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  “Thanks,” he says. “Well, I’m off then.” He starts for the door, but something inside me doesn’t want him to go. Not yet. There’s something I need to know first.

  “Did Papa cheat on my mother?” I blurt out the words before I can change my mind.

  Jordan freezes, a look of amused shock on his face. “What—?”

  “I need to know,” I continue. “You and Papa have been friends forever. If he ever did anything like that he would have told you—wouldn’t he?”

  Jordan stares at me for a few moments, as if debating with himself whether or not to answer me.

  “Did your mom tell you that?” he asks, finally. I don’t answer. I simply wait. “He never meant for her to find out,” Jordan says after a while. “He thought he was being discreet.”

  “So you knew all along?”

  “I’ve known your dad a long time, Mira. We were in the 2nd Battalion together.”

  “I know,” I reply. He and Papa have told me dozens of stories about their experiences over the years.

  “After the war I wasn’t doing so well,” Jordan continues. “Your dad got me a job at Rawley Pharmaceutical as a lab tech. Obviously, I’ve done pretty well there, thanks to him. What I’m trying to say is he’s a decent guy, Mira.”

  “Then why did he have an affair?”

  Jordan sighs and pinches his lips together. He doesn’t want to go into this, I can tell, but he will.

  “Early on,” he begins, “your parents were mad about each other. But they had problems. They couldn’t get pregnant. It caused a real strain in their marriage. Your dad…well, let’s just say he made some mistakes. But then things turned around. You came along. He’s been devoted to you and your mom ever since.”

  Hearing Jordan confirm what I’d already guessed only hurts more. Between the endless hours away from home as Rawley’s CEO, his campaign, and now the inquiry, the one thing Papa hasn’t been is a devoted husband and father.

  “Give your dad a little credit,” Jordan adds. “He’s a good man at heart. Your mom knew—knows that.”

  There is a long stretch of silence between us. Behind him, the metal filing cabinet where I found that photo stands as the only witness to Jordan’s revelation. I wonder what other secrets it might still hold. I notice that Jordan’s eyes are on me, narrowed and probing.

  “Mira, there’s something else, isn’t there?” he asks. “What else did she tell you? Did she know who?”

  The question is vague, but I understand what he wants to know. The photo of Jackie Beitner and my father is still in my back pocket. I could pull it out right now and show him. Jordan steps closer and peers down at me, his expression suddenly hard and menacing, as if a demon was waiting just under the surface. I leave the photo where it is.

  “Mama only suspected he’d been unfaithful,” I lie. “She doesn’t know the woman’s name.”

  Jordan relaxes a bit, and his lips pull up at the corners, relieved. Turning to the desk, he straightens the file he’d been searching, and then slides it into a desk drawer.

  “So, you’ve got plans this afternoon?” he asks, abruptly changing the topic.

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “With that boy?”

  “His name’s David. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention him to my father?” I frame the request like an appeal. “He thinks I’m better off quarantined than spending time with people my age.”

  Jordan tugs on his driving gloves while giving me the reproachful look I know all too well. So I amend my comment, “All right—boys my age. But David’s really nice. Papa would like him if he’d give him a chance, but all he cares about is his campaign.”

  “The campaign isn’t all he cares about, Mira,” says Jordan. “But it is very important right now. The future of Rawley Pharmaceutical—of Gaudium—hinges on his success. With your father as the governor, he will have a great deal of influence in getting state and possibly federal funding for Rawley’s research.”

  Hearing Jordan explain it, I almost feel guilty for doubting Papa at all. “But the investigations, those deaths,” I say. “What if they hold Papa liable? What if he’s arrested?”

  “Your father won’t be arrested,” answers Jordan, his voice firm.

  “But even so, he could still lose the election after all this.”

  Jordan steps up to me and places a gloved hand against my cheek. I smell the leather and something else I can’t quite place as he traces the side of my face with his thumb. The gesture takes me by surprise and sets me on edge.

  “He won’t lose,” he says, his pupils contracting to small black points which seem to pierce right through me. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  After Jordan leaves, I wait impatiently for David. My conversation with Jordan left me feeling unsettled.

