Forbidden Heart #2
Instead, I was still here, the weight of this house crushing my ambitions.
In Harriet's last months, I'd begun to clean out the closets, knowing the inevitable was coming.
We both knew. The doctors had been kind but clear.
There was no last-minute reprieve on the way—she was sick, and she would die.
Their concern was making her comfortable.
Not that Harriet McKenna could ever be made comfortable.
She was too demanding for that. In my opinion, she thrived in a state of complaint.
She didn't want to be comfortable. She wanted to harangue, to order, to criticize—and she did all three in abundance.
I managed to sort through the garage and the guest room closet while she was dying, and it felt like I'd made great progress.
But now, looking around, there was so much left.
The furniture. Paintings on the walls. Boxes and boxes in the attic, all waiting for me to deal with them. So many decisions .
I hadn't expected to feel so apathetic. I didn't want to sort through the detritus of Harriet's life.
I wanted to blink and have it all disappear, to be back in Paris, in my little room next to the children, waiting for them to wake up so I could get them dressed and take them to the park or drop them off at school.
I let out another self-pitying sigh and drained the last of my soda.
The truth was, I didn't know if that was what I wanted.
The Smiths didn't need me back. As always happened, the kids were old enough now—attending school full-time—that they didn't need a live-in nanny.
Janice had emailed a week before: So sorry to hear about your mom, Paige.
I wish I could be there to give you a hug.
We miss you so much, but the kids are loving school.
I don't know what you have planned, but I got word from a friend of a friend who's looking for a live-in.
Not quite what you're used to, a small town in the mountains, but the family is lovely and a little desperate—they haven't been able to find anyone.
Are you interested? Just let me know and I'll pass your information along.
Was I interested? I'd spent six years traveling the world, and the last eighteen months in a small town in Ohio.
I wasn't enjoying the contrast. Did I want to bury myself in another small town?
Did I want another family? Or did I want the classroom?
That's what I'd trained for, where I'd always intended to end up.
In theory, teaching was the goal. But when I closed my eyes and tried to envision it, the picture wouldn't gel.
I hadn't answered Janice. I knew time was running out, and at this point I was just being rude. She'd called, and I'd let it go to voicemail, stuck in this listless state, hating where I was, unable to move on.
I squeezed the empty can of orange soda and dropped it in the recycling bin.
I didn't have to decide today. I did have to pack at least a box or two and load the back of my mother's car with things to take to the donation site.
I had to do something, or I'd spend the rest of my life here, in this relic of a house, watching the linoleum curl at the corners, staring at the phone on the wall that never rang.
I let out another sigh, disgusted at my own self-pity.
Dragging myself up the stairs, I pulled the cord to drop the ladder to the attic.
It was less of a disaster up there than I’d remembered.
Half of the boxes were old clothes. I tossed them through the ladder hole and watched them roll down the second-floor hallway, destined for the donation pile.
There was a bin of Christmas decorations that hadn't been hung in my lifetime.
Another bin contained my mother's wedding dress.
I stopped on that for a moment, unfolding it, trying to envision her as a bride—glowing and filled with joy.
I couldn't see it. In my memories her face was twisted into a scowl, her lips always pursed so hard they'd been deeply grooved with wrinkles long before her hair had begun to gray.
I folded the wedding dress back up and dropped it through the hole to land with the other items I was donating. Maybe some bride could give it a new life with new love. But she wouldn't be me.
I'd cleared half of the space, a tinge of relief lightening my heart as I looked around and saw progress.
I picked up the pace, carrying down boxes of books to donate.
I didn't know whose they'd been; maybe my father's.
I didn't think I'd ever seen my mother read anything but the Bible or prayer books.
A few hours later, I was down to the last third of the attic. Most of it was straight-up trash. A broken lamp. A cracked aquarium. And behind everything, an old trunk shoved in the corner, WILLIAMS stenciled on the side.
Williams. I didn't know a Williams. We were McKennas. Why would my mother have a truck belonging to a Williams?
The trunk was secured with a padlock. I didn't have the key. Based on the dust and the pile of crap around it, my guess was that if there had ever been a key, it was long gone.
I grabbed one of the handles on the side and dragged it out of the corner.
I couldn't get through the lock—but the hinges on the back—those were a different matter.
