Plain Roots Page 5

  Bryce kept his expression neutral, but inside, he flinched. He had conducted two such investigations before, and neither turned out well.

  In the first case, the mother had given her newborn away after being raped. Right or wrong, she hated the child upon sight. Twenty-two years had not changed that fact. His client had gone away heartbroken and disillusioned.

  The second case had a more noble beginning, but a disastrous end. As difficult as it was to give up her child, the fourteen-year-old mother had known she was in no position, financially or otherwise, to care for an infant. Twenty-five years of drug and alcohol abuse dimmed the mother’s selflessness. When her well-established son came looking for his birth mother, she had been more than willing to welcome him—and his bank account—with welcome arms. Even before the case made the headlines, Bryce regretted his role in reuniting the two. Within a year, her former pimp murdered both the mother and son. He told himself that was the last time he would take on such a case.

  Before he could explain that to the soggy woman dripping onto his hardwood floors, she pulled out an envelope and passed it across the antique desk.

  “My adoptive parents are both deceased,” she explained, “so I have little to go on. I found this inside a hidden compartment in my mother’s jewelry box.”

  He peered down at the fading ink. “This looks like a hospital bill from a Lancaster Memorial Hospital in Lancaster County.”

  “Yes. And it’s dated January 1, 1980. The day I was born.”

  “Is this where you were born? Lancaster Memorial?”

  “Yes, I have reason to believe it is. Like most adopted children of the time, I have an amended birth certificate and the original is sealed. I’ve applied to have the documents released, but the process takes up to forty-five days.”

  “How long has it been since you applied?”

  She couldn’t help the flush that crawled up her neck. “About two hours. I just left the county courthouse, where I found absolutely nothing helpful.” Seeing his frown, she was quick to add, “But I did meet a nurse, and after talking with her, I’m positive that I was born at Lancaster Memorial and that you’re holding the bill from my birth.”

  Bryce studied the paper with care, murmuring his first impressions aloud. “It appears this was done on a typewriter, rather than a computer… A typewriter that needed a new ribbon, at that… Some of the words are hard to make out, particularly the billing name and address.” He looked up, his gaze intense. “Of course, that could have been intentional.”

  Taryn cocked her head to one side. Her shoulder-length hair left a wet pattern on her right shoulder. “How so?”

  “To protect the identity of one or both of the parties involved.”

  Her brow knitted in confusion. “I understand my birth mother’s need for secrecy, but why would my adoptive parents want to protect their identity?”

  His hesitation was slight. “I’m guessing they paid for the delivery. Some people,” he added slowly, “might interpret that as the equivalent of buying a baby.”

  Taryn sucked in a sharp breath. The thought had never occurred to her. She took a moment to compose herself, before stating quietly, “It doesn’t matter that you can’t read them. She not only used a false name, but a false address, as well.”

  “Is this all you have?” he asked with a frown.

  “That, and this letter.” Still soggy, Taryn pushed another piece of paper his way.

  As Bryce scanned the handwritten note, his frown deepened. Even between the two sheets of paper, they were still scant little to go on. Without her birth certificate, it would be doubly hard to uncover her past.

  He raised his head, taking his first hard look at Taryn Clark. Late thirties, according to the paper in his hand, but she could pass as five years younger. The lighter strands weaving throughout her brown hair could be the first signs of gray, he decided. A youthful spatter of freckles marched across the bridge of her nose, but there were just enough lines in her face to offer character.

  She was truly quite pretty, Bryce realized with a start. He hadn’t noticed before. Nor had he noticed her eyes. She had the most amazing eyes. Spaced wide apart, and such a startling shade of violet.

  “Ms. Clark, I’m not sure what you think I can do for you. Unless you have more than this, I’m afraid I don’t have enough information to start an investigation.”

  Taryn ignored the dismissal. “Did I mention I spoke to the nurse who delivered me? She told me my mother was frightened of something. Of someone, she said. Terrified, actually. So much so, she refused to be acknowledged for having the first baby of the new decade. She gave up a very lucrative package in order to hide her identity.”

