The View from Prince Street (23 page)

Dearest Mother,

Mr. McDonald no longer comes to my bed. And in truth I am glad. The children are growing bigger and bigger and my swollen belly aches so badly I can barely stand his touch. The child has never quickened in my belly and I fear it has been cursed.

I know the children and he turn to the witch for their care. I should be angry, but I'm not. In the last year, my senses and feelings flicker like a candle in a breeze and soon I believe they will extinguish entirely. Would it be wrong for me to welcome the stillness?

—P

Rae McDonald

T
UESDAY
, A
UGUST
30, 2:30
P.M.

T
hree days had passed since Lisa and I had met Michael and Susan at the pizza place. Michael and I did not exchange any more e-mails, nor did either of us call or reach out in any way. Susan sent me a short handwritten note thanking me for seeing Michael and her. She said it meant a lot to him. As I tucked the note into the scrapbook now filled with Michael's pictures, I wondered what
meant a lot to him
really said. The words were straightforward, but I kept injecting extra meaning. Did it mean he liked me? Wanted to see me again? Was satisfied he didn't need to see me again?

I ran extra miles each day, hoping to exchange fear and insecurity for discomfort and sweat. And though each run gave me a bit of momentary peace, the unease never left.

As Tuesday morning had dawned, I'd found my curiosity for Michael weighing down my thoughts. The pictures and the memories of our lunch weren't enough to satisfy me, and I thought if I could just get back into his life, all the questions buried so deep in me would settle. I went back online and searched his name as well as his parents' names.
I found little more than a few cross-country stats. There was a Facebook page, but I wasn't a friend, so the page was closed to me.

Greedy for any scrap of information I could find, I kept searching, unmindful of the time that ticked by. Dozens of long-denied questions eased out of the darkness. What did he like to eat for breakfast? Was he a night owl? Did he have a girlfriend? Did I disappoint him?

The questions buzzed like flies and would not be shooed easily away by work, my clients, Zeb's calls regarding the addition, or my life.

I remembered the stickers on the back of Susan's van. Honor Roll Student, Loudoun High School. Cross-Country Track Team, Loudoun High School. The school was located thirty miles west of Alexandria in Loudoun County, outside the Town of Leesburg. I checked the school's website and found the time of the final dismissal bell. If I hurried, I could be at the school this afternoon. As quickly as the idea came, I rejected it. I was not going to stalk the boy.

“Let it go, Rae. This is insane.” Even as I tried to convince myself, I found that when I was driven by emotion, I didn't care about being reasonable. “This is the kind of thing stalkers do,” I muttered as I cancelled two appointments and then searched for my car keys.

As I grabbed my purse and headed toward the car, I muttered, “I should take my own professional advice and go back inside.”

I wrestled with doubts during the next hour as I drove to the school and parked across the street, five minutes before the final bell rang. I didn't feel good about this, but the alternative of not knowing was worse. Sadly, I really had no clue how I'd react if I did spot Michael.

And still, there I sat in my car, my hair tucked under a hat and sunglasses on my face.

The final bell rang at 3:42
P.M.
and I watched as hundreds of kids streamed through a half dozen doors. There was a line of buses in the front of the school and five times as many cars with parent drivers waiting to pick up. There were so many children. So many exits. Controlled chaos. I was looking for a needle in a haystack.

In the rush, I didn't see Michael appear, nor did I spot Susan's van. I saw lots of teenagers, all trying to fit in and look cool. Some seemed nice enough. Others not so much. I was sure Michael could hold his own and then some.

After the kids drifted away, I sat there, confused by this insane behavior that would surely end badly. In the silence of the car, a sense of failure weighed on my shoulders. I had told Michael I wouldn't contact him. I said all contact would have to come from him. I hadn't wanted to intrude until I had a date for the witch bottle exhibit.

And yet, here I sat. The fact that I hadn't technically contacted him didn't change the fact that I had crossed a line. I was putting myself before his best interests. This wasn't a proud moment for Dr. Rae McDonald.

Turning the ignition, I started toward Alexandria.

“Thank God you didn't see him,” I told myself. “What would you have said to him if he knocked on the window of the car?” No idea. Not a one. I would have stammered. What was there to say?

Once on the Beltway, I looped around the metro area and took the Telegraph Road exit. I should have headed south toward home, but the idea of sitting alone in my house seemed almost unbearable.

Thinking maybe I could visit with Lisa, I drove down Prince Street, but finding no parking, turned left on Union Street. By the time I found a spot, I was steps away from the Union Street Bakery. Margaret said they were closed early in the week, but I found an
Open
sign dangling in the front door.

Surprised and grateful, I parked, grabbed my purse, and got out. The air was warm and the breeze from the Potomac River nudged me up the street. I pushed through the front door, expecting to see Rachel, but instead I found a tall, lean woman with olive skin and straight dark hair. Judging by Margaret's descriptions, I guessed this was her sister, Daisy.

Whereas openness came naturally to Rachel and Margaret, Daisy,
though smiling as I approached, immediately struck me as more closed and guarded. Somewhere on her cellular level, she understood that the world did not always have open arms, and that sometimes it deals a bad hand to good people.

Daisy reached for a towel tucked in her apron and wiped her hands. “Rae McDonald.”

“That's right.”

“I believe Margaret has told me all there is to know about your family tree.”

Certainly not all. I moved toward the display case now filled with a dozen different cookies and pies. “She's a very enthusiastic woman when it comes to history.”

She extended her hand over the case and took mine in a very firm grip. “I'm Daisy.”

“I guessed. Your sister has also told me a lot about you.”

Her laugh was warm and sincere. “Has Margaret totally spilled the beans about the entire McCrae family yet?”

“She doesn't share as much as you might think.”

