PROLOGUE
Helen Williams carefully sets her china teacup in its matching saucer, pours hot water over the Earl Grey tea bag and then sighs. Refolding the worn note again, she heads over toward her stylish CD player and selects a favorite. Suddenly her tasteful condo is awash in the passionate Handel piece Water Music.
The orchestration is powerful, tragic, with just the right amount of hope. “My God, what should I do?” she says out loud, shaking her head. Helen turns down the volume, takes up her tea and deposits herself in the window seat overlooking Lake Superior. Known around the University of Minnesota Duluth as Professor Williams, who would guess her dilemma?
She kicks off her pumps, crosses her perfectly creased Ann Taylor slacks and retrieves the note again. Unfolding it, she rereads the lively handwritten letter.
Dear Helen,
I’m getting used to your name, I had originally named you Amy, but Helen’s nice, too. Had an aunt by that name…Anyway, to get to the point of this note, on October sixth, nineteen-seventy-five, I had you—gave birth to you—I mean. You were such a cute little thing, but I was all of seventeen and it just wasn’t in the cards for me to raise you. Trust me on this, what the hell do you know when you’re seventeen?
So I gave you up for adoption. They assured me that you’d have a mom and a dad—home stuff—that you’d get a really good stab at life, a life I myself was trying to figure out. I only held you the one time, but I’ll always remember how you hung on to my finger, the nun had to pry you away. God, that was hard.
Every year—even still—I think of you on your birthday, wonder is more like it. I wonder if you got placed into a happy home. If you had birthday cakes with candles and got lots of presents, if your Christmas tree was small or big. I imagined you with a dog, a bouncy brown one, wagging tail and all. I’d picture this stuff with the hope that I’d done the right thing. I’d cry sometimes, too.
I’ve never wanted to leap into your life in hopes of becoming your long lost mom or anything like that. I still don’t want to intrude, only—I’m dying to know that you’re okay, that your life has been a good one. God, I hope so. A friend of mine (her name is Mary Jo) runs this business where she helps mothers find their kids and well, she’s been on me to do this and after thinking about it—forever—I agreed.
Look, I promise I’m not going to like stalk you or anything, I only thought that maybe you’d have some questions. Medical stuff. Aren’t you the least bit curious? I’d be glad to meet you somewhere. Scared to death, to be honest, but to finally meet you, in person, I can’t tell you how great that’d be.
Okay, so I don’t go mad with wonder, would you at least let me know that you got this note? You can contact Mary Jo and she’ll let me know, she suggested I offer that so as to not be so intrusive. Or, you can e-mail me: eve@rubysaprons.com or you can write directly to Eve Moss, Steamboat Point, Madeline Island, Wisconsin.
Love,
Eve
P.S. Sure hope to hear from you!
Helen lets the note float to her lap, wiping away a lone tear. She makes up her mind and heads over to her computer …