  I’m relieved when I climb into the car beside David. I consider telling him about my conversation with Jordan, but I just don’t feel much like talking. It was one thing just suspecting Papa of being unfaithful to Mama, but hearing Jordan confirm it has left a solid void in the pit of my stomach.

  The drive up to Bakersfield is a quiet one. We don’t say much, but the radio’s volume is turned up high, filling the space between us. Halfway to our destination, a light sprinkle of rain begins to fall. David turns the wipers on, but the weather doesn’t dampen our spirits.

  When we get closer to Bakersfield, I reach into my backpack for the map I printed. “Crud,” I say with a frustrated huff. “I must have left it at home.”

  “Do you have your phone?”

  I dig in my purse some more. “Of course I don’t have it. I never have it.”

  “No problem. We’ll use mine.”

  After looking up the Beitners’ address again, the GPS on David’s phone leads us to a quiet middle class suburban neighborhood with nicely kept lawns and homes painted all the same drab shades of beige and brown.

  “That’s it,” I tell David, pointing at a house with a bay window and an apple tree in the yard.

  Pulling a u-turn, David parks in front. “So what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan,” I tell him. “I thought you’d have a plan.”

  “Me? Why would I have a plan?”

  This is going nowhere. Stepping out of the car into the drizzling rain, I jog up to the front door. David’s beside me a few seconds later, shaking the water from his hair. I ring the doorbell. From behind the door there’s a light scuffling sound, then the click of the lock being unlatched. Finally, the door opens a few inches, and the face of an elderly man peers at us through a pair of thick, rectangular shaped lenses.

  “Yeah?” asks the man in a scruffy voice. “If you’re trying to sell me another vacuum cleaner, I don’t want it. The last one ate up my carpet and scared my cat away.”

  “We’re not here about vacuums,” says David. I can tell he’s trying to stifle a chuckle. He clears his throat and quickly regains his composure.

  “We’re looking for Robert Beitner,” I cut in.

  The old man squints at us both. “I’m Robert Beitner.”

  “And Marie Beitner?” adds David.

  “That’s my wife. You want my wife? Mar!” The man turns and shouts into the house. “Mar, there’s a couple a kids here to see you!”

  “Actually, we just had a question—” but the man’s moved aside and his wife, a frail looking woman wearing a yellow apron and fuzzy pink slippers, appears at the door.

  “Yes?” she says cheerfully.

  I look at David. He shrugs. So I guess I’m in the spotlight.

  “Mrs. Beitner, my name is Miranda—” I’m about to tell her my last name, but then decide against it. “Miranda Johnson. And this is my friend, David.”

  Marie Beitner looks at me a little funny, but waits patiently for me to continue.

  “We’re looking for someone who may have lived in this neighborhood a long time ago. Did you know a Jackie Beitner by any chance?”

  At the sound of Jackie’s name, Mari
e’s face goes white. She raises a trembling hand to her lips and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, a tear escapes and gets lost in her wrinkled cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s been so long, but I still miss my Jackie as much as ever. Why don’t the two of you come in and set a while. I just baked a loaf of lemon berry bread. I’ll slice you up some, hmm?”

  How can we turn down such a kind invitation?

  The Beitner home smells of spiced apple and old newsprint. I spot some potpourri in an electric warmer near the front door, not far from several waist-high stacks of newspaper. Mrs. Beitner leads us along the pathway between the stacks into a small yet comfortable living room dominated by a baby grand piano at the window. The piano and fireplace mantle are draped with white crocheted coverlets, the perfect backdrop for the dozens of framed photos arranged on them both.

  “You can imagine how hard it’s been for us without her,” Mrs. Beitner says, lowering herself into a wooden rocker beside the piano. David and I sit on a yellow flowered loveseat while Mr. Beitner heads toward the kitchen in the back. “Jackie was our only child.”

  David and I exchange astonished glances.

  “Was your only child?” I ask, trying to be as tactful as possible.

