Leftover Love (2 page)

“Where are you off to?” her co-worker, Sally McGraw, inquired with idle curiosity.

“I’m taking some time off to handle some personal matters,” Layne explained as she pulled on a pair of heavy woolen mittens.

“Oh. Who’s covering your desk for you?”

“You’ll have to ask Clyde,” she returned and waved as she headed for the elevators.

It was a blustery day with threatening gray skies. The wind whipped around the tall buildings of downtown Omaha, driving the wind-chill index to a subzero level. Her boots crunched on the salt-covered sidewalks as she hurried to the lot where she’d left her car parked. She kept her head down and her chin tucked into the thick wool of her collar to protect her face from the biting chill.

She made a mental note to check the weather forecast and the road conditions between Omaha and Valentine. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of venturing into the Nebraska Sand Hills if a winter storm advisory had been issued.

On the way to her apartment Layne stopped to have her car serviced for the trip, and again at the branch post office to arrange to have her mail held until she returned. It was the middle of the afternoon before she finally arrived at her apartment. Packing for the trip wasn’t an easy process, since she wasn’t sure how long she’d be gone. It was difficult to find the happy medium between taking too much and taking too little.

There was one item Layne did not hesitate to pack, although it was the last thing to go in the large suitcase. She carefully folded the hand-made baby quilt, pink on one side and blue on the other, and laid it on top. Her fingers absently caressed its much-washed softness as she drew her hand away to close the case and lock it.

In the morning she’d put her cosmetics and toiletries in their small case, and she’d be all set. Not quite, Layne mentally qualified as she carried the suitcase into the small living room to set it by the door. There was still a phone call she wasn’t looking forward to making.

The buzzer sounded in her apartment just as Layne passed the front door. She swung back to open it and admit her visitor. A twinge of guilt flashed across her expression
when she saw her mother, but Layne was quick to smile.

“Hi, Mom. I was just going to call to see if you and Dad had any plans for dinner this evening.” She injected a cheerful note into her voice.

“We thought you’d stop by the house yesterday evening when you came back from North Platte.” The slim, blond-haired woman paused in the center of the room, her glance spying the suitcase by the door. “Haven’t you unpacked yet? Honestly, Layne, I don’t know how you manage on your own,” she declared with a chiding laugh.

“I meant to stop but I got sidetracked,” Layne fibbed and headed for the kitchen bar that jutted into the living room. “Shall I put on some coffee?”

“Not for me, dear.” Her mother shrugged out of her fur-trimmed coat of emerald wool and draped it over the sofa back. “This suitcase … you surely didn’t take it for just a weekend trip? Or are you going someplace again?”

Her mother was much too astute. Layne went through the motions of filling the coffeepot with water and ladling fresh grounds into the basket, even though she wasn’t interested in drinking any coffee either. It gave her a reason to avoid direct eye contact with her mother. She didn’t want to lie to her but she didn’t want to hurt her either.

“As a matter of fact, I’m off to Valentine, Nebraska, in the morning. You know how Clyde is. With Valentine’s Day coming up, he got this corny idea about doing a piece on the town of Valentine, then expected someone else to come up with an original slant.” It was a flurry of words that came out, followed by a long silence from her mother.

“When you were a little girl,” her mother said finally as she approached the counter bar where Layne stood, “I always knew when you were lying because you talked too fast. Your tongue just seemed to run away with itself. You’re twenty-six years old and you still do it.” There was some
thing poignant about the look in those blue eyes when Layne briefly met them. “Am I supposed to believe that story? Or does your trip have something to do with what you found out in North Platte this weekend?”

“Don’t ask, Mom.” Layne’s throat was tight as she fiddled with the cord to the coffeepot before finally plugging it into the wall socket. “I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted any of this to hurt you and Dad. I love you both. I’ll always think of you as my parents.”

“But still, you want to find her.” The weariness of defeat was in her mother’s reply.

“Yes.” Layne’s eyes were bright with unshed tears when she turned to the woman. There was no resemblance between the two, not in coloring or features. “You’ll always be my mother even if some other woman gave birth to me. Finding Martha Turner won’t change that. I wish you could understand why it’s so important to me to find out who and what I am.”

