Electric guitars screamed overhead. Gretchen called, “Nat!” The dark-haired teenager with the scar on his chin appeared on the stair landing. “We have guests. Crank down the volume on that noise, please.”
Nat rolled his eyes. “Music, Mom.”
“The jury’s out on that. Your old mom’s ears can’t handle it.” Gretchen smiled at Lindsey and Nina. “I miss the Beatles. Those were the days. Am I an old fogey?”
“It can’t be helped,” Lindsey said. “Happens to all of us. Hey, the Rolling Stones are still out there touring. Who would have thought Mick and Keith would be strutting their stuff for forty-plus years?”
Gretchen laughed. “Looking like forty-plus miles of bad road. Sex, drugs and rock and roll will do that to you.”
The electric guitars abated and Nat returned to the stairs. “When do we eat? Remember, I’m a growing boy.”
“Soon.” Gretchen led the way through the living room. “That kid is a bottomless pit. You know the stereotype about the teenaged boy with his head in the refrigerator? You just met him.”
“I brought strawberry shortcake,” Lindsey said. “Not the usual Sunday brunch fare, but we love it.”
In the kitchen Doug was assembling ingredients and utensils on the counter. He waved his whisk. “I’m making my killer buttermilk pancakes, renowned around the world. Very popular here in Berkeley, anyway.”
“I’ve got a frittata and sausage warming in the oven. And I made a big fruit salad.” Gretchen pointed at the glass bowl that held a mixture of bright red berries and melon. “Claire’s late. We’ll start without her. Coffee, juice, mimosas?”
“I’ll have a mimosa,” Lindsey said.
“Coffee for me.” Nina filled a cup from the coffeemaker on the counter. Gretchen poured Champagne and orange juice into a glass for Lindsey.
There were too many people in the kitchen, so Lindsey went out to the backyard, site of that long-ago Fourth of July barbecue, when Nat was a toddler newly arrived in the United States. He’d cried when he heard the fireworks. At the time she thought it was because he was startled by the noise. Now she wondered. If Nat was Efraín, did he remember what happened at San Blas? Flor’s son had been four months shy of his second birthday when he’d been kidnapped.
Lindsey’s fingers moved to her own forehead, as they had the day of the barbecue. Her own scar was still there, very faint. She’d been two years old, jumping up and down on her bed, when she lost her balance and fell, forehead hitting the corner of the nightstand. She recalled her two-year-old self, looking back at her from the bathroom mirror. Mama, a cold, wet washcloth in hand, wiped away Lindsey’s blood and tears. Daddy held her tightly, murmuring reassuring words in her ear, as he held up a square of Lindsey’s favorite candy, the Hershey bar peeking from the waxy white wrapping on the bathroom counter.
Lindsey blinked and the image vanished. A child remembered, even if the trauma occurred at an early age. Efraín would remember San Blas—his father’s murder, and being torn from his mother’s arms.
Lindsey looked out at the yard. On the patio were a low round table, a chaise longue padded with faded floral fabric, and four metal chairs. Lindsey set her glass on the patio table and stepped onto the grass, walking toward the back fence, which was covered with abutilon, its bell-shaped flowers bright red, orange and yellow.
Twelve-year-old Amy Segal sat cross-legged on the grass near the vegetable garden, leafing through a book. Her glasses were perched on her nose and her straight black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Amy came from an orphanage in China, where infant girls were commonly abandoned.
It was Nat’s story, though, that raised questions in Lindsey’s mind. Yesterday, after returning from the Farmers Market, Lindsey had gone to the Internet, searching for the missing children of El Salvador, abandoned, orphaned, and stolen. She discovered an article about a woman whose infant son had been taken during “scorched-earth” counterinsurgency operations, when the army targeted villages suspected of being sympathetic to guerrillas. The frantic mother had been told that her child would now serve the government, not the rebels. The boy, along with other children, was loaded onto an army helicopter. He was found twelve years later in an orphanage near San Salvador.
The Asociación Pro-Búsqueda de Niños y Niñas Desaparecidos, the Association for the Search of Disappeared Children, was using DNA testing to aid Salvadoran parents in reclaiming children. The University of California at Berkeley had even gotten involved, as the Human Rights Center on campus worked with a state lab to create a DNA database. The association had dealt with hundreds of requests by parents for information on abducted children, and had resolved about a third of them. Some children were dead, others adopted by families in Europe, Latin America and the United States. Some lived with the families of Salvadoran army officers. Others were found in orphanages or in street gangs, still in El Salvador. Birth certificates were falsified, changing dates and places that might link the children to their real families. Selling babies and children who were purportedly abandoned or orphaned had proved lucrative.
