Her Name Is Rose (18 page)

“Mr. Sherr?”

A voice, breathless, was calling from behind him. At first he thought he'd imagined it.

“Mr. Sherr?” He turned. His heart, as if separating from springs, leapt from its held place and zipped toward her. Iris. She was holding his letter.

“Thank you. For your note.”

“Anytime.”

She looked at him with surprise.

“I mean—”

“And for…' She stopped. Iris smiled weakly and what followed was a long pause when neither of them seemed to know what to do. It was the first time Hector was close to her. Her eyes were very clear, with tiny lines that stretched from the corners to her temples. The crying had only just left them. She had a pale patch of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair had been quickly tied up, but strands fell in twirls about her face and neck and she tried to fix them behind her ears. She was in a white cotton blouse and blue jeans. She was gorgeous, he thought. As he looked down he saw she was barefoot.

She turned to go but he caught her arm and blurted, “Stay. Let's walk. Get a coffee. See the river.” His hands flung to the sides of his head as he stuttered.

Iris didn't seem to notice his gawkiness, or if she had, it didn't matter. She looked down to her feet and Hector put his hand on her back and, to his great surprise, she let herself be guided back to Grace's. While Iris went in to get shoes, Hector waited outside, not wanting to dilute the spell he felt cast under. When she reappeared she was wearing sandals. Sunglasses nestled on top of her head. They walked north and cut through the Prudential Center Plaza, and continued on a few short blocks. Neither of them spoke. They passed onto Gloucester with its ornate streetlamps and old Victorian brownstones with their ancient lead-glass windows and black window frames. Crossing over Comm Ave., the street widened into two-way traffic and was divided down the middle by a tree-lined pedestrian walk. Iris looked into the shaded tunnel carved by the trees.

“Can we sit?”

“Great idea.” Hector swung around, looked for an empty spot, and strode to the nearest bench, landing with a thud as if in being able to claim it for her so solidly he was gallant. And just like that there she was, Iris of the blue dress sitting right there beside him. Her hands were folded in her lap. She looked up and down the tree-lined mall and across the avenue at the redbrick buildings.

“Magnolias,” he said.

“What?”

“Those trees you're looking at. They're saucer magnolias. This place is famous for them. In early May the streets are lit up like little pink and white balloons.” He was chuffed with himself and hoped he'd impressed her. If truth were told, everyone in Boston knew that about the magnolias in spring along Comm Ave. He didn't know a thing about trees.

After a few moments she said, “I enjoyed the concert last night. Hearing you play—”

“Thank you,” he said. “That was a great audience.” He relaxed his tall frame, unfurling like a fern, fanning out across the bench, his arms abreast along the top rung.

“We don't have too many outdoor concerts like that but we—”

“Ireland? Right?” He'd cut her off with his enthusiasm and immediately felt sorry.

“We do have a music festival every summer.”

“Yeah, of course you do. Everybody's heard of the Cork Jazz Festival. I mean, anyone in the jazz world.”

“Actually we have one near where I live. Doonbeg.”

Hector raised his eyebrows with a look that said,
Wow
. But before he could ask her more about it she added, “My daughter's a musician, too.”

“I'm sorry,” he blurted (thinking back to the morning's phone conversation). “I mean, what does she play?”

Iris looked at him quizzically but continued. “The violin. Classical violin.”

“Double wow.” Suddenly it was impossible for him to know what more to say because he felt guilty and thought it must be written on his face. Next she would tell him her name.

“Her name is Rose.”

He wanted to say something. But what?
Say something supportive.
“I like the way you wear your hair.”

Iris looked at him and then couldn't help herself, she laughed. Really laughed. It was as if a river rippled from her and spilled onto the path and climbed up the trees, a sort of tintinnabulation. And Hector felt it, too, and laughed with her. Didn't hold back.

