Part 3

Chapter 8

Robin could barely focus as Anita talked about graduate school. It didn’t matter that the Roland Park eatery was packed and the waitress seemed to jostle her every time she passed. She’d even ignored her favorite fried oysters. Instead she pushed the plate aside to lay the pictures out in front of her. Jane leaned over to look at the photos, finishing off Robin’s plate of French fries as she studied the pictures.

Even Anita’s voice faded into the background buzz as Robin scanned the pictures, looking for clues about what her sister could have been thinking. Typical vacation snapshots, even though they had been enlarged to 8-by-10s. And although they were color photographs, they all looked so familiar. Especially the one she held in her hands. It was a Salzburg street scene: wide sidewalks, imposing stone architecture, frilly lace curtains framing a Bäckerei window. It was like one in her foyer. She even recognized the young man leaning in the doorway of a tobacco shop.

“Who’s the guy?” Jane said, lowering her nose to the photo. 

Robin pushed her aside. “Jane...I’m trying to look.”

The reflection Anita had mentioned could’ve been anybody. It didn’t look like Eleanor to Robin. She examined the photo again. It was just a window framed with lace curtains. A woman with a long blonde ponytail holding a camera was just visible in the corner, as if she was about to take the photo. So who had taken it? Robin wondered. 

More importantly, was it Eleanor? Robin wasn’t so sure. The image was blurry, just out of the focus of the camera. Plenty of Austrian girls were blond, too, she thought.

Before she even realized it, Robin had stood up. “If you don’t mind,” she said, interrupting Anita, “I’d like to take these photos to my house.”

“Mmm, sure,” said Anita, calling for the check.

“Do you see something?” she asked, hurrying after Robin. 

“Maybe. I’d like to look at my own photos again.”

Jane collected Robin’s new, small handbag and followed the women out the door. “Wait for me! You have to wait for the sidekick!”

Robin clearly had other things on her mind as she hurried in the icy wind. She clutched the three photos afraid they might blow away. They were typical tourist photos, really, she thought as the wind whipped around her. A street scene from Salzburg’s old town. A shot of a lace-curtained window. A landscape with soaring mountains and a meadow covered in tiny flowers. Anybody could’ve taken them. Sure, they looked familiar but Robin didn’t think they were really the same pictures that hung in her house. She could hardly wait to get down the expressway to see the photos.

No, she thought, as she walked into the foyer. They aren’t the same, but the subjects were so similar. The street scene focused on different shops – though that same man was in the doorway, Robin was startled to notice. The window shot wasn’t at all the same – Robin wasn’t even sure it was the same window though she couldn’t miss those lacy curtains. The landscape looked like an Alpine postcard. Toss in Julie Andrews and you’d get an urge to sing “Edelweiss,” Robin thought.

Anita and Jane bustled in a few minutes later. “What are you looking for?” Jane asked

“You have the same pictures!” Anita gasped.

“Not the same, but they are pretty close.”

“Yours are in color,” Jane offered. When Robin just looked at her, Jane replied, “Well, they are.”

Anita laid her bag on the foyer bench and looked from her own photos to the ones hanging on the wall. “Same street scene, same landscape.”

“There’s that guy,” Jane said.

She’s right, Robin though. Why hadn’t she noticed him before? Right in the middle of the picture was a group of people picnicking on a blanket. There he was, staring at the camera with intense eyes. She looked at Anita’s picture. No group in hers. Instead, there were a couple of goats. The big, puffy clouds were very different, too, as if the photo had been taken another day. No man, she thought, and felt a pang of disappointment. 

Robin felt a chill. She glanced at the other pictures on her wall. The castle picture was filled with people. She’d never really looked at them before but now she found herself studying every face. No, he wasn’t there. And the Chiem See picture? The waters still glistened as always but, no, no strange man lurked about. She nevertheless searched for some clue in the photo but saw nothing. Anita and Jane waited quietly as Robin examined the photos.

“Do you see something, Robin?” Anita asked. Robin jumped, startled. She had forgotten about Anita.

“No, I don’t think so,” Robin said, not yet ready to tell the truth. “I don’t think that’s Eleanor in the reflection,” she added. “You see it’s not in my photo.”

“But isn’t it strange that we have the same photos?” Anita asked.

