Girl In The Spotlight

Unless she’d moved, Lark likely wasn’t far away. He knew a few of the basics. He and Lark had both eventually come home from college and settled in northeast Wisconsin. They’d each married and started their own families. He didn’t know the state of her marriage. Maybe she’d had better luck with love than he had. Miles knew she’d married because he’d run into her once about five years back, an awkward encounter consisting of three minutes of superficial small talk. She’d been coming out of a mall in Green Bay as he was heading into it. She’d introduced the boy with her as her son. Miles remembered little about him, other than noting he was older than his Brooke and had inherited Lark’s light brown hair. Miles had greeted the boy, who returned a shy smile. He’d then explained he was on the hunt for a present for Brooke’s third birthday.

Her eyes had darkened, but just for a second. “How nice,” she said, pleasantly. “I’m happy for you.”

Miles had almost blurted that he was divorced, but he’d stopped himself in time. Lark wouldn’t have taken the slightest interest in his marriage, a sad tale of a mismatch that had revealed itself all too quickly and hadn’t changed with Brooke’s arrival.

He and Lark had limited their conversation to an exchange of basics, including the fact that she lived with her husband in Two Moon Bay, a lakeside town not too far from his town house in Green Bay. He in turn said he had a condo out near the airport and the botanical garden. When they’d run out of trivial details to exchange, their conversation had come to an excruciating halt. They’d both laughed nervously, wished each other well and gone on about their business.

Miles winced as he remembered that encounter. He wandered into the kitchen, where his laptop sat open on the table. He typed Lark McGee into the search box. It was the only name he had for her. If she’d changed it when she married, he’d have to find some other way to reach her.

He breathed deeply to calm the shaky waves of emotion that had been crashing over him from the instant he’d seen a close-up of Perrie Lynn. Her coloring and nearly black hair. His skin, his hair. Not particularly unique, he reminded himself. But the wide smile, the widow’s peak? Lark’s distinctive features.

Okay, he’d concede the chances were good the skater’s physical resemblance and the fact of her adoption were coincidences. But on national TV he’d heard three commentators wish Perrie Lynn a happy birthday. Her eighteenth birthday.

For the first time in his memory, he was glad Brooke wasn’t with him on Sunday night. He usually hated to see her leave even one minute early. He especially enjoyed a companionable ride to her school on Monday morning. That was true, even if Brooke’s accusations that he wasn’t paying attention to some of her meandering conversations were justified. He had to watch it. His little girl was getting old enough to notice that in these days of texting and emails, he was at least half-distracted more often than he cared to admit.

His search yielded pages of citations for Lark, including her website as the first item. She used her own name, professionally, anyway. He clicked on the link and a second later, there she was. He grinned at the small photo on her home page. He’d always thought of her as pretty in a distinctive way, defined by the prominent widow’s peak at the top of a heart-shaped face. Her smile appealed, too, maybe because it looked like the prelude to a hearty laugh. Lark’s hair hadn’t changed and, of course, neither had her clear blue eyes.

Miles drew in a breath. Wow. If Perrie Lynn really was their daughter, the mix of their features had made her an unusual beauty, like Lark.

The website filled in a few impressive facts about what Lark had done with her life. Like him, she worked for herself. He hadn’t known Lark for very long, but she’d talked of becoming a writer, and she’d accomplished that goal. She was a health and parenting journalist, and an impressive list of her latest published articles appeared on the right side of the screen.

The short bio told him she still lived in Two Moon Bay. He knew that town, if only because it was usually noted as one of northeast Wisconsin’s most charming among the collection of quaint small towns on Lake Michigan. It was about an hour away from where he lived on the far west side of Green Bay. But that was enough distance to explain why he and Lark hadn’t crossed paths more than once in all these years. Since Brooke spent so much time with Andi’s family at their cottage on a small lake up in northern Wisconsin, Miles rarely took his daughter to the Lake Michigan shore.

Miles clicked on the “About” page, quickly scanning the longer bio that reinforced his first impression that Lark had done herself proud. She’d even coauthored three books with doctors. He’d fulfilled his dream when he’d found his niche as a consultant and speaker specializing in collaboration and team building, and now he took satisfaction in knowing Lark had also made her dream come true. She deserved her success. He was certain of that.

