The Yellow Packard (43 page)

The only other item was a four-by-six-inch photo. Her hand shaking, she carefully lifted it from the box. Staring back at her was the face she had forgotten. What a beautiful face it was! She had dark, straight hair, and a cowlick at the top of her forehead. Her smile was so natural and a bit lopsided; her eyes, large dark eyes, were so very expressive. And it was those eyes that seemed to call out to her. It was the eyes …

“My Lord,” Meeker whispered. “My Lord,” she said again.

Setting the photo back in the box. She pushed open the car door, locked it, and raced back to the hotel. Running over to a phone booth, she dumped her purse and began counting out change. When she was convinced she had enough, she called the operator.

Chapter 87

T
he drive to Chicago took over two hours, and for one very intense and personal reason it was the longest trip of Helen Meeker’s life. It was just past noon when she parked the Packard in a lot on Jackson, picked up the shoe box and her purse, paid the attendant, and with a determined step made her way to Michigan Avenue. After taking a left, she waited impatiently for a light and crossed the street. A half block later she opened the door to Foster’s Café.

“May I help you?” a finely dressed older woman asked.

“I’m meeting someone for lunch,” Meeker quickly explained. “I don’t know if she beat me here or not.”

“How old would this person be?” the hostess asked.

“In her early twenties and she’s pretty.”

“Is she a brunette?”

“Yes,” Meeker whispered.

“If I’m right, she’s in the side booth all the way to the back, on the street side. Would you like me to lead you?”

“No,” Meeker hurriedly answered. “I’ll find her.”

As she swept by the coat check stand and into the restaurant’s main room, she didn’t notice any of the other people dining at one of the city’s hottest lunch spots. She was barely aware of the smell of the food or the plush feel of the carpet. Her eyes were locked onto a single booth. Nothing else mattered.

The trip across the congested room took only thirty seconds, but to Meeker it seemed hours. She was literally breathless when she arrived at that booth and got her first real glimpse of the young woman sitting in that tall-backed bench seat.

“Hi,” came a crisp, happy greeting. “I guess you’re Helen.”

Meeker was too busy studying every feature of the face that was now just a few feet in front of her to respond. She didn’t speak or take her eyes from that face, even as she awkwardly pushed her body into the bench opposite her guest.

“You must be Helen,” the now confused woman noted again. When Meeker didn’t respond, she shrugged. “When my supervisor at Marshall Field’s told me that someone from President Roosevelt’s office wanted to meet me for lunch, I couldn’t understand why. It was even a little bit scary. But I wasn’t going to turn down a chance to eat at Foster’s. I can’t believe I’m here. The menu is amazing!”

Meeker nodded.

“Hold it!” the young woman noted. She titled her head to the right as if trying to summon a memory and carefully studied Meeker with those dark, expressive brown eyes before continuing. “I’ve seen you before. I think I recognize your face. Was it at college?”

“No,” the agent finally found her voice, “it was in St. Anne’s. You were waiting tables.”

“Yeah, that was it. I was staying with my friend Marie. I was working for Mrs. Thornton, trying to make enough money to pay for tuition and room and board.”

“Did you?” Meeker asked.

“Did I what?”

“Make enough money for college?”

“No,” she sadly replied. “I fell short. So I haven’t finished yet. I’m working at Marshall Field’s. Of course you know that. After all, you called me there. Sorry I couldn’t come to the phone, but they don’t allow us to take personal calls.”

“What about your family?” Meeker asked. “Can’t they help you with college?”

“No family,” she explained in a matter-of-fact manner as if she’d told the story a hundred times. “I was raised in an orphanage. A woman dropped me off there and told them my parents had died. The woman claimed to be my aunt, and she said she was too poor to take care of me. The staff thought I was about three. Because the woman didn’t have any proof as to who I was and she disappeared before she could sign any papers, they couldn’t put me in the adoption pool. At the time I didn’t even have a name. I called myself by one letter—
M.
They had enough Marys and Marthas there, so they gave me Alison. And, at some point, when they gave up trying to find where I came from, I got the last name of Ward. You know, like ward of the state.”

