The Four Seasons (22 page)

“Who else would have records of the birth? The county seat? The library?”

“Yes, but right now we're stuck with little to go on. It's like a jigsaw puzzle. Everything links.” She held up her hand and began counting off her fingers. “We know the mother's name. We know the date of birth, but not the time. We know the area she delivered in.” Birdie sat upright; her face lit up. “Of course! What a dolt I've been not to think of this sooner. The hospital! Jilly delivered at a local hospital, not at Marian House. That's a lucky break. Obstetrics units keep an OB log that lists the babies born each day. They'd have to have some record of a live birth.”

“Well, let's go,” Rose said eagerly, grabbing for her purse. Hannah was already pushing back her chair.

“Hold your horses,” Birdie said, waving them back. “We need the name of the hospital first.”

“How many can there be? We just need a phone book.” As Rose tapped the table with her fingers, she said more slowly, “I suppose we'll have to have Jilly with us, anyway, to ask for the files.”

Birdie swallowed the last bit of her sandwich, then cast them a shifty glance. “You forget,” she said, dabbing her lips, “I'm a doctor.”

 

Back at the motel, Jilly sat on the mattress poring over the telephone book. She'd found the listing for Catholic Social Services and duly noted the number, but she couldn't remember the name of the social worker that had worked on her case. She tried scanning the hospitals. Her mind may have been playing tricks on her, but none of the three hospitals listed rang a bell. She could have sworn it was a Saint Something Hospital, but there wasn't anything remotely Catholic listed. She'd never forget that frightening ride in the ambulance, but she had no bearings as to what town the hospital was in. On the way home, she had been a zombie, too exhausted and shell-shocked to recall something as relatively mundane as an address.

Tossing aside the phone book, she scratched her head vigorously. Closing her eyes, she saw faces of the girls she'd lived with at Marian House. So many faces…why couldn't she remember any names? She'd spent a lifetime deliberately forgetting them, and now she was worried that she'd never scrape up even one essential detail. Feeling the urge for a smoke, she rose, stuck a pack of cigarettes and matches in the pocket of her leather coat and went out the back door.

Mr. Patel had referred to the four-foot square of cement crisscrossed with cracks as their
patio
. She snorted. Well, if he could call this dump a motel…Four nondescript, white resin
chairs circled a similar table, and a stone planter, crumbling at the edge, was filled with cigarette butts and litter. “You've really scraped the bottom now, Season,” she muttered.

The woodland just across the river, however, was beautiful in its wild, unkempt naturalness. Over it, the sky was a brilliant blue and the fresh breeze was pleasing on her face. Jilly pulled a tissue out from her pocket and wiped away the dirt and leaves, then sat and looked out.

In this area, the river was more a brook that ambled prettily across rocks and pebbles along the ridge of the hill behind it. It made a soft, swishing sound that was soothing. She breathed deeply and exhaled, releasing her troubled thoughts to the woods beyond. A dog's bark sounded to her left, followed by a man's shout. Curious, she leaned forward toward the sound.

It was Mr. Patel. He was farther down the river, standing on the banks below a small wooden bridge and appeared to be clearing branches and debris. The little white dog she'd noticed earlier that morning was at his side, testing the water with one paw, barking an opinion, then retreating back to sniff the small pile of debris already collected. He ignored the dog, working at a steady pace. The afternoon sun had turned warm, as promised, and he had removed his jacket. She spied a khaki oilskin hanging on a nearby tree branch. He was dressed for labor, wearing high rubber boots and heavy work gloves.

Jilly stretched her long legs out before her and idly watched him work. There was a mesmerizing quality to his movements as he bent to pick up branches and twigs then hurl them to the embankment with seemingly little effort. His body was long and lean and he worked steadily, smoothly, sure of what had to be done. She leaned far back in her chair and smoked, studying him more closely, remembering the sudden, strong attraction she'd felt for him at first sight.