  “As curious as that may be—”

  “Don’t you see?” Taryn broke into his objections. “This isn’t simply about finding my birth mother. There was something very odd going on, and I intend to find out what it was. There had to be a reason my mother was so frightened. Why she used a false name to check into the hospital. And why she snuck out that same night, when no one was watching the back entrance.”

  “There could be dozens of explanations. She may have been afraid of how her parents would react to her having a baby out of wedlock, for instance. She may have been involved with a married man. Perhaps her baby’s father, or perhaps even her own, held a public position and she wanted to spare him any negative repercussions. One or the other could have been a man of the cloth, or a politician.”

  At mention of a politician, the photo of Thomas Baxter flashed through her mind. Taryn shook it impatiently aside. “The nurse said my mother was widowed.”

  “How did she know that? And how did she know this woman was even your mother? According to what you’ve said, she was admitted under a bogus name.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But Helen—the nurse—recognized my eyes.” Taryn batted them now, for emphasis. “Not many people have eyes this color, but she distinctly remembers Jane Doe and her baby having violet eyes.”

  “I must admit, you do have memorable eyes.”

  Even when made by men as attractive as Bryce Elliott, compliments about her eyes normally did not faze her. Too often, the words were a cheap come-on line. Sometimes they hinted to an unhealthy fascination. Or worse, to a ‘your eyes are so freaky, I can’t stop staring’ obsession. But something about the way Bryce said them, burbled in his deep, no-nonsense voice, gave the words significance.

  A butterfly flitted about in her stomach again, this time for an entirely different reason.

  With his next words, a net fell over the enigma, stilling its wings.

  “If your mother lied about her name, she could just as easily have lied about her marital status.”

  Taryn forgot about her wet clothes and the dribble of water tracking her every movement. She stood and paced impatiently on the rug, too restless to sit for another moment. “You should talk to Helen. When you hear her tell the story, see the way her eyes are still haunted with the memory of that day, you’ll understand. You’ll feel the same urgency I do, even after all these years. There’s so much more to this story than we know.”

  Bryce might feel an urgency to save his expensive rug, but he doubted he would feel it over a case from 1980. He did admit, however, she had piqued his interest. Not on a physical level—at least, not solely—but on a curiosity level. Some of what she said did seem rather peculiar.

  He was making no promises, but he ventured to ask, “And where would I find this Helen, if I were so inclined?”

  Taryn whirled around, hope flashing in her violet eyes. “Right here in New Holland. She owns Kaffi Korner.”

  “Helen Fremont?” he asked in surprise. Before Taryn could ask the question, he answered, “I have coffee there most mornings.”

  “That’s perfect! Tomorrow morning, you can ask her all about it!”

  “Tomorrow morning, I’ll be on a flight to Florida.”

  Taryn was crestfallen. “You’re going on vacation?”

  It
was irrational, she knew, to feel so devastated. The man had a right to go on vacation. Just because she had little use for them, didn’t mean that other people—most people, in fact—felt the same way. He was probably taking a nice getaway with his wife and family, even though he didn’t wear a ring. Not that she had particularly looked, after his comment about her eyes. His long, tapered fingers were easily visible, and she didn’t see a ring. The man had the right not to wear a ring, just like he had the right to a vacation. Neither should be so upsetting.

  He quickly quelled her speculations. “Not a vacation. I’m working on a case.”

  It took long enough, but Taryn realized she tracked water upon his carpet. She returned to her chair with a sheepish apology.

  “But you’ll take my case?” she asked, perching there on the edge.

  The investigator studied her for a long moment. Trapped beneath his dark, thoughtful gaze, she squirmed uncomfortably. “I’ll consider it,” he finally relented. “Let me do some digging around, see if there’s anything there. I’ll let you know if I find enough to pursue.”

