“Thank you for finding me,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. She turns and shuts the door behind her. I stand alone in the middle of my mother’s teenage room.
The bed is made perfectly and I laugh. My mother never made her bed, at least not like the one I’m looking at. The room itself is clean and organized. Maybe Margaret kept my mother’s things, but put them in their proper place. My mother was anything but organized.
I walk over to the student desk facing the wall by the window. There is a stack of Vogue magazines. The one on top has Cindy Crawford on it. I open it up to see the year is 1992. My mother dog-eared page after page. I don’t remember her reading Vogue as I grew up and feel like I’m learning about another side of her.
I move over to her bookshelf where there are no books—typical. She complained I never had my nose out of a book, and I complained she never touched them. I pick up a few picture frames with photos in them.
One of them is of my mother and a teenage-looking boy. They are dressed in formal attire and posed under a banner. Maybe it’s a photo from a school dance. She looks beautiful in her, not surprisingly, blue dress. It’s the same color as the one I’m wearing and sets off her eyes. They twinkle with happiness.
On a lower shelf, I find a scrapbook labeled “The Marie McMasters Show” and laugh. She was Jerry Springer’s biggest fan. Trash television, she called it.
Carrying her scrapbook over to the bed, I sit and dust off the front cover before opening it. The first few pages are memories from grade school. A ribbon for perfect attendance. I would expect that from a teacher’s daughter.
On the next page is a beautiful drawing of a flowering tree. It appears to be a dogwood in the spring. I glance at the bottom and see her name written in a corner.
Farther back in the book, a spread of concert tickets. R.E.M., Metallica, and a few bands I’ve never heard of before, are glued to the pages.
When I turn the last page over, there is a loose piece of paper. It’s not glued to the pages, so I pick it up and look over it. It appears to be a short letter addressed to my mother.
Marie,
Meet me at the usual place tonight. We need to talk. You’ve been acting strange and I don’t have time for your schoolgirl games.
T
The words and tone tell me one thing: my father wrote this and it was likely around the time she told him about me. I am speculating, but feel like it’s a clue. Could it be one that leads to a man who will do more harm than good when he knows I exist?
My phone rings from my purse on my mother’s old desk. I keep the letter from the mysterious T, close the scrapbook, and race to the desk, but the phone stops ringing before I get to it. I dig it out of my purse and see a missed call from Sin.
I push call back and he answers almost immediately.
“Hey, Harlow. You okay?” he asks in a hurry, his voice worried.
“I don’t know how to answer that. I guess I’m okay.” I sigh into the phone, completely exhausted.
“You’ve been there for over two hours. I just wanted to check on you.” He cares and is concerned for me, just like a friend or a boyfriend. I think we are somewhere in the middle of the two.
“I didn’t realize I’ve been here that long. I have so much to tell you.”
“I can’t wait to hear every last detail,” he says, and there’s a smile in his words. “Are you ready for me to come get you?”
“Yes, I’m ready.” For you.
Chapter Thirty
Sin
I sit watching Harlow as she lies on the bed sleeping. After picking her up, she collapsed into the car seat, physically and emotionally exhausted. She was fast asleep by the time we made the ten-minute drive to the hotel.
She’s lying on her side and the sheets indent at her curves down a gentle slope—a tempting one, but I’m trying my damnedest to resist.
After leaving Harlow with her grandmother, I had some time to reflect on being with her. I need to tread lightly. With her past, she deserves a man who has patience and restraint, and I want to be that man for her. Anything less, and I will fail.
So peaceful in sleep, Harlow has her hands tucked under her cheek, and her long black lashes lie still. Her blond hair spreads across the pillow in a cascade of curls.
She is the closest thing to a living angel I’ve ever seen, innocent in her repose. I pray the tension from the last few days is a distant memory as she dreams.
I move from the chair and walk to the bed. It’s time for her to wake and for us to go to dinner. I have something fun and crazy planned for us to do tonight and hope she’s okay with it.
I sit on the edge and brush some hair way from her face. I hate to wake her, but she will be up all night if she sleeps any longer.
“Harlow, babe,” I whisper close to her ear. She stirs under the covers, but doesn’t fully wake up.