Daisy hitched her hands on her hips. “Good to know. Margaret keeps us all guessing.”

“She seems to enjoy her work so much.”

“These days, she's consumed by the McDonald papers.”

“I haven't heard from her in a few days,” I said.

“She and Addie drove out to the Eastern Shore to look at the potential salvage of a lightkeeper's house. I'm not sure. Could be a big job. And they've had several smaller jobs that have kept them busy.”

“Sounds encouraging. I'm glad to see the business growing.”

“I thought Alexandria would lose the salvage yard a few months ago, but Addie brought it back from the brink,” Daisy said.

“That's what Rachel said you did for the bakery.”

She hitched her hands on her hips. “I'm the numbers gal. And that's important, but it's Rachel's baking that brings in the customers.”

“She said you were out looking at warehouse space.”

“I was. It's a very nice place out in Loudoun County, about an hour commute if there's no traffic.”

Loudoun County. “It's a very nice area.”

A wisp of hair slipped free and brushed over her eyes before she quickly tucked it back in place. “Has a lot to offer location-wise.”

“Does that mean you might be moving?” I asked.

“Prices are still a little high, so I need to keep searching. But my husband and I are considering a move. A place in the country means more space for his bike business—he does excursions, so it's easier to launch a tour from Loudoun or Prince William County rather than from Alexandria city roads. We could also afford a bigger facility where he can store bikes. Less traffic. I don't know. Still processing.”

“That sounds promising.”

She clasped her hands together. “What can I get for you? Rachel has been testing recipes for days. Though I'm afraid nothing is too savory. Margaret says you don't have much of a sweet tooth.”

“I'm thinking about expanding my horizons and thought I'd try your sugar cookies,” I said. “Rachel gave me some the other day when I visited but they were gobbled up before I had a chance to eat one bite.”

“Must have been the lemon polenta. We don't have those today, but I can hook you up with plain sugar cookies.”

“That sounds perfect.”

She tugged a piece of wax paper from a dispenser and grabbed a pink box. She inspected the cookies a moment before she chose a perfectly round one. “So, you're enjoying working with Margaret?”

“Yes, I appreciate her directness and humor.”

“When it comes to all things history, she's unstoppable. She really does know her stuff.”

I remembered what Margaret had said about Daisy. She was adopted at age three and reached out to her birth mother last year. The reunion had not gone smoothly.

As I watched Daisy arrange the cookies so carefully in the box, she reminded me of myself. Control was important. She did not have Rachel's artful knack for making the haphazard look beautiful.

Questions about her birth mother jabbed at me. She was a year into this process, and I wanted to ask about her relationship. What had her birth mother done wrong? What could I do to reach out to the boy without pushing him away?

Instead of opening my heart and sharing, I opened my wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. As I creased the bill lengthwise and stretched out any wrinkles, the questions shoved against the ice.
Just ask her.

All I could manage was, “How much do I owe you?”

She closed up the box and sealed it with a gold Union Street Bakery label. “Seven dollars.”

I pushed the bill toward her and accepted the box, almost wishing she could reach into my mind and see the questions clanging around.

She, of course, didn't and I was reminded of my advice to my clients.
No one can read your mind. If you have a question, then simply ask it. What harm can come from asking?

Daisy looked up at me from the register and arranged three bills face side up. “Three dollars change.”

“Thank you.”

“So are you buying the cookies for a special occasion?”

I tucked the bills away.
Ask her!
For a moment, I imagined Jennifer prodding me as she did when we were kids. “Nothing special.”

“You're eating them all?” She held up her hand. “And if you are, I'm not judging. I've crushed a few boxes of cookies in my time. Raises the endorphin levels through the roof. Good for the soul.”

“I think you mean serotonin levels.”

She chuckled. “Definitely, the feel-good levels.”

“Yes.”
Ask her!
“Have a nice day.”

“You do the same, Rae. Don't be a stranger.”

A baby cried from the back room and I hesitated. “Who's that?”

“My son, Walter. He's up from his nap. Would you like to meet him?”

Something primal and feminine clenched inside me. “I would.”

“Be right back.”

I waited as she vanished through the swinging doors and then reappeared seconds later with a boy that appeared to be about ten months old. His hair was as dark as his mother's, but instead of being smoothed and controlled, it stuck straight up. He popped his thumb in his mouth and though his eyelids were heavy with sleep, he grinned when he saw me.

I pictured Michael at that age. His face was round though the hair was thinner and more red. Grinning, drooling, and sucking his thumb all at the same time. “He's very cute.”

She rubbed his tummy and kissed him on the cheek. “Walter Sinclair is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Sadness gathered at my feet like a mist. “I can see that.”

Daisy studied me, picking up something in the tone under my words. “Would you like to hold him?”

Shifting, I struggled with the powerful and surprising urge to hold the baby. “I don't have much practice holding babies.”

“He's pretty easy. A very laid-back child.”

The ice cracked and broke, and disconcerting warmth emerged. “I would like to hold him.”

She came around the counter as I set down the cookies and my purse on the display case. I extended my hands to him and he leaned gently forward until I had the full weight of him in my embrace. So much heavier and sturdier than I remembered when I held Michael, though he had only just been born when I'd cradled him.

“His name is Walter?”

“Yes. Walter Gordon Sinclair.”

“He looks like you.”

“Good. He should after the stretch marks and twenty hours of labor. I'm still trying to get my shape back.”

That was one of the perks of having a baby so young. The body forgave quickly.

Walter looked at me, thumb firmly in mouth, and studied me as closely as I studied him. This close, I could see the cracker crumbs in his hair, the bits of sleep in the corner of his eyes, and the way his earlobe gently rounded. “He's very sturdy.”