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  He walked over and dropped down beside me on the rock. "I know that’s not what you want to hear. But if you’re looking for somebody to help you justify that man’s actions, you’ll have to keep looking. Because I won’t."

  A numbness crept over me as I digested his response—the sickening confirmation of what I already knew. Jake Kozen’s refusal to raise me might be rationalized on some cerebral level. But my heart would never forgive him.

  I had not been some nameless, faceless offspring, signed away before she had even seemed real. I had been a cooing, smiling, crawling baby, then a toddler—maybe even a preschooler. Jake Kozen had known me, lived with me, cared for me. What sort of man could create a baby, watch it grow, and not fall hopelessly, completely in love with it?

  A part of me had wanted Fletcher to say that men were different, that they could love a child from a distance in some academic way, without that fierce, protective drive I knew would make me fight tooth and nail to hang onto a child I loved. Certainly there were circumstances in which a parent might, for the child’s own well-being, allow it be raised by others. But Jake’s willingness to give me up completely—to risk never, ever seeing or hearing from me again—bore no trace of a selfless gesture. What his actions brought to mind was the desire for personal freedom—a decision based on lifestyle, on convenience.

  Or maybe on something else.

  "Would it matter," I asked tentatively, my voice barely above a whisper, if the child weren’t yours? I mean, biologically?"

  Fletcher’s head whipped toward mine, his eyes blazing with a passion that took me aback. "Of course not," he proclaimed.

  I breathed in with a shudder. It was no use. Whether Jake thought I was his daughter or not, whether his excuses sounded logical or not, there was no avoiding the cold, hard fact staring me in the face. The man who had been the first to raise me had never really loved me at all.

  The knowledge ate my insides like a corrosive.

  "I shouldn’t have said anything," Fletcher apologized.

  I looked at him. The speech he had just delivered began to repeat itself in my head, and as I listened, I felt a surge of warmness in my middle. Paternal instinct. Fletcher, at least, had it in spades. There were times I thought the quality had become extinct.

  "I needed an honest answer," I explained, offering him a small, appreciative smile. "I have to face all this sometime—I might as well do it now."

  He said nothing, but returned a smile before rising once more and stepping towards the water. A strong wind buffeted us both, and I took my sweat jacket from off my shoulders and pulled it on. Heavy nimbus clouds were rolling overhead, and as a large, gray one drifted under the sun, the temperature dropped dramatically. I shivered again, this time from real cold.

  I stood up and moved forward. I was only a step short of Fletcher when the reality of my intentions hit me, and I stopped.

  I had intended to pull his arm around me. In another two seconds I would have settled into the warmth of his side, just like that, as automatic as saying hello.

  I shook my head to retrieve my wits. True, I was used to being affectionate with the men in my life. But Fletcher and I were only just becoming friends. He wasn’t mine, nor had he given any indication—other than that one, involuntary glance in the kitchen—that he cared to be.

  I dropped back. The mistake was nothing to beat myself up about—I just wasn’t thinking. In any event, Meara O’Rourke was perfectly capable of weathering the wind without a man to hold her. No matter how wretched she felt.

  "I guess we’d better get back," Fletcher said, looking at the sky.

  He offered another small smile, then passed me and headed up the trail. I watched him, a curious wave of melancholy descending over me. Then I fell into step behind him.

  ***

  His ten-minute estimate proved right on the mark, which, given the path’s steep uphill grade, proved fortunate for my now-exhausted legs. The trail to the swimming hole opened up just behind the white house, and as we rounded that structure and reached its front porch, my ego finally gave way to my screaming muscles.

  "I think I’ll rest here a minute," I said, attempting a matter-of-fact tone as I dropped onto one of the cracked concrete steps.

  Fletcher stopped and leaned against the stair rail opposite me with a smirk. "With so little left to go, too."

  I glared at him.

  He chuckled. "You did great, actually," he praised. "We passed a few shortcuts, but you seemed up to it. Next time we’ll see the other section."

