Brooke’s collection of knickknacks, mostly ceramic and wooden horses, lived in her room at her mother’s house, which she called home. She talked about going to Daddy’s house, as if visiting, but then said she was going home when it was time to leave. That stung a little. But he consoled himself with the knowledge of how lucky he was to be deeply involved in Brooke’s life.
What was Perrie Lynn’s room filled with? Medals? Were those sparkly skating costumes hanging in her closet? What had she been like ten years ago when she was Brooke’s age?
Slow down. You can’t be sure Perrie Lynn is that baby, your little girl. Young woman, really. Odd that the possibility the young skater wasn’t his child sat heavy with him now. Before he’d seen Perrie Lynn earlier that afternoon, thoughts of the child he’d given up had receded more and more over the years as being a good dad to Brooke became priority number one. It was as if he’d put the past behind him once and for all. Now, another voice in his head nagged that he’d betrayed this first child, a stranger.
His phone chimed. Finally. The screen ID confirmed it was Lark.
“Hello,” he said, “thanks for getting back to me.”
“What is it, Miles? Is something wrong?”
Detecting an edge of apprehension in her voice, he said, “Oh, Lark, it’s nothing bad. No need to worry.” He put his hand on his chest, hoping to slow the pounding of his heart. “It’s just that I believe it’s possible, not a certainty, but possible, our—our child, our daughter...is a figure skater. Sort of a rising star.”
A sharp intake of air. Then silence.
“Lark?”
“I’m—I’m here, Miles.” A loud exhale followed. “I don’t know what to say—or what to ask first.”
As he walked away from Brooke’s room and back to the living room, he heard her gulp, or choke, he wasn’t sure which.
“Are you okay? I can tell you—”
“Yes, yes, tell me how—” her voice quavered “—how this came about. Your speculation.”
He cleared his throat. “Again, nothing is certain. But something happened earlier today. Brooke, my eight-year-old, is a skating fan.”
From there, the words flowed more easily. He described the afternoon and the shock he’d experienced when he saw the skater up close and was struck by the shape of her face. “She has dark hair and skin like mine, common enough, but her smile, and especially the shape of her face, are all you. Or could be.”
“But that’s probably coincidence, isn’t it?” she asked, sighing. “I mean, more likely than not, it’s a chance resemblance. Right?”
“Of course.” He deliberately lowered his voice to mask the jumble of emotions swirling in his gut. “But I’m not done.” He paused, almost afraid to say the words. “Today’s her birthday.”
“Today? That skater turned eighteen today?”
From the strength of her voice alone, Miles knew he’d planted the conversation on firmer ground. “That’s what the announcers discussed—this competition was a big deal so they went on at length about what a great present the medal was on such an important birthday.”
“Wow. I don’t follow skating,” Lark said, rushing the words. “You know, except when the Internationals are on TV. Then I tune in like everyone else. I would have missed this entirely.”
He was almost afraid to go on, but it was the detail that made the others fit like puzzle pieces. “There’s more. One other thing—something big.”
“What?”
“Perrie Lynn is adopted.”
He waited out the seconds of silence.
“How do you know that?” she whispered.
“The announcers said so, Lark.”
“They discussed something so private? On TV?”
Miles chuckled. “Well, according to Brooke, this is not a secret. You see, her parents, the Olsons, are classic blond, blue-eyed Scandinavians. Apparently, she’s always known she was adopted.” He paused, calling up his grandmother’s face. “I can’t even describe how much she resembles the early photos of my mother, but especially my grandmother.”
“Oh, Miles, it’s still so hard to believe. I’m afraid to hope it’s true.”
He heard the longing in her soft voice. An eighteen-year-old memory of her fighting off tears—and failing—slipped into his mind. “I know. But to tell you the truth, Lark, it really was the widow’s peak and her pretty smile that made me think of you.”
Silence.
“But it still might not be true.”
Her skepticism sounded forced. “You sound like me. Like you’re putting the brakes on your thoughts. You don’t want to let hope run away with you.”
“Yes,” she said, “not that I know what to do with the information. I mean, I’ve been thinking about her all day, and I filled up time with Christmas shopping. Just now I was out on a...well, out for dinner with friends, but for a couple of hours before I left the house I picked up the phone half a dozen times wanting to beg off, make some excuse not to leave the house.”
“I understand. It was on my mind, too. I was listening to Brooke talk with half my attention. Until the camera zoomed in on Perrie Lynn’s face and the commentators bantered about all these details of her life.”
“It seems so unlikely.”
He held back, not wanting to reveal exactly how convinced he was that Perrie Lynn was their child. He also suspected this birthday was more complicated for Lark than it was for him. “All that aside, I want to find out for sure, even though I don’t have a plan in place. Obviously, we’ll act in a way that won’t intrude on this girl’s life. If it’s all a big coincidence, then that will be that.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Can you meet me for breakfast, maybe tomorrow morning?” he asked. “I leave for Richmond on a late afternoon flight, but I’d like to see you first. We should talk about what to do next.”
“Yes, talk. We need to...take the next step, whatever...” She let out a frustrated groan. “Listen to me. I’m a writer, but I can’t string words together in a complete sentence. Tomorrow morning? Let me check.”
The line went quiet. The seconds ticked by.
“Yes, yes, that’s good. I was double-checking my calendar. I have a phone interview scheduled in the afternoon. I write articles about health. I’m talking to a doctor about a new drug for...” She sighed. “Now I’m babbling. None of that matters. Tomorrow morning is fine.”
What a relief. He hadn’t wanted to leave town without seeing her face-to-face. He suggested meeting at eight o’clock at Hugo’s, a café just east of Green Bay, not too far for either of them.
“Hugo’s it is,” she said.
Silence.
He cleared his throat. “Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait! One more thing, Miles.”
“What is it?”
“You have a strong hunch about this, don’t you?”
The unexpected question threw him, but not for long. “Yes, I do.”
“Me, too.” She ended the call.
He