“Did you miss me?” I asked my two Bernese Mountain Dogs who must have heard me coming since they met me at the front door.
Both dogs wagged their tails and pranced around in greeting.
“I just need to put this stuff away, and then we’ll take a walk,” I assured them, as I set my grocery bags on the counter.
It was a beautiful fall day. Cool, with a hint of winter in the air, but bright and sunny as well. I wondered how much snow we’d get over the winter months. I’d asked a few people who’d replied that it varied widely from year to year. I knew that living by the sea didn’t guarantee a white Christmas, but having lived most of my life in the south, I found myself longing for enough of the white stuff to add authenticity to the picture-perfect scenery.
I decided to head toward the right after I walked out onto the sand from the deck of my cottage. Cooper Fairchild rented the cottage to the right, and he was rarely home. He owned his own helicopter, which he used to provide tours and air charters. I’d been told that he worked a lot less during the winter months than he did the rest of the year, so I imagined I’d start seeing him around more often.
When I reached the edge of the peninsula, I looked across the bay toward Piney Point. The only corner of the house I could see from the beach where I stood was the southwest corner, which also happened to be the older section of the mansion and the section I seemed to remember from my childhood. In a way, it was amazing that I could remember anything at all. I still didn’t know with a hundred percent certainty that I’d lived in the house on the point, but even if I had, I would have had to have been a toddler at the time since I’d been with my dad from the time I was around three. It didn’t seem likely that a child who had been three at the time could remember much of anything about events that occurred twenty-five years ago.
Not that I remembered any events. Not really. What I remembered had been revealed to me as flashes. A stone entry that echoed with voices from the rooms beyond. Narrow windows that had been arched to frame the sea. A sunny porch with the trickling fountain where I’d pretended pieces of sea glass were baby birds who’d come to play. The images came as dreams I hadn’t known were even real until I’d visited the house and saw with my own eyes that the pictures in my mind really existed.
I’d just turned to head back toward the cottage when my phone dinged, letting me know I had an incoming call. I took my cell out of my pocket and answered. “Uncle Gil,” I greeted Gil Monroe, my father’s ex-partner and best friend. “Thank you for calling back so quickly.” I’d left a message that morning letting him know that I had some questions about my father and my past and hoped he could help me out.
“I’m always here for my little sweet pea,” he answered, using the familiar nickname he’d given me a quarter of a century ago. “You still in Savannah?”
Gil had moved his family to Denver a decade ago, so the last time I’d seen him had been at my father’s funeral.
“No. I’m in Washington State. A beautiful place called Gooseberry Bay.”
“Washington? What are you doing all the way over there?”
“Actually, I’m looking for answers.”
“Answers?”
I paused and gathered my thoughts. “A few months ago, I decided it was time to sell Dad’s house. Of course, I had to get rid of all the stuff he’d been collecting over the course of the previous five decades before I could do that, and while I was working on the boxes in the attic, I found an old diary as well as a photo that seemed familiar.”
Gil waited while I took a breath.
“The photo,” I continued, “was of a woman and two small children. Both female. I’d say one was around three years in age, and the other was probably one.” I swallowed as I tried to control the emotion that had begun to build just by talking about my find. “I’m not sure why I even took a second look at the photo. There was nothing spectacular about it, but for some reason, it drew me in, and shortly after I found the photo, I began having dreams about a house I was sure I’d never visited.”
“But now you think the house is from your past. From before you went to live with your dad?” he asked.
“I do. It took me a while, but I was eventually able to track the house down. It’s located on a bluff known as Piney Point, which is partially situated on Gooseberry Bay.”
Gil didn’t say a word. He didn’t seem shocked or startled, which made me believe he already knew quite a bit about whatever it was that was really going on.
“After visiting the house on Piney Point, I now know for certain that I spent time there as a child. I suspect I’m the three-year-old in the photo, and I’m pretty sure the baby is my sister, Avery. I don’t feel a connection to the woman in the photo the way I do to Avery, but I assume she might be our mother.” A tear slipped down my cheek. “Or possibly an aunt or even a babysitter. I’m just not sure yet. What I do know is that my father found me alone in a burning warehouse on Christmas Eve when I was around three. I know he took me home and raised me. He was a wonderful man, who I love with all my heart, but after finding what I have, I’m beginning to suspect that perhaps the truth he told me wasn’t the whole truth.”
“You want to know if I know anything.”
“Do you?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t totally shut me down. “You were his partner and best friend at the time this whole thing went down. It seems if he was going to confide in anyone, he would have confided in you.”
Gil took a deep breath. I suspected he was taking a minute to decide what to say and what to keep to himself. If my dad had shared what had really happened with Gil, he would have sworn him to secrecy. Even though my father was dead, Gil was the sort of guy to keep a pact with his best friend. Eventually, he began to speak. “Marta had just had Susan that Christmas, so I was out on leave.” Gil referred to his wife and oldest daughter. “Your dad was partnered with a man named Steve Burger while I was out. He didn’t stick around long, so I never really got to know him, but I do seem to remember that your dad and Steve didn’t really hit it off.” He paused and then continued. “I came back to work around January fifteenth, and by that time, you were already living with your father. He told me the same story he told you. He said that he’d found you in a burning building and that he felt sorry for you, so he’d decided to keep you and raise you himself. As far as I can recall, he never specifically mentioned adoption, and I guess I didn’t ask. You clung to him like a lifeline, and he didn’t seem to mind. Your dad had never been the sort to settle down and make a commitment. He swore he’d never marry or have children, but then you came along, and suddenly he was about as committed as I’d ever seen anyone.”
“But you don’t know for certain that he ever formally adopted me?” I asked.
“No, I don’t know for certain. If you’re thinking that you somehow got lost in the shuffle after being found alone on Christmas Eve and that your dad decided to skip the formalities and give you a home, I think you could be right. Now keep in mind that I don’t know for a fact if he legally adopted you or not. I never asked, and he never said as much. But it did occur to me that it was odd that there never seemed to be any sort of a process. I don’t remember social workers coming around, and I don’t remember any sort of court hearing. Your dad was a good man and a good cop. I’m not saying that he intentionally set out to break the law. What I am saying is that he felt something for you that Christmas Eve, so instead of dropping you at social services, he took you home. I’m saying that it’s possible that once the holidays passed and everyone went back to work, somehow the fact that Patrick had you staying with him was overlooked and forgotten. Your dad never was one for paperwork and process. He was the sort who believed that what was right was right and what was wrong was wrong and the technicalities be damned. It wouldn’t have been out of character for him to have simply done what he thought was best for you whether the courts agreed or not.”