How had the toddler with the cut on his chin arrived in that orphanage in El Salvador?
“Hello, Amy,” Lindsey said now. “You have a big garden this spring.”
“I picked out some of the herbs and veggies. Early Girl tomatoes, lemon cucumbers, chives and basil. But we really have to watch the basil. Snails love it. They just mow it down.” Amy got to her feet. “Daddy’s making buttermilk pancakes.”
“I’m looking forward to a great big stack of those pancakes, with lots of butter and maple syrup.” They walked back to the patio. Lindsey sat in one of the chairs and sipped her mimosa. “What are you reading?”
Amy showed Lindsey the paperback on birds of the San Francisco Bay Area. “We have finches and sparrows and Stellar’s jays. Hummingbirds, too. They like red flowers. The kind we have are called Anna’s hummingbirds. There’s a picture right here.” Amy held up the book so Lindsey could see the illustration.
“I’ve seen them at my hummingbird feeder,” Lindsey said. The Segals’ black-and-white tom ambled across the grass with his rolling, fat-cat gait, his tail straight up in the air and a placid look on his face. “Does Moby Cat try to catch the birds?”
“He’s too fat to catch anything.” Amy sat on the chaise and patted her lap. Displaying surprising agility for a big-bellied cat, Moby Cat wiggled his rear end and launched himself onto Amy’s lap. He purred loudly as he butted his head against Amy’s chest and kneaded his paws on her legs. “Oh, Moby Cat.” Amy hugged the cat and stroked him under his chin. He purred even louder, tilting his head up for a better angle.
“This cat doesn’t miss any meals,” Lindsey said.
“Indeed,” Gretchen said from the patio door. “His Rotundity loves to eat. Speaking of eating, it’s pancake time. Get ’em while they’re hot.”
Lindsey and Amy joined the others in the dining room. Nat slathered his pancakes with butter, added syrup, and passed the pitcher to Lindsey. “Who was that lady you were with at the market?”
“Her name is Flor,” Lindsey said. “I interviewed her for my book. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” He lifted a forkful of pancake toward his mouth.
“Mom.” Nina gestured at the pitcher. “If you’re not going to use the syrup, pass it over.”
Lindsey poured syrup on her pancakes and handed the pitcher to Nina. She served herself frittata and sausage. They ate, the only sounds the clink of forks on plates. Nina got up to get more coffee. “Refills, anyone?”
“Just bring the pot,” Gretchen said as the doorbell rang. She pushed back her chair and headed for the front door, returning with Claire, who carried a square pink bakery box.
“I’ll trade you these scones for a mimosa,” Claire said. “Light on the orange juice, heavy on the Champagne.”
Gretchen took the box. “One mimosa, coming right up.”
Claire’s eyes widened as Nina carried the coffeepot into the dining room. “Nina. What a surprise. Here for a visit?”
Nina filled Lindsey’s cup, then her own. “I’ve moved back to the Bay Area.”
“Welcome home, then. Staying with your mother?”
“Temporarily.”
Gretchen returned, a brimming glass in one hand and a plate piled with scones in the other. She handed the glass to Claire and set the plate on the table.
“We’ve got fruit salad, sausage and frittata,” Gretchen said. “Doug’s going to make more pancakes. We inhaled the first batch.”
“No pancakes for me. I’ll have fruit salad and a sliver of frittata.” Claire sipped her mimosa, then reached for the bowl.
“I’ll have more pancakes,” Nat said.
“That’s a given, son.” Doug grinned at the boy and headed for the kitchen.
When the last of the pancakes had been eaten, they lingered over coffee, talking. Then Gretchen said, “Nat and Amy, let’s clear the table and help Dad clean up. Lindsey and Claire, I want to talk with you, privately. Wait for me on the patio. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Lindsey and Claire went outside, where Moby Cat was curled up on the chaise, nose tucked under paws as he slept. “When I saw you Thursday you didn’t mention Nina was back,” Claire said.
“She showed up that afternoon,” Lindsey said. “The move to Austin didn’t work out. I’m curious about something. Nat, and that orphanage in El Salvador where you first saw him.”
Claire pulled petals from a rose and dropped them. “Why do you ask?”
“Research for my book. I came across some articles about missing children in Central America, taken from their parents during the war down there. It seems a lot of children wound up in orphanages. It made me wonder where Nat came from.”
Claire shrugged. “An orphanage in San Salvador. Gretchen and Doug adopted him. He has a wonderful home with people who love him. End of story.”