  Taryn hopped to her feet, feeling exceedingly hopeful. “Yes! Yes, that will be fine.”

  Too little too late, particularly given her soggy clothes and bedraggled appearance, she tried to temper her enthusiastic response. She ran a hand over her wrinkled blouse and attempted a professional reply. “Excellent.”

  “Why don’t you give me your contact information while I make copies of these?” Bryce suggested. Though within easy distance of his rolling chair, he stood and carried the papers to a nearby copy machine. “Are you staying in the area?”

  This time, there was no doubt to her answer. “Yes. Absolutely. So if you have any questions, just give me a call. I can come right over.” She dug in her purse for another business card.

  They exchanged cards and the investigator promised to be in touch. As he showed her to the door, she apologized once again for her waterlogged entrance.

  “Not a problem.” This time, the words sounded sincere. A ghost of a smile hovered over his taut mouth as he nodded to the sky beyond. “And look. The sun is trying to come back out.”

  For the first time that day, she thought she felt some of the sun’s warmth enveloping her.

  Or perhaps it was the feeling of renewed hope.

  Chapter 7

  Taryn pulled into the first hotel she came to. She didn’t bother to check for price or availability on her phone. She was still high on possibilities.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl at the desk apologized. “We don’t have anything available for tonight. I could check with our other location, just over in Bird-in-Hand. Would that be okay?”

  “Where is that? In the area?”

  “Oh, yes. Over on Route 340, about twenty minutes from here.”

  She had just been on Route 340, also known as Old Philadelphia Pike.

  “That’s fine.”

  The girl punched a number into the phone and waited for it to connect. “You have lovely eyes,” she said as she waited.

  Taryn offered one of her standard replies. “Thank you. They are rather unusual.”

  The girl shrugged. “Not really. I know an entire family with eyes that color.” She delivered the shocking news with easy aplomb, missing Taryn’s startled reaction as the line engaged and she spoke to the person on the other end.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Taryn interrupted. “You know someone else with eyes like mine?”

  The receptionist frowned, torn between the two conversations. Given that Taryn looked like she might come across the counter at any moment, the girl asked the person on the phone to wait. She covered the mouthpiece and practically hissed, “Yes, that’s right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to find you a bed for the night.”

  “What I really want to find is my family!”

  After a brief pause, the girl spoke into the phone. “Lew? Never mind. Thanks, anyway.” She reached for a piece of paper and wrote something down.

  “You know what? The family I’m talking about has a little guest cottage they rent. I’ll give you their address, and you can see if it’s still available. I live just down the road from them. I know it was empty a day or so ago. With any luck, it may still be.”

  Taryn’s knees felt oddly weak. “Really? Oh, wow.”

  “Don’t tell my boss.” The girl grinned, sliding the paper across the counter.

  “Not a word,” Taryn said, whisking it away before it vanished.

  If she was finally catching a break, she wasn’t about to let it float away.

  The GPS led her off the highway and into the rich farmlands of Lancaster County. Narrow blacktop roads crisscrossed the countryside, slicing across fields lush with crops. Freshly bathed from the impromptu rain, the leafy plants glistened in the late afternoon sun. The neat rows mesmerized Taryn as they darted straight and true through the fertile soil, cutting perfect stripes through the sea of green.

  Her foot eased off the gas pedal as she made a deep curve and came upon a slow-moving vehicle: a buggy, of all things, pulled by a prancing black horse and driven by a woman wearing a white head covering. Two young children rode in the back, twisted to face the road behind them. One munched on a banana and stared at Taryn with big, solemn eyes, while his brother pretended to cast a fishing rod and catch the shiny emblem on her car’s hood.

  Taryn had heard, of course, about the Amish people and their outdated mode of transportation, but she hadn’t known, really known, it was true. Not until now, as she witnessed it with her own eyes.

  Unsure of protocol where buggies were concerned, Taryn slowed to a crawl. A caution sign graced the back of the black buggy, but it offered no instruction on how to follow. She nibbled on her lip, uncertain of what to do.