“I think
I
do.” There was a faint stress on the personal pronoun.

“I know.” Layne sighed dispiritedly. “It’s Dad who doesn’t understand.”

“He’s afraid of losing you. When you were a little baby, he used to have nightmares that she’d come back to take you from us even after we had legally adopted you. It’s a fear that has always haunted him. He loves you.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Layne insisted with a wan smile. “Maybe it’s better that you don’t tell him I quit my job, though.”

“You didn’t,” her mother protested.

“I think Clyde will take me back on when all this is through.” The coffee was perking noisily beside her as Layne climbed onto a tall, wicker-backed stool at the counter. “I’ve decided to follow this lead wherever it takes
me—concentrate all my attention on it instead of making haphazard forays to find some trace of her.”

“What if you don’t find her?”

There was a small shrug of one shoulder. “Then I’ll know I made every attempt.” She began to pull out the pins that held her chestnut hair in its smooth plait. It fell loose, cascading about her shoulders like russet-brown silk.

“Have you ever considered what you’ll do
if
you find her?” Colleen MacDonald questioned with a worried look.

“A thousand times.” Layne laughed without humor. “I’ve practiced what I’d say to her so many different times—and so many different ways—that it all sounds silly now. I just want to get to know her … find out what she likes and how she feels.”

“Layne …” Her mother paused. “Have you ever considered the possibility that she might not want to see you? That you might represent a bad memory in her life that she won’t want to recall?”

“Yes. It has occurred to me.” Layne nodded and a sweep of hair fell across her cheek. She tucked it behind an ear and gave her mother a shrugging smile. “I’ll just have to take that chance.”

“But are you being fair to her?” her mother reasoned. “After all these years, for you to walk up to her and announce that you’re her daughter—it’s bound to be a shock, perhaps an unpleasant one.”

“I’ve thought about that,” Layne assured her.

“Have you? Have you really considered what her feelings might be? What about the home and family she probably has now? What if she hasn’t told them about you? Don’t you think that would make things awkward and uncomfortable?”

“Please. I’ve made up my mind and you aren’t going to
talk me out of it.” The questions seemed to hammer at her conviction until Layne felt she had to protest.

“I’m not trying to talk you out of it.” There was something tenderly patient and indulgent behind that concerned smile. “I know it isn’t your intention to hurt this woman. All I’m asking is that when you find her, think about it carefully before you say something that might do more harm than good. For your sake, I hope it turns out that she is as curious about you as you are about her.”

With an early start the following morning, Layne made good time on the drive to Valentine. The roads and the weather cooperated. The only slick patches were the early morning frost on the bridges, and there wasn’t a cloud in the diamond-blue sky. Her only complaint was the unrelenting glare of the sun off the ice-crusted snow covering the countryside, and a pair of dark glasses had alleviated that.

After the highway had left most of the towns behind to thread into the Sand Hills, she seemed lost in a glittering world of blue and white—the unrelieved blue of the sky and the white of the snow-coated hills. Except for the gray ribbon of the road to point the way, there were few signs of civilization for long stretches of miles.

Her few ventures into the Nebraska Sand Hills had not taken her into their northern end. When the first buildings of Valentine poked their roofs against the skyline, she released a breath of relief. Although it was lunchtime, she decided to check into a motel first and freshen up before looking for a place to eat. She pulled into a small, clean-looking motel.

Not bothering with a jacket, Layne stepped out into the brilliant sunlight, which offered little warmth to take the chill off the brittle cold. She hurried quickly inside the
heated building, her breath making smoky little vapor clouds.

A bell rang overhead when she entered, but it was several minutes before an elderly man came shuffling out of a back room. Wispy tufts of white hair made futile attempts to refute the fact that he was nearly bald.

“What can I do for you, miss?” His glance was bright with curiosity.

“I’d like a room, please.” Layne stopped rubbing her sweatered arms to pick up the pen and fill out the registration card he set on the counter.