“They really aren’t the same,” Robin began to protest again and then shrugged, looking past them. “Yes, very odd…”

“These aren’t the only ones that hung in our apartment,” Anita added. “Katherine has a couple. Of course, Eleanor took most of them. I remember one of that castle – except that along the walkway, under that lamp there, was a handsome man with piercing eyes. I could never forget how those eyes seemed to really see me.”

“A man?” Robin asked, not ready to let on that she’d noticed him. 

“Yes, a tall man in a tweed jacket. I asked about him once but Eleanor just shrugged. She said he was another tourist she’d met walking up to the castle.”

“Is that all she said?” Robin asked.

“Who is that guy?” Jane interjected. She clearly liked this mystery.

“She said they became friends that day. She called him Mattie,” Anita said. “She wouldn’t talk about him any more than that. She said it had ended rather badly and she’d prefer to forget.”

“Why, there’s the same guy,” Anita said, pointing to the shop scene. “I’m sure it’s him. At least, I think so.”

Robin looked closely at the photo. Then she held up Anita’s shop scene. Definitely different windows -- but wasn’t that the same man?

“Recognize him?” Robin turned to Anita.

“Where?” she looked closely. “Oh my, it is him. I never noticed him in that shadow before.”

“What did Eleanor say about him, Anita?” Robin put the photos down, suddenly quite tired, no, “shaky” was what her grandmother would have said in a moment of shock.

Anita saw the anguish in the young woman’s face and took pity on her. “Come into the living room and sit down. I’ll tell you as much as I remember -- which isn’t much.”

Jane hurried into the kitchen to turn on the tea kettle and put cookies on a plate. Then she hurried back into the living room to hear what Anita was saying.

And it wasn’t very much. Eleanor had kept her secrets. She dismissed the man and said she’d rather not talk about him. All Anita could say was that he was a tourist from Australia. She’d met him in Salzburg. She’d fallen in love with the town of Mozart’s birth and while her friends headed for Zurich, she stayed behind for a few days before meeting her friends to go home. “I think she stayed behind to see what developed with that guy -- but that’s only a guess,” Anita said. “She never did tell us what happened to him. But it’s funny he’s in so many of these photos. I guess she hoped he’d come back.”

“But who is he?” Robin wondered aloud. 

Robin recalled the Google listing she’d seen for Sean Carrington the previous day. All she’d found was an old list of Reuters photographers from the mid-1990s. And the birth certificate from Easton listed a man from Britain, not Australia. 

“Anita, do you have anything to do with Reuters?”

“Mmm. No,” Anita replied. 

“Why?”

“ Just a hunch,” Robin answered. “I’m looking for a Reuters photographer named Sean Carrington. I thought maybe you could help me find him.” 

Anita thought for a moment. “Well, I do know someone who works in the D.C. office. I could give you his name. ” 

“Do you think this is him?” Jane asked, pointing to the photo of the castle.

“No, it couldn’t be. Or maybe it could,” she said.

Chapter 9

Every turn took Robin down another dead end street. She hadn’t been able to find that photographer. He seemed to have disappeared. When Anita called her friend at Reuters, he had been agreeable enough but not at all helpful. 

Robin kept looking for Samantha Robin Carrington but couldn’t find her anywhere. She went to Easton early to spend a day going through the “morgue” of the Easton newspaper. A very young clerk had shown her way to the room filled with enormous black leather-bound books. Inside, she slowly turned page after page of yellowing newspapers. At last, she found the article she’d seen online about an accident on the Bay Bridge on Christmas Eve in 2003 that had left the child critically injured. The driver’s name had been held pending family notification in that story. Robin continued to look, hauling down another book as that one came to an end, hoping someone would have written one more story, just one more. But Robin had found no follow-up stories about it. She found the hospital’s name but had no luck there. Medical records were confidential so the hospital staff wouldn’t tell her anything officially. The kind clerk had intimated ever so slightly that the little girl had survived after a tough time of it. But where was the girl? Robin couldn’t find her.

She tried the phone books for Delaware and then the whole Eastern Shore but found no Eleanor Browne or Eleanor Browne Carrington or E. Carrington or E. B. Carrington. She even looked for Sean Matthew Carrington. Nothing.

But the more Robin looked, the more she became convinced that her sister was still alive. The thought left her breathless. She wanted to be overjoyed at the possibility but instead she was confused, even hurt. 

“Why would your sister just disappear like that?” Diane asked Robin. 