  After two cars came from behind and zoomed past both her and the buggy, Taryn eased into the adjacent lane. Her wave was almost apologetic as she left the horse-drawn vehicle behind.

  How long, she wondered, did it take to travel that way? Did they leave the house at the crack of dawn, just to make it to the grocery store by noon? Did they even shop at the grocery store, or did they grow everything they needed, right here on the farm?

  Taryn mulled it over as she followed the black ribbon of road through fields and small farms. Great barns and huge, rambling houses dotted either side of the road. As if the original houses weren’t large enough already, almost all had an extension—some with two or more—added on. Some included a windmill nearby, and several had clotheslines that stretched high into the sky, operated, no doubt, by a pulley system.

  The assortment of laundry amused her. Dark, somber colors ruled. Even the colorful patchwork quilts she saw were, for the most part, made of dark, solid squares. Lighter colors appeared in the bed linens and the towels, and, to her amusement, on one pair of colorful men’s pajama bottoms. Smiley faces waved in the sky across two high-flying legs.

  The GPS instructed her to turn right, onto another simple blacktop road. Without the guidance system, surely these roads were a maze! Another sharp curve, this one in a dip, and a small valley sprawled before her.

  “Your destination is on the left.”

  The announcement took Taryn by surprise. She saw nothing that resembled a cottage for rent. Just another of the staggered, over-sized farmhouses and twin barns twice as large, positioned just so at the crest of the hill.

  She dutifully turned down the lane, edged on either side by a white wooden fence. Even as she wondered if this were right, she noticed the modest sign that read ‘Zook Farms.’ Beneath it were smaller signs scattered about, claiming ‘Fresh Butter,’ ‘Farm Fresh Eggs,’ ‘Woodworks,’ and ‘Quilts.’

  “Seems they’re selling everything but the children,” she quipped, before grimacing at her own bad joke.

  White rock crunched beneath the tires as she rolled her way up the lane, still wondering why she was here and what she hoped to accomplish. There was no reason to believe these people were related to her. All she knew was th
at they, too, had violet-colored eyes. Realistically, it didn’t mean a thing. And from the looks of things, these people appeared to be Amish. Wasn’t that like a completely different race? At any rate, she didn’t belong in this ethnicity group.

  Did she?

  The thought made her distinctly uncomfortable. It also made her uncomfortable to know she had taken the advice of a complete stranger, and now here she was, in the middle of nowhere.

  To be clear, it was a beautiful nowhere. The lane widened and spilled into a large yard, its grass lush and green, its beds overflowing with flowers in every color imaginable. Dual rope swings hung from the outstretched limbs of a towering tree, beckoning to her inner child. Its adult counterpart rested beneath a nearby tree, the intricate iron styling softened with over-stuffed floral cushions. A sparkling pond, complete with gazebo, contributed to the idyllic scene.

  A word whispered through Taryn’s heart, its flutter as gentle as butterfly wings. Home.

  Funny, how this quaint country setting evoked such an unexpected sentiment. Home, to her, had always been the split-level house she lived in as a toddler, back when their little family was still a family. Back before divorce and death, and the deluge of foster homes that paraded through her life. Not even the apartment with Collin or the upscale duplex in Chestnut Hill filled that emotional placeholder in her soul. But one glimpse, and this unlikely farmhouse tugged at her heartstrings.

  The house, itself, was large and rambling. Her best guess was that the original home stood more or less in the center of the sprawled structure, the weathered white boards testament to its age and years of service. The two-story brick addition on the right was obviously newer. She suspected the one on the left came sometime in between.

  Taryn pulled into the garage’s driveway. Situated near the newest addition, the garage appeared to be the newest build of all. Instead of the customary cars one normally saw in a garage, a buggy occupied all three bays. They ranged in size and style, from the deluxe family model to the flatbed utility rig. Overhead, a large space sprawled the distance, accessed by an external staircase.