He mulled over his options. He could forget the whole thing and simply write off the afternoon as a string of coincidences. He scoffed out loud. Out of the question. Not when he couldn’t get his mind off the dazzling girl who had turned eighteen that very day. Was there any possibility Lark would have forgotten their daughter’s birthday? Somehow, he didn’t think so.

He scanned the bio again. It said nothing about a husband, but he’d need to tread carefully. She could be married and have chosen not to put that detail in her bio. He noted she’d written many articles about kids’ health issues and tied them to parenting, so mentioning a son in her bio made sense.

Deciding to keep it simple, Miles used the email address on the website and typed in his cell number and a message: Need to talk, please call tonight.

CHAPTER TWO

LARK SIPPED HER decaf coffee, hoping the waiter would come by to top off her cup. Pretending to reach into her handbag that sat on the floor, she checked her wristwatch. Only 7:45 p.m. This dinner was crawling by. She’d give it another thirty minutes, and then she could politely make her exit.

Why had she said yes to this fix-up in the first place? To distract herself? She’d never forgotten the significance of the date, so what made her think this year would be different? But she’d behaved as if packing her schedule would allow the day to pass unnoticed. Lark had started the morning with brunch with half a dozen women friends from her book club, followed by Christmas shopping in a nearby town. That should have been sufficient to keep her distracted. Of course, it could have been fifty women wandering the streets of Paris and her mind still would have drifted into the past. But she’d known one thing for sure—this could well be the year she’d finally disclose what she’d kept hidden in her heart for so long.

Lark had always thought it curious that no one could look at her and detect the slightest clue about her secrets or regrets or her deepest hopes. In every external way she’d lived out the adoption cliché. She’d gone on with her life. But every year, as November faded into the flurry of December and the holidays, the memory of the tiny newborn baby she’d held in her arms, oh, so briefly, rippled beneath the rhythm of each day, strengthening and intensifying as the date came closer. The rest of the year, Lark managed to tuck that period of her life away. Instead of dominating her days, it was more like a low hum in the background, not intrusive or disruptive, but never completely vanishing, either.

“Lark is a big movie fan,” Dawn said, casting a pointed look her way.

Hearing her name gave her a jolt and forced her to refocus. She shifted in her chair and said, “I sure am.”

“But I bet you and Dawn only like chick flicks.” Bruce, Lark’s blind date, mocked a reproachful tone.

“I plead guilty.” Lark grinned. “Bring on a screen filled with women talking about life.”

The loudest groan came from Dawn’s boyfriend, Chip, whose youthful looks matched his nickname. Real name, Henry. Lark found it odd, even a little off-putting, that he’d never outgrown being called Chip.

“I guess that means you’ll pass on the latest zombie takeover movie,” Bruce teased.

“We’ll both take a pass, thank you,” Dawn said, rolling her eyes.

Lark could find nothing wrong with Bruce, an affable fortyish bachelor looking to settle down. At long last, Dawn claimed. Too bad he wasn’t romantically appealing—to Lark, anyway.

Guilt alone forced her back into the conversation. Filled with optimism about introducing Lark to Bruce, Dawn had done everything a best friend could to make this evening a success.

Lark sent Dawn a reassuring smile. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that on this particular evening she couldn’t quiet her inner turmoil and be 100 percent present at the table. She vowed to be pleasant, even enthusiastic, until she could duck out. Thankfully, she had her own car, so there’d be no awkward moments at the door to contend with.

“How long have you two been friends?” Bruce asked, pointing back and forth between Dawn and Lark.

“Not all that long, really,” Dawn responded. “Three years or so. We bonded over the snack committee for our sons’ basketball team.”

“Dawn and I noted that it was left to the mothers to figure out the snacks on game days.” Lark knew she sounded resentful, but so what? Way too many of these school sports rituals fell to the moms to handle, as if the dads couldn’t manage to pick up boxes of granola bars on their way to the games.