Curiosity gave me a burst of energy. I grabbed the broken lamp, lowered it in front of me, and then climbed down the ladder to the second floor.
Picking my way through the piles of stuff I'd tossed down, I jogged to the garage for a crowbar and a drill.
Between the two, I'd force my way into that trunk.
I wanted to know who Williams was, and why their trunk was in our attic.
I couldn't get enough leverage with the crowbar, but the drill did the job.
I slapped a bit on, and drilled hole after hole around the hinges.
When I thought I'd done enough, I grabbed the crowbar and swung.
A few good thwacks later, the hinges fell out of the side of the trunk.
I opened the top, flipping it back, where it hung loosely by the padlock that had tried to keep me out.
Here was a treasure trove. A neatly folded U.S.
Army uniform, a file on top—discharge papers.
Paul Williams. I sat in shock. I knew that face.
Paul Williams was my father. The black-and-white snapshot of the young man in dress uniform looked like me—same eyes, same hair.
I thought his name was McKenna. She told me we had his name, but clearly she’d lied.
Because here he was, Paul Williams, who'd served in the army. Another thing I hadn't known.
Carefully, I set aside the uniform and the file folder.
I found their marriage certificate on top of the suit I imagined he might have worn at their wedding.
A small collection of fishing lures that looked hand-tied.
A baseball with signatures. Here was a life that looked well lived, right up until the moment it stopped because Paul had chosen to continue that life with another woman.
Had he created a new family with her? I didn't know. He’d disappeared completely.
He’d never reached out. Never checked in.
He'd known Harriet was pregnant—at least, I thought he had—but he'd never come back.
It used to make me sad, that he’d abandoned me that way, abandoned us. Now, so many years later, it was down to a dull ache. And always, a question. Why had he cared about me so little? Why hadn’t I mattered?
I sighed, pushed the feelings down, and moved further into the trunk.
I found books: Rudyard Kipling, Salinger, Fitzgerald. Was this where I'd gotten my love of reading? It felt like there were answers here, if only I knew how to interpret them.
And then, underneath an old Cincinnati Reds baseball cap, was a manila envelope.
No label, address, or postage, the top flap sealed by metal prongs folded flat.
I worked them open with my fingernail and reached inside.
Letters. Handwritten letters, in a curly, feminine script.
I wasn't surprised to see a woman's signature at the bottom. Sarah.
Sarah had written to my father. "Dearest Paul, my heart breaks at our separation. I wish there was a way we could be together. It seems unfair we should both be so unhappy, but so happy together. I can't go on like this. I don't want to."
There was a date at the top, the week before he disappeared. This was the woman. This was the one he'd left us for. If he was still out there, somewhere, could I find him through her? Had he married her? Grown old with her?
It occurred to me, for the thousandth time, that he hadn't ever looked for me. Maybe he didn't want to be found. But Harriet was dead. Who knew if he still lived? If he was well, how much time did I have left to find him?
Maybe he didn't want to see me. But I wanted to see him, to find this man who'd left me before I was born—not to demand an explanation or unleash my anger. I just wanted to look into those eyes so like mine.
And the only clue I had was Sarah.
I flipped through the rest of the letters.
A photograph slipped out and landed in my lap.
A woman, young and beautiful, with pale eyes, and a precisely curled sandy blonde bob that made me think of the '60s.
She was lovely. Her eyes looked kind, with a spark of mischief.
I turned over the photograph. At the bottom, in that same curly script, was written: Sarah Elizabeth Fordham.
I didn't recognize the name. Tucking the letters and photograph back in the envelope, I set it in my lap and pulled out my phone, searching the internet.
I scrolled through the first few results.
A teenage volleyball player who'd scored the winning shot in a game—definitely not her.
An obituary for a 98-year-old woman—probably not her.
And then—a link to a marriage certificate from North Carolina. In 1980, Sarah Elizabeth Fordham had married Prentice Braxton Sawyer. Sawyer. The name jolted down my spine. Why did I know that name? It sparked in my brain, and I tapped the screen of my phone, flipping to my email.
The email from Janice. The family in the mountains of North Carolina who were looking for a nanny. Hope and Griffen Sawyer.
My heart pounded. My breath sped up. And a few frantic searches told me it had to be a sign. I'd been waiting for direction, and now I had one.
A goal, a job, and a mystery to solve—all of them in Sawyers Bend.