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CHAPTER TWO

THE SMART-ASS LIBRARIAN looked at him with none of the self-possession she had earlier. In fact her big gray eyes were haunted. “In here,” she said, ushering Devin into the office. “Trixie, take over.” With trembling fingers, she pulled the venetian blinds closed, then shut the door and leaned against it.

Devin dumped the drunk on the couch and ran a professional eye over him. He’d quit bawling and was rolling his head from side to side and moaning faintly. “Some kind of container might be useful,” he suggested. “He’ll hurl at some point.” Rachel looked at him blankly and he tried again. “Barf.” Still nothing. Where was a translator when he needed one? “Throw up … vomit.”

“Oh … oh!” She scanned the room, then found an empty cardboard box and bent over to pick it up. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed she had a nice ass. Rachel placed the box by the couch and backed away, her expression guilt-stricken. He suspected he knew what was worrying her. “Alcohol makes some people maudlin,” he offered. Particularly those who took themselves way too seriously. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You don’t understand,” she murmured. “He proposed yesterday and I turned him down.”

“That’s no surprise. There must be a fifteen-year age difference.”

“Seven years. I’m thirty-four.” Devin’s age. She didn’t look it. The librarian shook her head. “Not that age matters. The important thing now is that—”

“He’s acting like a wimp?”

“No!” She took a protective step toward the drunk. Anyone could see she had a conscience. That must be painful for her. “Paul had every right to expect me to say yes. I meant to say yes, only …” Her voice trailed off.

Paul sat up and grabbed the box. Rachel retreated and they both turned their backs, but couldn’t escape the awful retching sounds. “Only you realized you’d be making a terrible mistake,” Devin finished. Maybe the vintage clothes were an attempt to look older?

“I drove him to this.” The librarian’s slender throat convulsed. “And he’s not the first man I’ve let down. I … I’m a heartbreaker.”

As one who’d been given the description by the world’s press, as one who’d dated and even married the female heartbreaker equivalent, Devin was hard put not to laugh. Only the sincerity in her pale face stopped him from so much as a grin. She really believed it, which was kind of cute—if a little sad. And he thought he was self-delusional at times.

Not that she wouldn’t be pretty with a hell of a lot more makeup and a hell of a lot less clothes. The fastidious restraint of all those satin-covered buttons and dainty pearl earrings made Devin itch to pull Rachel’s sleek dark hair out of its practical ponytail. Mess it up a little. Understated elegance was exceedingly bland to a man whose career had depended on showmanship.

He’d deliberately dressed down to fit in today, and thought he’d done a pretty good job until the librarian’s gaze had fallen on his boots. No jewelry except one signet ring and one modest earring … hell, he was practically invisible.

The sound of retching stopped and they turned around. The drunk—Paul—had pushed up to a sitting position and was wiping his mouth on some copier paper. White-faced and sweating, he glared at Devin. “Who do you think you are, manhandling me like that?”

Devin shrugged. “Someone had to stop you making an ass of yourself.”

But Paul had already turned on Rachel. “I hope you’re happy reducing me to this state.”

“She didn’t force alcohol down your throat,” Devin said quietly.

The librarian swallowed. “Paul, I’m sorry. I had no idea you cared about me this much.”

“You think everyone’s as lukewarm as you are?” Paul balled the paper. “I did all the caring in that relationship. All the work in bed. You—”

“Have really, really bad taste in men,” Devin said, because Rachel was hugging herself and obviously taking this Paul’s rant way too seriously.

The librarian seemed to remember he was there. She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, but I can handle it from here.”

“You sure?” She was obviously out of her depth. “He’s likely to get more abusive. I can toss him in a cab for you.”

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly, opening the door, “but I’ll be okay.” Devin got the impression she wasn’t used to accepting help. Any more than he was used to offering it. For a moment he had an odd sense of his world shifting. But it had shifted so often lately he ignored it.

Something incongruous about her appearance had been bothering him, and as she bit her lip Devin finally figured out what it was. Her mouth—lush and full—was more suited to the L.A. strippers he’d shared stages with in the band’s early performing days than a prim librarian. He grinned just as Romeo grabbed the box and started hurling again.

Rachel stiffened. “I’m glad one of us finds this funny.”

“Your mouth doesn’t fit your profession,” he explained. “It’s like seeing something X-rated on the cartoon network.”

