she’d knock on her birth mother’s door, either literally or figuratively.
It had felt right a moment ago. But what if she had caught up to Veronica? Would she have run up to her, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Uh, hi, my name is Bea Crane. You gave me up for adoption twenty-two years ago.” It was clear Veronica wanted Bea to contact her; otherwise she wouldn’t have updatedthe file. But maybe a call would be better, for both of them. A bit of distance, letting them both sit down and digest before actually meeting.
Yes, Bea would call, maybe tomorrow.
As Bea neared the harbor, even more crowded than the main shopping street, Veronica’s features, her warm brown eyes, the straight, almost pointy nose, so like Bea’s own, were all imprinted in her mind. Bea was so lost in thought that she started walking in no particular direction; she felt like she might tip over if she stopped.
Unless Veronica had stayed out of the sun her entire life, she was no more than late thirties. Bea would give her thirty-six or thirty-seven, which meant she’d had Bea as a teenager.
As Bea wound her way through the crowd of tourists, she imagined a very young Veronica walking these same streets, pregnant, scared, unsure what to do. Had Bea’s birth father been supportive? Had he abandoned her? How had Veronica’s mother, her own grandmother, handled it? Had Veronica been able to turn to her? Had she been shunned? Supported?
Bea let herself wander and speculate, until she realized she’d walked around the far side of the bay, away from the hustle of downtown. Up ahead by the side of a pond, she saw a bunch of people setting up huge black lights and huge black cameras, a long, beige trailer behind them. Looked like a film set—she’d come across a few of those in Boston and always hoped for a glimpse of a movie star, but she never saw anyone famous, though people around her claimed they had.
Maybe this was what the Colin Firth shout-out had been about. He must be in town to film a new movie. Bea headed over, needing a distraction from herself.
“Movie set, right?” she asked a tall, lanky guy in wire-rimmed glasses standing in front of the trailer. A laminated pass hanging down from around his neck read: TYLER ECHOLS, PA.
He was glancing down at a clipboard and either didn’t hear her or chose not to answer.
A pretty teenage girl with long, dark hair sat a few feet away in a folding chair by the trailer. She had a book upside down on her lap, and if Bea wasn’t mistaken, it was To Kill a Mockingbird. Bea would recognize that original cover from a mile away.
“I love that book,” Bea said to her. “I wrote my senior thesis on it.”
“I can’t even get past the first paragraph,” the girl said, fluttering the pages. “It’s so boring. How am I supposed to write a paper on this book? It should be called ‘To Kill a Boring Bird.’ ”
She had no idea what she was missing. “ To Kill a Mockingbird is a brilliant reflection of its time—of the South, of racism, of right and wrong, of injustice, all through the eyes of a girl who learns a lot about life, her father, and herself. It’s one of my top-ten favorite novels of all time.”
The guy with the clipboard glanced at her, leaning one bent foot behind him against the trailer, then went back to checking things off on his clipboard.
The girl looked even more bored, but then brightened. “Could you write my paper?”
“Sorry, no,” Bea said. “But give the novel a chance, okay?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “You sound like my brother,” she said, upping her chin at the guy with the clipboard.
“So is this a movie set?” Bea asked the guy again, glancing at the cameras, then back to him.
He barely looked up. “Do us all a favor and don’t go tellingeveryone we’re here. The last thing we need is a huge crowd watching us position lights. There’s no movie star here. That you can share.”
Okay, Grumpy. “What’s the movie? Colin Firth
It had felt right a moment ago. But what if she had caught up to Veronica? Would she have run up to her, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Uh, hi, my name is Bea Crane. You gave me up for adoption twenty-two years ago.” It was clear Veronica wanted Bea to contact her; otherwise she wouldn’t have updatedthe file. But maybe a call would be better, for both of them. A bit of distance, letting them both sit down and digest before actually meeting.
Yes, Bea would call, maybe tomorrow.
As Bea neared the harbor, even more crowded than the main shopping street, Veronica’s features, her warm brown eyes, the straight, almost pointy nose, so like Bea’s own, were all imprinted in her mind. Bea was so lost in thought that she started walking in no particular direction; she felt like she might tip over if she stopped.
Unless Veronica had stayed out of the sun her entire life, she was no more than late thirties. Bea would give her thirty-six or thirty-seven, which meant she’d had Bea as a teenager.
As Bea wound her way through the crowd of tourists, she imagined a very young Veronica walking these same streets, pregnant, scared, unsure what to do. Had Bea’s birth father been supportive? Had he abandoned her? How had Veronica’s mother, her own grandmother, handled it? Had Veronica been able to turn to her? Had she been shunned? Supported?
Bea let herself wander and speculate, until she realized she’d walked around the far side of the bay, away from the hustle of downtown. Up ahead by the side of a pond, she saw a bunch of people setting up huge black lights and huge black cameras, a long, beige trailer behind them. Looked like a film set—she’d come across a few of those in Boston and always hoped for a glimpse of a movie star, but she never saw anyone famous, though people around her claimed they had.
Maybe this was what the Colin Firth shout-out had been about. He must be in town to film a new movie. Bea headed over, needing a distraction from herself.
“Movie set, right?” she asked a tall, lanky guy in wire-rimmed glasses standing in front of the trailer. A laminated pass hanging down from around his neck read: TYLER ECHOLS, PA.
He was glancing down at a clipboard and either didn’t hear her or chose not to answer.
A pretty teenage girl with long, dark hair sat a few feet away in a folding chair by the trailer. She had a book upside down on her lap, and if Bea wasn’t mistaken, it was To Kill a Mockingbird. Bea would recognize that original cover from a mile away.
“I love that book,” Bea said to her. “I wrote my senior thesis on it.”
“I can’t even get past the first paragraph,” the girl said, fluttering the pages. “It’s so boring. How am I supposed to write a paper on this book? It should be called ‘To Kill a Boring Bird.’ ”
She had no idea what she was missing. “ To Kill a Mockingbird is a brilliant reflection of its time—of the South, of racism, of right and wrong, of injustice, all through the eyes of a girl who learns a lot about life, her father, and herself. It’s one of my top-ten favorite novels of all time.”
The guy with the clipboard glanced at her, leaning one bent foot behind him against the trailer, then went back to checking things off on his clipboard.
The girl looked even more bored, but then brightened. “Could you write my paper?”
“Sorry, no,” Bea said. “But give the novel a chance, okay?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “You sound like my brother,” she said, upping her chin at the guy with the clipboard.
“So is this a movie set?” Bea asked the guy again, glancing at the cameras, then back to him.
He barely looked up. “Do us all a favor and don’t go tellingeveryone we’re here. The last thing we need is a huge crowd watching us position lights. There’s no movie star here. That you can share.”
Okay, Grumpy. “What’s the movie? Colin Firth
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