The mother and daughter sat in the warm sun on the promenade overlooking the Susquehanna River. The spring-like day hinted at the beautiful weather only a few weeks away but these lifelong Marylanders knew a blizzard could be only a few days off. 

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Robin said, loosening her scarf. “Do you remember how she and Grandmother used to go round and round about Ellen’s going to Australia? Maybe she decided to go.”

“No, she’d have told us. She wasn’t an impulsive girl,” Diane said. “Eleanor planned everything first. And she talked about it forever.”

“She did talk about Australia all the time. We’d go to the mall and she’d talk about the places she would go and the stuff she needed to get,” Robin said. “Maybe she did plan it.”

“And she did have a tendency to be ornery. She went to public school in spite of your objections,” Robin added. “And you didn’t want her to go to Europe with Bill. Remember?”

“No,” Diane said and stood up like she’d been stung. She turned back to the main streets of Havre de Grace. “Eleanor wouldn’t just leave us like that. She wouldn’t. She just couldn’t leave us without saying good-bye or tell us where she was going. I’m going to have to get to work now. I have a group of travel writers who want to see the Decoy Museum.”

Her mother hurried off – without saying good-bye. Robin knew she’d hurt her mother’s feelings. Maybe she blamed herself for Ellen’s disappearance, Robin thought. Or maybe she was angry that Ellen had ignored her advice once again. 

The arguments between Ellen and her mother were few but memorable, Robin recalled. Both mother and daughter were always polite and well-reasoned until Ellen reached the point where she told her mother she was going to do what she wanted to do. 

 Robin hated hearing them fight and had done her best to be agreeable. She followed her mother’s advice about schools, clothes (most of the time), even boyfriends. After Ellen was gone, they became good friends for awhile. At least, until she moved up here. Then, Robin had found herself on her own. By then she was in college and things were different. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, of course. 

 Yet at times like this she longed for that mother. That one sat down and listened when Robin told a story or asked a question. She made time even if she didn’t have it. Diane didn’t work outside the home then, Robin acknowledged, but she was always busy with school committees and volunteer work. She spent so much time planning vacations back then, she was ready for her tourism job when it came along, Robin recalled. That job was only one of the things that kept Robin from her mother. Since her father had died right after she started college, Robin had seen less and less of Diane. She’d sold the family home in Annapolis almost immediately and moved to an old Victorian house in the center of Havre de Grace, more than two hours away. Robin hadn’t understood what drew her there — until she saw the town spread on a spit of land between river and bay. Much as she loved old, colonial Annapolis, she could see why her mother had come to this charming place to begin anew.

And begin anew she did. It wasn’t long before Diane had fallen in love with Andrew Martin, a local tour boat operator. Semi-retired, he kept Robin’s mother busy. They’d married quietly one day, much to Robin’s surprise. And since then, they traveled together a lot, often on his sailboat. In the summer, Robin rarely expected to find her mother at home. She was happy, Robin concluded, and this news about Eleanor wasn’t making her any happier.

 Robin wondered if she was making a mistake by trying to track down a woman who didn’t want to be found. She began the long trip back to Baltimore, ready to give up the search.

Two things made Robin turn north on Route 40 instead of heading toward home. Who was the man in the photos? Why did Eleanor – if it really was Ellen – use her own name so close to home?

She decided to go to the Eastern Shore. She was going to find Bill – Eleanor’s boyfriend who now worked at the University of Delaware. Maybe he could fill her in on some of this story. In her web search, hadn’t she seen something about a book published by Eleanor Browne? Maybe Bill would know something about it. Maybe Bill would have heard of it and know where to find the publisher. 

Maybe Eleanor had wanted to be found all along. Robin hoped so.

Chapter 10

Bill Thomas had spent ten years working at the Smithsonian, but when the chance came to work at a university he took it. He was director of public relations and had fallen in love with an intern the minute he walked into his new office. After Madeleine graduated, the two had married and she’d started looking for an agent for her first novel, set in her hometown of Washington, D.C. When that hadn’t worked out, she’d written a second one -- and this time an agent snapped it up and sold it.

“The publisher is waiting for the final revisions now,” Bill told Robin. “We’re hoping it’s ready before the baby makes his appearance. I can’t believe I’m 38 years old and about to have a child.”

“It sounds like you’ve got everything you want,” Robin said.