Dawn playfully bumped her shoulder against Chip’s. “We actually solidified our friendship over the plan we hatched to get the kids’ dads more involved.”

“Did it work?” Bruce asked.

“Not really,” Lark said, chuckling, “but we planted a seed, or so we like to think.”

This small talk was getting old. As close as Lark was to Dawn, she’d never for one minute considered confiding details about certain parts of her past. Lark could talk freely and without embarrassment about her ill-fated marriage and, paradoxically, her confidence-building divorce. She had no trouble bragging about her son, or grousing about her sometimes troublesome parents, but she’d become completely resigned to silence about one of the most significant—and wrenching—events of her life.

Lark was content to listen as Dawn switched topics. “Lark and I have our best times during our weekly coffee dates, where we brainstorm about our businesses. We’ve both worked for ourselves for years, but it can be isolating, too, especially for Lark. She spends so much time hunched over her laptop.”

“Ah, yes,” Lark said, putting the back of her hand on her forehead, “the loneliness of the writer in her garret. Seriously, though, I do have my nose buried in research much of the time. My regular trips to the Bean Grinder with Dawn provide the best breaks.”

“It sounds interesting, what you do,” Chip said. “Were you a science major in school?”

“No. Typical English major, specifically creative writing and literature. Not the most practical degree, but rewarding in other ways.”

“Seems so,” Bruce said, smiling in a genuinely admiring way.

By the time they’d finished their coffee, Lark’s spirits had lifted. They’d passed a pleasant hour chatting about Dawn’s latest PR client, a new fitness center and Lark’s recent series of articles about learning disabilities for a parenting magazine. Chip and Bruce contributed stories about office politics in the accounting department of the energy consortium they worked for.

The stilted conversation that defined the atmosphere over dinner had subtly given way to an amicable camaraderie as they topped off the evening with blueberry pie and coffee. By the time they said good-night in front of the restaurant, Lark was sincere in telling Bruce she’d enjoy seeing him again. Perhaps for dinner one night soon.

And for almost one whole hour, she’d pushed the memories into the storage box in her mind. She arrived home and let herself into her house, grateful that Evan was with his dad for the weekend. After shedding her coat and boots, she filled the kettle to make herb tea. Then she sat at her table to check her phone, starting with the texts. Nothing urgent. Mom seeing if they could meet for lunch at the Half Moon Café soon, maybe on her day off from the gift shop in town, where she’d recently been promoted to assistant manager. Lark mentally pictured her day planner. She could probably manage time for lunch with her mother. She hadn’t seen her in quite a while.

A text from Dawn. A thumbs-up on their dinner with Chip and Bruce. Lark grinned. It had taken her friend less than half an hour to send a message about their double date.

She thumbed quickly through unimportant emails, mostly from journals and health newsletters. The kettle began its boiling-point hum at the instant the familiar name popped up on her screen. She quickly turned off the burner to stop the rising volume. A strong buzz traveled through her chest and down her arms to the tips of her fingers. Miles Jenkins. Not letting go of her phone, she used her other hand to go through the motion of pouring water over a bag of ginger tea. She let it sit on the counter to steep and went back to the table and stared at her phone.

Miles had never tried to contact her before. Why now? On this day. Could it be he wanted to talk to her for no other reason than to acknowledge this landmark eighteenth birthday? This was the day their daughter would leave childhood behind. Legally, anyway.

Years ago, Lark had been clear about not wanting to be in touch with Miles. But that was way in the past. Now he’d left his phone number. Same area code as hers, so he wasn’t far away, and he wanted to talk that very night.

Jittery nerves expanded inside her. Before she could take the next deep breath she sat at the table and held her head in her hands, conscious of the rapid beating of her heart as panic moved up from her solar plexus and filled her chest. This birthday meant so much to her, but Miles hadn’t figured into her thoughts. Not at all. He’d played no part in the hopes she harbored over what could—would—happen in the years to come, now that their little girl had turned eighteen. She’d seen Miles only once since their final meeting after giving up their baby, and their stilted conversation was painful to recall.