As Meeker digested the information, she sadly nodded. “That had to be tough.”

“Well,” Alison replied, “it was no walk in the park. But the staff was really nice. I did well in school. Christmas was a little lonely, but I’m fine now.”

“I guess you don’t even know your birthday?” Meeker observed.

“Well I have one,” she smiled. “It’s August 17, 1918. They figured I was about three, and that was the date I was dropped off at the home.”

Meeker nodded. The timeline fit. That was about three weeks after Emily had been abducted.

“I am so sorry I spilled out my life story,” Alison said. “I’m sure you aren’t interested. In truth, my life has been kind of boring. So why do you want to speak to me? The note I was given by my supervisor about meeting you for lunch said your name was Helen Meeker?”

“That’s right,” Meeker quickly assured her. “And your life is anything but boring. I want to know all about it.”

A waitress set two glasses of water in front of the women and asked, “Do you know what you’d like to eat?”

“You can have anything on the menu,” Meeker assured her.

“I always wanted to try one of their steaks.”

“Then we’ll do it.” The agent smiled. “Bring us two T-bones.”

“We only have sirloin today,” the waitress explained.

“How do you want yours cooked?” Meeker asked.

“I’ve never had one,” she replied. “I don’t know.”

“Two steaks, medium, with baked potatoes and some of your incredible homemade rolls.”

The woman jotted the information on her pad. “And to drink.”

“A Coke,” Alison quickly answered.

“Me, too.”

After the waitress left, the young woman looked back at Meeker. “Why did you want to see me?”

Opening the shoe box, Meeker pulled out the photo. Holding it with the back side to her guest, she asked, “Would you smile for me?”

The question was strange enough that it evoked an involuntary smile followed by an obvious question. “What?”

Meeker looked from the picture to the woman on the other side of the table and returned the smile she’d asked for. Handing the photo to Alison, she watched as the girl studied the image. Looking up for a moment to Meeker, she tilted her head as if to pose a question she was probably too tongue-tied or confused to voice.

“I think you called them dents,” Meeker softly said. “But our father always called them dimples. I didn’t remember that until this morning. Your dimples are on the top side of your cheeks.”

“You said
our father
?” the shocked woman whispered.

“Yes, I did.”

Alison shook her head and looked back at the photo. “You’re not just playing with me, are you?”

“No,” Meeker assured her, “you and I are sisters. I was eight when you were kidnapped. And the reason you called yourself by a letter was that I called you ‘Em’.”

Meeker reached back into the box and pulled out the doll. As soon as it emerged, Alison dropped the photo onto the table and reached for it. Tears filled her eyes as she whispered, “Molly.”

“I’d forgotten you called her ‘Molly,’” Meeker whispered back, trying her best to keep her composure. “But I remember now. Molly Bee.”

“Molly Bee Good,” Alison corrected her as she pulled the doll to her body. “We’re sisters!” She met her gaze again, wonder in her face.

Meeker nodded.

“And my real name is?”

“Emily Ann Meeker.”

“And our folks?”

“They’re dead, but I’ll help you get to know them. I can tell you so much about them. We can look at pictures.” She paused, bit her lip, and sobbed. “It would mean so much to them to know that we found each other. They loved you with all their hearts.”

“I have a name!” Alison quietly said.

Meeker nodded and added, “And I have a sister!”

A
CE
C
OLLINS
lives to write! His writing career spans over two decades with more than sixty titles to his credit. Ace has won numerous awards for his writing including three Golden Quills, an America’s Writing Award, and the Angel of Excellence Award. An Arkansas-based writer, Ace has been married for thirty-five years. He and his wife Kathy have two sons. Ace’s hobbies include restoring classic cars, collecting movie memorabilia from the Golden Age of Hollywood, and following college basketball.