Carole Page - In Search Of Her Own

But later, at Elaine’s, as she browsed through a rack of high-priced garments, she had second thoughts. Maybe I’d better make do with what I have at home, or I could try the rack of sale dresses, she mused, then chided herself for always giving in to her practical nature.

I’ll just try on a couple of these expensive dresses, she decided, just to see how they look. She walked over to the dressing rooms where several women stood waiting She noticed a little boy sitting in a straight-back chair near one dressing room. He sat stiffly, frowning, obviously fighting an advanced case of restlessness Something in his features made Victoria take a second look. He had thick, obstinately curly red hair, large green eyes and a turned-up nose lost in freckles.

Victoria’s heart began to beat faster. He looks like me as a child, she marveled silently Her thoughts raced. He’s about the right age. He could be my son!

Victoria struggled to remain calm. This had happened before-a chance encounter with a child who looked as if he could be her son. The likelihood of meeting her own child was remote at best, so why did she always react this way, with such a flash flood of emotion? Why couldn’t she put her child out of her mind as she had intended six years ago at his birth?

She knew the answer. Too much had happened since then. Since her conversion three years ago, Victoria had been plagued by the question of her son’s eternal destiny Did he have Christian parents? Would someone tell him about Jesus? Would he listen? How Victoria yearned to find him and tell him herself.

Since her mother’s death, she admitted it had been even more difficult to quell the desire to see her son, to touch him just once, to share her faith with him and assure herself he was happy and healthy. Now, staring at this child—a stranger’s child—fidgeting in his chair, Victoria realized the desire had become an obsession.

She had to find her son.

And, as if she had found the missing piece of a long-troubling puzzle, she thought of Phillip Anders. “Of course! I’ve got to call him! He’s the answer! He’ll know what to do!”

That evening, with trembling fingers, Victoria riffled through the telephone book and found Phillip’s number. But now that she was actually dialing him, she was assailed by misgivings. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, her voice barely audible. And when she heard him say hello, her throat refused to emit a sound.

“Hello? Is anybody there?” he questioned. “Who is this?”

“It’s…Victoria Carlin,” she said at last. “You came to my rescue yesterday at the cemetery.”

“Well, hello, Miss Carlin.”

“I don’t mean to bother you—”

“Bother me? To tell you the truth, I was hoping I might hear from you again.”

“You were?”

“Yes, I enjoyed our chat at the coffee shop.”

“So did I. And I was thinking…” Her voice trailed off.

“Thinking about…?” he prompted.

“About you being a…a private investigator, Mr. Anders “

“Yes, Miss Carlin? Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m not sure.” Her voice faltered again. “You said you…you find people…children.”

“Yes. Like I said, I do my best,” he replied. “Is there someone you want to locate?”

“Yes,” said Victoria, her tone growing decisive. “I would like it very much if you could help me find a little boy.”

“A boy, you say?”

“Yes. He just turned six.”

“What’s his name, Miss Carlin?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I’m sorry. I don’t know much about him.”

“Well, we’ll work with whatever you have, of course,” he replied patiently. “Just who is this boy, Miss Carlin?”

She closed her eyes; it seemed to take her forever to force out the words. “He’s…he’s my son.”

Phillip Anders suggested they discuss Victoria’s case over dinner on Tuesday evening He met her at seven at the Dingho Chinese Restaurant just north of the university It was a quaint place with intimate tables and soft lights, accented by jade carvings, porcelain vases and wall scrolls depicting squat Buddhas and towering pagodas.

As Phillip settled back in his wicker chair opposite Victoria, the delicate china on the linen tablecloth gave his brawny good looks a rough-hewn texture. He looked out of place, this tall, square-jawed man with hands too large for the tiny teacups.

Victoria smiled impulsively. “I’m surprised you picked this place, Mr. Anders. You look more like a steak-and-potatoes man to me.”

He grinned. “I am But I thought this atmosphere would suit you.”

“I’ll consider that a compliment,” she replied.

“It is.”

Their gaze held for a moment She felt a velvety warmth steal over her and she quickly dropped her gaze to her menu. Wait a second, she reminded herself. This is a business meeting. Not a date

“I suggest their Peking duck or steaks Manchurian,” said Phillip with a smile.

She looked at him in surprise. “You’ve been here before?”

“With clients a few times.”

“Then I’ll defer to your judgment.”

“Peking duck,” Phillip told the round-faced Oriental waiter. “With egg flower soup and sauteed snowpea pods.”

“It sounds like a culinary delight,” said Victoria.

Phillip leaned across the table confidentially “What I like best are all the little take-home cartons to warm up the next day. It beats my usual frozen dinner fare.”

“I know what you mean. I hate cooking just for myself.”

Phillip’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “I hate eating my own cooking No matter what I fix, it ends up tasting like overcooked cardboard.”

“Perhaps you should invest in a cookbook.”

“I have dozens around the house My wife, Pauline, was a gourmet cook. She collected recipes like some women accumulate jewelry There was nothing she couldn’t make.”

“She must have been a very remarkable woman “

Phillip’s burnt-sienna eyes took on a distant sheen. “She was the best.” He looked up and blinked as the waiter brought their soup.

“Very hot,” warned the man.

As Phillip picked up his china spoon, Victona bowed her head and silently offered a quick prayer of thanks for her food She looked up, embarrassed to see Phillip watching her.

“My wife and I used to do that,” he said. “She never let a meal pass without saying grace.”

“It’s still a bit new to me,” Victoria murmured self-consciously.

They ate in silence for several minutes Then Phillip cleared his throat and said, “You telephoned me about locating a child for you, Miss Carlin. Would you like to tell me about your son?”

She dabbed a corner of her lips with the linen napkin. “Please call me Victoria.”

“If you’ll call me Phillip.”

“Of course…Phillip.” She touched the back of her neck nervously Her face felt uncomfortably warm “I must tell you, Phillip, I’ve never talked about my son to anyone. It’s very difficult for me. Now that both my parents are gone, no one even knows I have a child…except you.”

“I can understand your reluctance to share something so personal “

“It’s just not the sort of thing I want people to know about.”

“But surely there’s not the stigma there once was. “

“Perhaps not But wrong is wrong I know it no matter what anyone says, no matter how people try to whitewash it.” She didn’t add that she could still hear her father’s voice in her head condemning her for her actions Lamentably, his voice was often louder than the voice of God in her heart.

Phillip’s expression softened “You sound like you’re still struggling with guilt feelings.”