Odd, though, as much as she’d tried to suppress them, her memories of Miles weren’t all bad. When her thoughts drifted back to that cold December day in a hospital in Minnesota, Miles’s soft dark eyes appeared in her mind. In reality, he’d been her only comfort. But she’d been so wrapped up in herself, she hadn’t given much thought to his emotions. Whatever he’d been feeling he kept to himself and, instead, concentrated on her.

She and Miles had shared an important—and irreversible—decision. They’d given up their baby. Since neither had told anyone about her pregnancy, they’d acted entirely in secret. She didn’t know whom he’d confided in over the subsequent years, but she’d never spoken one word about the infant who’d come into the world already sporting thick dark hair and perfect hands. She’d counted the fingers and toes, a distraction, she later realized, from the moment she’d allowed the nurse to carry her baby away.

Her arms empty, Lark had gone limp, dead weight falling back against Miles. He’d half carried her to a chair, holding her until she’d pulled away.

His support in the moment aside, Lark also cynically assumed what Miles felt was relief—deep, profound relief. He’d been free and unencumbered as he headed back to Stevens Point to finish his senior year at the University of Wisconsin. Determined to keep her secret from the start, Lark had already transferred to a small private college in Minnesota early that fall. She’d known no one when she arrived and deliberately had made few connections.

She’d never blamed Miles for what happened, not for a minute. He had offered to help her with the baby if she decided to keep her. Sure, he’d said the right words, but Lark knew that’s all they were. No emotion, no conviction, propped them up and gave them a spine. He’d made gestures, but hadn’t tried to persuade her to make a different choice.

“Why don’t you go home, Lark?” he’d asked many times, genuinely confused about her refusal to confide in her mother.

“Impossible,” she’d insisted. “My parents will be fighting each other in court for months to come.” On the day she was with Miles in that hospital room in Minnesota, her parents were in Wisconsin locked in a struggle over custody of her younger brother, who was constantly acting out. Her dad had wanted to ship off Dennis to military school, but her mother refused, so the fight went on and on. Simply making it through Christmas at home would be a miracle.

She and Miles had covered that ground before. Lark preferred to keep this chapter of her life completely private, even from her mother. She would put it behind her.

When the hospital released Lark, she and Miles had gone to the shoe box of a studio apartment she’d rented near the campus. She’d spent the previous months studying, working in the library and pretty much keeping to herself as she slogged through the days.

Still weak, she’d settled into bed and watched Miles heat tomato soup on her two-burner stove and crush crackers on top.

“This is the champion of comfort food,” she’d said, feeling her mouth turning up in a smile for the first time since they’d left the hospital.

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. But he hadn’t met her eyes and his mouth was set in a grim slash.

“You should go back to school right away,” she said. “I’ve got to study for my last two finals, anyway.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re really going to take finals.”

“You are, aren’t you?” she shot back, her voice sharp.

“I didn’t just go through what you... I didn’t have a baby. And I’m not driving back to Stevens Point today, or tomorrow. I’m staying here.” He pointed with his chin to the tiny stove. “I’m going to keep heating up soup and when you’re ready I’ll go out for pizza or Chinese food.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t nag me about resting.” She felt surprisingly okay, physically, anyway. She’d been terrified of childbirth, but bringing their baby into the world hadn’t been all that grueling. Lark had prepared herself to face much worse. Even one of the nurses said she’d sailed through it. If she had anything to be grateful for, and at that time it was difficult to count her blessings, she’d been thankful for her strong body.

Over the next day and a half, Miles had kept his word and had seen to it that she ate regularly. He’d made a couple of trips down the street to the Hot Wok, the second time bringing enough egg-drop soup, vegetable shrimp and chicken-fried rice to last through her finals.

Most of the time they avoided talking about what they’d done. When he tried to express regret, she waved him off. They’d been careful, responsible. But they’d realized too late that nothing was completely safe.

“I’m sorry,” she’d finally said, hoping to end the conversation once and for all, “because we never should have let things go that far between us. It’s not like we were in love or anything.” She’d exhaled with a soft groan. “It was all supposed to be casual...you know, fun and games.”

