PART 7: THE GIRL AT THE GATE
The photograph of Evelyn had been on my reading-room shelf for three weeks when a teenage girl appeared at my front gate.
She wore a green school sweatshirt and carried a backpack that looked too heavy for her shoulders.
She stood on the sidewalk for a long time, looking at the white cosmos.
Then she opened the gate.
My phone sent an alert.
Person detected at front door.
I was in the kitchen, putting away dishes.
On the camera feed, the girl approached the porch, stopped beneath my father’s WELCOME HOME sign, and took a folded piece of paper from her pocket.
She checked the address.
Then she raised her hand to knock.
Before her knuckles touched the door, she lowered it again.
I opened the door.
“Hello.”
She jumped.
“Sorry.”
“Were you looking for someone?”
She glanced toward the street.
Then back at me.
“I think so.”
“Who?”
Her eyes moved past me, toward the hallway.
“A woman named Evelyn.”
I felt a small chill.
“Evelyn Ward?”
The girl nodded.
“She used to live here.”
“Yes.”
“She did.”
“Is she home?”
There was no easy way to answer.
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me.
“What’s your name?”
“Maya.”
“How old are you, Maya?”
“Sixteen.”
“Does someone know you’re here?”
She gripped the straps of her backpack.
“My mom thinks I’m at the library.”
I sat on the porch bench.
“Would you like to sit down?”
She hesitated.
Then she sat at the opposite end.
“Evelyn doesn’t live here anymore,” I said.
“Do you know where she went?”
I thought of Lucy.
Of Anna.
Of the letters that had taken decades to find their way home.
“Evelyn died twelve years ago.”
Maya stared at me.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked down at the paper.
“My dad told me she might still be here.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Last night.”
“Did he know her?”
“He said she was his grandmother.”
I waited.
Then Maya said, “He told me to find her and ask her about the baby.”
THE NAME ON THE PAPER
I asked Maya whether I could see the paper.
She unfolded it carefully.
The address of my house was written at the top.
Beneath it was a name.
Anna Hart.
And beneath that:
Ask her what happened to Daniel.
I looked at Maya.
“Who’s Daniel?”
“My dad.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Daniel Cooper.”
“Do you know Anna?”
“No.”
“He said she might know something about his mother.”
“Who is his mother?”
Maya shook her head.
“That’s what he wants to know.”
The story came out slowly.
Daniel had been adopted as a baby.
He had grown up with loving parents, both of whom had since died.
He had always known he was adopted.
He had not spent much time searching for his birth family until recently.
Then, six months earlier, he found a small packet of documents among his adoptive mother’s belongings.
One page listed the name E. Hart.
Another mentioned a woman named Anna.
There was also an old address.
Mine.
“Why didn’t your father come himself?” I asked.
Maya looked down.
“He’s sick.”
“What kind of sick?”
“He’s been in the hospital.”
“Does he know you came here today?”
“No.”
“He said he wanted to find someone, but he didn’t have the energy.”
“So I looked up the address.”
“And came alone.”
She nodded.
I thought of the long drive Lucy had made years earlier.
The suitcase.
The questions.
The hope that someone inside the house might know the truth.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“About an hour away.”
“How did you get here?”
“The bus.”
“Does your mother know where you went?”
“No.”
“Maya, I think she should.”
“I know.”
“She’ll be angry.”
“Maybe.”
“But she may also be worried.”
Maya stared at the porch boards.
“I wanted to find an answer before I told her.”
I recognized that impulse.
If you could solve the problem first, perhaps no one would be upset about the way you had gone looking.
“Would you be willing to call her now?” I asked.
Maya hesitated.
Then she took out her phone.
Her mother answered on the second ring.
“Where are you?”
“Mom, I’m okay.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I’m at an address Dad found.”
“What address?”
Maya told her.
There was a long pause.
Then her mother said, “Put the person you’re with on the phone.”
I introduced myself.
I explained where Maya was and how she had arrived.
Her mother, Laura, sounded frightened but relieved.
“I’m coming.”
“It will take me a little while.”
“She’s welcome to wait here.”
“Thank you.”
I handed the phone back.
