Firefly Beach (28 page)

“I was just hoping you might have some ideas about how I might find her,” Beth said.

“You’re several steps ahead of me using the computer,” Abigail replied. “But I’ll check in with the retirement community, see if there is anyone from New York who might know something about something.” She winked.

Mary sighed. “I’ll ask around.”

But their efforts proved fruitless.

* * * *

On August third, Beth visited Kenny at his store.

He looked up and smiled. Beth returned his smile, warmly, remembering the days when he merely looked at her with dead, unreadable eyes.

“How have you been, Beth?”

“Okay, I guess. I’ve been searching for Susan. No results. But I’ve done some painting,” she said, hoping to sound a little more cheerful. “I’m trying not to center my life around finding her.”

Kenny frowned. “I think that’s wise. With a forged birth certificate, she may be impossible to track down.”

“Yeah. It’s too bad I can’t rattle Eleanor Sharpe for more information.”

“What about her son?”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Beth shook her head in disbelief. “Man, she even gave me his name. It was Craig or Greg. Gregory. It was Gregory.”

“He’s not likely to talk. I mean, don’t feel stupid. It’s not as if you overlooked a gem of a source.”

“At least I can try.”

“Would you like my help?”

“Yes, please. Where should we begin?”

Kenny put his index finger over his mouth. “There must be an estate settlement going on in Bangor. We could check the house. Also, maybe the cemetery has contact information. Or we could just search for Gregory Sharpe in the listings.”

Beth and Kenny sat down at his computer and ran a couple of searches. Several Gregory Sharpes resided in New England. Kenny called the one listed in Connecticut first. No luck. The other two did not answer. Kenny chose not to leave messages.

“We’ll try them again later.”

“What about the cemeteries?”

“Good idea.” He jotted down the phone numbers for the cemeteries near Eleanor Sharpe’s home. Beth leaned in and cupped her ear as Kenny made the call. A man with a Canadian accent came on the line. Kenny inquired about Eleanor.

The man searched his records for a moment. “Yes, Eleanor Sharpe is buried here.”

“Do you have a family contact name? A Greg Sharpe, perhaps?”

“Oh…I, uh…I don’t know if I can give out that information. Let me check, eh?”

Kenny gave Beth a shrug.

When the man returned on the line he said, “I guess it’s all right. Yes, Greg Sharpe made the arrangements.” He gave Kenny the number.

“Thank you very much.”

“Sure. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

Beth and Kenny looked at the number. It was the same one they found for the Gregory Sharpe listed in New Jersey. Kenny dialed it again. Still no answer, so he hung up.

“Should we leave a message?” Beth asked.

“Probably. But we have to word it carefully.” He tapped his finger on the table.

Thirty seconds later, Kenny’s phone rang. Beth positioned herself so she could hear the conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is Greg Sharpe. Who is this?”

“Oh, uh, this is Kenny McLeary,” Kenny said. He was caught off guard. He threw Beth a wild-eyed shrug.

“Did you try to call me?”

“Yes, I did. I, uh…my friend knew your mother. And, uh…”

“Yes?”

“She was, I mean, we were wondering if we could talk to you…uh, ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

Kenny trembled slightly. A part of Beth wanted to put him out of his misery and handle the situation herself. But she was nervous. She would stammer just as much as Kenny. Plus, she would be talking to a man who had the audacity to sell a child. Perhaps such a man was better handled by a man. Kenny cringed, but Beth did not reach for the phone.

Kenny sighed, swallowed, and straightened his posture. His voice became confident and clear. “We know that Eleanor was caring for an eighteen-month-old girl in November of 1977.”

Silence.

“We are aware of what happened—”

“What do you want?”

“We’re just looking for the girl.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Any information you may have—”

“I can’t help you.”

“Greg, we know you made the arrangements.”

Silence again.

“Listen. We just want information. Anything.”

“June Harrison.”

Kenny scribbled it down. “Was she—”

“She was my girlfriend’s cousin. I don’t know where she lives. I don’t have contact with my old girlfriend. As far as I’m concerned, this woman doesn’t exist. Do you get my drift?”

