She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
Longing fisted around his chest. “It’s Sebastian Grant. How are you?”
“I’m doing well. Thanks for returning my call. Can—can you hold on for one moment, please?”
“Sure.”
He heard a door opening and closing, followed by the sound of birds and breeze. “I reached out to you,” she said, “because I could use the advice of someone who’s knowledgeable about hospitals and the policies surrounding medical records.”
“I’m glad you reached out.” It was an understatement.
“What I’m about to say is sensitive,” she told him, “and I’m wondering if you’d consider keeping it confidential. I do realize that’s an outlandish thing to ask, seeing as how I’m a stranger.”
“I don’t consider you to be a stranger, and I’ll keep whatever you tell me confidential.”
“Thank you.”
He waited, trying to predict the situation she’d gotten herself into.
“I have reason to suspect that, immediately after my birth twenty-eight years ago, I went home from the hospital with the wrong set of parents.”
Silence exploded inside Sebastian’s car. He’d in no way predicted that. “You think you were switched at birth?” He kept his voice level. His career, his life, had taught him to absorb surprise while remaining outwardly calm.
She explained her DNA test, retest, and her mother’s insistence that she hadn’t been adopted. “I’d very much like to study the records concerning my birth,” she said, “as well as the records of all the other baby girls who were born the same day.”
“In order to learn the identity of your biological parents?”
“Yes. Also to determine what became of the baby my parents were supposed to have raised and what caused this outcome.”
“Where were you born?”
“Magnolia Avenue Hospital.”
His brain flipped through the information she’d provided. “In the state of Georgia, hospitals are only required to retain records for ten years.”
A few seconds of quiet followed. “You’re saying that the records of my birth have been destroyed.”
“I’m saying that it’s possible. Some hospitals, including my own, never destroy anything.”
“I see.” She sounded disappointed, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.
“How about I make an appointment for the two of us with the hospital administrator at Magnolia Avenue? If your records still exist, we’ll need the cooperation of those at the top of the hospital food chain in order to access them. We’ll also need a court order.”
“A meeting with the administrator would be excellent.”
“When will you be available to drive to Atlanta for a meeting?”
“There are only six days of school left. Summer vacation starts June tenth, so anytime after that should work.”
“I’ll set up an appointment as soon as possible after that date. In the meantime, I recommend you gather all the documents you have. Your birth certificate. Printouts of your DNA test results. Information on your mother’s pregnancy, and anything else you can think of.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll call you when I have a meeting arranged.”
She’d given him a chance to advocate for her, which pleased him more than anything had in a long time. He wanted to repay her for what she’d done for him the day of his accident.
And so he would, while keeping things simple and platonic between them.
While Leah had been talking to Sebastian, she’d descended her front walkway, crossed the street, and continued along the dirt trail that wound downhill.
Now she spent a few moments admiring the view of her very own Blue Ridge Mountain valley. She adored it at this time of day, painted in the thoughtful golden tones of the coming sunset.
Sticking her phone in the pocket of her white jeans, she started back up the path. Her house came into view. Small, yet also an architectural work of art.
After she’d accepted her position at Misty River High, she’d spent a Saturday touring available houses with her Realtor. They’d viewed a string of conventional, uninspiring homes. Then her Realtor had said something along the lines of “This next one is a little unorthodox, but it’s in a great location and the price is right.” The older woman hadn’t sounded hopeful, so Leah hadn’t felt hopeful, either. Then her Realtor had come to a stop here, at the base of the steep driveway. Leah had peered out the car’s front window and promptly fallen in love.
The majority of Misty River homebuyers sought out rustic cabins, traditional brick homes, or the spindly Victorians in the oldest section of town. Not Leah. This mid-century modern gem suited her taste perfectly.
The kitchen occupied one end, the dining room and living room sat in the middle, and the two bedrooms and one bathroom occupied the other end. Glass trimmed in dark khaki paint comprised almost the entire front of the flat-roofed structure. The effect of the whole was very much that of a building striving to live in harmony with nature.
She’d hired workers to refinish the floors and install white stone countertops in the kitchen and bath. Together, she and Dylan had replaced the kitchen’s knobs and pulls. They’d repainted the walls that had been painted originally and left natural the surfaces that had been natural from the start.
When they’d filled the space with her collection of simple, 1950s-inspired furniture, everything had fit as if the house had been made specifically for them.
She let herself inside. “How’s the homework coming?” she called in the direction of Dylan’s lair.
Ominous silence. Four years ago, one of her former students had committed suicide at the age of seventeen, the age that Dylan was now. That event had scarred her, and she’d been irrationally anxious about suicide, and every other danger teenagers could embroil themselves in, ever since.
“Dylan?”
No answer.
“Dylan?”
Her steps turned in the direction of his bedroom. She knocked softly on his door. “Dylan?”
Still no answer.
She’d made sure his bedroom door had no lock for moments such as these. Letting herself inside, she spotted her brother seated at his desk, one arm folded on top of an open textbook, his head resting on his arm.
He’d fallen asleep.
She crept across his messy room, as she’d done countless times since she’d become his caregiver, to make sure his chest was rising and falling.
It was.
From this closer vantage point she could see that while he might be sleeping on his textbook, the thing he’d actually been working on was a drawing. Beneath his lax fingers, a detailed drawing of a Spartan warrior scowled up at her.
Difference number two hundred between herself and Dylan: He was talented at art.
With tenderness, she considered the contour of his cheek and the way his curly hair flopped toward the desktop. Then she tiptoed from the room, struck a match, and lit the three-wick Hawaiian beach candle resting on her coffee table. She changed out her four favorite candle fragrances with the seasons. This one smelled like ocean, pineapple, coconut, and sunshine.
The trio of flames danced.