Maya listened to her mother.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
When the call ended, she wiped her eyes.
“I’m in trouble.”
“Probably.”
She looked at me.
“That’s very reassuring.”
“I’ve been told I’m accurate.”
A PHOTOGRAPH FROM ANNA’S BOX
While Maya waited for her mother, I called Anna.
I explained what Maya had said.
“Daniel Cooper?” Anna repeated.
“Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“What about an adoption?”
Anna was quiet.
Then she said, “My mother had a friend named June Cooper.”
“Was June his adoptive mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old is Daniel?”
“Maya says he’s in his early forties.”
Anna did a quick calculation.
“That would have been before I was born.”
“Did Evelyn ever mention a baby besides Lucy?”
“No.”
I heard a drawer open.
Then papers moving.
“Are you looking for something?” I asked.
“There was a photograph in Mom’s box.”
“A hospital photograph.”
“I thought it was me.”
“But the date never made sense.”
“What date?”
“About three years before I was born.”
“Is there a name?”
“On the back it says, ‘For June, with love.’”
My skin prickled.
“What does the photograph show?”
“A baby.”
“Wrapped in a blanket.”
“Is Evelyn in it?”
“No.”
“Just the baby.”
“Do you know where June lived?”
“She moved away when I was little.”
“Mom wrote to her for a while.”
“Then the letters stopped.”
“Did Evelyn ever say who the baby was?”
“She said June had been given a second chance.”
I looked at Maya through the kitchen window.
She sat on the porch bench, drawing circles on the paper with her finger.
“Would you be willing to speak with Daniel?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“But Diane?”
“Yes?”
“Please tell Maya we don’t know what this means.”
“I will.”
“We don’t know whether the baby in the photograph was Daniel.”
“I understand.”
“And we don’t know whether my mother was related to him.”
“Anna.”
“I know.”
“I’m just afraid she’ll hear one familiar name and build an entire life around it.”
I looked toward the reading room.
At Evelyn’s photograph.
At the white flowers outside.
“Then we’ll be careful with the questions.”
LAURA’S ARRIVAL
Laura arrived forty minutes later.
She hurried up the path and embraced Maya so tightly that the girl’s backpack slipped from one shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Maya said into her mother’s coat.
“I know.”
“You scared me.”
“I know.”
Laura stepped back and looked at me.
“Thank you for staying with her.”
“Of course.”
“I should have called you,” Maya said.
“Yes.”
“You should have.”
Maya looked down.
Laura touched her face.
“We’ll talk about that later.”
Then she turned to me.
“Maya said you know someone named Anna.”
“I do.”
“Can we sit down?”
We went into the kitchen.
I made tea for Laura.
Maya asked for water.
She looked embarrassed when I set a plate of biscuits on the table.
“You don’t have to feed me.”
“I know.”
“I want to.”
Laura took a breath.
“Daniel has been trying to understand the documents he found.”
“Why now?” I asked.
“He had a serious health scare.”
“He’s recovering, but it made him think about his family history.”
“Medical history?” I asked.
“That’s part of it.”
“And he’s been grieving his adoptive parents.”
“Finding those papers brought up questions he had put away for years.”
“Did he tell Maya to come here?”
“No.”
“I thought he was going to be angry,” Maya said.
“He might be frightened,” Laura replied.
“Dad didn’t ask you to solve this by yourself.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted to help.”
Laura reached across the table.
“I know you did.”
She turned to me.
“The documents are confusing.”
“There’s a name, E. Hart, and an old address.”
“Daniel’s mother kept them in an envelope marked ‘For Daniel when he asks.’”
“Did he ask her before she died?”
“He did.”
“She told him she didn’t know much about his birth family.”
“Was that true?”
“We don’t know.”
“Could you show Anna the documents?”
“Yes.”
“If she’s willing.”
“She is.”
Maya looked up.
“Did you find Daniel’s grandmother?”
“We don’t know that Evelyn was his grandmother,” I said.
“But Anna remembers a friend named June.”
Laura’s eyes widened.
“June was Daniel’s adoptive mother.”
I felt the room change.
Not because we had an answer.
Because one part of the story had become real.
THE FIRST CONVERSATION
Daniel called Anna that evening.