  “Yes,” replies Mrs. Beitner. “She passed away sixteen years ago.”

  My heart drops. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t know.”

  I notice the display of framed photos on the mantle. They are all the same girl at different ages, most likely Jackie. There’s one when she’s a teen holding a violin under her chin; another as a girl riding a bicycle; and still another in a black graduation cap and gown.

  “How did she die?” I ask cautiously.

  Mrs. Beitner goes silent. She remains polite, but I can tell she’s a bit wary of us.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I guess I should explain why we’re here.” I cast a quick help me glance at David. “Uh, well, we’re from the local high school, you know. And we’re…”

  “We’re on the committee for the school paper,” interjects David.

  “Oh, reporters?” asks Mrs. Beitner.

  “That’s right,” I say. “We’re doing a piece on—the upcoming election. We understand that your daughter used to work for one of the candidates.”

  “Oh? Well, I don’t recall—”

  Mr. Beitner comes in carrying a plastic silver-colored tray. “Just a minute, Mar,” he says with a pleasant smile, “let our guests sample some of your cooking.”

  He first offers the tray to me. I help myself to a thick, golden slice of warm lemon bread dotted with large purple blueberries, and a Styrofoam cup of apple juice.

  “Thank you,” I say. “This looks delicious.”

  David takes his share as well. Mr. and Mrs. Beitner take the remaining slices of bread and cups of juice, before abandoning the tray on the piano. The bread is as tasty as it looks. I should ask for the recipe before I go.

  “Did I hear you say you write for your school newspaper?” asks Mr. Beitner.

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “They want to know how Jackie passed away,” explains his wife. Then she turns to us. “She died of a brain hemorrhage—caused by a tumor.”

  “Again, we’re so sorry to hear that.” I’m sure the disappointment must show on my face. Jackie Beitner is dead, and any information she might have had about my father is dead, too. I want to leave, but the Beitners seem to be enjoying our visit. I need to find some polite way of ending this.

  Rising slowly from the couch, I try to think of something to say, when David speaks up. “Do you know if Jackie was seeing anyone before she died?” he asks while finishing off his lemon bread. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Mrs. Beitner pauses, her forehead creasing in thought. “I didn’t know much about her private life,” she says. “Jackie didn’t tell us much. She lived on her own, had a job with a temp agency doing secretarial work.”

  “She worked for Rawley Pharmaceutical, didn’t she? I mean the candidate, Mr. Ortiz, mentioned her in an old interview once.” This is a complete lie, but I’m hoping the Beitners won’t notice.

  Mrs. Beitner looks to her husband, who nods. “Yes,” he says. “For a short time. Don’t you remember, Mar?”

  “Oh, that’s right. She did mention it once or twice. Rawley… I think I remember hearing something about it on the news. Didn’t we, dear?”

  Mr. Beitner nods again.

  “But you asked about a boyfriend,” continues Mrs. Beitner. “She must have had, though we never met him. She did introduce us to one of her co-workers once. A nice young fellow. We met them for lunch when we were in the Valley one day. We were shopping for a new car, weren’t we, Bob?”

  I look at David. He raises his eyebrows and gives a slight nod of his head, encouraging me to go on. “Could you tell us what the man looked like?” I ask.

  “Young,” says Mrs. Beitner, “and very tall. He had red hair; I remember that distinctly about him, and a birthmark under one of his eyes. He was very nice.”

  I look back at David, conveying my disappointment. Red hair. Tall. Definitely not Papa.

  Stepping over to the mantel, I take a closer look at the photos. There’s one I hadn’t noticed before; it’s not framed, just a snapshot leaning against the wall.

  “Who is this?” I ask, picking up the photo. In it, a young girl about two years old sits on Santa’s lap smiling directly into the camera. She has dark curls and wide dark eyes. I know this girl—this picture. And she is definitely not Jackie Beitner.

  At first it seems as though the Beitners are going to ignore my question. But then Mr. Beitner glances at his wife with a resigned expression on his face. Marie lowers her eyes, but not before I see more tears in them.