“We don’t get many guests, especially this time of year, unless the weather’s bad and motorists find themselves stranded. Oh, I suppose we get our share of cattle buyers and grain dealers—and the salesmen,” he observed talkatively. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“A bit of both.” Layne hedged away from a direct answer.

“From Omaha, huh?” he said, looking at the address she’d listed on the card. “Did you just drive in?”

“Yes.” She decided to be the one asking the questions. “Do you know a woman named Martha Turner? She’d be somewhere in her middle forties.”

“Martha Turner,” he repeated thoughtfully. “There’s some Turners that live around here, but I can’t say that I remember any of ’em were named Martha. You might want to check the telephone book.”

“I will.” Layne nodded, mentally reminding herself not to overlook the obvious.

“She a friend of yours?” He passed her a room key.

“In a way.” She took the key and waved to him as she headed for the door. “Thanks.”

Only half a dozen Turners were listed in the local telephone directory. Even though it was a long shot, Layne decided that lunch could wait until she’d made the calls
from her room. The first five all disclaimed any knowledge of a woman named Martha. As the sixth phone was ringing, Layne was suddenly frozen by the thought—what if the sixth person said yes? What would she do? What would she say?

There was a moment of panic when a voice answered. Her heart was racing like a steam engine, almost choking off her breath. “I’m … I’m trying to locate a Miss Martha Turner,” she finally managed to get out.

There was a small pause before the voice replied—a man’s voice. “Well, you’re a little late. The only Miss Martha Turner I knew died ten years ago.”

“Died? But … that can’t be.” It had never occurred to Layne that her natural mother might have passed away in the intervening years. The possibility left her stunned.

“Well, you couldn’t expect her to live forever,” the grumpy voice retorted. “As it is, that old maid lived to be ninety-three.”

“Nin—” With a faint laugh of relief, Layne realized they were talking about two different Martha Turners. “The woman I’m looking for is much younger than that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

“Thank you very much.” There was a faint tremor in her hand when she hung up the phone.

For one sheer instant she had thought the search was over. The reality of it left her shaken. It took some mental sorting to come to grips with the problem. Over the last eight years that she had been looking for her natural mother, the expectation of finding her had not been there. Each time Layne searched, it had always been for a clue that might lead her somewhere else. Even on this trip, she had not come to Valentine to find her mother, although that had been her professed intent. She hadn’t really believed she would succeed. At this rate she’d find
only what she believed she would find—another dead end. This trip might only be the first leg of a longer one, but Layne was determined that it would not end as the others had.

When Layne ventured out of the motel, she was bundled in her winter parka. There was a small café across the street. She waited until the traffic had cleared, then darted across. The café was filled with a noon crowd. Layne managed to shoulder her way through the throng of cowboy hats and boots and sheepskin-lined or quilted jackets to an empty counter stool.

An aproned woman in her fifties slid a water glass in front of Layne, along with some napkin-wrapped silverware. “What’ll you have?”

“Just a hamburger and some coffee.” Layne took off her mittens and shoved them inside the large pockets of her coat. She unbuttoned her parka but didn’t take it off, since she was sitting in a direct line with the front door. Each time it opened and closed, it sent a draft of frigid air over her.

All around her there was talk of cattle and the outlook for the spring calf crop, along with frequent mention of the weather. An empty cup was set in front of her and filled with coffee from a glass pot. A cowboy-clad man beside Layne pushed his cup forward for a refill, and the waitress obliged.

“It’s busy,” Layne observed.

“Always is at noon,” the waitress said with a nod. “But the rush is over. The noise will start quieting down once their food’s set in front of them.”

Twenty minutes later the waitress’s prediction proved accurate as the loud hum of voices was reduced. The clatter of silverware became dominant, punctuated by the odd, continuing conversation.

“See what I mean?” The waitress smiled faintly as she stopped to refill Layne’s coffee cup.

“I do.” Layne returned the smile. “Are you from here?” It was her nature to be inquisitive, so the purpose of her visit to Valentine only added importance to the answers.