I wasn’t on the call.
I knew only what Anna told me afterward.
“He was very careful,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“He kept saying he didn’t want to upset me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was already upset.”
“About finding out?”
“About realizing there might have been something my mother couldn’t tell me.”
“Did you mention the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me to describe the blanket.”
“A white blanket with little blue stars?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know?”
“He has a photograph of himself wrapped in it.”
Anna sent him a picture of hers.
A few minutes later, he sent his.
The angle was different.
The blanket appeared the same.
So did the knitted cap.
“It looks like the same baby,” Anna said.
“Does the back of his photograph have a date?”
“Yes.”
“It’s within a week of mine.”
“Did he ask whether Evelyn was his mother?”
“He did.”
“What did you say?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Was he disappointed?”
“I think so.”
“But he said he’d rather hear that than have me guess.”
I sat in my reading room after the call.
The photograph of Evelyn stood near the window.
I looked at her face.
She had kept one daughter’s letters in a drawer.
She had told another daughter almost nothing about her first child.
Had there been another baby?
Or had she simply helped a friend?
Either was possible.
And neither photograph could answer the question alone.
THE ENVELOPE MARKED “WHEN HE ASKS”
Daniel invited Lucy and Anna to his home the following weekend.
He also invited me.
I hesitated.
“This is your family’s story,” I told him.
“You found Lucy,” he said.
“And Maya says you made excellent biscuits.”
“That seems like a low standard for admission.”
“It’s been a difficult year.”
“We’re flexible.”
Laura opened the door.
Maya stood behind her.
This time, she looked relieved to see us.
Daniel sat in an armchair near the window.
He was thinner than I expected, with a blanket folded over his legs.
He stood when we entered.
“Please don’t get up,” Anna said.
“I’m trying to prove I can.”
“Then you’ve proved it,” Laura told him.
“Sit down.”
He smiled and obeyed.
On the coffee table was an envelope.
His adoptive mother had written across the front:
FOR DANIEL WHEN HE ASKS.
“I found it after she died,” he said.
“I’d asked her about my birth family before.”
“Why didn’t she give it to you?” Lucy asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe she meant when I asked after she was gone.”
“Maybe she forgot where she put it.”
“Maybe she wasn’t ready.”
He looked at the envelope.
“I’ve spent a lot of time imagining what she meant.”
“Does it help?” Maya asked.
“Not as much as I’d like.”
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter from June.
Daniel,
If you are reading this, you have questions I may not have known how to answer.
I hope I told you often enough that being adopted was never something we considered a secret or a disappointment.
You were wanted.
You were loved.
The day we brought you home was one of the happiest days of our lives.
Daniel paused.
Laura touched his shoulder.
He continued.
Your birth mother was young.
She was frightened.
She wanted you to have a safe home.
I knew a woman who helped her through that time.
Her name was Evelyn Hart.
Anna’s hand moved to her mouth.
Evelyn asked me to keep one promise.
If you ever wanted to understand where you came from, I would not stand in your way.
I wish I could give you more names.
Some of the paperwork was handled through an agency.
Some of the people involved wanted privacy.
But Evelyn knew your birth mother.
She knew how much she cared about you.
I hope that is a place to begin.
Daniel folded the letter.
“So Evelyn wasn’t necessarily my grandmother.”
“No,” Anna said.
“But she knew your mother.”
He looked at the photograph.
“She helped her.”
“It sounds that way.”
Maya leaned forward.
“Did the agency name appear anywhere?”
Daniel pulled out another sheet.
A partial agency name was visible at the top.
The rest had been cut off.
“Can you read that?” he asked.
Lucy squinted.
“Maybe ‘Family Services.’”
“Or ‘Family Support,’” Laura said.
On the bottom was a handwritten name.
Carol M.
Anna stared at it.
“My mother knew a Carol.”
THE WOMAN EVELYN HELPED
Anna remembered Carol visiting when she was a child.
“She brought orange candies,” Anna said.
“She always had them in her handbag.”
“What was her last name?” Daniel asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Was she older than your mother?”
“About the same age.”
“Did she have children?”
“I never saw any.”