He didn’t think to censor himself because he’d been a rock star for seventeen years and never had to. And got a sharp reminder he was no longer in that world when she shut the door in his face.

“Lucky the librarian fantasy never made my top ten,” he told the door.

DEVIN WANTED TO BE treated as normal, and yet once his amusement wore off, Rachel’s reaction gave him a profound sense of dislocation.

She’d looked at him without his fame in the way and hadn’t liked what she’d seen. It was a scary thought, because whoever she saw was someone he was going to have to live with for the next forty plus years.

He strode across the road from the library into Albert Park, then stopped in a stand of tall palms that reminded him of L.A.—his home before his life depended on leaving it. For a full five minutes he looked up through the fronds to the blue, blue sky, homesick. Then he started walking again, around the quaint Victorian fountain, past oaks and a lot of trees he didn’t recognize.

This must be how refugees felt in a new land … displaced, wary. And yet he’d been born here, was still a citizen, though he’d left for his father’s country when he was two. He breathed in the smell of fresh-mown grass, only to regret it wasn’t L.A.'s smog.

“Your pancreas is shot to hell. Any alcohol and you’re dead.” The doctor had been blunt, and left him sitting in a private hospital room full of flowers from fans. The band had imploded at the same time as his health…. What the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life?

His car keys fell out of his hand; someone bent to pick them up. Another teenager—shit, this place made him feel like a dinosaur.

“Are you okay?” Gray eyes, intense in a pale face. Lank blond hair.

“Of course I am.” The kid stepped back and Devin took a deep breath. “I’m fine … thanks.” He couldn’t rush the ascent, but had to stop and acclimatize, then kick up a bit more. He reminded himself that the surface was there—even when he couldn’t see it.

“You’re Devin Freedman, aren’t you?” Nervously, the kid hitched up his baggy jeans. “I heard you’d be studying here this year.”

Living on a remote part of Waiheke Island since his arrival in New Zealand two months earlier, Devin had got used to being left in peace. Something else to give up. “Yeah,” he said grudgingly, “I’m him.”

In his drive to take control of his life, Devin had started taking online accounting courses to decipher his financial statements. A tutor had suggested university. When Devin stopped laughing he’d thought, why not?

And already his growing fiscal knowledge had paid off. He’d appointed a new financial advisor who’d found disturbing anomalies in some of Devin’s statements. It looked like someone had been ripping him off; unfortunately Devin suspected his brother. But he needed to be very sure before he acted.

“I’m a huge fan. Darkness Fell was a work of genius.”

“Not The Fallen or Crack the Whip?” Rage’s final albums.

The kid looked at his feet and shuffled. “I really liked the early stuff. I know the others sold well … I mean, not that’s there’s anything wrong with commercial albums….”

Devin put him out of his misery. “You’re right, they were crap.” By that point the band had barely been speaking.

“But you still had some phenomenal guitar riffs and—”

“You play?” Devin asked, cutting short the hero-worship. He gestured to the expensive guitar case slung over the kid’s shoulder.

“Bass mainly, but also some electric and acoustic—like you.” The next words came in a rush. “Would you sign my guitar for me?” At Devin’s nod, he unpacked a Gibson and scrambled in his bag for a Sharpie.

“What’s your name?”

“Mark White.”

Devin hesitated with his pen over the guitar.

“Your autograph will be fine,” insisted Mark. “I hate phoniness, too.”

Grinning, Devin signed, then handed back the bass. “See you around.”

MARK MANAGED A CASUAL NOD but sank onto a bench as soon as Devin disappeared. Mark’s knees were shaking. He clutched the neck of his instrument, looked at the manicured gardens of Albert Park and thought, I imagined that. No one meets a legend, a god among bass players walking through freakin’ rose beds.

He glanced down at his guitar and for a moment panicked because sunlight was bouncing off the lacquer and he couldn’t see it. But then he adjusted the angle and there it was scrawled across the maple. “To Mark, stay honest. Devin Freedman.”

And Mark grinned because one part of him wanted to run back to his apartment, jump on his computer and flog it on eBay, and the other wanted to sleep with it under his pillow. You are one screwed-up dude, Mark.

So what was new?

Still, he let himself be happy, because it wasn’t every day a guy got to meet his all-time hero. Then he looked toward the campus and his smile faded under the familiar gut-wrenching nausea, anger and terror. She was here … somewhere.