  “That’s our granddaughter,” says Mr. Beitner, “the baby Jackie gave up before she died.”

  My hands tremble as I set the photo back into place. I suddenly feel weak and even a little lightheaded. I should sit back down, but I’m too numb to move.

  “Jackie didn’t tell us about the baby until she was too far along to hide it anymore,” continues Mr. Beitner, sharing a tender look with his wife. “By then she’d been having headaches for several weeks. She was naturally worried and came to us for help. She said she’d been seeing a doctor—for the headaches—but whatever he was doing for her wasn’t helping. Not long before the baby came, she was diagnosed with the tumor. We told her we’d raise the baby if anything happened to her, but she refused. She’d already signed the adoption papers. We tried to convince her to change her mind, but she was adamant.”

  Mr. Beitner reaches for his wife’s hand. “We were there when the baby was born. But on Jackie’s insistence, the baby was taken away. We never met her adoptive parents.”

  His voice cracks, and he stifles a quiet sob. Tears roll down his cheeks, and I worry that some might start rolling down mine, too. Mr. Beitner pinches his eyes and pulls himself together before continuing.

  “Jackie passed away a few weeks later. After that we got pictures of the baby in the mail from time to time, but eventually they stopped coming.”

  There is a moment of silence that seems expected for the Beitners, as if it is customary for them to pause in remembrance when discussing their daughter. For me, it feels like a massive void just opened up and swallowed me whole. My reaction to their story is as physical as it is emotional. It takes all my effort to keep myself together.

  David must sense the sudden change in me. He looks at his wristwatch. “It’s late,” he tells me, his voice tender. “We’ve got to head back.”

  The Beitners walk us to the door. I find myself wanting to embrace them, to tell them not to be sad anymore. But the distance between us remains rigid. I cannot close the gap—not now—not yet. But suddenly Marie slips her aging arms around me and pulls me close, pressing her cheek against mine. I’m too startled to resist her.

  “You’re a sweet girl,” she says before releasing me.


  David and I thank the Beitners for everything. David shakes their hands and walks with me to the car. It’s dark now, the sun having set not long ago, and it’s raining—hard. I slide into the passenger seat and shut the door as David gets into the driver’s seat. We sit for a few moments in silence before he starts the engine. Then, he eases away from the curb onto the dark, rainy street.

  “So, what do you think?” he asks.

  Already I feel the tears burning behind my eyes. I have to say something, and I have to say it out loud. “I can’t…” I stammer. I clear my throat and try again. “This can’t be happening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My throat constricts like a fist, but I force the words out. “That photo of the little girl, the Beitners’ granddaughter—it’s me.”

  David does a double take. “What? How do you know?”

  “Because that same picture is hanging on my bedroom wall, that’s how. Mama took it on Christmas when I was two years old.”

  “Are you kidding? Are you sure? Wait. She touched you, didn’t she—when Mrs. Beitner hugged you goodbye. What did you see?”

  I shake my head furiously and swipe away a tear. “Nothing. I saw nothing.”

  “Nothing at all? You mean like with your dad?”

  “I think—” My voice catches in my throat. “I think that’s why I couldn’t see him before, why I can’t see Marie. They’re related to me. They’re my family—my real family.”

  We reach a stop sign, and the wipers bat futilely at the torrent of rain pelting the windshield.

  “We should go back and tell them,” David says as he begins to turn the steering wheel.

  Quickly, I grab hold of it. We go straight through the intersection.

  “I can’t just announce who I am to these people. I’m a complete stranger to them. For all they know, I might be some lunatic escaped from the mental hospital. And I still have no evidence that Jackie and Papa…”

  Jackie Beitner is—was—my mother. And the two wonderful elderly people I just met are my grandparents. But is Papa my real father? Did he and Jackie Beitner have an affair that resulted in me? It would make sense that he would take me in if he knew she was dying, and even more why he’d keep the truth from Mama. And yet something doesn’t quite fit, or more like a piece of the puzzle is still missing—a big piece. I just can’t put my finger on what it could possibly be.