“Did your mother say how they met?”
“No.”
“But I remember one conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“Carol was upset.”
“She said she had done the right thing and still felt as though she had broken something.”
The room grew quiet.
“What did your mother say?” Lucy asked.
“She told her doing the right thing didn’t guarantee she would stop grieving.”
Daniel looked at the letter.
“Do you think Carol was my birth mother?”
“I think it’s possible,” Anna said.
“But I don’t want to tell you yes until we know.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
Maya picked up the photograph.
“Can we find her?”
“We can try,” Laura said.
Daniel looked at his daughter.
“And we can do it together.”
She glanced down.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry I went to Diane’s house without telling you.”
“I’m glad you wanted to help.”
“But next time, tell us where you’re going.”
“Okay.”
He held out his hand.
She took it.
WHAT JUNE HAD KNOWN
The agency name took several weeks to identify.
Some records had been transferred when the organization closed.
Others were no longer available through the original office.
Daniel contacted the successor organization and asked what information he could request.
He also reviewed the documents his adoptive parents had kept.
A social worker helped him understand what was available.
Meanwhile, Anna searched through Evelyn’s papers again.
This time, she found a small address book.
Several pages had come loose.
Between two of them was a photograph of Evelyn and another woman sitting on a park bench.
On the back, Evelyn had written:
Carol and me, after the rain.
Beneath it was a date.
And a surname.
Anna called Daniel.
“I found her full name.”
“What is it?”
“Carol Miller.”
Daniel was silent.
Then he said, “That’s the name on one of my records.”
He had not shown it to us.
He had wanted to be careful.
“I didn’t know whether it was her birth name,” he said.
“Or someone who worked with the agency.”
“Can you request more information now?”
“I’m trying.”
Anna looked again at the photograph.
“Would you like a copy?”
“Yes.”
She sent it.
A few minutes later, he replied.
She has Maya’s smile.
Anna stared at the message.
Then she called him.
“We still don’t know for certain.”
“I know.”
“But I can see it.”
“I can too,” Anna admitted.
THE LETTER THAT CAME BACK
Three months after Maya appeared at my gate, Daniel received an envelope from the records office.
He invited us over before opening it.
Laura made tea.
Maya sat beside her father.
Lucy held Anna’s hand.
I sat near the window.
Daniel opened the envelope carefully.
Inside was a letter.
He read it once.
Then again.
“What does it say?” Maya asked.
He looked up.
“They contacted Carol.”
My heart began to pound.
“Is she alive?” Anna asked.
“Yes.”
“Does she know you’re looking?”
“Yes.”
“Does she want to speak with you?”
Daniel’s eyes filled.
“She wrote something.”
He unfolded a second page.
Dear Daniel,
I have imagined hearing your name for so many years that I don’t know how to begin.
I was seventeen when you were born.
My family did not believe I could raise you.
I was frightened, and I did not know what help was available.
Evelyn sat with me when I was most afraid.
She told me that whatever happened, my love for you would still be real.
I hoped you would have a kind family.
I hoped you would be safe.
I hoped you would never believe I had stopped thinking of you.
Daniel paused.
Laura put her arm around him.
He continued.
I would like to speak with you if that is what you want.
I understand if you need time.
I understand if you have questions I cannot answer perfectly.
I will answer as honestly as I can.
With love,
Carol.
Maya began to cry.
Daniel looked at her.
“Are you all right?”
She laughed through her tears.
“You always ask me that.”
“Someone has to.”
He looked back at the letter.
“She’s alive.”
“Yes,” Laura said.
“She’s alive.”
He held the page carefully.
Then he looked at Anna.
“Your mother helped mine.”
Anna nodded.
“She did.”
“And June helped me.”
“Yes.”
He looked around the room.
“I spent years thinking my story began with someone leaving.”
Lucy reached for his hand.
“Sometimes a story begins with several people trying to help, even when they don’t have a perfect way to do it.”
THE PHONE CALL
Daniel did not call Carol immediately.
He carried her letter with him.
He read it in the morning.
He read it at night.
He showed it to Maya again.
He asked Laura to read certain sentences aloud.
“What if she doesn’t want the relationship I imagine?” he asked.