“What if Nat has family somewhere?”
“His family is here,” Claire said.
“But his birth parents—”
“His birth parents are dead, I assume. The little guy was left in the orphanage where I saw him. I don’t know how he got there. He’s lucky to have been adopted.” Claire looked up as Gretchen came outside. “On the phone you were terribly mysterious. You said you wanted some girl talk, just the three of us, about Annabel. So talk.”
Gretchen pulled up a chair. “Sit down. Just shoo Moby Cat off that chaise.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t disturb Moby Cat for the world. It’s best to let sleeping cats lie. Don’t you agree, Lindsey?” Claire laughed, her eyes twinkling.
“Tess showed up on Lindsey’s doorstep Friday afternoon, with the damnedest announcement.” Gretchen described the conversation that had followed.
“So the blood test shows Hal isn’t Tess’s biological father,” Claire said. “That’s a surprise. But he’s been her father in every other sense of the word since she was born. Why poke around in Annabel’s past, dragging the two of you with her?”
“She has questions and she’s looking for answers,” Lindsey said. “So am I.”
“Careful what you wish for, Lindsey. You might get it. And you might not be happy with the answers.” Claire shrugged. “Sorry. I’m not much help, am I? Things are topsy-turvy since Annabel’s stroke. Hal’s mind isn’t on business. He’s been so distracted that I’ve had to take over much of the day-to-day company operations. The quarterly board meeting is coming up and all the functional meetings before that. Tess going off half-cocked on some windmill-tilting expedition is the last thing the family needs.”
Gretchen nodded. “I agree. I’m staying out of it.”
“Then we’re all agreed,” Claire said. “I’ll have a word with Tess.”
I haven’t agreed to anything, Lindsey thought. She opened her mouth, then closed it as Nat and Amy came out onto the patio. They bore trays holding bowls of strawberry shortcake, sweet crumbly golden-brown biscuits covered with sliced strawberries and whipped cream. Doug followed with more bowls. Nina brought up the rear, carrying a tray of coffee mugs.
“I thought we just ate,” Gretchen said.
“Our son and daughter were agitating for shortcake now,” Doug said as he and Nina set the trays on the picnic table and began handing out bowls. “After all those pancakes I don’t know how they have room.”
“I would love some. I didn’t have all those pancakes.” Claire took a bowl and spooned up a strawberry covered with whipped cream. “Nina, what’s next? I know you’re a technical writer, but the job market’s tight now.”
“I have feelers out with people I know,” Nina said. “I picked up some leads from a friend. I’ll take a temporary assignment, just to bring in some money. Anything I can find. I’m flexible.”
“I’ve just had a brainstorm.” Claire waved her spoon. “The perfect solution. My assistant had the nerve to get pregnant on me. She goes on maternity leave in a couple of weeks. I don’t know how I’m going to manage without her. None of the temps I’ve seen can handle the job. I need someone who can do more than just answer the phone. Nina, you’d be terrific. I could certainly use your writing and editing skills.”
“You could work for Claire while you look for a more permanent job in your field,” Gretchen said.
“Who knows, a job might turn up at Dunlin,” Claire said. “There’s a flock of writers in public affairs. Maybe you could do some temporary assignments for them as well. Although I warn you, I am a challenging boss. Are you interested?”
Nina smiled. “Yes, I am. I’d like to discuss the job, just one-on-one with you.”
“Of course. So would I. Let me check my calendar.” Claire went into the house, returning a moment later with her purse. She pulled out a smartphone and looked at the display. “Monday is busy. But I have some time at four. Can you come over then?”
“Sure. Four o’clock it is.”
Claire’s job offer was certainly out-of-the-blue, Lindsey thought. Even if it was temporary, it might be just what Nina needed.
“Lindsey and I are visiting Annabel tomorrow evening,” Gretchen said. “Come with us.”
“I’m having drinks with someone after work,” Claire said. “Then dinner with Mother. She’s going to visit Annabel, too. I’ll see you at the rehab place.”
“Drinks after work, huh? Business or pleasure?” Gretchen asked. “Are you still dating that venture capitalist from Palo Alto?”
“No, I’m seeing a new guy.”
Gretchen laughed. “Claire, the only thing that’s consistent about you and men is the revolving door. Every time I see you there’s a new guy.”
“Claire has been consistent, in her fashion. What about the Latin lover? We met him at Mr. Dunlin’s birthday party back in the Seventies. Severino...” Lindsey stopped as she recalled the man’s last name. “Aragón, right? Annabel’s cousin from El Salvador.”