Somewhere Between Luck and Trust (25 page)

Leila took the bracelet and jingled it with appreciation. She was tall for her age and thin, with graceful movements that seemed well beyond her years. Straight black hair fell past her shoulders and, while she was still a work in progress, Georgia thought that with her intelligent face and golden brown eyes, she was going to be a striking young woman.

“It’s kind of like solving a puzzle,” Leila said. She began to separate and look at each charm.

Georgia sat back as the girl mentioned the things they had already guessed themselves.

“I can’t read this one.” Leila held out the bracelet to her uncle.

“That’s Latin in the middle. It means ‘without God, all is in vain.’”

“Teenage volunteer.” Leila studied it. “This looks familiar. I’ve seen this....”

Cristy was looking over Leila’s shoulder. “It has letters engraved on the back.”

Leila flipped it. Then she looked up. “I know what this is. Look, this wasn’t meant to be a charm. It was a pin.” She held it up to her uncle. “See the dark spot at the bottom? That’s where part of the pin was attached. Somebody made the top part into a hook or whatever you call it for the charm and engraved the initials and date. Nineteen-sixty? That was a
long
time ago.”

Georgia caught Lucas’s eye and smiled. “Centuries.”

“You and Uncle Lucas aren’t that old, are you? At least not quite.”

“You said it looked familiar,” Lucas said, leaning forward. “Do you know why?”

“I have a friend who has the same thing, I think, only hers is still a pin. She volunteers at the hospital, and she got her pin after she’d volunteered like a hundred hours or something.”

“That makes sense.” Georgia found it hard to believe her mother had volunteered in a hospital before leaving her daughter to possibly die in one, yet somehow Leila’s description fit. If this was her mother’s bracelet, she had been intimately familiar with hospitals, if not the particular one where Georgia had been born. She might have realized there were restrooms personnel rarely entered after visitors abandoned the building for the night. She hadn’t simply stumbled on a remote ladies’ room. Maybe she had searched for one.

For a moment Georgia wondered if her mother had even worked in the same hospital where she had given birth, but she discounted that. If her mother had been known there, someone would have remembered the pregnancy and mentioned it to the police. And her mother would have been recognized that night by somebody, because the hospital, which no longer existed, had been a small one.

“That’s a big help,” she told Leila. “None of us had any idea about that.”

Leila continued around the bracelet, but Georgia tuned out. She nodded when appropriate, even smiled, but she couldn’t get the image of the volunteer pin out of her mind. Something was nagging at her, and moments later she realized what.

No woman who had left a premature baby in a hospital sink would have allowed that pin to remain on the bracelet before leaving it on the desk for Georgia to find. The irony was too great, the hospital volunteer pin a fierce slap across decades. At the very least her mother would have removed that charm.

Someone else, probably someone who hadn’t realized what the pin represented, had left the bracelet for her.

“Great job, Leila,” Lucas told his niece. “That was a big help.”

The front door opened and Douglas and Mia came out to join them. Inside someone was crooning what sounded like a scratchy, halting lullaby.

“Nonna,” Mia said, as she pulled a chair next to Georgia’s. “She’s singing the boys to sleep. They still want her to every night they’re under this roof. Isn’t that beautiful?”

Georgia closed her eyes and tried to let the healing sound of Nonna’s lullaby drown out the other voices inside her head.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

CRISTY HAD TRAVELED
very little. Her father had never taken a vacation, afraid, he said, to leave the church in less capable hands. Her mother hadn’t cared to visit relatives, and when she traveled on mission trips, she had preferred to go alone, citing health risks or other dangers. She hadn’t fooled anyone. Both Clara and Cristy had known that Candy Haviland just wanted to escape the daily disappointments of motherhood.

So except for the occasional school trip and two family funerals, Cristy hadn’t crossed the county line until she was handcuffed and on her way to Raleigh as a guest of the great state of North Carolina.

Now she was enthralled by everything she saw, as she hadn’t been that awful day last year. Lucas’s car was so comfortable she had to be careful not to be lulled to sleep, but with eyes wide open, she watched the world pass and thought how much more of it she yearned to see.

For now, as they came into Athens, she thought this was a good start indeed.

The city that housed the University of Georgia was lovely, with wide streets and sidewalks shaded by century-old trees. Many homes were set well back from the street and surrounded by expansive yards. Brick and pillars seemed to define the architecture, which looked comfortable in its surroundings, and should have been, since many of the gracefully wrought buildings had been there for generations. Athens wasn’t a town of skyscrapers, and everything seemed perfectly in scale. She yearned to explore the shopping area they passed through quickly, looking in windows and stopping for coffee at one of the outdoor cafés.

The university itself was spread out, with rolling green expanses and flower borders, brick walkways and trees that seemed to invite students to study in their dappled shadows.

As they traveled, they had talked about where to start their search and decided that if they didn’t spot the pillared building on the bracelet, they would stop first at the music school and see if anyone with authority might be there and willing to talk to them. The bracelet had a French horn, a treble clef and a cluster of musical notes, which was a triple dose of musical interest. This was Saturday, of course, which limited their options. They drove slowly, passing and peering at buildings first, but nothing looked enough like the charm to make them look harder.

