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“No. Even though I never was told, I’ve always been sure—”
Every nerve in her body tensed. Even if Freddy had heard a rumor somehow, there was no reason for him to make a comment like that.
Unless...
Instead of staring out into the garden, he was looking right at her, steadily. Waiting.
“My ... son?” All the shock she felt went into those two words. It couldn’t be, not after all these years.
He pulled in a breath. “Samuel. My given name is Samuel,same as my adopted father, which is why I sometimes answer to my middle name, Frederick.”
“I-I left instructions,” she stammered out. “A letter. Asking for a biblical name for my child.” Every time she met a child of the right age, a Hannah or Esther or Mary, a flicker of a question would rise: Could it be her? She’d prayed for a little girl, someone who shared no traits with Oliver—certainly not for this tall, charming young man before her.
Frederick nodded, and his hand disappeared into his coat pocket, taking out a yellowed paper and passing it to her. “You signed it too.”
She recognized the words written in her own hand to the man and woman who would raise her child. They blurred as she blinked back tears, remembering instructions about the use of the money, wishes for the child’s health, a request not to be contacted again. So cold and businesslike. She’d agonized over what to say, crumpled up a dozen drafts, and had finally decided it would be wrong to pour out a teary good-bye to a child she was leaving to another.
“My adoptive parents were strict about never revealing anything about you—at your orders, I’m told. I never even saw this letter until recently.”
She nodded dully. It had seemed like the best plan at the time. A clean break. A chance to start over.
“When I was in the hospital over in Britain, I wrote them and asked about you. It might have been wrong, playing the ‘I have to know before I die on the battlefield’ card, but I’d always wanted to meet you.”
He had?For long stretches, she’d tried never to think of him—to crowd out the memory that she’d ever given birth with more projects and causes and committees. As the years passed, she’d thought of her baby less and less, pushing away fruitless wonderings about where the child might be now.
She cleared her throat, suddenly dry, and handed back the letter. “And they told you?”
He nodded. “Your name, and the name of the town where you lived. That was all they had. Thankfully, Derby is small enough that it wasn’t hard to ask after you once I arrived.”
That explained why he’d looked so nervous that first day, knocking on her door. She’d assumed he was ashamed to ask for a job as a wounded veteran, had thrown herself into a practical need without wondering if something else might have brought Frederick—Samuel—to her home.
And then the guilt, so long pushed aside, seemed to rise, an unspoken specter, from the tilled earth of the garden. “I only wanted to give you the best life possible.”
“I know. And you did. As I’m sure you can tell from my impressive zucchini crop, I turned into quite an accomplished young man.” He smiled, but there was a hesitation, as if he still half believed she might chase him away.
She had dozens of questions, and he certainly must have too, but the one that came out first was “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I almost did, a few times. But ... maybe I was afraid of being hurt too.”
He stood, hands clasped together, as if holding his breath. Vulnerable in a different way than he’d been when she said good-bye to him all those years ago but fragile all the same.
Steeling herself, she stepped forward and put her arms around him. “Thank you for coming.”
Holding him wasn’t as painful as she had imagined. In fact, some part of her seemed to finally fall into place, the happiness she’d been chasing for so long finally arriving when she stopped striving for it.
When she stepped away, she stared at his face for any hint of her own. His brown hair perhaps, or the shape of his chin.But his wink and smile were Oliver’s. She knew now why he’d occasionally reminded her of her long-lost love.
That added fear to the mix of emotions inside of her. He’d want to know about his father, surely, and his grandfather. All the stories she’d tried to forget would need to be told. And it would hurt.
What had Martina learned from her mother?“Giving and receiving love is the greatest risk and the greatest joy.”
Whether she was right or not suddenly didn’t matter. This was herson, finally home.
“Come inside,” she found herself saying. “We have a great deal to talk about.”
thirty-five
MARTINA
