She had donated all her father’s clothes, and of all the boxes he had brought with him to her house, there were only three left, the ones that had Keepsakes printed across the tops in black Magic Marker. She had sifted through the contents once already, but feeling nostalgic, she decided to go through them again. She sat on the floor and lifted the lid on the first box. Her father had saved nearly every paper she’d brought home and had everything organized in folders labeled by grade. She laughed as she looked at some of her art projects. Nearly every one of them had something to do with cars.
In the second box, nestled between the sixth- and seventh-grade folders, was a plain white legal-size envelope. It was stuck to the back of the sixth-grade folder. The first time she’d gone through the boxes she’d flipped through the folders assuming everything in them was her schoolwork. She hadn’t bothered to pull out any of the papers.
She opened the large envelope and emptied the contents onto the floor. And there they were. Not many mementos, but a few. A faded black-and-white photo of the first Kane Automotive Shop, and another photo of her father’s truck with Kane Automotive painted on the side. She thought it must have been his first truck. There was one other photograph of a stretch of beach and a beautiful sunset on the water. In the distance she could see several people standing on the beach, but they were all turned away from the camera, looking at the horizon. Next she found two flyers for art exhibits, a couple of ticket stubs for a rock concert, and a wedding invitation without an envelope. Hillary Swanson was marrying Jonathan Black at the First Presbyterian Church on Second Street. The wedding date was exactly six months before Natalie married Cordie’s father in Las Vegas. Under the invitation was a birthday card. It was signed, Love, Natalie. A pang of sorrow stabbed at her heart, imagining her father’s happiness at receiving the card, unaware of the insincerity . . . or the grief that was coming. There was a smaller envelope. She opened it, and inside she found a flyer from Las Vegas with a picture of the Forever Wedding Chapel, where she assumed her father and Natalie had gotten married, a matchbook from a Vegas restaurant, a chip from a casino, and a small square of tissue paper. She unfolded the tissue and revealed a simple gold wedding band.
That was it? This was all her father had saved from his marriage? There wasn’t a single photo of Natalie. Had he not taken any, or had he destroyed them in a fit of anger? Reading the farewell letter would have done it, she thought.
Now wasn’t the time to delve into her father’s motives, she decided.
She had enough information to call in the big guns to pinpoint Natalie’s exact location. Alec and Jack would do anything for her, and she didn’t think it would take them any time at all to get Natalie’s address.
She lured them over to her house with pizza and beer. Their wives came with them, of course, and while Regan and Sophie made salads, Cordie let Alec and Jack read the letter her mother had left for her father. She shouldn’t have been embarrassed, but she was, and she couldn’t understand why. You can have her. Maybe that was why. Maybe being tossed aside as though she had absolutely no value to her mother was the reason.
The doorbell rang, and she went to collect the pizzas from the deliveryman, thankful to have an excuse to leave the room. When she returned, they had finished reading, but neither Jack nor Alec commented on the letter. They followed her to the kitchen, where she put the pizzas on the table and quickly got out of the way.
“Wait,” Sophie said. “You should eat the salad first.”
Jack just smiled at her and took a large wedge of pizza. Alec dragged out a chair and sat across from him. He pulled the pizza box toward him and reached for a slice. Cordie handed them each a beer and distributed napkins as though she was dealing cards.
“So here’s what I know,” she began. “Her full name was Natalie Ann Smith. She was born in Sydney, Australia, and I assume she went back there.”
“What other information do you have on her?” Jack asked.
She handed him copies she had made of her father’s marriage certificate, the divorce decree, the flyer from the Las Vegas chapel, and the Swanson-and-Black wedding invitation.
“That’s all there is,” Cordie said. “Tell me where to start.”
“We can check government records, and how about we track down Hillary and Jonathan Black?” Jack suggested. “We have the date they were married, and it’s public record . . .”
“They could have moved away,” Sophie warned.
Jack smiled at his wife. “We’ll find them.”
“And the invitation might have been for Cordie’s dad before he met Natalie Smith,” Regan said. “They might not even know Natalie.”
“Cordie won’t know until she talks to them,” Jack said.
“I’ve been on the Internet,” Cordie said. “I pulled up the phone directory for Sydney. Do you have any idea how many Smiths are listed? It’ll take me a year to go through all of them,” she exaggerated.
“I know a guy,” Alec said.
“Where?” Jack asked.
“Australia.”
“That’s a big place. Where exactly in Australia?”
“Perth . . . or maybe Sydney,” Alec answered. “He moves around a lot.”
“Interpol?” Jack guessed.
“Something like that. He’s based out of London.”
“Who is he?”
“Liam Scott,” he answered. “I did a favor for him a couple of years ago. He’ll help Cordie.”
“One of us will call you tomorrow with the information on the Blacks,” Jack told her.
? ? ?
They came through just the way she knew they would. Alec called her at nine fifteen the following morning with the address and phone number for the Blacks. Cordie thought about calling first to set up the meeting but decided face-to-face without any warning would be better. Fortunately she wouldn’t have to drive far. They lived in a suburb just north of the city.
It was a beautiful sunny morning for a drive. And hot. She wore a short white skirt and navy blouse with sandals, but she had her workout clothes in her gym bag in the trunk of her car for her kickboxing class. Regan had signed up both of them for the class, insisting Cordie would love the exercise once she got into it. It was offered twice a week. They normally went on Saturday, but because of a conflict they were going today instead.
The Blacks lived in an older neighborhood of cookie-cutter ranch houses. She found their house number stenciled on the curb and pulled into the narrow driveway. A dog barked when she rang the bell, and she stepped back and waited. A moment later a woman with curly gray hair opened the door. When she saw Cordie, her hand flew to her throat and she gasped. “Oh my God, you have to be her daughter. You’re the spitting image. I swear you’re identical. You could be her twin if she were twenty years younger,” she stammered.
“I look like Natalie?” Cordie asked.
The woman looked confused. “Who?”
Cordie shook her head and smiled. “I think we should start over. Are you Hillary Black?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “And I know who you are. You’re Simone Taylor’s daughter.”
EIGHT
Cordie was fit to be tied.
“It was all a lie, a big, fat, horrible lie,” she ranted as she paced around Regan’s office. “There is no Natalie Smith. Never was. It was just the name on a fake driver’s license she bought from Hillary for twenty-five dollars so she could go into bars and drink. That’s how they met. Hillary had a nice little sideline going while she was in college. She printed counterfeit driver’s licenses for extra money. Lovely, right?” Hands on hips, she turned to Regan. “Hillary bragged that she was really good at it, too; said it was difficult to tell the difference between the fake and real licenses.”