The beautiful Hodgson School of Music was part of a three-building Performing and Visual Arts Complex, new on the East Campus in 1995, well past the year Georgia was born. They parked in the nearest lot and strolled to the school, passing students flying by on bicycles or walking in small groups. There was so much to see that Cristy wouldn’t have minded walking slower.

Lucas had already done a quick survey of faculty bios online, so they knew that no one who taught any of the brass instruments was old enough to remember Georgia’s mother, if indeed she had ever been a student there. Unfortunately they quickly discovered that none of the present-day brass faculty were there that day to answer questions.

From a young woman catching up on paperwork in the office they uncovered one good possibility, though. The Redcoats, the school’s renowned marching band, had an alumni association with an active website.

“Anybody can audition, even before they’re officially accepted to the university,” she explained before she went back to the pile of papers in front of her. “You don’t have to be a music major.”

In the hallway Lucas made notes on his organizer. “Somebody might remember a woman who played the French horn during those years. The site might even list band members by dates.”

“If she played in the band,” Georgia said.

Cristy thought Georgia seemed overwhelmed, as if the moment they’d stepped over the threshold of the music school, the sheer impossibility of the search had blindsided her. Cristy wished she could give her a hug, but Georgia was holding herself stiffly, as if a hug might shatter her composure.

Before they left they wandered the halls looking for plaques or photographs, but that was the longest of long shots since they didn’t have a name. In the end they gave up, knowing they had hit a dead end there.

Despite the tension Cristy loved exploring the music school. She heard a student vocalizing behind one door, and she yearned to open it and add her own voice. While walking through the halls of BCAS had made her feel claustrophobic, as if she might be trapped back in high school with her ego battered to shreds, the music school had a different feel. These were more mature students pursuing the studies that interested them most, and the majority of them probably wanted to be here.

She could almost see herself walking across this campus, heading toward a class she wanted to take, which surprised her.

“I think we ought to have lunch,” Lucas said, once they were outside again, “and figure out what to do next.”

“Talk about a needle in a haystack,” Georgia said. “Lucas, this is even worse. We don’t even know what needle we’re looking for in this particular haystack. It may not even be the right haystack.”

“The alumni band website may turn up something. Or somebody on faculty or in the administration might be able to find a list of French horn students during those years. Their email addresses are online.”

“Maybe she played the French horn in high school. Or her mother played it. Or her boyfriend.”

Cristy had to intervene. “I don’t think so, Georgia. That’s not something you would put on a bracelet unless you played the French horn yourself. And that wouldn’t explain all the other music charms.”

“But we don’t know she played the French horn
here.
”

That was too true.

They’d had hopes of checking out the basketball angle, although that had seemed a particular long shot—a pun Lucas had introduced into the conversation. But a few phone calls on the drive had turned up the fact that the competitive women’s basketball team had begun years after Georgia’s birth, and it was unlikely there would be records of anything less organized.

“Two possibilities for lunch,” Lucas said. “Healthy vegetarian, or vintage greasy comfort food.”

Georgia took charge. “I think we need to have some fun, and I need to lighten up.”

“I’m all for that,” Lucas said, slinging his arm over her shoulders. Then, before Cristy realized what he was going to do, he pulled her in for a hug with the other arm.

She thought how good it felt to be included. How natural.

How strange.

* * *

The Varsity, also known as the Greasy V, was more diner than restaurant, complete with its own lingo. It was a hot-dog-hamburger-chili kind of place. A hot dog without anything on it was a “naked dog.” A “heavy weight” was a hot dog served with extra chili. French fries were “strings” and potato chips were “a bag of rags.” Georgia slid down the line behind Lucas, along a stainless steel counter, to the tune of “What’ll ya have, what’ll ya have, what’ll ya have?” from the servers. The women had decided to let him make the order, and Lucas, who had eaten more than a meal or two at the Atlanta Varsity, performed like a pro.

“The Varsity in Atlanta is billed as the world’s largest drive-in,” Lucas said when they were seated at a booth with a bright red tray of food heaped high enough to feed half the students in the university. “It’s a kick.” Georgia looked down at the tray and wondered what she had gotten them into. “Can we really eat this food?”

The tray overflowed with hot dogs and chili, onion rings, something called Frosty O’s, which looked like orange milk shakes, as well as huge cups of sweet tea.

“Not only can you, you’d better,” Lucas said. “This place is a landmark. Seventy-something years.”

They looked at each other, then they dug in, eating and laughing, and Georgia could feel the weight of the day falling away. Lucas had understood her need to blow off steam.

She could almost forget that, with its long history, it was likely her own mother had eaten here at some time in her UGA years.

“A lot of the success of this trip seems to depend on finding the building on the bracelet,” Cristy said, when most of their food had been demolished in a munching, slurping frenzy.

“It’s possible that charm’s from her hometown.” Georgia grabbed the final onion ring as if it were an amulet to ward off negative energy.

“Well, sure, but it’s next to the bulldog.”