“Finally,” he said softly. Bill hadn’t lost the preppy look from his college days. Tall and still slender, he hadn’t changed much. His sandy hair had a touch of silver in it and the dark horn-rimmed glasses certainly gave him a look of authority. They couldn’t hide the eyes that showed every emotion. One thing Bill never had was a poker face. 

“I’m glad,” Robin answered, reaching across his desk to touch his arm.

“You know that trip was a horrible mistake. Even before, well... Even before we lost Eleanor.” Robin followed Bill’s gaze out the window across the tree-filled campus. She could tell he wasn’t seeing the college, at least not this college.

“We had had such a good time the first few days but it wasn’t long before everybody was getting on each other’s nerves. There were six very different opinions on everything. We argued about our schedule. Ellen wanted to stay out late; I like to get up early. I worried about spending too much money and though Ellen was extravagant,” he hesitated and glanced at Eleanor’s little sister before going on. “I was in love with her, you know. I wanted her to, well, be with me. She wasn’t really interested. I thought a month in Europe would be romantic, that she’d come around. Instead there were four other people between us.”

“I’m sorry, Bill. My parents had already talked about a wedding...we thought for sure—”

“Well, so did I. By the time we got to Salzburg we were barely speaking. Ellen started going out on her own, said she’d met up with some really great people. She even planned a trip to a ski resort up on a glacier. I’d never heard of skiing in May, but it turns out you can ski in the Alps in May.”

“Then she decided to stay behind when we were supposed to go to Zurich. She was so secretive, I didn’t understand. And Jean, who was supposedly her best friend, was furious. She didn’t know what was going on. I gave Ellen the Zurich hostel phone number and asked her one more time to come with us. She tossed the number on the desk and just said no, she had other things to do. She did promise to meet up with us there before we had to go home.”

Robin remembered how Eleanor’s disappearance had been as hard on Bill as it had on her own family. He had felt guilty about going on to Zurich and leaving Eleanor in Salzburg. He had heard about the gondola crash and had raced back to Salzburg, looking for Eleanor. She’d been gone from the hostel for three days by then — and when Bill found all her belongings still in the hostel room, he was beside himself with grief. He thought for sure Ellen had gone skiing.  The police hadn’t found any trace of her at the accident site.  

“I answered questions from so many policemen but I sure didn’t know anything,” he remembered. “Our dream trip became the trip from hell.”

“I always wished I could have done more,” he said after a long silence. Robin thought she could see him replaying the scenes as he gazed out the window to the windswept campus beyond. “I went through all her stuff looking for a clue about what happened to her. When I couldn’t find her camera bag, I kept hoping she might still be alive. I still believe she might be alive.”

“Bill,” Robin said, not sure what to say next.

“What’s on your mind, Robin?” he said, turning to her. 

“I think Eleanor might be alive,” she said. If she expected him to be startled, she was the one who was surprised. He only looked more mournful. But she didn’t expect him to say what he told her.

“Eleanor is alive, I feel certain of it. I tried to reach you and your parents after I found a book a few years back. I was rummaging around in a bookstore right after I moved here and came across a book with a picture on the cover I was sure I recognized. I knew I had been in the darkroom at college when Ellen printed it — or one like it,” Bill said.

“We had gone up to Kent County together during senior year, looking for historic homes for a final project she needed to do. I was sure the cover photo was one of hers.”

“Do you have this book?” Robin asked, feeling like she was finally getting somewhere.

“Yeah, it’s here somewhere,” he said, glancing around his well-ordered office. He walked over to a low bookcase and scanned the titles. “It’s a little hard to miss,” he said. “It’s a coffee-table sized book. Here it is.”

The byline wasn’t Ellen’s. An architect, Kelly Larkin, had written the book, with photos from a half-dozen photographers. One of them was Eleanor Carrington. “See the photo here of these captain’s houses? Ellen and I went out in a little rowboat on the Chester River to shoot those. The angles are a little odd – that’s how I know it’s one Ellen took.”

Robin turned the pages to find the copyright. A year after Eleanor disappeared. How could that be possible? 

“So you think this is our Eleanor?” Robin asked as she leafed through the big, heavy book.

“I didn’t believe it at first. I figured she sold the photo while she was still in college,” Bill said. “I mean, how could Eleanor disappear in Europe and reappear right under our noses here? It seemed impossible. I guess I could have called the publisher about where the picture came from but, well....”