Now, so many years later, Lark ran that conversation through her head. It had ended when she’d convinced him to head back to his apartment in Stevens Point. Then she’d carried out her plans to the letter. She took her finals and passed her classes, and dutifully went home for Christmas, where no one had any inkling that she’d had a baby a couple of weeks earlier. On New Year’s Day, she’d boarded a plane in Green Bay for the first leg of her trip to Dublin, where she’d spent her next semester.

Sitting at her kitchen table on a cold, clear night eighteen years later, she concluded that Miles must be going through some kind of flashback and for some reason wanted to acknowledge the years that had passed. But she wasn’t ready to talk to him. Monday was soon enough to return the call. She rubbed her forehead. She was accustomed to these solo trips into the past and unsure if she could handle a companion walking the same path.

She turned off her kitchen light and carried her mug of tea into the living room, where she stared out the window at the expanse of Lake Michigan visible from her picture window. The sliver of a moon vaguely illuminated the whitecaps dancing erratically across the water’s surface in the strong wind. The scene mirrored her unsettled mood. She couldn’t shake off Miles’s call. Maybe something important had happened. What if he had information about their child? Or, what if he wanted to find their daughter? She let her mind drift to another place. Impossible as it seemed, could their daughter have found him?

She’d never sleep until she talked to him. She went back to the kitchen to retrieve her phone.

* * *

HE WAS GETTING way ahead of himself. Like an observer of his own thoughts, Miles had watched his mind take so many twists and turns he hardly knew how to go back to the starting point. He stared at his phone, desperate to hear it ring. All evening the house had seemed painfully empty. Pushing away from the table—with his phone in his pocket—he wandered to the doorway of Brooke’s room and studied the shelves overflowing with stuffed animals. She had yet to outgrow the desire for them—a dopey-looking whale, a couple of grinning giraffes, a kangaroo with a baby in her pouch and a white horse with a red-and-white-striped ribbon braided in her tail. His little girl had named the horse Magic, the same name Brooke reserved for the real one she longed for.

Brooke’s collection of knickknacks, mostly ceramic and wooden horses, lived in her room at her mother’s house, which she called home. She talked about going to Daddy’s house, as if visiting, but then said she was going home when it was time to leave. That stung a little. But he consoled himself with the knowledge of how lucky he was to be deeply involved in Brooke’s life.

What was Perrie Lynn’s room filled with? Medals? Were those sparkly skating costumes hanging in her closet? What had she been like ten years ago when she was Brooke’s age?

Slow down. You can’t be sure Perrie Lynn is that baby, your little girl. Young woman, really. Odd that the possibility the young skater wasn’t his child sat heavy with him now. Before he’d seen Perrie Lynn earlier that afternoon, thoughts of the child he’d given up had receded more and more over the years as being a good dad to Brooke became priority number one. It was as if he’d put the past behind him once and for all. Now, another voice in his head nagged that he’d betrayed this first child, a stranger.

His phone chimed. Finally. The screen ID confirmed it was Lark.

“Hello,” he said, “thanks for getting back to me.”

“What is it, Miles? Is something wrong?”

Detecting an edge of apprehension in her voice, he said, “Oh, Lark, it’s nothing bad. No need to worry.” He put his hand on his chest, hoping to slow the pounding of his heart. “It’s just that I believe it’s possible, not a certainty, but possible, our—our child, our daughter...is a figure skater. Sort of a rising star.”

A sharp intake of air. Then silence.

“Lark?”

“I’m—I’m here, Miles.” A loud exhale followed. “I don’t know what to say—or what to ask first.”

As he walked away from Brooke’s room and back to the living room, he heard her gulp, or choke, he wasn’t sure which.

“Are you okay? I can tell you—”

“Yes, yes, tell me how—” her voice quavered “—how this came about. Your speculation.”

He cleared his throat. “Again, nothing is certain. But something happened earlier today. Brooke, my eight-year-old, is a skating fan.”

From there, the words flowed more easily. He described the afternoon and the shock he’d experienced when he saw the skater up close and was struck by the shape of her face. “She has dark hair and skin like mine, common enough, but her smile, and especially the shape of her face, are all you. Or could be.”