He was handsome, yes, and very exotic. He also appeared a very proper sort of man—even while doing hard labor. She chuckled softly, noting that his work shirt was a worn and frayed business shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and exposing beautiful brown forearms that contrasted with the white cotton. Most likely the result of the British influence on East Indian culture, she thought to herself, much like his clipped accent.

It was the dog that betrayed her. When she coughed lightly, the dog's head sprang up, and he barked once in warning. Mr. Patel straightened then, too, his eyes searching. She held still, the cigarette trailing smoke in her outstretched hand. He didn't speak when he first saw her, or wave his hand in greeting. He studied her for a moment, and she thought again how much he resembled a great dangerous cat in his caution and stillness. At length, he acknowledged her with a nod of his head.

She did likewise.

The dog was not so reserved. He bounded up the slope to investigate, his legs springing out from beneath his short, stocky body. When he reached her side, he raised himself up to paw eagerly.

“You naughty pup! Such muddy feet. Aren't you the rude one?” she said with a light laugh. He really was an adorable beast. Small, white and compact with floppy ears, he was some kind of terrier mix. It was his eyes that hooked her, however. Almond-shaped and dark, they had an uncanny intelligence that made them appear almost human. His head was long and narrow and pure white with a chocolate-colored patch that covered his left eye. “You're a rogue, I can tell,” she said, reaching over to scratch behind his ear. “And I'm a sucker for a rogue. You know that, too, don't you?”

She heard the footfall of Mr. Patel approaching but did not look up, keeping her eyes on the little dog. Her body tensed
in the chair and the dog jumped down to turn and bark. Slowly, she moved her gaze to meet his face.

His expression when he looked into her eyes was confusing. It was both serene and guarded, an unusual combination that implied a man comfortable with himself yet intolerant of disturbance.

“I hope the dog didn't annoy you,” he said.

“No, not at all. He's really quite adorable.”

“He's rather a pest.”

“I can believe that,” she replied, smiling down at the dog who was now sniffing at something under a rock on the far side of the patio. Looking back up she asked casually, “Would you care for a cigarette?”

“No, thank you. I don't smoke.”

“Oh.” She paused, then said with a seductive tilt of her head, “Smoking isn't allowed in this room, is it?”

“No,” he replied. Then, his eyes glittering with faint amusement, “But I don't think you'll disturb the neighbors, considering there aren't any.”

She smiled, too, and something between them shifted. A lightening in the air, a nanosecond of connection that confirmed a mutual attraction.

“Do you have everything you need, then?” he asked.

It was more of a dismissal, but she wasn't quite ready to be dismissed. She put out her hand. “My name is Jillian Season. Jilly.”

He hesitated, then quickly removed his glove and took her hand. She felt the stirring contact as his hand enclosed hers.

“I am Rajiv Patel.”

“You're the manager?”

“Yes. And the owner.”

She registered this.

“I hope you don't think I'm being too curious,” he said by
way of polite apology, “but you're all related, aren't you? There is a strong resemblance.” He lifted his hand toward his head. “The red hair.”

“Two of the women are my sisters, the other my niece. The red hair is a Season family trademark.”

“Are you visiting family?”

Jilly shook her head. “No, at least, I don't think so. Actually, we're trying to find a family member. Someone I haven't seen in a very long time.”

A shadow of sadness flickered over his face. “Family is everything. You are fortunate to have your sisters close.”

A sensitive man, she thought to herself. She liked that. “Would you like a soda? Some water?”

“No, thank you,” he said, shifting his weight. “I'll be going back to it.”

He turned to leave, then stopped to look once more in her face. His eyes searched hers and though she recognized the searing gaze that signaled attraction, she also sensed a reining in. “Good luck with your search,” he said with sincerity. Then he walked off. The little dog trotted to the edge of the patio, watching Mr. Patel's departure with his ears cocked, but stayed back.

“Mr. Patel!” she called after him. “Your dog!”

He slowed to look over his shoulder. “He's not my dog,” he called back. “He's just a beggar. I warn you. Feed him once and he'll be at your door forever.” He turned back to his path.

“You're a poor little beggar, are you?” she asked the dog. He sat at her feet and cocked his head to the side. Her heart swelled. “You're a pro,” she said, bending over to pat his head. “You remind me of my former husbands.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of Rose's cookies, thinking the dog might be hungry. Her mother used to scold her whenever she put out a cup of milk or a bit of hot
dog for some dog or cat, but Jilly had always liked strays and mutts. She chuckled again at the too obvious and painful parallels to her choice of husbands.

As she started to unwrap the cookie, the wily dog sneaked up and, with a quick jump, snatched the cookie, saran wrapper and all. Startled, she looked up in time to see the little thief scuttle back down to the riverbank and settle in the tall grass beside Mr. Patel. She stood for a moment watching the dog as he relished his stolen lunch and Mr. Patel as he squatted on his haunches tying twine around a bundle of twigs. Both appeared unaware of her presence.

It was no wonder, she thought, tossing her cigarette to the cement and grinding it with her shoe. They couldn't see her for she wasn't really here. She was traveling at the speed of light on a journey through time.

A
GNES
M
UIRFIELD
.

Jilly sat up in bed, eyes wide from her nap. She'd remembered the name of the social worker. Maybe the fresh air had loosened her memory, or the rest, but whichever, she had the name.

She climbed from the bed to splash cold water on her face, tie back her unruly hair and, for good measure, brush her teeth. She felt more like her old self after her nap. Being back in Marian House had made her feel like an outcast once again. But her memories succeeded in making her angry. Rose was right. She'd made the best decisions she could have at the time, without the help of her parents, the nuns or social workers like Agnes Muirfield. She'd paid her dues with guilt and suffering. Now she wanted some answers.

She picked up the telephone and punched the number for Catholic Social Services in Green Bay.

“Hello? I'd like to speak to Agnes Muirfield, please.” She liked the strong tone of her voice.

“I'm sorry, but she retired years ago.”

“Oh.” Damn. She was afraid of that. “Could you connect me with the social worker assigned to her cases?”

The secretary connected her to a woman named Donna Strobel who had an authoritative voice, rather like Birdie's. For a moment, Jilly froze, wondering if she should be truthful and just ask for the adoption records, or come up with a story. Mustering her resolve, she stuck with the truth.

When she told Mrs. Strobel why she'd called, to her surprise the social worker's tone grew more friendly. She told Jilly that she would search for the file and call her back, probably in half an hour.

Jilly set the receiver down and stared at it for a moment. She'd get the file! Jilly couldn't believe it; it had been too easy. What luck! Thirty minutes seemed like hours. She hunted for a cigarette but remembered she was fresh out, so she grabbed her purse and hurried down the narrow strip sidewalk toward the motel office. The sun was setting and the northern chill cut straight through her silk sweater and black slacks. Wrapping her arms around herself, she hustled with her head tucked to her chest.

She entered the motel office cautiously, glancing at the dated brochures and decor. Surprisingly, a small wooden table in the corner had been draped with white linen. On it sat a pot of fragrant tea on a hot plate, white china cups and saucers, and silver spoons. A few cookies were spread out on a plate. The scent of the heady tea filled the room and she looked at it longingly. From behind she heard a door open, then a man's footsteps.

“Jilly, may I pour you a cup? It's all there for my guests.”

From the corner of her eye she saw Rajiv step from around the counter, moving into her line of vision. He had changed back into dark slacks and a white shirt and his hair was still damp from his shower. He stood waiting at the table with his seemingly infinite patience.

“Please,” she replied, feeling the tension in the room thicken. Once again, the attraction she felt was immediate. She had experienced this too many times in her life to miss it now. She watched him conduct the simple everyday tasks—lifting the teapot, pouring the amber liquid into a cup, placing the cup on the saucer—her experienced eye catching every detail. In the world of fashion, where there were so many fabulous fabrics and creative designs and where beauty was commonplace, she'd learned to seek out the small details for clues to a person's character and taste. How many times had she seen a designer-original dress worn over an unwashed body, or a button missing on a two-hundred-dollar shirt?

Rajiv's clothes were not expensive, but they were spotless and well pressed. His nails were neatly trimmed. His black lace-up shoes were of good quality leather that, though quite worn, was polished.

He seemed aware of her perusal but she couldn't be certain. She liked his diffidence. It implied good manners. And self-control. He took his time, offering her cream with a raised brow. She shook her head no. Sugar? No. He handed over the cup and saucer with quiet aplomb. It struck her as all rather bizarre. His Old World elegance was as out of place in this shabby motel office in northern Wisconsin as was the custom of British teatime.

The tea was lovely, but her mind snapped back to the phone call that was due. “Do you have cigarettes for sale?”

“I do, but not much of a selection.”

“I'm rather desperate.”

He smiled. “In that case, I've made a sale. One moment, please.”

She swallowed the tea in short, quick gulps. The Darjeeling was fragrant and she welcomed the warmth to ward off the chill
of the late afternoon. She glanced at her watch, impatient to be back in her room, worried that Mrs. Strobel might not find the file before the end of her workday. When he offered three brand choices, she chose one and paid quickly.

“Oh, damn,” she exclaimed, setting down her cup and searching frantically in her purse. “I've forgotten my key.”

“I can open the door for you with the master.”

“Thank you. Could you hurry, please? I'm expecting an important phone call.”

The phone was ringing when they came to the door. He opened the door quickly and she ran inside, but the line was dead when she picked it up. She felt her heart drop to her shoes and sat on the bed with a heavy sigh, cursing herself for even leaving the room in the first place. She couldn't have been gone more than ten or fifteen minutes!

“Was it very important?” he asked.

“Yes, very,” she replied, raking her hands in her hair.

“Then whoever it was will call again.” He stepped outside the door. “I should be going. I'll bring you a cup of tea while you wait.”

“Thank you.” The phone rang. He opened the door a bit to catch her eye and deliver a grin that said,
See, I told you
. Smiling, she answered the phone.

“Hello, Miss Season?”

“Yes! I'm so glad you returned the call. I doubt I would have endured the night waiting.”

“I'm sure after twenty-six years, you've waited long enough.”

Her voice was kindly and Jillian knew by the comment that she had already read the file.

“I have the file before me,” Mrs. Strobel began. “But you realize that by law I cannot disclose identifying information.”

Jilly wanted to ask why not? This was her daughter, after all.
Why could Mrs. Strobel know where her daughter was and not herself? But she knew her complaints would be useless and that Mrs. Strobel was only doing her job.

“First of all, I'm sure you want to know that your daughter was born healthy and normal in every respect. The adoption was final in 1974 and there are several notations indicating that the adoptive family was overjoyed with their new daughter. In their words, they thought themselves blessed.”

Jilly tried to be happy for them, yet she couldn't help begrudge them the blessing that should have been her own. She looked out the window and swallowed hard. “Please go on,” she said. “What was the family like?”

“Well-educated. Catholic. Father is a professional. Mother stayed home with her daughter. Follow-ups reported that your child was well-adjusted, bright, social. She excelled at school.”

“What does she look like?”

“Let's see.” Jilly heard the papers rustle and was in agony wishing she could see them. “She has blue eyes and red hair. It's noted that she is quite beautiful.” She could hear the smile in Mrs. Strobel's voice.

Her daughter had the Season red hair. Her heart skipped a beat. “What did they name her?”

There was a pause, and Mrs. Strobel said with remorse, “I'm sorry. I cannot divulge names or addresses.”

“Not even her first name?”

“I'm sorry. I wish I could.”

She thanked her and hung up the phone. For a while, she stood still and stared at the little motel room. The paisley-covered beds, the futuristic lamps, opened suitcases on the floor—all looked as they had minutes before. Yet her whole world had shifted.

It was real. She had a daughter. A redheaded, blue-eyed girl. The urge to find her came suddenly and overwhelmingly.

