “But no more secrets, right?”

The daffodils are already in full golden bloom. The legendary Bexter tulips, hundreds of them, are beginning to reveal their colors. In a few weeks, the campus gardens will be bursting and glorious. The birds are back, noisily, and the trees are green again. It was a scary winter. And now all that is over.

I’ve promised myself I won’t spend one moment of this day worrying about my sweeps story for May. The newly hired news director assures me she’s “green-light-go” for my investigation into Boston’s burgeoning movie industry.
But I’m not so sure. And my new producer, Franklin’s replacement, finally arrives next week. I okayed the hire. But I’m not so sure. Still, I’m not going to spend one moment of this Saturday worrying about that.

Or about the wedding. Or about the dress photos and invitation designs Mom keeps sending. Miss Tolliver is now on my speed dial.

“Charlie Mac!” Penny’s trotting toward us, plaid skirt swinging, carrying something in both hands. A present? A small flat box, white, and tied with a thin white ribbon. She hands it to me. “I’m supposed to give this to you. It’s from that lady.” Penny turns, pointing.

“What lady? A Bexter lady?” I say, following Penny’s finger. “I don’t see anyone.”

“She’s gone, I guess,” Penny says. Unconcerned. She grabs Josh’s hand, tugging. “Come on, Daddo. Time for the teachers’ picture. You need to get in the front.”

“Be right back,” Josh says, following his daughter. Our daughter. “Duty calls.”

I pull one end of the white ribbon, then lift the lid from the box. I look around again, wondering what “lady” gave it to Penny. And why. But there’s no one.

Inside, a fold of white tissue paper. On top of that, a tiny white enclosure card. I lift the stiff paper, reading the message, written in careful script and in black ink.

Look in the back? I turn the card over, but the back is blank.

I lift one side of the tissue paper, then the other. Inside is a photograph in a sterling-silver frame. I lift the pho
tograph from the box. It’s an infant, a tiny baby, wrapped in some kind of blanket, face almost covered.

I know this baby. This looks like a copy of one of the photographs I saw on Dorothy’s desk, in her study, the day I found the fundraising report.

Look in the back?

Putting the box on the grass, I turn the photo over, and slide the frayed velvet backing from the frame. Underneath is a folded piece of paper.

I look up again, searching for Millie. But there’s only throngs of kids and masses of daffodils and Bexter’s historic campus.

I unfold the paper. It’s also a copy, lined with creases, and the lettering is fading. It’s a birth certificate, typed on an old typewriter. The heading says “The Services.”

The date is 1950.

Mother’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Father’s name: Not given. Child’s name: TBA.

I stare at the paper. The puzzle pieces of three lives, no, many more than three, rearrange and shuffle and settle into tragedy. Love and mistakes, loss and revenge. And secrets.

Standing in the sun, possibly in the same blossoming garden young Dorothy might have enjoyed so many years ago, I slowly refold the paper. I tuck it in against the photo. And slide the velvet backing back into place.

I hold the photo close. Like a baby.

“I’ll keep your secret, Dorothy,” I whisper. “I know you’d want me to.”

Unending gratitude to:

Ann Leslie Tuttle, my brilliant, wise and gracious editor; Charles Griemsman, patient and droll, king of deadlines. To the remarkable team at MIRA, Tara Gavin, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Valerie Gray. The inspirational Donna Hayes. Your unerring judgment and unfailing support make this an extraordinary experience.

Kristin Nelson, the most remarkable agent and friend.

Francesca Coltrera, my astonishingly skilled independent editor, who lets me believe all the good ideas are mine.

The artistry and savvy of Madeira James, Charlie Anctil, Judy Spagnola, Patrick O’Malley, Jeanne Devlin and Nancy Berland.

The firefighters at the Newton Fire Department. The savvy mechanics, including Howard Tarnower, at the Pretty Good Garage. The experts at Carfax. The expertise, guidance and friendship of Dr. D. P. Lyle and Lee Lofland.

The inspiration of David Morrell, Mary Jane Clark, Jim Huang, Marianne Mancusi, Suzanne Brockmann, Carla Neggers, Gayle Lynds, Liz Berry and Sue Grafton.

The posse at Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America.

My amazing blog sisters. At Jungle Red Writers: Jan Brogan, Hallie Ephron, Roberta Isleib, Rosemary Harris and Rhys Bowen. At Femmes Fatales: Charlaine Harris, Dana Cameron, Kris Neri, Mary Saums, Toni Kelner and Donna Andrews.

My dear friends Amy Isaac, Mary Schwager and Katherine Hall Page; and my darling sister Nancy Landman.

Mom—Mrs. McNally is not you, except for the wonderful parts. Dad—who loves every moment of this.

And of course Jonathan, who never complained about all the pizza.

http://www.hankphillippiryan.com

http://www.jungleredwriters.com

http://www.femmesfatales.typepad.com

ISBN: 978-1-4268-4764-6

DRIVE TIME

Copyright © 2010 by Hank Phillippi Ryan.

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