“Then you can talk about what each of you wants,” Laura said.
“What if I disappoint her?”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” Laura said.
“But I know you don’t have to become a different person to deserve a conversation.”
A week later, he called.
He asked Laura to sit beside him.
Maya stayed in the kitchen because she wanted to give him privacy.
Anna and Lucy waited at home.
I was in my garden when Daniel called afterward.
“She answered.”
“How did it go?”
“We both cried.”
“That sounds like a beginning.”
“She said my name.”
His voice broke.
“She said she’d always wondered whether I had the same laugh I had as a baby.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her I didn’t remember.”
I smiled.
“Did she laugh?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently, it’s the same.”
They spoke for almost an hour.
Carol told him she had married.
She had two children.
They were adults.
They knew about him.
“She told them?” I asked.
“Years ago.”
“What did they say?”
“They asked whether she wanted to find me.”
“And?”
“She said she wanted to.”
“But she didn’t know if I wanted to be found.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That I was glad she answered.”
CAROL AND EVELYN
Carol met Anna and Lucy before she met Daniel in person.
She wanted to tell them about Evelyn.
They chose my house.
When Carol arrived, she stood on the porch looking at the white flowers.
“Cosmos,” she said.
“Evelyn loved them.”
She was in her late fifties.
Her hair was silver at the temples.
She carried a folder of photographs and a small tin of orange candies.
Anna stared at the tin.
“You still have them.”
Carol smiled.
“I didn’t know anyone remembered.”
“I do.”
“You gave me two every time you visited.”
“I thought your mother didn’t notice.”
“She noticed everything.”
Carol looked toward Evelyn’s photograph in the reading room.
“She helped me when I didn’t know who else to trust.”
“How did you meet?” Lucy asked.
“I worked at a grocery store.”
“Evelyn came in every Thursday.”
“One day, I was crying in the stockroom.”
“She found me.”
“Did you know her well?”
“No.”
“But she sat on an overturned box and asked whether I wanted company.”
“Did you tell her you were pregnant?”
“Not that day.”
“I told her the next week.”
“What did she do?”
“She asked what I wanted.”
Carol looked at her hands.
“No one else had asked me that.”
Lucy’s eyes filled.
“What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know.”
“And she said that was an answer too.”
Carol described the months that followed.
Evelyn helped her find a counselor.
She went with her to appointments when she asked.
She did not tell Carol what decision to make.
She listened.
“When I decided on adoption, she stayed with me,” Carol said.
“When I doubted myself, she stayed.”
“When I was angry, she stayed.”
“After Daniel was born, she sat beside me while I held him.”
“Did she know June?” Anna asked.
“Yes.”
“They were friends.”
“She didn’t arrange everything herself.”
“She helped me understand my options and find people who could explain the process.”
Carol took a photograph from the folder.
It showed Evelyn sitting beside a hospital bed.
A young woman lay beneath a blanket.
A baby rested in her arms.
“Is that Daniel?” Lucy asked.
“Yes.”
“And that’s me.”
Anna looked at the photograph.
“Mom looks happy.”
“She was.”
“She was sad too.”
“Why?”
“Because she understood what it meant to be separated from a child.”
Lucy lowered her eyes.
“Did she tell you about me?”
“Only a little.”
“She said she had a daughter she loved.”
“She said she hoped you knew that.”
“Did she ever try to find me?”
Carol was quiet.
“I know she asked about you.”
“From whom?”
“Someone she knew from the old neighborhood.”
“Did she contact my father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she write to me?”
“Yes.”
“We found those letters.”
Carol nodded.
“She was afraid.”
“Of him?”
“Partly.”
“And of hurting you.”
Lucy looked at Evelyn’s photograph.
“I wish she had let me decide.”
Carol reached for her hand.
“I know.”
THE MEETING
Daniel met Carol on a Saturday in June.
He chose a park.
He said he wanted somewhere with enough space to breathe.
Laura came.
Maya came.
Anna and Lucy came too.
I stayed near the picnic tables with Mrs. Alvarez.
We were close enough if they needed us.
Far enough to let the meeting belong to them.
Carol arrived carrying a small parcel.
