She took several more bites of cake and drank coffee as she went through the papers. There were her parents’ marriage certificate, unused passports, the deed to this house, and finally her birth certificate.
She inspected her birth certificate. It was not her original from New Jersey but one issued by the Commonwealth of Virginia that listed her adopted parents’ names. It was an amended birth certificate—a.k.a. an ABC to those in adoption circles. It did not tell her full story but was the official document that had gotten her registered for school and allowed her to apply for a driver’s license and passport. It was her official identity, but it really was not totally her.
She smoothed her fingertips over the official watermark and the state seal embossed on the ivory paper trimmed with a blue border design. She replaced the papers in the file folder, closed it, and shifted her attention to the second folder.
She centered it in front of her, held her breath, and opened it. Inside was a letter in an envelope. It was not postmarked, but inscribed in neat handwriting was My Dear Girl. Carefully, she opened the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper.
My Dear Girl,
You are but hours old, but already you’re proving to have a strong set of lungs and a bit of a temper. I like that about you. Better to come into this world knowing what you want than spend decades pretending that another’s dream is your own. As I stare at you in the nursery, I can already see that you will rise above the others of your generation and achieve great things. You’re a little marvel, and I still can’t believe you are a part of me.
In the years to come, you will learn that your mother could not keep you. Like you, she was not really grown up. She can barely take care of herself, and though I know she loves you, she doesn’t yet have the thoughtfulness a good mother lavishes on her child.
Like you, I believe she is destined to do great things. It is my prayer that you both will realize your dreams and that one day you will meet again and compare your wonderful lives.
I want you to know, neither she nor I made this decision lightly. Giving you away has broken my heart, and I will never forget you. Ever.
Always know, my perfect little angel, that your mother and I love you a great deal.
Yours always,
Olivia
Libby sat back, her head spinning. She did not know whether to faint or throw up. Tension rippled through her body until finally she reminded herself to breathe.
Olivia. As in Olivia Carter?
She was Elaine’s grandmother. Hers was the greenhouse that Elaine was restoring.
Jesus.
If Olivia had written this to her . . .
I still can’t believe you are a part of me.
From what Libby had pieced together about Olivia, she knew Olivia had had only one child. A boy. And that boy had had one daughter. Elaine.
Libby’s father would not have saved Olivia’s letter unless it was vitally important. He had created a sole file for the letter because he was worried it might get lost in the shuffle of the other documents.
Absently, Libby held the letter to her nose, inhaling the very faint perfumed scent of Olivia Carter. The woman had been dead twenty years, but if she closed her eyes, she could feel her presence in the room.
Her father had not had the guts to give her this when he was alive. He needed death to stand between them before he could reveal the truth.
Elaine was her birth mother.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SADIE
Friday, March 6, 1942
Bluestone, Virginia
“Sadie, you’re damn lucky,” the sheriff said as he sat at her kitchen table. Sadie’s mother sat beside her with her hands folded in a white ball. “Mrs. Carter has refused to press charges or lay any liability or property claim against you. She refuses to blame you for the accident.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Sadie said. But she stopped short of saying that Miss Olivia had been driving or that she had been teaching her how to drive for months.
“Of course, Dr. Carter doesn’t want you to return to Woodmont or to drive his wife ever again,” the sheriff said with a slight smile. “And if he sees you on his land, he’ll swear out a warrant for your arrest.”
“It was no one’s fault. The road was slick,” Sadie argued.