Mark had seen the University of Auckland envelope at the adoption agency when he’d asked the woman to check his file, claiming he was in an open adoption. Funny how people didn’t care about hiding envelopes. The woman had been very kind, considering he’d been lying to her. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

He’d lied again. “Sure.”

Abruptly, Mark stood and began walking. Why had his birth mother started out wanting an open adoption, then changed her mind and severed contact? The question had been eating away at him every since he’d discovered he had a different blood type to both his parents.

He’d searched through his parents’ private papers and found correspondence from an adoption agency. Mom and Dad still didn’t know he knew … and Mark tried not to blame them because it was clear she’d made secrecy a condition of adoption.

But his anger … his alienation had spilled over into his misbehavior. It had been a tough twelve months on everybody. He’d only talked his parents into letting him enroll at a university four hundred kilometers away because “honest, Mom and Dad, I see my future now and it’s all about getting an education and being normal like you want me to be.”

Like I used to be. When I knew who I was. But Mark had another agenda. He would confront his birth mother. She would sob an apology and beg his forgiveness. He would say, “You had your chance,” and walk away. Just like she had.

He’d worked out that she’d been seventeen when she had him. That made her thirty-four now.

It shouldn’t be too hard to find her.

THE FADED BLUE SEASIDE cottage was one of Waiheke Island’s first vacation homes, and unlike its newer neighbors, it was tiny and unpretentious. Not for the first time, Devin thought how well it suited his mother. He jumped the seaman’s rope fence and strode down the white shell path, giving a cursory pat to the concrete seal balancing a birdbath on its nose. Then he caught sight of the front door and frowned.

It was wide open and a gardening trowel lay abandoned on the doorstep. His pulse quickened, and though he told himself not to panic, he shouted, “Mom!”

Three heart-stopping seconds of silence and then a faint reply. “I’m out back.”

Devin walked through the dim interior to the rear garden, a sprawl of crunchy grass, lichen-covered fruit trees and roaming nasturtium. “How many times do I have to tell you to shut your damn door? Anyone could walk in.”

Holding a red bucket, his diminutive mother looked down from the top of a stepladder leaning against the peach tree. “And how many times do I have to tell you this isn’t L.A.?” She dropped a handful of small white peaches into the half-full bucket, then ran a hand through her short gray bob. “Any leaves in my hair?”

Devin put his hands on his hips. “Should you be doing stuff like this?”

“I’m not going to have another heart attack, honey.” Katherine held out the bucket. When he took it, she climbed sedately down the ladder. “Not now they’ve replaced the faulty stent.”

He reached out and helped her down the last couple of steps, and her hand seemed so frail in his. Briefly, her grip tightened, reassuring him with its strength.

Still, Devin said gruffly, “Is it any wonder I’m paranoid after two emergency flights in two months? If you’d listened to my advice earlier and got a second opinion—”

“Yes, dear.”

Reluctantly, he laughed. “Stay with me another week.” He owned the adjacent headland, sixteen acres of protected native bush shielding a clifftop residence.

“I’ve only just moved home. Besides, you cramp my style.”

“Stop you doing what you’re not supposed to, you mean,” he retorted.

“Dev, you’re turning into the old woman I refuse to become. I’m sure I wasn’t as bossy as this when you were in recovery.”

“No,” he said drily, “you were worse.”

She ignored that, instructing him to pick some lemon balm for herbal tea on their meander back to the house. “How was your first day at school?”

“The other kids talk funny.” Ignoring the kettle, he turned on the espresso machine he’d installed.

“Make any friends?”

He gave her the Devin Freedman glower, the one that Holy Roller magazine had described as the definitive bad rocker look. Being his mother she simply waited. “No, but then I don’t expect to.”

“You know I’m on the mend now, darling, so if you want to go back to L.A.—”

“I don’t,” he lied. “Got anything to eat?”

“There’s a batch of scones cooling on the counter.”

He burned his fingers snatching a couple, but feeding him distracted his mother from the subject of his future.

Five years earlier, when he’d quit rehab for the second time, she had told him she wouldn’t spend her life watching him self-destruct, and had moved back to her native New Zealand. It had been a last-ditch effort to snap him into reality. Devin had felt nothing but relief, then added insult to injury by minimizing contact. It hadn’t stopped Katherine from being the first person at his hospital bed.

Now she needed him to take care of her. Whatever she said.

His older brother, still living stateside, couldn’t be relied on. A keen sense of the ridiculous had kept Devin’s ego in check over the last crazy seventeen years, but the planet wasn’t big enough for Zander’s, who still blamed Devin for the breakup of the band.

The truth was Devin had held Rage together for a lot more years than its flamboyant lead singer deserved.

So if it turned out Zander had been screwing him over … well, Devin didn’t think he could put even his mother’s peace of mind before his need for justice.

CHAPTER THREE

“HE LOOKS LIKE HE NEEDS a friend,” Rachel said to Trixie two days later. She’d noticed the teenager yesterday during library orientation. Now, as then, he walked around with his shoulders slightly hunched, blond fringe falling over his eyes and a scowl on his young face that did nothing to hide his apprehension. She remembered what it was to be young, alone and terrified. “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

“Oh, hell, you’re not starting a new collection of waifs and strays already, are you?” Trixie complained as she sorted a pile of books for reshelving. “We’re not even a week into the first term.”

Rachel stood up from her computer. “You were a waif and stray once, remember?” Trixie had been a scholarship kid who’d practically lived at the library in winter because she couldn’t afford to heat her flat. Rachel had given her a part-time job, which turned full-time when she’d graduated last year.

“Which is why I’m protecting you now,” Trixie reasoned. “You’re useless at setting boundaries.”

“Tell me about it. I keep getting bossed around by my junior.”

The boy reached for a book on one of the shelves and the backpack slipped off his scrawny shoulder, spilling books and pens. A red apple rolled across the carpet. Rachel started forward.

Trixie caught her by the arm. “Leave some time for yourself this year. Especially now that you’re single again.”

Rachel freed herself, but the teenager had already fastened his backpack and was slouching out the door. She turned to Trixie. “Don’t do that again,” she said quietly.

Under her pale makeup, Trixie reddened. “I was only trying to look out for you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a babysitter.” She needed that reminder occasionally.

Ducking her head, her assistant nodded. Was there anything more pathetic than a sheepish Goth?

“You’re a good friend,” she added, “but, kid, I’m bruised not broken.” Trixie had no idea what Rachel could survive. “Anyway, Paul rang and apologized this morning.”

Trixie’s head jerked up and her kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “I hope you told him where to stick it.”

“Mmm.” She’d been tempted, but being in the wrong was punishment enough for Paul. Rachel knew how that felt.

“And you reckon you don’t need looking after?” Disgusted, Trixie picked up a stack of books and headed for aisle three. “At least date guys who can handle their drink.” She pointed one black-painted nail. “Someone like him.”

Beyond Trixie’s finger, Rachel saw Devin Freedman scanning titles in the business section. Instinctively, she sucked in her lips to minimize their natural pout at the very moment he chose to glance over. Amusement warmed his eyes and she froze.

Instead of politely looking away, he folded his arms and grinned, waiting to see what she’d do. Mortified, she turned her back on him and blew out a puff of irritation. Dreadful man.

When she’d recovered her composure, she turned back to find him standing right in front of the counter. “Hi, Heartbreaker,” he said casually. “How’d it go with Romeo the other day?”

Rachel frowned. “It’s not a subject I want to discuss with you. And please don’t call me that.”

“You’re still pissed about the comment I made about your mouth,” he guessed. “I did mean it as a compliment.”

She snorted. “That I have a mouth like a hooker? Still, it’s better than a sewer, I suppose.”

“Actually, I was thinking stripper,” he replied lazily. “But I love the outraged dignity. Put me in my place again.”

“I’m a librarian, not a proctologist,” she said sweetly, and he chuckled.

This guy had a thicker hide than an armadillo, and momentarily, Rachel envied him. She might have accepted Paul’s apology, but it would take a long time to forget being called cold and unfeeling. She had too many feelings; that’s why she protected herself. Maybe she should be grateful for any compliment, however insulting. At least Devin meant no harm.

“Look.” She adopted a conciliatory tone because one of them had to be a grown-up. “I was annoyed the other day by your comment, but I shouldn’t have shut the door on you. That must have been hurtful and I’m sorry.”

“You think you hurt …” This time he laughed out loud. “You’re really quite sweet under that Miss Marple exterior, aren’t you?”

She realized he was referring to today’s vintage outfit—a high-waisted black skirt paired with a white ruffle-front blouse, herring net tights and pewter ribbon-tie patent shoes. The man had just delivered another backhanded compliment.

Almost, almost she was amused. But Rachel’s ego was still too battered. She eyed his designer stubble and rumpled roan hair. Today the boots were black and the faded jeans set off by a black leather belt, complete with a big, ornate silver buckle, that sat low on his narrow hips. “At least I don’t look like a cowboy after a week on the trail. Even Trigger made more effort.”

His eyes narrowed appreciatively. But before he could answer, a shocked male voice said, “Rachel!” Looking left, she saw several of the university’s top staff. The vice chancellor flanked by her two deputies … one of whom was Rachel’s boss. “Why are you insulting Mr. Freedman?”

In that split second she comprehended that if the vice chancellor was in attendance, Devin was donating money—lots of it. “He’s.” she began, then stopped. Arrogant and cheeky, that’s why, didn’t seem like a good enough reason.

Devin decided to help her out. “Oh, Rach and I are old friends.” He could read every emotion that crossed her expressive face. The smart retort she had to bite back, the irritation at being beholden to him, a begrudging gratitude. “That’s why I suggested meeting in the library.” He twinkled at her. “She creates such a congenial atmosphere.”

She twinkled back. “So exactly how much cash are you giving us, mate?” Oh, she was sharp, this one. Still, Devin’s appreciation was tinged with annoyance. He liked to keep his philanthropy private.

The vice chancellor looked surprised. “I thought we were all keeping this a dark secret?”

Devin’s gaze pinned Rachel. “We are.”

Her chin rose. “Now that’s not a tone to take with an old friend.”

He’d never been great with authority and it amused him that she wasn’t, either—unless it was hers. On an impulse Devin leaned over and planted a light kiss on her compressed lips. “Well, see you later … old friend.”

He could almost feel the daggers thudding into his back as he steered the vice chancellor and his deputies toward the cluster of red leather armchairs out of view.

He’d discovered this space two days ago before Paul had disturbed the peace. Each corner of the library was glassed-in with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, towering silver birches swayed in Auckland’s constant wind, their leaves dappling light and shade across the utilitarian carpet. Sparrows peppered the branches and their noisy chirruping gave Devin an illusion of companionship.

He wanted solitude, yet when he got it, his thoughts became bleak. Too often lately he’d found himself in his mother’s cottage, which only made her worry about him. And that was intolerable.

The vice chancellor introduced himself as Professor Joseph Stannaway. Like his companions, he wore a suit, his short gray hair neatly marshaled to one side, and his strong face unlined … probably because he wore an expression of permanent solemnity. “As I said to your representative,” he began as they took seats, “we wanted to thank you personally for your generous donation.”

“Really, there’s no need—”

“And to try again,” the chancellor interrupted with a smile, “to persuade you into an official ceremony. It would garner a lot of media attention, which could only be good for the university’s profile. Perhaps the bank could produce one of those large checks … what do you say?”

Playfulness didn’t sit well on the man—he seemed too educated for it. It must be hard, Devin thought dispassionately, to devote your career to higher learning and then have to be grateful to someone who’d made a fortune writing lyrics like “Take me, baby, before I scream, you’re the booty in my American dream.”

“I’m sorry.” Devin deliberately shunned all publicity. Sticking his head up over the trenches for the paparazzi to take another shot at? Never again.

The delegation spent the next twenty minutes trying to change Devin’s mind with flattery, which only irritated him, chiefly because in the past it might have worked. Maybe that’s why he got so much enjoyment from Rachel’s barbed observations—they were novel. Of course, the kiss would really stir her up; a sensible man would regret it.

He grinned as Stannaway droned on. Not, unfortunately, one of Devin’s attributes.

RACHEL WAS REHEARSING her rebuke to Devin the next day when the boy she’d noticed came up to her station.

“What can I do for you?” Her smile must have had an edge because he eyed her warily as he shoved back his hair.

“I was wondering if you had any lists of all the university staff … you know, like everybody, not just the lecturers. And their ages.”

“Not here. You might be able to access some information through the registrar, but there’s possibly some privacy issues around their release.”

His face fell. “Oh.”

“What’s the name? Maybe I know the person and can save you the trouble.”

“Um, she’s an old friend of my parents. I was just hoping I’d … recognize something when I saw the list.”

Poor kid, he really was desperate for a friend if he was hunting down such tenuous connections. “Where are you from?” Rachel asked kindly. She was supposed to be leaving on her morning break but this was more important.

“A farm outside Cambridge.”

“Really? I grew up in Hamilton.” They were only twenty minutes apart. “Small world. First time living away from home?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“It’s hard initially, but you’ll find your feet soon. A lot of the first years are in the same boat, all scared—”

The teen glowered. “I’m not scared.”

Damn, wrong word. If Devin hadn’t rattled her, she wouldn’t have chosen it.

“I see you’ve got a book there … would you like me to check it out for you? It will save you joining the queue at the front desk.”

It was a peace offering for hurting his pride, and he took it. “Yeah, thanks.” He handed over the book along with his library card.

Which didn’t work. “They do this sometimes at the beginning of term,” she said. “Let me just check that all your details are filled in….” The screen came up. “Mark … nice name. Okay, one of the library’s ID codes is missing.”

Glancing at his address, she noticed he wasn’t living in residence, which was a shame; he’d make more friends that way. She nodded at the guitar case by his feet. “You know, the university has a lot of music clubs you might be interested in.”

“I’m not really a club-joining kind of guy.”

About to reply, Rachel caught sight of his birth date and her breath hitched. June 29, 1992.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Her fingers were suddenly clumsy on the keyboard as she reminded herself of the facts. On average, there were sixty-four thousand births a year in New Zealand. Which meant around one hundred and seventy-seven people—eighty-eight boys—shared her son’s birthday. But she had to ask. “So what do your parents do?”

Mark frowned. “You need that for the form?”

“No, it’s processing.”

“Mom’s a teacher.” Rachel’s pulse kicked up a notch. “And Dad’s a farmer.”

Not a policeman. As always, the disappointment was crushing enough to make Rachel feel sick. Her fingers were damp on the keyboard; she wiped them on her skirt, chiding herself for an overactive imagination. She gave the teenager his card.

“Here you go. All sorted now.”

Mark shoved it back in his jeans. “He used to be a cop,” he added, and the smile froze on her face.

Someone who knew how to keep her baby safe, she’d thought when short-listing the applicants with her social worker.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked.

“Fine.” Her heart was beating so hard he must be able to hear it. Rachel loosened the top button of her shirt, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. There was only one way to know.

“You have something in your hair,” she said abruptly, reaching out a trembling hand.

“Yeah?” He started flicking his fingers through the blond strands, “What is it?”

“A … an insect … let me.”

Obediently, he leaned forward, and she brushed the hair away from his right ear. “Turn your head a little.”

Just at the hairline behind his ear, she saw it. A birthmark the size of her thumbnail. Rachel gasped and he broke away, raking both hands through his hair. “What! Did you get it?”

She stared at him, unable to speak. Tall like his father, with his fairer hair. His eyes—shock jolted through her—were the same color as hers, but the shape was Steve’s. “It’s okay,” she croaked, pretending to flick something away. “It was a moth.”

“A moth.” Shaking his head, Mark picked up his guitar case. “Jeez, the way you were going on I thought it had to be a paper wasp at least.”

No, don’t leave. “You’ve heard of bookworms, haven’t you? Lethal to libraries.” Rachel memorized his features. “The term also applies to certain moth larvae. From the family oecophoridae.” Outwardly she smiled and talked; inwardly she splintered into tiny little pieces. “Of the order … now what was it?” My son, my baby. You grew up. “Starts with L.”

Mark shifted from one foot to the other.

“Lepidoptera,” she said brightly. “Of the order Lepidoptera.” The tiny bundle treasured in her memory, gone forever. But her son—her grown son—was here, and the reality of him shredded her with love and pain and need.

“Wow,” he said politely, stepping back from the counter. “That’s really interesting.”

“Wait!”

“Yeah?” He was impatient to get away from the crazy woman, and how could she blame him? With all her heart she wanted to say, I’m your mother.

But she couldn’t.

Two years earlier, she’d written a letter to the adoptive parents through the agency. If he ever wants to meet his birth mother, please give him my details.

Their reply was devastating. In keeping with your wishes at the time, we’ve never told our son he was adopted. We ‘re very sorry at the pain this must cause you, but you must understand to do so now would be detrimental to our own relationship with him.