“And then you called us?” 

“I thought you should know but the phone had been disconnected. I didn’t know how to reach you.

“Mom had moved by then; Dad had died,” Robin murmured as she turned pages. Robin knew — at least she thought — she held proof in her hands that her sister was alive. She didn’t know where but she was convinced Ellen was still alive.

She chatted with her sister’s old friend for a little while longer, remembering happy days when she went on “dates” with the two of them. She’d had her own crush on Bill once upon a time and hoped she’d find someone like him. Now he seemed to have found happiness. Ensconced in a bright office overlooking the sprawling campus, Bill looked happy. Robin couldn’t help but wonder how Eleanor ever left this wonderful man behind?

Chapter 11

“I don’t have a phone number or address for Eleanor Carrington,” the young woman said. “I’m sorry. Oh, hold on. Rob has come up with a contact at least. Harris North, an artists’ agent in Washington, D.C. Maybe that will help?”

Robin had been on hold so long while the editorial assistant looked for information about her sister, she’d given up hope. She’d stared out the window while she waited. The bright sun and slight tinge of color on the bare tree branches hinted that spring was finally coming. Robin watched a young mother push a stroller down the street; both were bundled against the cold. She knew she should know the mother’s name; she tried to remember while she waited for the contact’s number. 

 “Here’s Mr. North’s number, Ms. Browne,” the young assistant said.

As Robin dialed the agent’s number she got excited. It never failed. Every lead made her heart race. When Bill handed her the book with Eleanor’s picture, the excitement grew.

When she called the author – Kelly Larkin told her she wouldn’t be much help since she had had nothing to do with the photographers – Robin could barely breathe. “Maybe you could talk to my editor. His name is Rob Warnock,” the architect offered. Robin grew faint at the offer. She scribbled down the name and number in her notebook, thanked the woman and dialed the new number. Not much progress, she thought, but every shred of information gave her hope. 

But Warnock hadn’t remembered Eleanor and didn’t have time even to talk about her. Deadlines, the editor explained, and handed her off to his assistant Aliyah Massoud. As she waited for Aliyah to return to the phone Robin began to wonder if anyone remembered Eleanor anymore. Aliyah was brand new to the company and hadn’t even seen the book. But in a fresh burst of enthusiasm, the young woman offered to go through the old files and look for a phone number or address. Or would Robin rather call back?

Robin knew better than to hang up. Stay on the line until she got what she needed, she told herself. She feared that if she did hang up, Aliyah would get distracted and never call back. What’s a long distance bill when this might lead to a long lost sister?

Pressing the speakerphone button while she waited, Robin went to Google’s home page. She typed in all these new names: Smithson Cannon Publishers, Rob Warnock, Aliyah Massoud.

The publisher was a fairly new one with offices in London and New York. It specialized in architecture and most of the titles were technical. The company also published a series of books about architectural history, like Eleanor’s book. She found books about Cairo, Williamsburg, Santa Fe, the Cotswolds and Chicago. 

Rob Warnock, it turned out, had edited them all. Robin wondered if any of the other 10 pages of entries could be about the same guy: sports reporter in Columbia, Md., rock music writer in Baltimore, travel writer in New York City.  It was a colorful list of entries, she thought. 

Aliyah’s name turned up nothing. She found an entry for a would-be politician in Israel but nothing else. That seemed too far-fetched, she thought, as she closed her laptop.

Aliyah finally came back with Harris North’s phone number and once again as she dialed the number, Robin felt her heart race as her arms grew limp. 

“Harris North,” a deep voice rumbled into the phone.

Robin drew a deep breath and began to tell her story.

“Eleanor has a sister,” Harris chuckled as she finished talking.

“Then you know her!” Robin couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“I haven’t seen Eleanor in many years,” he told her. 

“How did you know her?” Robin asked, not sure she wanted to hear his answer.

“We met when she was studying at Salisbury,” he said. “I had an art gallery in Chestertown then and she drove up to see me from time to time. She studied everything on my walls and then grilled me about photography. She wanted to know why I didn’t show more photos. I got the impression she drove the length of the Eastern Shore asking gallery owners the same questions.”

“Frankly, I was tired of the whole Eastern Shore art scene by then. Ducks and geese, farms and old houses. I didn’t want another photo of a pretty Eastern Shore scene. Photographers seem to think they have to take a picture of everything ‘before it disappears.’ Don’t get me wrong. I respect that. I just didn’t want to show it in my gallery any more,” he said.