  My eyebrows rose. "There’s more?"

  "What I own myself—on the other side of the cabin," he explained. "There’s an abandoned campground at the bottom of the far hill, complete with an in-ground swimming pool. It hasn’t been used since the seventies, but I think it’s salvageable."

  I sat up a bit. The camp director in me couldn’t help but think what a paradise this land would be for young nature lovers. "What do you plan to do with it?" I asked.

  He considered. "I’m not sure yet," he said unconvincingly.

  His tone did not invite further questioning, and I let out a frustrated sigh. He had been wonderful to me today, but the fact that we were becoming closer only made his continued secretiveness more irritating.

  I shifted on the step, my rear end protesting its hard surface. "I wish the porch swing was still here," I muttered, contemplating the distance to the inn, in particular to the soft couches that flanked its fireplace.

  Fletcher looked at me oddly.

  I hadn’t thought about the words as I said them. But from the look on his face, I was certain of their accuracy. There had been a porch swing here. I rose and walked up the steps, then stood staring at the place where the swing had been. There were countless holes in the ceiling, right above the expected spot.

  Fletcher appeared behind me. "I must have put that thing back up about sixty times. But the rafters finally rotted, and it wasn’t safe."

  A pregnant pause ensued. I turned and looked at him. "You don’t believe I was a foster child here, do you? You think I’m just imagining things."

  His eyes widened slightly. "I believe you. Why wouldn’t I?"

  Embarrassment surged. He hadn’t said he didn’t believe me, he just hadn’t acted surprised by the idea—much less excited. I wanted so badly to feel a connection to this place; I couldn’t help but be hurt by his lack of enthusiasm. "I just thought—" I wasn’t sure what to say. "Maybe it seemed like too much of a coincidence."

  He shrugged. "I can see where it might seem that way to you, being adopted out to Pittsburgh. But most of the fosters went back to their families—families that still live around here. I run into them all the time. Sometimes it seems like half the county either lived with the Blacks or knows someone who did."

  He smiled at me then, and it was a friendly, encouraging smile. But it was not an unguarded one. I could see a hesitancy in his eyes—feel the stiffness of his body as he stood unnecessarily far away.

  Was he truly as indifferent as he seemed? Or was he, perhaps, resisting a connection to me as actively as I was encouraging it?

  Another wave of melancholy washed over me. I wanted to be a part of this beautiful place, of this once-large, loving family. However peripheral, however far-removed, I wanted my name on that roster. And I knew now that that wasn’t all I wanted. I wanted a connection to Fletcher himself. I wanted a place in his heart.

  But that wasn’t happening. What was happening was that he was humoring me. I had had a perfectly horrifying morning, and he was doing his best to keep me from falling apart. But I was just another foster child. Why should I matter to Fletcher now? I hadn’t mattered to my own birth parents then.

  My eyes moistened again, and my face flushed with heat. Mortified, I turned away. I couldn’t keep doing this—not twice in one day. It wasn’t fair to him. I had to get a grip.

  The floorboards squeaked as he walked around in front of me.

  "You know what I think?" he asked cal
mly.

  My hands were over my eyes. I shook my head.

  "I think you could take a lesson from my sister," he said. "Because I don’t think crying is going to do it for you. I think you’re going to have to get angry and yell."

  I lowered my hands enough to look at him, then found my voice. "Your sister yells?"

  He chuckled. "Only when she’s breathing. But at least she gets things out of her system."

  He settled himself against the porch railing. It wobbled precariously under his weight, but he seemed to anticipate the movement. "So, go ahead," he offered, crossing his arms over his chest again. "Yell at me."

  "I can’t yell at you," I protested, feeling silly.

  "I don’t know why not. You did the other day."

  I recalled my rant on the stump. "That was different," I argued. "I thought you deserved it. But I’m not mad at you now."

  "Then pretend I’m Jacob Kozen."

  All it took was the sound of the name. A quiver of fury shot down my spine, souring my stomach and shooting heat to the ends of my fingertips. Perhaps Fletcher was right. Perhaps crying wasn’t enough.

  "Go ahead," he insisted. "Tell me what you’d like to tell your birth father."

  "He is not my birth father!" I snapped, my ire rising.

  Fletcher smiled, then prompted me with a nod.

  I considered his suggestion.

  Why not? The specter of my parents’ disapproval loomed, but with a mental heave, I pushed it aside. Neither of them had accepted the therapeutic value of venting, believing that refined individuals swallowed their emotions and moved on. But as much as I cherished their memory, I knew that they had not always been correct.

  "I don’t care what he says, Jake Kozen is not my birth father!" I exclaimed. The volume felt good, and I turned it up a notch. "The man was lying through his teeth! For all I know, he was lying about everything—just like Sheila did! Nothing she told me six years ago was true either, but at least when I met her, I liked her! Jake Kozen is nothing but a sleazy, selfish, low-life scumbag who probably became a policeman just so he could push people around! I hated him from the first moment I saw him, and I hate him now! He never loved me, he never cared about me, and I’m not about to give him another chance to hurt me. Ever!"

  I took a quick breath, then went on shouting. "All I wanted was to know the truth about why I was given up! Neither of them even gave me that! I still don’t know what really happened, I still don’t know why no one wanted me, and I still haven’t found a single biological relative on the face of this earth!"

  My voice cracked. "Then again, if Jake Kozen is any example of what kind of people I did come from, I’m not so sure I even want to find them!"

  I took a step backward and leaned against the house.

  "I wish I could just forget it all," I continued, my voice lower. "Pretend I never met either one of them and move on. But I can’t. The same questions that tortured me before are going to keep on torturing me until I know the truth."

  I said nothing for a while. Fletcher remained silent, watching me.

  "I want to believe that Sheila was a good person," I continued, quieter. "I know that may not be true, but I hope that it is. She had a rough start in life, but both times I met her it seemed like—"

  I faltered. "It seemed like she really cared about me. I don’t know why she told so many lies—"

  I was protecting you.

  Sheila’s dying words leapt forward in my mind, and my heart flip-flopped. I jerked myself up straight and shouted again. "That bastard!"

  The porch railing veered backward as Fletcher startled. He caught himself with a hand on the post.

  "Sheila knew he was evil!" I bellowed. "That’s why she didn’t want me to find him! And sure enough, the second I do, he tells me some cock-and-bull story that makes her out to be the villain! Maybe she wasn’t a drug addict after all! Maybe she went to prison for something else—"

  I stopped myself. But it was too late.

  I had forgotten about Fletcher. I had forgotten that his father had married Sheila too, and that he had been trying to believe the best of her. I had forgotten my intentions not to mention her criminal record.

  My slip did not go unnoticed.

  "Sheila was in prison?" he asked, standing. "When? For what?"

  I took a breath. Guilt suffused me. "I’m sorry," I apologized. "I suppose I should have told you, but I didn’t want—" I broke off, chagrined. "I don’t know what she went to prison for. But I believe that’s why I was given up. Her rights were terminated, and Jake didn’t want me because I wasn’t his."

  Fletcher turned away from me. He stared into space.

  I came around the side of him and watched anxiously as his eyes brewed with concentration, then clouded with horror.

  "What is it?" I choked out.

  He didn’t answer.

  "Fletcher," I repeated, my pulse racing. "What’s wrong?"

  He turned his head back toward me. "Nothing," he answered. "My mind just wandered." He turned and descended the porch steps at a jog, then looked up at the sky. "We should probably get you back to the inn. It’s going to start raining any second, now."

  Neither the absence of the sun in the sky, nor the moisture that threatened on the brisk, cool wind, could sap any more warmth from my body. All of it was gone now, replaced by nothing but a gripping, prickling cold.

