“I thought of that,” Lori said. “Sherwood has a local newspaper, so I’ll start there. Also, now that I know my mother’s name and the town where I was born, I might even be able to locate my original birth certificate. I’m planning to drive up there. When I do, I’ll go to the courthouse and search the records for marriage licenses.”
“You might check the local death records, too,” I said gently. “She may have died.”
Lori’s mouth turned down. “You’re right, of course. Or she might have moved away and then got married. And maybe divorced and married again. It could be a long search—but it feels like I’m on the right track at last.”
I reached for her hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Lori. I think you’re going to succeed.”
“Thank you.” She brightened. “Oh, and Aunt Jo gave me a few things she’s been keeping for me. She said she always meant to throw them out, but when she’d start to do that, a little voice would tell her to hang on to them.” Lori bent over and took something out of her tote bag. “She gave me this.” She laid a baby dress on the table in front of her, smoothing out the wrinkles with her hand.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, fingering the soft ivory material. It looked as if it was very old. The long skirt had an elaborate lacy panel in the front, and lace inserts on the puffy sleeves.
“A christening gown, Aunt Jo calls it, entirely handmade and handed down in my birthmother’s family. My grandmother Lorene—Laura Anne’s mother, that is—gave it and some other stuff to Aunt Jo, when they thought Aunt Jo was going to adopt me. But then the family feud started, and Aunt Jo was so angry with my adoptive mom that she just stuck everything away on a shelf and never mentioned it. She knew that her sister wasn’t religious anyway, so I wouldn’t have been christened. There was no point in her handing over the dress.”
“You might show this to Christine,” I said, thinking of what the professor had said about the importance of ritual clothing. In this case, the dress was meant to be worn on a very special occasion: a baby’s welcome—an initiation, really—into a family, a faith, a community. “She might be able to tell you something about the pattern in the lace.”
“Good idea.” Lori took her cell phone out of her tote. “I’ll send her a photo and see what she says.”
I stood up and picked up my carton. “Well, I guess I’d better get back downstairs.”
Lori snapped the cell phone photo. “Aunt Jo also gave me a big brown envelope full of old family pictures. I haven’t had time to look through them yet, but I’m hoping maybe I’ll find some more clues there.” She grinned. “I have the feeling I’m going to be busy for a while.”
I grinned back, thinking that Lori looked happier than she’d been in quite some time. “Hope you find what you’re looking for,” I said, and took my load downstairs with the intention of sorting the photographs at the counter.
There was a constant stream of customer traffic in and out of the shop that afternoon—a good thing, really, because more traffic means more sales. But it also meant that I didn’t get to the photos. And since I knew I had to work on my Enterprise article that evening, I decided that there was no point in taking them home with me. Caitie would be home, too, and I wanted to spend time with her. When I closed up at five, I stowed the carton under the counter, next to the box of magnetic letters I used on the bulletin board.
And as I did, I have to admit that I felt a certain amount of anticipation, of the goose-bumpy variety. If there really was a ghost, and if she really had decided to communicate with me via old photographs, maybe she’d be glad to have this batch to work with. When I stopped to think about it, I felt a certain sympathy with her. It would be pretty frustrating to go through eternity with something important on your mind and no way to express yourself except by humming or ringing a bell or fooling around with magnetic letters and an old photo on a bulletin board. She might welcome a little help.
Hey, China. It was my lawyerly self again, objecting. Assumes facts not in evidence. What part of that don’t you get?
I got that. I got it all. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. What was it, exactly, that this ghost, if that’s what she was, wanted to tell me? Why now, after all these years? And why me and not Ruby?
That’s okay. I don’t blame you if you don’t believe it. I didn’t, either—not really.
But still . . .
Chapter Eight
Pecan Springs, Texas
August–September 1888
In the few weeks after the storm, Annie was happier than she had been since Douglas died. Adam came often after dark, discreetly, by the path through the hedge. They loved, laughed, and talked together until the early hours of the morning. Her heart overflowed with the forgotten richness of loving and being loved, and she felt physically alive again, her skin tingling with an electric awareness, her senses alert to smell and taste and sound, her whole body singing and eager, anticipating Adam’s arrival, his touch, his kiss. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, loving him, wanting him with a passionate desire that she had not felt since the earliest days of her marriage to Douglas. It was as if she was under the spell of an irresistible power that was now in command of her heart, her body, her mind. She had no choice but to yield, and yield willingly, to anything it demanded.
Her happiness was not without its price, however. Annie had