“Did you ever show her photos?” Robin asked.

“Well, no. She wasn’t ready yet and I told her then I wasn’t interested. Not yet, anyway. I told her to come back in a few years.”

“She’s a talented photographer,” Harris added. 

“Was, you mean,” Robin interjected.

“Was? Has she given it up?”

“She died in Europe 15 years ago,”

“That’s impossible. I represented her at an art show in D.C. not 10 years ago,” he said.

Robin didn’t know how to react. “You can’t be right,” she thought. Yet she knew this man had just confirmed that Ellen was still alive. But where was she? And why hadn’t she at least called home?

“Miss? Is everything all right?” Harris finally asked after the silence grew uncomfortably long.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. Um, thanks,” Robin said. 

She hung up the receiver and stared at the phone. She didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. Should she call her mother? No, wait, she really didn’t know anything. She hadn’t gotten any information from that man. Why did she hang up so soon? It might not even be her Eleanor. She knew it was. Her mind was racing. And the pain she felt made it impossible to talk. Robin sat so still, looking at the phone.

“No more,” she finally said, standing up and glancing out her window. She rubbed her temples, cooling off her hot face with her ice-cold fingers. She needed to get away from this. She grabbed her coat and headed out the door. Cross Street Market would distract her. Maybe she’d get some fresh coconut and marzipan and bake macaroons this afternoon. 

The sun had gone behind thick clouds and snow was beginning to coat the sidewalks as she locked her front door. Just when it was beginning to look like spring was on its way, winter returned. That’s Baltimore for you, Robin thought. It would be a good afternoon for baking.

“Hey, good looking!” a man called from behind Robin as she locked the front door. She turned to see who it could possibly be. Jim Arnold, a newcomer to Federal Hill, was quick with a smile and loved to talk. They’d met at Christmas at a neighborhood party. She hadn’t planned to go but when she mentioned the party to Jane and Parker at brunch that morning, they’d convinced her to go. As usual, she found herself nursing a glass of wine and trying to remember names. Jim had introduced himself and then ended up talking until the party ended. He talked; she was entranced. And then after the party she hadn’t seen him even once until today.

“Hello, yourself,” Robin said, trying to remember how she looked. She’d found the 30-ish stockbroker quite interesting and kept her hopes up that he’d notice her someday. Really notice her.

“Where are you going on such an ugly afternoon?” he asked, tucking her arm under his.

“Just the market. It seems like cookie-baking weather to me,” she said, hoping her face didn’t register anything from her disturbing phone calls. 

“Mmmm,” he said. “Chocolate chip? Sugar?”

“Macaroons, you know coconut? Almond? So what have you been up to?”

Jim launched into a story about his fabulously busy afternoon. He was hunting down a snow shovel, he said, emphasizing his South Carolina accent. The first one he’d ever needed. Robin laughed at him and enjoyed watching those deep brown eyes twinkle when he knew he was making her laugh. 

“Well, come along. We’ll make this an outing,” he said. Jim talked as they walked down Light Street, filling Robin in on all the neighborhood gossip. He knew more of her neighbors than she did, Robin was shocked to learn, until she thought about how many of the high-priced rowhouses now had new, upwardly-mobile owners. She considered herself an old-timer — but only because her grandmother had lived in her house first. 

Cross Street Market is one of Baltimore’s gems. Forget about the museums or Harborplace or Oriole Park. This was Baltimore on a true local level. Safeway was only a short drive away — and maybe the prices were cheaper, who knows? — but Robin liked to come here. She knew the vendors by name. She trusted them. Besides, it was fun to scan the rows of chickens and steaks or lust for one of those sugary desserts or breathe in the aromas of all the bunches of flowers.

“Think we can find a shovel here?” Jim asked. 

“If we don’t, come borrow mine,” Robin replied.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said and gave her shoulders a squeeze. 

Neither was surprised when not one stall had a shovel left. Robin wasn’t disappointed, either. She liked the stockbroker. She thought he looked a little stiff — so tall and crisply dressed in a dark suit and wingtips  — when they first met. It wasn’t long before he turned on his ready smile and she heard that soft accent for the first time. Now, she liked the way this was turning out. 