Daniel stood when she approached.
For a moment, they looked at each other.
Then Carol said, “You have your grandfather’s eyes.”
Daniel laughed softly.
“I was told I had my adoptive father’s eyes.”
“You might have both.”
“That seems possible.”
She held out the parcel.
“I brought something.”
Inside was the blue-and-white blanket.
Daniel stared.
“I thought June kept it.”
“She gave it back to me years later.”
“She said she had photographs.”
“She thought I might want something to hold.”
He touched the fabric.
“It’s smaller than I expected.”
“You were smaller than you expected.”
He smiled.
Then he looked at her.
“Can I hug you?”
Carol nodded.
They held each other beneath the trees.
Maya stood beside Laura.
“Are you okay?” Laura asked.
“I think so.”
“You look like you’re going to cry.”
“I already am.”
“Fair.”
After a while, Daniel and Carol sat on the grass.
They talked about his childhood.
His work.
His adoptive parents.
His favorite foods.
The ordinary things that had happened during the years they had not known each other.
Carol told him about her children.
She did not ask him to call her Mom.
He did not ask her to replace June.
They began with names.
With stories.
With questions.
And with the understanding that no one had to decide the shape of their relationship in one afternoon.
THE BOX GOES HOME
A few days later, Lucy asked whether she could have the blue metal box.
“Of course,” I said.
“It belonged to your mother.”
“Or to Margaret.”
“Or to the floor,” Mrs. Alvarez said.
“After that many years, the floor has a claim.”
Lucy smiled.
She placed Evelyn’s letter inside.
The photograph.
The old receipt.
The silver key.
Then she closed the lid.
“What will you do with it?” I asked.
“Keep it somewhere my son can find it.”
“Under a floorboard?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“On a shelf.”
“With a label.”
“What will it say?”
She thought for a moment.
“‘Family history.’”
“Not ‘Secrets’?”
“No.”
“I’ve had enough of those.”
Before leaving, she stood in the reading room.
“I used to think this house was where my mother disappeared.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Now I think it’s where she left me a way to find her.”
She looked at the photograph by the window.
“And a sister.”
THE GATE
That autumn, Maya came back.
This time, Laura drove her.
They brought a small wooden sign Daniel had made while he was recovering.
He had painted it green.
Across the front, in white letters, were the words:
QUESTIONS ARE WELCOME HERE.
I laughed.
“That may be dangerous.”
“Dad said you would say that,” Maya told me.
“Where should we put it?” Laura asked.
Lily happened to be visiting.
She examined the sign.
“By the gate.”
“Why?” I asked.
“So people know before they come in.”
We hung it beside the latch.
Beneath it, the white cosmos had begun to fade with the season.
Their petals fell along the path.
Maya looked at them.
“Will they come back?”
“We’ll plant more.”
“Can I help?”
“Yes.”
She touched the gate.
“I was really scared the first time I came here.”
“I remember.”
“I thought you might tell me to leave.”
“I might have asked you to call your mother.”
“You did.”
“And?”
“She still talks about it.”
Laura raised an eyebrow.
“Because I was worried.”
“I know.”
Maya smiled.
“I’m glad I came.”
“So am I.”
That evening, after they left, I stood at the gate.
I looked back toward the house.
The front door was closed.
Dad’s WELCOME HOME sign hung above it.
The reading-room window glowed in the fading light.
A year earlier, I had believed protecting my home meant keeping everyone out until I was certain they could be trusted.
I still believed in locks.
I still checked the camera.
I still chose who received a key.
But I had also learned that safety could make room for kindness.
I could open the door to a girl with a question.
I could listen without promising an answer.
I could help her call her mother.
I could invite the people involved to decide what came next.
I could protect my peace and still share it.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Lucy.
A photograph appeared.
She and Anna sat beside Daniel, Carol, Maya, and Laura at a crowded dinner table.
Someone had burned the bread.
Someone else had covered it with a napkin.
The caption read:
We’re still working on the cooking.
I typed back:
Ask Mrs. Alvarez for her cake recipe.
A reply came immediately.
Is that a recommendation or a warning?
I smiled.
Then I opened the gate and went inside.
END OF PART 7
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