  I ran down the stairs after him and grabbed his arm, turning him to face me. "Don’t lie to me," I begged. "You remembered something about Sheila. I could tell. What was it?"

  Sporadic water droplets began to strike. He removed my hand from his arm. "I’m sorry," he said gently. "I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought for a moment that something about your situation seemed familiar. But I was wrong. I was thinking about something else."

  I studied him in confusion. His words were calm; they sounded perfectly reasonable. He thought he had remembered something relevant, but he had been wrong.

  I wish I believed him. But I knew that he was lying.

  I took a step back.

  My insides ached. I owed him so much. His presence had made this otherwise ghastly day tolerable—even pleasant at times. And he had been right, I did need to yell. But he wasn’t right to lie to me, whether he thought it was in my best interests or not. I had heard enough lies to last a lifetime, and I couldn’t take any more. Not now. Not from him. Especially not from him.

  "Thank you for the tour, Fletcher," I said, my tone polite, but distant. "Your land is lovely. But there’s no need for you to walk me back to the inn. I’ve taken enough of your time today already."

  It took all my resolve. But I walked away from him.

  "Meara," he called after me, his deep voice not needing to be raised to be heard, even over the increasing patter of rain striking grass. "I enjoyed your company today. I hope you know you’re welcome to stay as long as you want."

  I offered a wave of thanks, but the gesture was stilted. I couldn’t look back at him.

  It hurt too much.

  Chapter 17

  The antique bed squeaked with my every movement, and since I was tossing and turning more than I was still, the cacophony was almost laughable. But I was a long way from laughing.

  It was three o’clock in the morning, maybe four. The light on my digital watch still worked, but since two-fifteen the numbers had started to disappear whenever I pressed the button—a sure sign that the battery was weakening. Not so, my resolve.

  Alone in the inn all evening, I had indulged in my fill of both crying and shouting. By nightfall, I had a plan. There would be no more personal interviews—no more phone calls, no more meetings to manipulate my emotions. I would find my truth in the facts—the cold, hard, institutional kind.

  At first light I would type up a request to the state for my original birth certificate. Jake Kozen had offered to send me a copy himself, and if his name was on it, he might do that. But his name would mean nothing. A mother could write down whatever name she
wanted, and if Sheila had been unfaithful, she probably would have concealed the fact. Hoping for her to have legally acknowledged another man as my birth father was a pitiful long shot—but one I was determined to try.

  As for confirming my whereabouts as a preschooler, I knew that my own records from the juvenile court would be sealed. But Sheila’s criminal record was part of the public domain—and as soon as the doors of the county courthouse opened, I planned to find out once and for all exactly what my birth mother had been convicted of. Perhaps then I could determine whether her parental rights had been terminated against her will. And when.

  I flipped onto my stomach, trying to get comfortable. I had to sleep. I could not endure two sleepless nights in a row—my senses were muddled enough already.

  An image of Fletcher wafted across my mind. He was standing by the creek, the sun bouncing off his hair. He was smiling at me, but there was something in his eyes—something that worried me.

  My stomach churned. I had vowed to stop thinking about him—to stop wondering what it was that he was hiding. I had to stay focused. I had to protect myself.

  I pushed his image aside.

  It came back.

  I grumbled and flopped over again.

  A soft clicking noise echoed through the hallway. I stiffened, instantly alert. The clicks were followed by a low whine—the unmistakable sound of a door swinging on its hinges.

  Goosebumps rose along my arms. The whining noise ceased, followed by the return click of a lock. Then quiet footsteps sounded on the common room floor.

  I sat up straight, my heart beating audibly in my chest. I swung my legs out and placed my bare feet onto the rug below. How many people, besides David, Fletcher, and Estelle, had keys to the inn? Probably quite a few. There was nothing to worry about—after all, this was an inn, not a house. None of the guest room doors had key locks, but mine did have a bolt, and after Fletcher had barged in on me that first morning, I had been careful to use it.