They wandered the stalls as she picked up fresh coconut, butter, eggs and a bottle of wine. Jim stopped at one of the many flower vendors and picked out a bunch of pale pink tulips.

“For you, my dear,” he said, presenting the flowers.

Robin blushed. “Why thank you sir!” she replied.

“No thank you. This was a much better way to spend my afternoon.” Jim took her bags and her hand as they headed back into the cold.

“May I borrow your shovel, ma’am?” Jim asked as he returned Robin to her front door. 

“Only if you promise to return it right away,” she said, digging it out of the hall closet. He bowed, kissed her cheek and watched her enter her house.

It had felt good to think about something else, she thought as she dumped her grocery bags on the kitchen table. Did she hear a shovel scraping her front sidewalk?

Robin peeked out the front window, and there he was, the man of her dreams scraping an inch of snow off her walk. It made her smile to see such a gallant act — she wouldn’t have started shoveling until she was sure it wouldn’t melt on its own. (This is Baltimore, after all. Tomorrow’s temperature could be in the 60s.) 

She picked up the wine to put in the cabinet and turned back to the door. She opened the door to ask Jim in for a glass but he was gone.

Robin turned back toward the kitchen with a sigh. She wasn’t really interested in cookies, she thought. The trip to the market had only diverted her from the confusion in her head. Her mind raced with questions as she stood at her table. She needed to know more. What had happened? She wasn’t sure she could take another phone call, though. It was getting to be too much for her. 

No, she decided. No more searching. She shook her head before she pulled out her mixing bowls and measuring spoons and found her grandmother’s macaroon recipe. The pre-heating oven and the sweet smell of coconut and vanilla were soon warming the kitchen. Making those cookies soothed her and the pleasant thought of plying her neighbor with warm cookies kept her going. Batch after batch of soft, golden brown cookies came out of the oven. In a nod to Jim’s love of chocolate, she melted a block of dark chocolate and dipped a dozen cookies in the rich liquid. 

She had barely finished wrapping the plate in plastic wrap when the phone rang again.

 “Hello, Miss Browne?” She recognized Harris’s booming voice immediately. She carefully laid the plate on the server and made herself sit down at the kitchen table.

“Yes, hello,” she said.

“Sorry to bother you but I could tell you were upset when you hung up.”

“I really can’t talk about it now,” Robin began.

“I don’t understand what’s going on but –“

“No, you don’t. You’ve just told me my sister is alive when we mourned her death the summer after she graduated from college. You’ve just told me my sister is living a secret life and wants nothing to do with her mother or her sister.  I don’t know where she is, what she is doing or why she disappeared. I don’t know,” Robin said, breaking off to stop a sob. She hung up the phone. 

The snow outside grew thick as the sun began to set. The path Jim had cleared was already covered over. Robin sat in the darkening room. She felt terrible that she had snapped at a stranger – but she’d never felt so alone. Or betrayed. She bit into one of her cookies.  But it didn’t soothe her as she hoped it would

How could Eleanor have done this? Robin was hurt, but anger filled her more. It seemed that the sister she had loved – and looked up to – had abandoned her. She’d disappeared to start a new life. She’d never said good-bye. She’d decided to have nothing to do with her own family ever again. How could she be so mean? And why? What did they do to make her go away? 

Robin found herself fighting the urge to lash out – at what? At whom? She was alone. All alone. Feelings she had put away years ago when Eleanor had disappeared welled up. She remembered those long, dark nights of loss and anger. She was just a little girl then. She’d grown up. She’d survived. She wasn’t going to go through her bedroom tearing up things the way she had when she had realized one long, lonely night that her big sister wouldn’t come back. That night, her mother had told her to face facts: her sister was probably dead. She remembered the anger she felt, anger at her sister and her mother. She’d raced off to her little room, cried until she felt hollow and then crashed around the room until she was too tired to go on.

She felt that same anger again -- anger and helplessness. If tearing things up and throwing herself around would help, she would have done it again. She looked around her shadowy kitchen and reasoned she’d only hurt herself. She didn’t remember such anger. It was overwhelming. 

She picked up the phone and dialed Jane’s number. No, she wasn’t alone. She had her sidekick. “Jane, it seems I have another clue.”

“Are you okay?” Jane asked, sensing her friend’s anger.

“Yes, well, no, not really. I just told off a total stranger.”

“That’s not like you. It’s more like me,” