On Turpentine Lane(66)

Why? Was she a sociopath, too? “Because it’s my home. I’d like to know if infant twins born on that date left my house dead or alive.”

I heard a clipped “Alive.”

“Is your sister . . . still with us?”

“She lives in Texas with what she calls her partner.”

I knew not to ask for clarification or offer congratulations. I said, “Thank you. Is it too big a leap to conclude that Anna Lavoie was your birth mother?”

When she didn’t answer, I asked, “You still there?”

“Her name is on our birth certificate. Does that answer your question?”

“But you were adopted? And you went to good people?”

“We were never adopted. Our paternal grandmother took us. When she passed, the state put Josephine and me in separate homes.”

I whispered, “Happy homes?”

“What do you think?” she asked.



I mailed her a thank-you note, offering what every good development officer keeps up her sleeve: an invitation to lunch. It took a follow-up call, at which time she said, “I hope we’ll keep it social.”

My answer was “Have you been to Bistro Voiture?” It was Everton’s grandest restaurant, recently opened on the site of what had been a Chrysler dealership.

When she hesitated, I said, “Lunch or dinner, your choice.”

“Thank you. I accept, though I still don’t understand your interest.”

An overactive imagination and buyer’s regret came to mind, but instead I said, “Just intellectual curiosity. It’s a puzzle. I think you could provide a missing piece or two.”

“Friday night, six p.m.,” she said. It wasn’t a question.



I brought Nick, skilled in asking probing questions in charming fashion. Googling Jeannette had turned up nothing under “images,” and I was eager to see what Anna and the King of Calypso look-alike had produced. She was already seated when we arrived. First, second, and third impressions: stunning, stylish, formidable. Her eyes were an unexpected pale green, striking against the mochaccino of her skin. Her dress was black, long sleeved, of a wool that suggested cashmere. And the scarf around her neck was arranged and knotted in ways I considered advanced. Her hair was black, just a cap of it, with hints of silver.

When we shook hands—her fingernails a deep maroon, mine suddenly feeling naked—she said, not happily, “I didn’t know there would be two of you.”

“I’m the boyfriend,” said Nick. “I was curious to see how a showroom can turn into a restaurant.”

I said to her, “I should’ve asked if you wanted to bring a guest.”

“I’m widowed, and I don’t keep company with anyone if that’s what you mean.”

So far every response indicated that all of my conversational gambits were mildly insulting. “Shall we start with a cocktail?” I asked, expecting her to sniff, I don’t drink.

As a bow-tied waiter asked our water preferences and took our drink orders (martini, Manhattan, mojito), I pondered how one asks a stranger about the circumstances leading up to her conception. So I didn’t; instead, I asked what she did, professionally speaking.

“Until this past June 30, I was in charge of the employee lunch program at John Hancock.”

“How wonderful,” I said.

“Faith’s dad was in insurance, too,” said Nick.

“Frankel Home and Life,” I added.

“I had nothing to do with insurance,” she said. “They could have been a manufacturer of cuckoo clocks as far as my interaction with that side of things went. I made sure their employees had good choices in the cafeteria and the executive dining room.”

“Lots of fish and green leafy vegetables, I bet,” said Nick.

I laughed, which caused Mrs. Pepperdine to stare at me as if merriment over antioxidants was highly inappropriate.

“Speaking of food . . . ,” said Nick, as our roadster-shaped menus arrived. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m allergic to shellfish,” she answered.

I said, to be companionable, “I don’t eat pork.”

Nick was first to announce his choices: the chicken cordoba and the salade imperial.

Mrs. Pepperdine—I’d mentally switched to the formal nomenclature—remained tight-lipped until the waiter asked, “And, ma’am . . . ?”

“The corn chowder, please,” which was followed by nothing except our insistence that she order an entrée.

As if very much against her will, she said, “I’ll have the rib eye, well done.”

Nick now delivered the prompt I’d planted on the drive over. “Faith? Do you have questions for our guest?”

I said, “I do.” And to Mrs. Pepperdine: “You’re probably wondering why I wanted to talk to you about Anna Lavoie.”

“No, I’m not. You said there was a puzzle with some missing pieces. Apparently, I’m one of them.”

Where to start? Maybe with the affair that led up to her life on earth? “I hope this isn’t too starry-eyed of me, but I got the impression that Anna and your father’s relationship was a love match.”

“Love? Who told you that fairy tale? Lust, more like it!”