Bea, in the pale yellow sundress and flip-flops, an outfit Bea might have chosen herself. She watched the woman check her phone, then look around the expanse of pier, as though she waswaiting for someone. Bea’s biological father, maybe. For all Bea knew, her birth parents had gotten married. Had always been married. Had other children, older or younger. Maybe both. Bea could have a sister. Twin brothers.
Bea sat down on a bench outside a weathered restaurant with a giant sign proclaiming THE BEST LOBSTER ROLLS IN BOOTHBAY . She had to stop this or she’d drive herself crazy. She’d spent three weeks wondering, speculating. How could she even begin to guess what her birth mother’s circumstances were?
Veronica Russo could be the tall blonde jogging with a yellow lab beside her. Or perhaps Bea had inherited the blond from her biological father, and Veronica was the redhead who’d just walked away from the seafood shack’s takeout window, biting into her lobster roll while gazing at a whale that had just made an appearance in the bay. I have to know something about you, Veronica Russo, she thought. About my birth father. About my birth grandparents. I have to know who I was before the Cranes adopted me.
Bea opened her backpack and pulled out her little red notebook. “Veronica Russo. Home: 225 Sea Road. Tel: 207 555-3235. Work: The Best Little Diner in Boothbay, 45 Main Street.” According to the map, all she had to do was walk a bit up to Main and turn right.
Just go to the diner, she told herself. Just go check her out.
Bea couldn’t pick her out right away. There were three waitresses, two the right age to be Veronica, and one no older than Bea. The one Bea’s age was working the counter, so Bea tookthe empty seat that wrapped around the side by the door, giving her a view of the entire diner. The place was crowded; only one table was empty, and almost all the counter seats were filled.
She liked the diner. It was old-fashioned greasy spoon meets coastal Maine, with pale blue walls displaying the pricey work of local artists, and overstuffed chairs and love seats along with the more typical tables. The ceiling was covered in a lobster net with a giant wooden lobster caught inside. Near the counter where Bea sat was a bookshelf filled with books and a sign: READ ME .
Bea glanced at the two other waitresses and looked for name tags, but she wasn’t that lucky. One was heading to a table with four plates balanced in her hands, and she was tall like Bea, but she didn’t have Bea’s blond hair; none of the waitresses did.
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to even give you a menu,” the young waitress said to Bea. She wore a gold nameplate necklace. Katie. “We’re crazed right now, so I’m helping on the floor too.”
“No problem.” Bea ordered an iced coffee and the decadent-looking pie next to the carrot cake.
“Oh, that’s fudge Happiness Pie and intensely good. One of our waitresses is a legend in this town for her pies.” She headed to the coffee station, glancing around until her gaze landed on a woman coming out of a back room. “Oh, there you are, Veronica. I’m about to sell the last of your amazing fudge pie.”
Bea froze.
Her birth mother. Standing not seven, eight feet away. Had Katie not gone to get Bea her coffee and pie, Veronica’s attention would still be on the area where Bea sat, and Veronica might have noticed Bea sitting there, white as her paper napkin and trembling. She closed her eyes and turned her head to look out the large picture window, telling herself to breathe.
My birth mother, she thought, turning to take another look. Veronica gave Katie a pleased smile, then went to the coffee station and filled a large takeout cup. She was no older than late thirties and tall, like Bea. Busty, unlike Bea. Her auburn hair cascaded just past her shoulders in soft waves. And her eyes were just like Bea’s: driftwood brown and round. But Veronica Russo was beautiful in a lush,
Bea sat down on a bench outside a weathered restaurant with a giant sign proclaiming THE BEST LOBSTER ROLLS IN BOOTHBAY . She had to stop this or she’d drive herself crazy. She’d spent three weeks wondering, speculating. How could she even begin to guess what her birth mother’s circumstances were?
Veronica Russo could be the tall blonde jogging with a yellow lab beside her. Or perhaps Bea had inherited the blond from her biological father, and Veronica was the redhead who’d just walked away from the seafood shack’s takeout window, biting into her lobster roll while gazing at a whale that had just made an appearance in the bay. I have to know something about you, Veronica Russo, she thought. About my birth father. About my birth grandparents. I have to know who I was before the Cranes adopted me.
Bea opened her backpack and pulled out her little red notebook. “Veronica Russo. Home: 225 Sea Road. Tel: 207 555-3235. Work: The Best Little Diner in Boothbay, 45 Main Street.” According to the map, all she had to do was walk a bit up to Main and turn right.
Just go to the diner, she told herself. Just go check her out.
Bea couldn’t pick her out right away. There were three waitresses, two the right age to be Veronica, and one no older than Bea. The one Bea’s age was working the counter, so Bea tookthe empty seat that wrapped around the side by the door, giving her a view of the entire diner. The place was crowded; only one table was empty, and almost all the counter seats were filled.
She liked the diner. It was old-fashioned greasy spoon meets coastal Maine, with pale blue walls displaying the pricey work of local artists, and overstuffed chairs and love seats along with the more typical tables. The ceiling was covered in a lobster net with a giant wooden lobster caught inside. Near the counter where Bea sat was a bookshelf filled with books and a sign: READ ME .
Bea glanced at the two other waitresses and looked for name tags, but she wasn’t that lucky. One was heading to a table with four plates balanced in her hands, and she was tall like Bea, but she didn’t have Bea’s blond hair; none of the waitresses did.
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to even give you a menu,” the young waitress said to Bea. She wore a gold nameplate necklace. Katie. “We’re crazed right now, so I’m helping on the floor too.”
“No problem.” Bea ordered an iced coffee and the decadent-looking pie next to the carrot cake.
“Oh, that’s fudge Happiness Pie and intensely good. One of our waitresses is a legend in this town for her pies.” She headed to the coffee station, glancing around until her gaze landed on a woman coming out of a back room. “Oh, there you are, Veronica. I’m about to sell the last of your amazing fudge pie.”
Bea froze.
Her birth mother. Standing not seven, eight feet away. Had Katie not gone to get Bea her coffee and pie, Veronica’s attention would still be on the area where Bea sat, and Veronica might have noticed Bea sitting there, white as her paper napkin and trembling. She closed her eyes and turned her head to look out the large picture window, telling herself to breathe.
My birth mother, she thought, turning to take another look. Veronica gave Katie a pleased smile, then went to the coffee station and filled a large takeout cup. She was no older than late thirties and tall, like Bea. Busty, unlike Bea. Her auburn hair cascaded just past her shoulders in soft waves. And her eyes were just like Bea’s: driftwood brown and round. But Veronica Russo was beautiful in a lush,
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