Cynthia Thompson’s robin’s egg blue bungalow was just one of many identical homes along the tree-lined street known as Cypress Avenue. Each house boasted a perfectly manicured front lawn and a paved walkway that ran from the sidewalk to the front porch, each porch graced with a set of rocking chairs and a porch swing. Harley’s grandfather said the houses were built after World War II for returning soldiers and their young families, a structural reminder of the Baby Boom.
She parked her truck on the street and started up the paved walkway to the home. The curtains were closed and the house silent, but several pots of chrysanthemums lining the porch steps suggested someone lived there and that person was an active gardener. She approached the front door and rang the bell.
When no one answered, she tried once more, only to be met with silence.
Harley felt her hopefulness depleting. Maybe Cynthia wasn’t home. Or perhaps she was taking a nap. Or maybe she was home but did not answer the door for strangers.
“Mrs. Thompson?” Harley said, knocking on the screen door. “Mrs. Thompson, my name is Harley Henrickson. I live just a few streets down from you on Poplar. I was wondering if you might have a moment to speak with me.”
She turned with resignation to leave. She would have to find another way to glean the information she needed. But how?
Then she heard the lock click and the sound of the door being opened. She turned with anticipation to find an older woman peering from a crack in the open door, eyeing her suspiciously. The woman wore a lavender velour tracksuit and white tennis shoes, a decorative chain dangling from her wire-rimmed glasses.
“Mrs. Thompson,” she said. “Hello.”
“What’d you say your name was?” the woman asked.
“Harley. My name is Harley Henrickson.”
Cynthia’s squinting eyes widened. “Jackson Henrickson’s grandbaby?”
“Yes.”
“I always did like Jackson,” she said, softening. “He was a very decent man.”
Before Harley could respond, Cynthia added, “And you promise me you’re not trying to sell me something? That you’re not trying to con me out of some of my money?”
“No, ma’am. Of course not.”
“You’ve been at the festival, I see,” she said, looking at Harley’s costume.
“I own Smoky Mountain Spirits on Main Street. And all of the vendors, as you know, are required to dress up.”
“And you left the festival to come here and speak to me?”
“It’s very important. I need to talk to you about your daughter, Susan … and Patrick Middleton.”
Surprise flashed across Cynthia Thompson’s face, and she grabbed the doorknob, propping her weight against it. “Patrick Middleton?”
The mentioning of Patrick’s name seemed to lend more credibility to Harley’s visit, and Cynthia opened the door wider. “Patrick called me last week—not long before he died.” She motioned for Harley to come inside. “I couldn’t make sense of it.”
The small house was warm and cozy, dimly lit by a crackling fire and two lamps, a floor lamp in the corner of the room, and a table lamp beside Cynthia’s wingback chair. A book of crosswords lay open on the side table, a pencil resting in the spine.
“I apologize for my rudeness,” she said. “You just can’t be too careful when you get to my age and you live alone. It seems like someone’s always calling me on the phone, trying to sell me something or telling me I’ve won a prize, if only I’ll send them my Social Security number and my bank account information. I may be eighty-two, but I’m not gullible. I know about elder fraud. Even if that does make me rude.”
“No, Mrs. Thompson,” Harley said. “You’re right to act the way you do. It’s good to be vigilant.”
“Take a seat, won’t you?” She motioned to the sofa opposite her wingback chair. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, ma’am. That’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary.”
“So,” Cynthia said, lowering herself into her chair. “What is it you needed to tell me about Susan? You do know that this Halloween marked the thirty-second anniversary of her death.”
“I did.”
“And I wondered why Patrick Middleton of all people called me out of the blue on that very same day. And now you arrive here, too, wanting to speak with me about Susan.”
Harley placed her hands in her lap and tried to think of the best way to proceed. Deciding the direct approach was best, she told Mrs. Thompson everything she knew, from Patrick Middleton having accidentally killed Susan in the car wreck, to Martin Evans’s presence in town, and his subsequent death.
As she finished, a stillness fell over the room like a blanket, and the two women sat in silence, listening to the fire crackle in the hearth and the grandfather clock tick in the corner of the room. Harley didn’t know how much time passed as they sat there, and she did not dare speak first. After all, it had been thirty-two years since Susan’s death, thirty-two years of wondering who had killed her, and Mrs. Thompson needed time to digest and recover.
At last Cynthia spoke. “Never in all these years did I think it could be Patrick Middleton. Never. All those times I saw him in town, passed him on the street, and he’d always smile and speak to me so pleasantly—all the while he knew he’d killed my Susan. How could he live with himself?”
“I don’t think he did. Not happily anyway. It haunted him for the rest of his life.”
“And he found Martin, too?” she asked. “Brought him here? For the same reason? To confess?”
“Yes, and to reunite him with his son.”
She stared at the floor, sadness softening her voice. “I never knew the baby. Susan and I had a falling out, you see, not long after she became pregnant. I didn’t approve of her being an unmarried woman with a child, and I told her so. Martin was a nice enough boy, but the two weren’t married, and he had a career in the military, was gone a lot. I told Susan how I felt, and she moved out of the house not long after that.” Her voice began to crack. “I never saw her again.”
“Where did she go when she moved out?” Harley asked.
“She moved in with the Johnsons. Arthur and Pearl. They live in that big Tudor over in Briarwood. Pearl was volunteering at the elementary school when Susan met her. The two became very close over the years, spent more and more time with each other. I suppose the Johnsons were never able to have any children of their own, and Pearl, I think, considers herself some sort of mother to the community. Always helping out children and their families.”
Harley agreed that this was indeed true, and mentioned that Pearl had babysat her as a child, too.
“Do you have any photos?” Harley asked, looking about the room.
“Of Susan?”
“Yes, of Susan, but I was really hoping to see a photo of Martin.”
“I’m sure I probably have some somewhere.”
She walked across the living room to a large oak bureau and slid open the center cabinet. Inside were several old photo albums, stacked in two rows. She ran her finger along the spines, searching for the right year. Finding it, she removed the album, placed it on top of the bureau, and began thumbing through the pages. Photos flashed from the pages as Cynthia skimmed through them. At last, she stopped and tapped her index finger against one of the pictures.
“Here he is,” she said, beckoning for Harley to join her.
Harley walked over to the bureau and peered over Cynthia’s shoulder to the photo album. “There he is in his uniform,” she said, pointing to the young man in the photograph. “Not long after he met Susan.”
And there he was at last. The young Martin Evans, young and unscarred and hopeful, before combat and post-traumatic stress and substance abuse had mangled his features into something unrecognizable, something that had protected a long-held secret.
Harley placed her hand over her mouth and gasped.
“Are you all right?” Cynthia said, staring at her with concern. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Harley’s breath remained caught in her throat, and she found it hard to speak. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson.” She struggled to pull her truck keys from her pocket. “I have to go now.” She made her way to the front door. “I’m really sorry about what happened to Susan. I’ve never had a child. I don’t know what it’s like to carry someone in my body for nine months, to love them unconditionally, only to lose them.”
“Wait, Harley, please,” Cynthia said, following behind her. “I think there’s something else you need to know.” She placed her hand on Harley’s shoulder and the young woman turned around, their eyes meeting. “I loved Susan—so very dearly—and I did consider her my daughter, but I’m not the one who carried her inside of me. I’m not the one who gave birth to her. You see, Susan was adopted.”