“Yes.”

“And if you don’t, I’ll make your life very unpleasant.”

Kenny’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at Beth with a
let’s kick this guy’s ass
expression.

Beth waved her hands frantically and shook her head
no
.

“I hear you loud and clear, Mr. Sharpe.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“But you should know—”

“Yes?”

“
This
time, you did the
right
thing.”

Silence.

“Thank you for the information.”

Greg hung up the phone without a response.

Kenny grinned at Beth. He waved the paper joyfully.

They spent another hour searching for June Harrison with no results. A customer entered the store looking for a pendant. Kenny approached the counter. Beth excused herself, nodding to Kenny and to the customer.

“I’ll try some more at home. I might have better luck on the adoption websites. Thank you for your ingenuity. And for dealing with that—” She smiled politely at the young lady standing by the counter. “—with that
guy.
”

“My pleasure,” Kenny said, winking. Then he turned his attention to the young lady.

As Beth wandered down the street, she saw Rod Thompson walking in her direction. She glanced around quickly, but there was no place to go without it being dreadfully obvious that she was ditching him. She didn’t have the heart to do that, so she moved straight ahead, trying to keep her eyes forward.

“Good afternoon, Beth,” he said softly.

Beth was momentarily stunned. Rod nodded to her in greeting.

“Uh…Good afternoon, sir.”

He continued up the street as if there was nothing particularly odd about the encounter. Truly there wasn’t, just a man saying hello to a woman he knows. But, nonetheless, Beth turned around and watched him walk away, her mouth gaping, her stomach fluttering.

* * * *

At home, Beth changed the last line of her Internet query to “
Adopted by June Harrison and her husband from New York.
” She spent a little time searching for June’s name. Then she gave up and went to bed.

The following Wednesday, Beth awoke with an annoying cramp in her neck. She stood up, stretching and rolling her neck in circles. She sat down at her computer absentmindedly like she did every morning. It had become a ritual. She carefully sifted through the junk mail before deleting it. Although she was fed up with scanning emails about cheap drugs, mortgage refinancing, and penis enlargement, she wanted to be careful not to delete
the
message, the one she hoped might eventually come.

That morning, it arrived.

Beth could scarcely believe her eyes when she saw the subject line, “Susan Elizabeth.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It could be a dead end, a random inquiry about a Susan Elizabeth born in Cincinnati. But it could be someone who knew something about the Susan Elizabeth for whom Beth was searching. It might be Susan Elizabeth herself. Beth opened the message.

Dear Beth:

I saw your posting on the Adoption Reunion Registry. I may be the Susan Elizabeth you are searching for.

After my twenty-first birthday, my parents told me that I was adopted when I was almost two years old. My mother’s name is June Harrison, and I grew up in Saratoga County. I had always known my birthday to be May 29, 1977, but I guess my real birthday was a few days before. My parents do not remember the date. But they did adopt me from a family in Maine. My birth mother was a teenager, a single mom. She committed suicide, and my birth grandmother believed I would have a better life with my new parents. So they arranged paperwork that listed my adoptive parents as my birth parents. I am not sure which information, if any, is the same as what was on my original birth certificate.

I have had a great life. My parents are wonderful people, very loving. They felt bad for keeping the secret from me, but at the time they told me, I honestly didn’t care. I wouldn’t have wished for anything different than to have grown up with them.

But recently I have felt compelled to search. If you knew my birth mother, I would love to talk with you and learn more about her. I am currently living in New Hampshire.

Sincerely,

Jennifer Harrison

Beth immediately hit the reply button and left a short, to the point message. “Jennifer. Please call me.” She included her full name and cell phone number.

Then she shuffled through the paperwork at her desk, all the notes and phone numbers from her search. She located Greg Sharpe’s number on the page that had “June Harrison” written on it. She dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Greg?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Kenny McLeary’s friend, Beth LaMonte,” she said. Then she rapidly added, “Don’t hang up or I’ll have the police at your door so fast you won’t have time to blink.”