Hector jumped up and held out his hand. She took it briefly, then let go. Then, as if feeling less cautious, she walked forward. After a few blocks, they'd crossed onto the footbridge over Storrow Drive, then down to the Charles, where they walked along the esplanade. Hector felt surprisingly jaunty and began humming. Iris's footfalls were soft and she picked a long blade of grass and swung it around in the air. It was one of those near perfect days of summer, blue sky even though hot. And for a moment, Hector imagined they were just two second-chance lovers sauntering on a midsummer's morning along one of the finest promenades on the eastern coast of America.

“Hector?” Iris said at last, her voice a different tempo and thinner. “Can you show me where the public library is?”

“The library? Sure. Yeah. It's not too far, but we have to cross back over.”

She stopped. “I need to find someone.”

“In the … library?”

“Billy said I could use the Internet there. Isn't that right?”

“Oh, right. But you don't
need
the library. I have my laptop with me back at Grace's. We can go there if you like and you can use mine.”

Iris considered. “All right,” she said at last, and they turned back. She told him then that her daughter, Rose, was studying at the Royal Academy of Music in London.

“Well, now I'm impressed.” Hector said most Americans probably wouldn't have heard of it, but he had because he taught music composition at Berklee. “I mean, we have Juilliard, and Oberlin, too, and right here … well … over there”—he pointed as they crossed back over Huntington—“is the New England Conservatory. But the RAM? Wow. She must be
really
good.” They kept walking, but Iris had picked up the pace.

*   *   *

Hector at last orchestrated his thoughts about Hilary Barrett of 99 St. Botolph Street and now Iris's promise about rescheduling some appointment. A further thought struck him. A discordant note. How had he not heard it before? Because he was a selfish so-and-so.

He looked quickly to her hand.

“You and … um … Mr. Bowen must be truly proud of her.”

“Yes. Very. Very proud of her.”

“I mean, sure—”

She stopped. Hector thought he'd insulted her. She looked away. “Luke, her father, died two years ago.” Then she walked on.

It's a terrible thing in a man when half his heart is going one way, feeling sad, but in the other half, the strings of joy are playing full on. What could he say? “I'm sorry.”

They walked the remaining few minutes in silence, then once back at Grace's went upstairs to their rooms, having agreed to meet in Grace's old parlor in half an hour. Hector wasted no time, changed his shirt quickly for another of his Hawaiians, the olive green one with blue flowers, got his laptop, and raced back down.

Billy appeared from the kitchen. “Hey, Hector?”

“Billy.” Hector had arranged two armchairs around the coffee table. “Is Grace around?”

“No. Playing tennis with the seniors.”

“Good! I mean, good for Grace. Mrs. Hale. Her enthusiasm is a lesson for us all, hey? Listen, kid, me and Mrs. Bowen will be working in here.”

“Oh?”

“Mrs. Bowen needs to send some e-mails. I'm letting her use my laptop.”

Billy gave Hector a knowing look.

“I'm hooked. What can I say? But that's between you and me.”

When Iris eventually appeared she'd changed clothes, too, and had washed her hair. It was still wet, the ends curving into scrolls, and dampening patches on her cotton blouse. Billy reappeared and she asked him for a pot of tea.

Hector turned the open laptop toward Iris. “Here you go.” The cursor beat in the search bar.

“I've never done this before.”

“What?” He pulled his chair closer to hers. She was still cool from showering and her hair smelled like apples.

“I've never ‘searched' for a person before.”

Iris typed in “Hilary Barrett.” Hector didn't say a word.

A 0.16-second search yielded nearly six million entries. She turned to him startled. “There can't be
that
many people with the same name! I'll never find her.”

“Try ‘Boston phone book,'” Hector said.

Her face reddened. “What? Why Boston?”

Hector stammered. “It … it was on the envelope … 99 St. Botolph Street. Right? I'm sorry. That's around the corner?”

She thought about this for a second. “Right. The envelope. Of course.” Those gray eyes closed for a second.

“I'm sorry. It's none of my business.” Hector looked at her, but she was looking out the window toward the park. After a long pause, she said, “It's complicated. And … she wasn't there. I went yesterday. It's a restaurant, you know?” Back at the screen she typed “Boston phone book.” Her eyes scanned the first page of results. Top was White Pages.com.

