Leaving Lancaster by Kate Lloyd Page A

probably right. And once I land another job, I won’t have time to walk and care for one.” I surveyed the sweeping lawn enclosed by a split-rail fence. “But if I lived out here, with a huge yard—”
    The front door opened and a tallish woman about Mom’s age strolled out wearing a midcalf-length skirt, a small-patterned flowered blouse, and a cardigan. Her blonde hair was parted on one side and held back with a clip. She descended from the porch. The dog romped over to her and pranced at her feet.
    â€œGood evening, I’m Beth.” She gave Mom a one-armed hug, and helped her haul her suitcase from the rental car’s trunk. “I’m so glad to see you, Esther. After all this time. And you must be Holly. Your rooms are ready and waiting.”
    â€œThanks for taking us in.” I scanned a fenced-in vegetable garden—most already harvested—and a small barn out behind the garage. Turning back to Beth, my gaze settled on the rose bushes growing below the front porch; many had shed their petals, leaving tomato-colored rose hips.
    â€œBeth, are you the gardener?” I hoped to get a conversation rolling on a topic all three of us might enjoy.
    â€œI am, but my roses are past their prime in spite of our warm autumn. The nights grew chilly a couple weeks ago.”
    I expected Mom to comment about the weather or the flowers, but her lips were smooshed together, her gaze avoiding Beth.
    â€œDon’t feel shy.” Beth spoke to Mom, who looked as bedraggled as I’d ever seen her. “Please, come inside.”
    Though tired to the bone, I held my ground. “First, can you show me where Grandma Anna’s farm is from here?”
    Beth pointed at a dimly lit home about a half mile away. “Down yonder.” Her face broke in to a grin. “Want to go over there right now?”
    Mom and I said, “No,” in unison. I chuckled, not sure if my response was out of fatigue or trepidation.
    But Beth’s words gave me fortitude: If Grandma Anna actually existed, my father may have too. Mom might have told the truth. I’d lived with a deep-seated fear I’d been born out of wedlock, a love child sired by a druggie living in a San Francisco commune.
    Growing up, even my best friend Joanne had no clue about my family’s true origin. In middle school, I’d fabricated tales about my father, born in Normandy, bragging he was a racecar driver who died in a NASCAR pileup. That scenario got the boys’ attention. I never revealed Dad probably hadn’t learned to drive a car. Or maybe he had in the army—maybe he was forced to operate a tank or a jeep. How could I find out? Were any of his army buddies still alive? No way to locate them now.
    Back in the 1970s, soldiers drafted into Vietnam were given bad media coverage. As far as I could tell, everyone denounced that war and its final outcome. We lost, deserting our allies. My dad died for nothing. Not until the Vietnam Memorial Wall was erected in Washington, DC, did the public begin to change its opinion.
    Another thought unfolded its wings: Was Dad’s name engraved on the monument’s marble surface? I wondered if his parents knew. But I shouldn’t let myself contemplate meeting them. According to Mom, they wanted nothing to do with her. In fact, Dad’s parents could have died or moved away years ago.
    One piece of the puzzle at a time, I told myself.
    The dog flounced over to me and licked my fingertips. I scratched it under the chin. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”
    â€œHer name’s Missy,” Beth said. “She’s expecting her first litter in a month.”
    â€œWhat fun.” I noticed Missy’s wide girth. I remembered the joy of carrying my eight-week-old Maxwell the first day we brought him home. “I bet they’ll be darling.” The only fragrance sweeter than a puppy was the back of a baby’s