“You’re walking on thin ice, Ms. LaMonte.”

“I have a couple more questions.”

“You can’t prove anything. I suggest you stop making threats before I end up slapping a restraining order on you.”

“Now that is interesting. Because I’ve got a little something in my pocket called
I found Susie and she has the forged birth certificate.
”

“You won’t trace that to me. And my mother’s dead.”

Beth sighed. The tough guy routine was not working. “Yes, your mother’s dead. I’m sorry. She was a terrific lady.” Beth cringed. “But perhaps it would hasten her soul past purgatory if you help me. She may have wanted Susie to know.”

“Know what?”

“Did your mother present herself as Susie’s grandmother?”

There was a moment of silence. “Yes. She said she was the baby’s grandmother. It just made things…
smoother.
”

“I’m sure it did. Did she tell the couple that Susie’s mother committed suicide?”

“She may have,” Gregory replied smugly.

“Thank you for your time.”

“Don’t call me again.”

“I have no interest in talking with you further.”

“Then stop calling me!” He hung up.

Beth sighed. She placed her phone on the desk, and she fantasized about police officers seizing Gregory Sharpe in a stranglehold. Then all at once it hit her.

“I found her. Oh my God, I really found her.” She started to cry. She took a quick shower, hoping not to miss Jennifer’s call. Then she got dressed and left the house, heading into town to talk with Kenny.

She had walked barely five minutes when her cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Beth?”

“Yes, this is Beth.”

“Hi. This is Jennifer Harrison. We’ve exchanged emails about—”

“Jennifer. Thank you so much for calling.”

“Do you think I’m the Susan you’re looking for?”

“I believe so. Yes, I really do.”

The voice on the other end of the phone trembled a little. “So…you knew my birth mother?”

“Not exactly.” Beth realized that she had not prepared what she would say. She was so obsessed with finding Susan that she had forgotten to plan what came next. She thought for a moment. “I live in the house where your mother grew up in Virginia Point, Maine. I have some of her things. I’d really like to share them with you.”

A pause. “Yes,” the voice said softly. “I would like that very much.”

Beth pursed her lips. “One of the things I want to share with you is a place.”

“A place?”

“Yeah. I know it sounds odd, but it was your mother’s very special place.”

“Her special place,” Jennifer repeated, her voice wistful.

“Where did you say you lived?”

“Manchester.”

“Oh, gee, that’s probably a three or four hour drive from here. You probably don’t have—”

“I can come up Sunday,” Jennifer said.

“Sunday would be great. I’ll set up a room for you. You can spend the night. Is that okay?”

“Sounds perfect.”

She gave Jennifer detailed directions before saying goodbye. After that she practically ran to Kenny’s store.

“I found her,” Beth shouted as she burst through the door.

Kenny wandered out of the smithery to the front counter.

“I found her, Kenny.”

Kenny smiled. “Susan?”

“Yes. Her name is Jennifer now, but I’m sure it is her. And it’s all thanks to you, really. If we hadn’t contacted Greg and gotten her mother’s name, she probably wouldn’t have found me.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Beth wanted to throw her arms around him in an embrace, but the counter separated them. She hesitated, fumbling around with her arms, before reaching out and offering her hand for a shake. Kenny gripped it firmly.

“Congratulations,” he said warmly.

She pulled her hand away abruptly and shifted into a mild mania. “She’s coming on Sunday. I have to get ready. Do you think Mary has a rollaway bed? Of course she has a rollaway bed. I think. I’d better ask her. I’ve gotta go,” she called as she bounded out of the store.

* * * *

Beth ran up the steps of
The Virginia Point Cove
and rang the doorbell two times in a row. Mary answered.

“Beth. How are you?”

“I found her.”

“Who?”

“Katherine Thompson’s daughter.”

“Oh my stars. You are a busy little one, aren’t you?”

Beth practically pushed Mary aside, ran toward Abigail, and hugged her spontaneously. “I found her,” she repeated.

“I heard,” Abigail replied, smiling.