Discovering (Lily Dale #4)(51)

“Mine, too. But we have to remember— she had a very different life. She might not even be aware that she was adopted. There’s a chance she’ll want nothing to do with us.”

“You’re right.”Calla sighs. “What about Dad?”

“We have to tell him,”Odelia decides, “before we go to the detectives. He deserves to know .”

“Can you tell him, Gammy? Tomorrow, when I’m at school? Please?”

Her grandmother seems to be weighing the decision. Then she nods. “All right. I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.”

Calla leans her head on her grandmother’s shoulder and closes her eyes as Odelia strokes her hair.

Laura.

I have a sister.





TWENTY-TWO

New York City

Friday, October 12

7:20 a.m.

“I don’t understand, though,”Geraldine says on the other end of the telephone. “What was so wrong with the place that you don’t want to go back there even for a day, to finish out the week?”

Laura clutches the receiver hard against her ear, pacing. “There was nothing wrong with it. It just wasn’t . . . right. For me.”

Because “she’s looking for me,”according to my midnight dream visitor. And after that hang-up phone call yesterday, she might have found me.

But of course, she can’t say that to Geraldine.

Or to anyone.

“Will you call me if another assignment comes in this morning?”she asks Geraldine.

“Sure.”

No, she won’t, Laura realizes as she hangs up. She thinks I’m too picky. Or worse yet, just plain old lazy. She doesn’t know me at all.

Then again . . . who does?

She desperately misses having a confidante— someone with whom she can share the whole truth, and be herself.

Father Donald is the only person in her life who ever fit that role, and now he’s hundreds of miles away.

Maybe you can make a friend here in New York, she tells herself, feeling homesick.

The trouble with temp work, though, is that it’s hard to create a social life around the people you meet. Just as you get to know them, it’s on to a new assignment.

How else is she supposed to meet anyone?

There’s Liz Jessee. She’s certainly friendly, interesting— and, in return, interested. She asks far too many questions for Laura’s comfort. Anyway, Liz is an older married woman, with a family and a busy life of her own.

I just don’t fit in here, Laura tells herself wearily.

I don’t fit in anywhere.

All her life, she wanted to be like the other girls, the ones she saw through the windows of the purple house: skipping rope, riding bikes, walking to school in groups of two and three.

Mother home-schooled Laura, of course, and never let her out to play with the other kids when they were brave enough to knock on the door and ask. Which happened maybe two or three times in Laura’s entire childhood.

The buzzer on the wall sounds loudly, jarring her from this dismal trip down memory lane.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she scolds as she goes over to the intercom. A lot of people are lonely. You’ll get over it. Someday, things will be different.

But there are tears in her eyes, and a lump in her throat refuses to subside as she presses the Talk button. “Who’s there?”

“I have a delivery,”a female voice responds.

At this hour of the morning?

“Sorry, you must have the wrong apartment.”

“No . . . it’s for Five B.”

Laura has been in the city long enough to have developed some street smarts. She isn’t expecting anything, and for all she knows, it’s a scam for her to let a would-be thief into the building.

“I don’t think so,”she says into the intercom, and steps away from the door.

A few seconds later, it buzzes again.

She tries to ignore it, but uneasiness settles over her. If it is a would-be thief, it’s one who’s determined to target Laura. Otherwise, she’d have moved on to someone else’s buzzer.

But maybe she has, Laura decides, when a full moment of silence has gone by. That, or maybe she’s gone on to try a different building.

Then she hears some kind of movement in the hallway outside her door.

Heart pounding, Laura steals over to the peephole and peers through just in time to see the back of a woman’s head disappearing toward the stairway.

She waits a few seconds, then opens the door a crack, leaving the chain on, just in case.

There, on the mat, is a vase filled with gorgeous white flowers.

Calla lilies, she realizes, unchaining the door and reaching down to pick up the vase.

There’s an envelope stuck to a pronged plastic fork in the bouquet, and she opens it with trepidation.

Who on earth would be sending her flowers?

Inside the envelope, instead of a florist’s card, there’s a folded piece of 8? by 11 white paper.

Opening it, she’s startled to see that it’s a paid voucher for an airplane ticket from New York City to Rochester, just north of Geneseo. It’s for a flight tomorrow morning—and the passenger name is Laura Logan.

What on earth?

Puzzled, she hurries back over to the window and peers down at the street.