Just then Grace opened the door carrying a tray. She was still in her tennis shorts. A gold chain was half hidden beneath her polo shirt.

“Iris! How are you? Billy said you'd like some tea. Here you go.” As she laid down the tray, her face obscured from Iris, she looked at Hector, thin eyebrows raised.

“Hector—”

“Gracie, Gracie, Gracie. Good match?”

“Wonderful … So you've finally met our Hector? Is he behaving himself? He's a bit of wild card. Isn't that right, Hector?”

Grace edged closer and squinted to see what was on the screen, but couldn't. As she turned away, her red lips quivered, twitching to say something.

“I'm trying to locate an old friend,” Iris said at last. “Someone I met a long time ago in Dublin. She used to live in Boston.”

“Oh?”

“A Hilary Barrett.”

“Hil—”

“We're searching the White Pages on the 'Net,” Hector interrupted, his tone suddenly harsh, cocked, and aimed at Grace. Iris seemed to sense there was a subplot, or so Hector feared, so he smiled at Grace then.

“Right. Yes. Of course,” Grace said. “Good idea. The White Pages. Well, you never know. Right? Always a good place to start, with the telephone book.” Grace walked toward the door but turned before leaving. Iris couldn't see that she held her hands open as if ready to catch something. Like an answer. Eyes so wide that if they had been speaking they'd have been saying,
Hector, what have you found out?
Hector shushed her away with a small wave of his hand.

In all, there were thirteen search results for Hilary Barrett in the White Pages for Massachusetts. But only one in the age bracket that matched Iris's guesstimation: Becket, MA.

“It's probably not her.” She thought a moment. “Where is Becket? Maybe she moved there?” She fell silent again. She shook her head. “Anyway. I just can't ring her up—”

“Sure. Sure you can. She'll remember you. I mean … yours is not a voice one easily forgets.”
Hector, Hector, Hector. What are you saying?

Iris paused. She stared at the screen. Her face flushed as she took this in. “No, I mean. I don't even know her. She's not an old friend,” she said at last. She bit her lower lip hard. Looked around the room and at the closed door. “She's my daughter's birth mother.”

Hector sat back and inclined his head forward and his mouth formed an “oh.” He looked surprised because he was. The missing piece had fallen into place, but it wasn't what he'd expected.

“Rose is my adopted daughter.” Iris closed the laptop. Her hands lay on her lap and she made small fists with them. And then she explained: the promise she'd made to her husband before he died but had never carried out; how she'd “stolen” the envelope just a few days earlier from the Adoption Board and got the name and address; and that yesterday when she visited 99 St. Botolph Street, the man there had never heard of a woman named Hilary Barrett.

She explained it all except for the now missed appointment and the reason for it.

“So you see, I can't just ring her up, even if this Hilary Barrett in Becket
is
the woman I'm looking for.”

She was elegant in her distress. She held it together. There was strength in this woman; Hector wondered if she knew she had it. Her story was breaking his heart, but his heart had a mind of its own and, to paraphrase the great Irish singer/songwriter, his heart was doing his thinking and it was leading him into a danger zone. He needed more time. More time to get to wherever this was going and to figure out some way to help her, and so in a flush of feeling he found himself saying, “Why don't I drive you there?”

“What?”

“Sure. Why not? Plan B. You could get out of the city heat and see some country.”

“Is it far?”

“Becket? Not really. About two hours. West across the state. Into the Berkshires. Part of the Appalachian mountain range and really—”

“I don't know.”

“I'll ask Grace if we can borrow the car.”

“Please! Please don't tell her—”

“No. No. Of course not.”

“Why,” she continued, “it's probably nothing. I've been pretty unlucky so far.”

Hector laid his hand on hers. “Sure. I understand. Your secret's—” Iris looked at him. She pulled her hand away like it'd been stung by a bee.

“Sorry, I'm not good with words. What I meant was—”

“It's okay. I think I know what you meant.”

“I just want to … you know … help.” He reached for her hand and held it firmly for a second, then let go. “I meant to tell you last night before the concert, but you weren't around. I want to help you because … you helped me.”