Dr. Taylor’s apartment is only a few blocks away from Thompson’s Antiques at the end of a quiet side street that will be gloriously full of lush leaves and flowering trees in a few weeks. Angela knocks on the street-level door, and a minute later hears steps on the stairwell. The door opens, and Dr. Evelyn Taylor appears. She’s tall and wearing jeans and a black sweater over a striped collared shirt.
“You must be Angela,” she says, extending her hand.
Angela shifts the box of brownies and grasps the doctor’s hand. “Hi! Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me, Dr. Taylor.”
“Evelyn, please. And it’s my pleasure. I’m a big fan of your wife, plus you brought baked goods, so we’re going to get on just fine. Come on in.”
She steps sideways and Angela crosses the threshold, climbs the creaky stairs to the second floor.
“Head straight on in,” Evelyn says from behind her.
Angela turns the knob and enters the apartment, which she instantly falls in love with. The trim around the doors, windows, and baseboard is all in the old craftsman style, painted matte white. Old-fashioned, but considered chic now that it’s back in vogue. The ceiling is surprisingly high for a second-floor apartment, the plaster design a repeating swirl pattern reminiscent of ocean waves. The walls are painted a pale sage green, fresh and relaxing. The windows facing out onto the street run nearly floor to ceiling, allowing the soft winter light to filter in between the floaty, sheer curtains.
“Coffee?” Evelyn asks with a smile.
Her grey hair is cropped in a short, smooth bob that flatters her fine features, and it’s that even, soft shade of grey, like a November sky. Angela hopes her own hair will grey that beautifully thirty years from now.
“I hate to be a bother, but would you happen to have decaf? I’m off caffeine for a while, as much as it pains me to say so.”
“I do! I keep some on hand for those late-night cravings.”
“That’s great, thanks so much.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Just black, thank you, Evelyn.”
“Psychopath.”
Angela freezes, brownie box in hand. “Excuse me?”
The corner of Evelyn’s mouth curls up. “A dubiously scientific study says that if you drink your coffee black, you might be a psychopath.”
Angela isn’t sure what to say to this pronouncement, so she chuckles awkwardly.
“It’s more correlation than causation, I’m sure. Something about a preference for bitter tastes.” She winks. “Can I take the brownies?”
“Oh yes, thank you.”
“Go ahead and hang your coat up on the wall there. Make yourself at home.”
She disappears into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with two plates. She hands one to Angela, then sets her own down on the coffee table. “Defend my brownie from Darwin, will you?” she says, drifting off into the kitchen again.
As if on cue, a giant orange tabby cat slinks his way around the side of the love seat, amber eyes trained on the brownie. Angela snatches the plate up.
“He likes brownies?” Angela calls.
“He’s really more like a dog, to be honest,” Evelyn replies, her voice slightly muffled by the wall between them. Angela jiggles her foot and takes in the decor for a few minutes before Evelyn returns with a French press of coffee and two mismatched mugs. She sits down on the couch across from Angela and scoops the cat into her lap. “People think you can’t train cats, but you can. And this chubby gent here loves to play fetch and has a distinct sweet tooth.”
Angela hands Evelyn’s plate to her and digs into her own brownie before Darwin can try to claim it. They are both quiet for a few moments, munching and sipping. Angela isn’t sure how to open the conversation, but Evelyn beats her to it.
“So! You’ve been reading my book, Tina says.”
“Yes, I—” She swallows her last bite of brownie, then sets her empty plate down on the coffee table. Darwin immediately pounces on it, licking the crumbs and smears of icing. “Oh, shoot, sorry! Should I—”
“Oh no, let him have it,” Evelyn says with a vague wave of her hand. “He’ll have diabetes any day now, either way. Death by brownie certainly isn’t the worst way to go.”
Angela nearly spits out her coffee. This woman obviously doesn’t pull any punches. Maybe she should try the same tack.
“I’m interested in your time at the maternity home, actually. It’s a long story, but I was wondering about your friend who… took her own life. Maggie, was it?”
Evelyn nods, and Angela’s fingers start to tingle.
“So, Maggie wasn’t a false name you gave someone else?”
Evelyn looks up. Their eyes lock. “Excuse me?”
“You said in the introduction that you had given false names to the women you mention, to protect their identities. But your friend’s name really was Maggie?”
Evelyn hesitates. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I’m so sorry,” Angela says, her face growing hot. “I should have explained more to begin with, but by any chance, was your friend Maggie’s full name Margaret Roberts?”
Evelyn’s mouth falls open ever so slightly. “Why do you ask? How do you know this?”
Angela takes a deep breath. Both their coffees sit forgotten on the table.
“Because I think I’m close to finding her daughter. Or at least, I hope I am.”
The room is silent. Even Darwin has stopped purring in Evelyn’s lap, as though he, too, is holding his breath, waiting.
“How?” Evelyn finally asks.
“I found a letter in the store I work at. Thompson’s Antiques, just a few blocks from here. It’s a letter from the adoptive mother confessing to the adoption, which had been kept a secret until her death. There’s an apartment above the shop, where Margaret’s daughter lived, and I suspect it was just delivered to the wrong mailbox. A simple mistake.”
Evelyn sits forward in her seat. “When did this happen? What was the date on the letter?”
“Twenty-ten. I didn’t find it until a few months ago, though. I’ve been trying to track down the daughter, but I haven’t had any luck yet, so I shifted gears and tried to find Margaret instead.” She hesitates again. “I found an obituary for a Margaret Roberts, who died when she was nineteen in 1961, and I put the pieces together with an article I found about one of the maternity homes. It was St. Agnes’s, the home you and Margaret were at together. Wasn’t it?”
“Ye—” Evelyn’s voice catches. “Yes. I’m sorry, this is a bit…”
“I know. I apologize.”
Evelyn nods but doesn’t make eye contact.
“Tina and I should have been more up-front about why I wanted to speak with you.” Angela takes another deep breath. She’s half regretting reaching out to Evelyn at all. Maybe Tina was right, and this search for Nancy Mitchell is going to get too messy. “If Margaret Roberts is dead, I wondered whether you might be willing to meet her daughter, you know, as sort of the next best thing. Since I found the adoptive mother’s letter, I’ve felt a bit of a responsibility to connect these dots. If I can locate Margaret’s daughter, would you maybe be interested in meeting her? Telling her a bit about her mother, if she wants to know?”