There was a knock on the door. Jilly reluctantly went to answer it, knowing it was Rajiv, but wanting to be alone with her news. She opened the door to find him standing there with a small pot of tea and a single cup.

“Here is your tea.” He handed her the cup and moved to place the pot on the bureau. Then he paused and studied her face, compassion written on his own. “Are you all right? You've been crying.”

Jilly lifted her fingertips to her cheeks. She hadn't even realized that tears were flowing down her cheeks. “I'm okay,” she replied, smiling wide and quickly wiping them away. She felt a sudden elation, like a balloon had just filled her chest. “I've had some news. Wonderful news, actually. About my daughter.” The word
daughter
still hung on her lips and floated in the air, unfamiliar, but very, very welcome.

He smiled, pleased. “She must be beautiful, like her mother.”

Jilly laughed then, she couldn't help herself. “She is,” she replied, amazed that she knew this. “I only just found out.” When he looked perplexed she went on, “I'm searching for my daughter and I only just learned the first bit of information about her. That was the phone call. You see, I gave her up for adoption after her birth. That's why we're here. We're searching for her. Me and my sisters.”

“I see.”

She heard no judgment in his comment. “I had her when I was quite young, not far from here. At Holy Hill.”

“The home of the Catholic sisters?”

She smiled at his phrasing. “Yes. A long time ago.”

“I see,” he repeated. “And did you locate your daughter?”

“No, not yet. But I will.”

He turned to pour out a cup of tea and handed it to her. “It's not champagne, but it is a good-quality tea. Congratulations!”

The fragrance of the tea floated between them. She thanked him and took a sip. It was heavenly. She closed her eyes, thinking the heady tea much more perfect for a quiet celebration than champagne.

“Such wonderful tea. Where do you get it?”

“My family sends it to me from India.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Not very. I arrived a year ago this May. My father and uncle came to America twenty years ago. They started with one motel, and now they own several, mostly in the south. Georgia, the Carolinas, Tennessee. I suppose you can call them examples of the American Success Story. They only recently started branching out in the Midwest. I have brothers and cousins managing other motels. My father offered me a start with this motel.” He smiled briefly as his gaze scanned the room. “A rather rough start,” he added without rancor. “I don't know that he was convinced of my sincerity at this profession. But I'm grateful for the opportunity. I needed a change. My life in India became—” He paused. “Untenable.”

“You mentioned your family in India. Your wife?”

His face clouded. “My wife died three years ago.”

She saw again a glimpse of the fire raging in his eyes and had a hint now of its source. How hard it had been for her to give up her daughter to live with another family. How much harder it must be to give up a loved one to death. “I'm sorry,” she replied, knowing it was inadequate, but enough.

He accepted her sympathy with a polite nod. His stillness gave nothing away.

More knocks sounded at the door. “Open up, Aunt Jilly. It's me!”

There was a second's discomfort between them, as though his being there in her room implied something illicit. Refusing
to acknowledge it, she opened the door and smiled with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Wonderful news!” she exclaimed.

“No, we have wonderf—” Hannah's sentence ended as she caught sight of Rajiv. Her gaze darted from him to Jilly, her expression changing from surprise to suspicion en route.

“I had better leave you to your good news. Don't worry about the teapot,” Rajiv said, outwardly resuming his formality. “I'll have the maid bring it back when she cleans your room. Good day.”

When their eyes met, she shared with him a private communication that dissolved the formality between them.

Birdie and Rose came from their room in time to see Rajiv leaving. Their eyes were as round as the teacups.

“He came to bring me tea,” she explained, indicating the teapot. “Now, what is your good news?”

Accepting her explanation at face value, they hurried inside to sit on the bed, excitement brimming in their eyes.

“We found your hospital records!” Rose exclaimed.

“What?” Jilly's breath caught in her throat. She stared dumb-foundedly at her sisters. “But how did you know which hospital?”

“We didn't,” Birdie explained. “But we figured it had to be one of the three in the area so we started off at the closest one, and bingo! We got lucky. Does the name University Hospital ring a bell?”

“No.”