Georgia appreciated Cristy’s dedication, but she wondered if she had set the girl up for a fall. The chances of discovering anything here were so ridiculously remote.

Lucas, however, was nodding. “I think we ought to concentrate on that angle next. We didn’t hit the entire university. And I’ve blown up the charm photo I took to help us spot the building, although I suspect Cristy will do that the moment we get on the right street.” He turned to her. “You have such a good eye.”

Cristy grinned, and Georgia noticed she had just the faintest hint of dimples. Today she was in jeans and a soft peach-colored shirt that flared below her breasts. If she realized how pretty she looked, she wasn’t self-conscious about it.

Georgia felt her own tension evaporate even more. She was filled with fabulous food that she probably wouldn’t have the chance to eat again this century. She was with two people she was rapidly growing close to, people who cared enough about her to make this trip and try to help her find some closure. She realized just how lucky she was.

At that moment Lucas reached under the table and took her hand. “You’re doing okay?”

She smiled, first at him, then at Cristy, and she squeezed his hand. “I am, thanks to the two of you.”

Lucas, in an oxford-cloth shirt and jeans, smiled back, and she felt the smile zing straight through her. She realized how odd it was that here, at the Varsity, surrounded by chatter and noise echoing off tile and the chorus of “what’ll ya haves” ringing from the counter, she had just realized how much she wanted to be alone with this man and forget about the bracelet and her mother and the wild-goose chase that had brought them here.

Maybe she wouldn’t find her mother, but maybe she had found something more important.

“You’re game to drive around?” he asked.

Since that was why they had come, she smiled. “You bet. Somebody’s going to have to hoist me out of this chair, though.”

Lucas stood. “I’ll take one arm. Cristy, you take the other.”

The Varsity sat on the corner of Broad Street and Milledge Avenue, and Lucas suggested they drive down Milledge, where many of the fraternity and sorority houses were located. To Georgia this seemed as good as anything, since the charm indicated Greek Revival architecture, a style not uncommon here, where many buildings had been erected in the early to mid-nineteenth century, when it had flourished. On many Southern campuses, campus “Greeks” had particularly liked the Greek Revival period and had often built accordingly.

“I don’t think the charm’s exactly classic Greek Revival,” Georgia said as Lucas pulled into traffic and turned onto Milledge. “I’m trying to recall some class I had on this in college. Pedimented gables—”

“What’s that?” Cristy asked.

An example was coming up on the right and Georgia pointed. “The gable is that triangle at the top of the house where the roof slopes. Right there. A pedimented gable is low-pitched, more or less flattened out, not like that one.”

“All those sides are even, but it’s hard to tell what’s true on the charm.”

“Greek Revival houses usually have porches with columns, decorative work near the roof, narrow windows around the door, I think, and the charm really doesn’t.”

“I’d guess some details might be hard to show on a simple charm. This is amazing. Some of these houses are incredible.”

Georgia could hear Cristy’s obvious enjoyment in her voice, and she was glad she’d asked her to come. She suspected the young woman was soaking in everything they came across.

They were cruising slowly when Cristy said, “Lucas, pull over.” She hesitated. “Here, please?”

He found a spot halfway down the block, pulled in and stopped the car. He turned around to look at her. “Did you see something?”

She sounded unsure. “Maybe. Maybe not. Would you mind if we get out and walk back?”

Georgia was already opening her door, and the three met on the sidewalk.

“Which house caught your eye?” Georgia asked.

Cristy pointed. “The one with the two strange letters over the door.”

“You’re not relapsing,” Georgia told her. “The Greek alphabet is different from the English alphabet.”

“I bet the Greek letters look as strange to
you
as the English ones look to me.”

Georgia laughed, because it was true. Setting a book written in Greek in front of her would be much like setting an English textbook in front of Cristy until the young woman learned the “rules” for deciphering it.

They started back the way they’d come until Cristy halted. “What does that say?”

“Zeta Chi,” Lucas told her. “The Greek
Z
is pronounced
zeta,
which works well with English since it begins with the same sound, but the big
X
is pronounced
chi
in Greek, which doesn’t relate to English very well.”

“
Chi
is easier to say than
X.
”

“So why did we stop?” To Georgia the house looked like others they had passed, although definitely more attractive and detailed than some.

“Look at the shape of the house, and the flatter roof. I know it has bigger columns and fancier trim, but try to block that out, then compare it with the charm.”

Georgia couldn’t see it, but then she’d never been good at this kind of visualization. She couldn’t look at a set of blueprints, for instance, and come close to imagining what the finished house would look like.

On the other hand, Lucas obviously saw what Cristy meant. “The charm has an addition on the side, though, and squared columns, not the tapering beauties on this house. But if you change that in your mind, the windows are correct, and also the roofline and the cornices—although that’s pretty hard to tell from a charm.”

“What if they did renovations after the charm was produced? What if the house, the way it’s pictured on the charm, had been added on to and, well, tampered with, and they decided to restore it? I don’t know a lot about architecture, but the scale of this house, where the columns are, the windows, everything seems just perfect, like it stepped right out of history.”