Looking for Jane (82)

“Coffee?” Evelyn asks with a smile.

Her grey hair is cropped in a short, smooth bob that flatters her fine features, and it’s that even, soft shade of grey, like a November sky. Angela hopes her own hair will grey that beautifully thirty years from now.

“I hate to be a bother, but would you happen to have decaf? I’m off caffeine for a while, as much as it pains me to say so.”

“I do! I keep some on hand for those late-night cravings.”

“That’s great, thanks so much.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Just black, thank you, Evelyn.”

“Psychopath.”

Angela freezes, brownie box in hand. “Excuse me?”

The corner of Evelyn’s mouth curls up. “A dubiously scientific study says that if you drink your coffee black, you might be a psychopath.”

Angela isn’t sure what to say to this pronouncement, so she chuckles awkwardly.

“It’s more correlation than causation, I’m sure. Something about a preference for bitter tastes.” She winks. “Can I take the brownies?”

“Oh yes, thank you.”

“Go ahead and hang your coat up on the wall there. Make yourself at home.”

She disappears into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with two plates. She hands one to Angela, then sets her own down on the coffee table. “Defend my brownie from Darwin, will you?” she says, drifting off into the kitchen again.

As if on cue, a giant orange tabby cat slinks his way around the side of the love seat, amber eyes trained on the brownie. Angela snatches the plate up.

“He likes brownies?” Angela calls.

“He’s really more like a dog, to be honest,” Evelyn replies, her voice slightly muffled by the wall between them. Angela jiggles her foot and takes in the decor for a few minutes before Evelyn returns with a French press of coffee and two mismatched mugs. She sits down on the couch across from Angela and scoops the cat into her lap. “People think you can’t train cats, but you can. And this chubby gent here loves to play fetch and has a distinct sweet tooth.”

Angela hands Evelyn’s plate to her and digs into her own brownie before Darwin can try to claim it. They are both quiet for a few moments, munching and sipping. Angela isn’t sure how to open the conversation, but Evelyn beats her to it.

“So! You’ve been reading my book, Tina says.”

“Yes, I—” She swallows her last bite of brownie, then sets her empty plate down on the coffee table. Darwin immediately pounces on it, licking the crumbs and smears of icing. “Oh, shoot, sorry! Should I—”

“Oh no, let him have it,” Evelyn says with a vague wave of her hand. “He’ll have diabetes any day now, either way. Death by brownie certainly isn’t the worst way to go.”

Angela nearly spits out her coffee. This woman obviously doesn’t pull any punches. Maybe she should try the same tack.

“I’m interested in your time at the maternity home, actually. It’s a long story, but I was wondering about your friend who… took her own life. Maggie, was it?”

Evelyn nods, and Angela’s fingers start to tingle.

“So, Maggie wasn’t a false name you gave someone else?”

Evelyn looks up. Their eyes lock. “Excuse me?”

“You said in the introduction that you had given false names to the women you mention, to protect their identities. But your friend’s name really was Maggie?”

Evelyn hesitates. “Why do you want to know that?”

“I’m so sorry,” Angela says, her face growing hot. “I should have explained more to begin with, but by any chance, was your friend Maggie’s full name Margaret Roberts?”

Evelyn’s mouth falls open ever so slightly. “Why do you ask? How do you know this?”

Angela takes a deep breath. Both their coffees sit forgotten on the table.

“Because I think I’m close to finding her daughter. Or at least, I hope I am.”

The room is silent. Even Darwin has stopped purring in Evelyn’s lap, as though he, too, is holding his breath, waiting.

“How?” Evelyn finally asks.

“I found a letter in the store I work at. Thompson’s Antiques, just a few blocks from here. It’s a letter from the adoptive mother confessing to the adoption, which had been kept a secret until her death. There’s an apartment above the shop, where Margaret’s daughter lived, and I suspect it was just delivered to the wrong mailbox. A simple mistake.”

Evelyn sits forward in her seat. “When did this happen? What was the date on the letter?”

“Twenty-ten. I didn’t find it until a few months ago, though. I’ve been trying to track down the daughter, but I haven’t had any luck yet, so I shifted gears and tried to find Margaret instead.” She hesitates again. “I found an obituary for a Margaret Roberts, who died when she was nineteen in 1961, and I put the pieces together with an article I found about one of the maternity homes. It was St. Agnes’s, the home you and Margaret were at together. Wasn’t it?”

“Ye—” Evelyn’s voice catches. “Yes. I’m sorry, this is a bit…”

“I know. I apologize.”

Evelyn nods but doesn’t make eye contact.