• • •
FOR the middle of the week, the shop was busy. Thyme for Tea is a nice alternative to the usual Tex-Mex or fast-food lunches for the women who work on the courthouse square or in the small office park at the other end of Crockett, so we had a steady stream of guests, as Ruby likes to call our customers. On today’s menu, a spinach and carrot quiche, plus a salad and a carrot muffin. There’s nothing quite like Cass’ signature quiches anywhere in Pecan Springs. You can bet our guests were enthusiastic.
But I had that carton of old photos on my mind. Lori came in just after the lunch crowd finished, so I left Jenna to mind the shop and followed Lori upstairs. Feeling a little silly, I asked her to stand at the storeroom door and hold it open while I went in to get the carton. I was glad when she agreed without asking me why. I’d hate to have to tell her that I was afraid of the dark—or of ghosts.
I tugged on the chain and the overhead bulb came on. A few steps in, I reached for the carton of photographs that I’d put on the top shelf. But it wasn’t on the shelf, it was on the floor—the same carton, with Corticelli Silk Threads printed on one side, and a picture of a kitten playing with a spool of thread. As I bent over to pick it up, I felt a chill draft on the back of my neck and arms and at that moment the bulb popped and the light went out.
I stifled a gasp. If Lori hadn’t been holding the door, I would have been left in the dark. I wasn’t going to wait around and see what happened next. I grabbed the carton and scurried out as fast as I could.
“Funny about that bulb,” Lori said, frowning up at it. “We might want to check the socket. Ruby told me another one burned out when the two of you were cleaning in there a couple of days ago.” She closed the door behind us. “Did you get what you were looking for?”
“I hope so,” I said breathlessly. I did not want to go back in that storeroom again. I put the carton on the table and took a deep breath to steady myself. “Mostly photographs, I think. But I’m hoping maybe I’ll find some information about the laces.” Trying to act natural, I added, “You drove to Waco last night to talk to your aunt, didn’t you? Did she have any clues to help you in your search?”
“Oh, yes.” Lori pulled out a chair and sat down, her eyes shining. “China, I may actually have learned my birth mother’s name!”
“Oh, my gosh.” I sat down, too, and pushed the carton out of the way. “Really? That’s wonderful!”
“Yes, really.” Lori’s voice was full of excitement. “And would you believe? Aunt Jo—that’s what she asked me to call her—actually knew my birth mother!”
“Gosh, what a lucky break,” I said. “And a surprise.”
“Oh, it is! My real mother’s name is Gatley. Laura Anne Gatley. She was young, Aunt Jo said, in her early twenties, and very pretty. She and her mother, Lorene, lived across the street from Aunt Jo in Sherwood, which is a small town outside of Little Rock. Laura Anne, my mother, had to give me up because she was unmarried and couldn’t make a home for me.”
“That must have been so hard for her,” I said sympathetically.
“Well, it turned out to be hard for Aunt Jo, too.” Lori picked up a piece of yarn and made a cat’s cradle around her fingers. “When she found out that my birth mother was giving me up, she knew she wanted to adopt me, and she started working through an agency to make that happen. But my parents—my adoptive parents, I mean—heard what she was doing and put in their application, too. And because they were married and Aunt Jo was single, the agency gave me to them.” She looked up at me, shaking her head. “Aunt Jo said, ‘I was never so mad in my life. My sister—my very own sister!—snatched you right out from under my nose.’ I wanted to laugh, but she was deadly serious. In fact, Aunt Jo was so angry that she refused to visit or even speak to my parents all during the years I was growing up. Can you imagine?”
“A family feud,” I said with a wry chuckle. “Over you. And you never had a clue.”
“Exactly. So that’s why Aunt Jo knew my birth mother and my parents didn’t. But when she heard about my search, she was more than glad to tell me what she knew. She actually cried.” She bit her lip. “Well, we both did. It was a pretty emotional moment for me, as you can guess. Learning my mother’s name.” She paused and said it again, almost whispering. “Laura Anne. It’s a pretty name, isn’t it? And a lot like my own. I’m Lori Ann, you know.”
“So now that you have a name, what’s next?” I asked. “Do you have a strategy?”
“Several,” Lori said. “I started with the Internet, of course. Her last name—Gatley—seems fairly unusual, so I thought I might get lucky right away. But Google didn’t turn up any leads, so I tried the White Pages. No luck there, either, yet. But there are lots more ways to search, and I’ll keep at it. I’m just so happy to have something to go on.”
“Maybe she got married and took her husband’s name,” I suggested. “That can be a problem.” In my former incarnation as a lawyer, I frequently had to search for witnesses. Searches for women are often complicated by marriage
