“Don’t you think I should see what you’ve got first?”

“Frankly, I don’t, Sandy. I think what I’ve got is as close as we’re going to come to what Natalie looked like twenty years ago, and whether you like what you see or not, it’s all we’ve got. It’s clear she has a Midwest connection and I think she has an upstate connection.” I hadn’t told him about Martin Jewell’s weekend with Natalie, but he knew about Dickie Foster’s postcard. “So I want to move ahead.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“I’m probably going to run over the five hundred dollars of expenses. I paid Al DiMartino’s widow four hundred, and there’ll be bills for ads and some other miscellaneous expenses.”

“No problem. You’re already way ahead of anyone else, as I’m sure I’ve told you.”

“I’ve got the names of a couple of newspapers in Saratoga and Warren Counties. I’m going to hit them all.”

“Sounds good.”

I spent some time typing copy for the ads. Tomorrow Jack would have copies made of the photographs and the copy, and he would send them out for me. When the envelopes were addressed, I fell into bed.

—

None of the ads made the Sunday paper. I was grateful for the hiatus. The trip to Al DiMartino’s house and his struggle and death had left me tired and sad. The phone call from “Ted Miller” had left me looking over my shoulder. On Friday I took care of household chores, looking forward to having Jack home for dinner and the weekend. It would be nice to have some quiet in our lives, a little of that mythical togetherness I had heard about but not experienced very much. I called Joseph at St. Stephen’s and briefed her. Then I told her, finally, about my search for the woman at the Thanksgiving Day parade.

“Why do you want to find her?” she asked.

“I’m not sure I can explain it. I feel somehow that she’s part of my life.”

“You’re sure she’s not a cousin or something of your father?”

“I’m not sure of anything. I just know that she knew my name, that she acted as though she belonged with us.”

“But you’re afraid your father was seeing her.”

“I think it’s possible,” I said carefully.

“If she were a relative, can you think of a reason why your father wouldn’t say, ‘This is Cousin Isabel,’ or ‘This is Aunt Isabel’?”

“Not even a remote reason. But Jack and I both think my mother’s old friend knows something she doesn’t want to tell me.”

“She’ll tell you eventually, Chris. She’ll want to get it off her chest.”

“I hope so.”

“Keep me posted on the Natalie case.”

“I will.”

—

Should I call Elsie Rivers? I took a walk in the afternoon and stopped at Melanie’s for a cup of coffee. We talked for an hour about Natalie and what I had learned. In the warmth of her family room, I relaxed and enjoyed her company and her cookies. But the moment I stepped outside her house, I thought of Elsie again.

Her call last weekend had been strange. She had said we should get together, but she hadn’t extended an invitation or suggested a date. In fact, the mention of a get-together had sounded more like an introduction to our conversation than a reason for calling. I knew that if I was wrong, if I had misinterpreted the call, I was heading for disappointment, but Jack had also thought there was something she wanted to say when we had visited her two weekends ago.

It turned out I could have saved myself the agonizing internal discourses I had been going through. Elsie called on Saturday afternoon.

“I was just thinking of you,” I said, telling the truth with no embellishment.

“Well, I’ve been thinking of you, too, Chris, just sitting here with my knitting and thinking of Francie and you and how I’d really like to see you again.”

“Would you like to come here for a visit?” I asked.

“No, I think I’d like you right here in my little house, and if your Jack doesn’t mind, why don’t you come on over by yourself? It’ll be like Francie and me all those years ago.”

“I’d love to. Shall we pick a time?”

“Why not Monday afternoon? Both our husbands’ll be out of the house and we can have a little peace and quiet.” She said it as though the husbands kept up a steady din in our respective houses.

“Monday is fine.”

“Come at two. Two’s a good time.”

As good a time as any, I thought, accepting.

—

There was nothing to sit home for on Monday anyway. The Indiana paper promised to run the ad Tuesday through Sunday. One of the upstate New York papers came out only on Wednesday, and the daily said they would run the ad Tuesday through Sunday, like the Indiana paper. No one was running it on Monday.

I stopped at a local florist in Oakwood and picked up a few stems of baby orchids to give to Elsie. Then I drove over, parking in her driveway.

Her smile, as always, was spontaneous and genuine. She oohed over the flowers, then put them in a lovely little vase that seemed made for a spray of delicate flowers. She had tea on a warming plate and little square cakes coated with chocolate and topped with buttercream flowers on a crystal serving plate. We carried everything out to a glass-enclosed room at the rear of the house.

“What a lovely spot,” I said, setting down the cakes.

“Francie would have loved it. We didn’t build it till ten years ago. In the summer you can’t even see through the trees, the leaves are so dense.”

There were small silver cake forks that looked antique, and I remembered my mother talking about how Elsie liked to go to flea markets and shows and pick things up. To hear my mother tell it, Elsie made a killing every time, finding treasures in junk, underpriced items that were worth far more than the asking price, quality amidst trash.

“The forks are beautiful,” I said.

“Had ’em for years. There were just five and she gave them to me for a song. What’s so special about an even number? They’re just great for the two of us and another couple. I don’t entertain big crowds much anyway.”

I had brought my wedding album for her to see and we turned the pages together. There was Sister Joseph, Sister Angela, my mother-in-law, Jack’s sister, the chapel at St. Stephen’s decorated for the occasion. Elsie was thrilled, asking about each person, trying to put them in the context of my life. Finally I closed the book and poured some more tea.

“You said something last time you were here, Kix. You don’t mind if I call you Kix, do you?”

“I like it.”

“You were such a good child. I hope you have one like yourself one day.”

“Thank you. I hope so, too.”

She was easily diverted, unwilling to go ahead with what she had planned in advance to tell me. “You talked about the parade.”

“Yes. My dad took me.”

“And you met someone there.”

“A woman. I don’t remember her name.”

“I think your mother told me about her.”

Prepared as I was for a revelation, her words hit me like a slap. My heart started pounding and a voice in my head told me I didn’t want to hear it, I DIDN’T WANT TO HEAR IT. I looked at her, suddenly hoping she would change her mind and I could go home without knowing any more than I knew now.

“Your mom…”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you. She didn’t mean for me to know. She told me one day when she was feeling very low. Your mom had a sister, Kix.”

I shook my head. My mother was an only child. I had been to my grandparents’ house when I was young and I had seen their pictures and there was only Frances. She had always said she was an only child.

“It’s true, dear. There was a sister. She did things she shouldn’t have. They disowned her, your grandparents. And your mother went along with it,”

“But why?”

“Bad things,” Elsie said. “She hurt her parents, hurt them a lot. Your mom told me.”

“I don’t understand. You think she’s the one we talked to on Thanksgiving Day?”

“Oh, I know it. Francie told me once after you and your dad saw her. Your dad always wanted to get them together. He was a real peacemaker.”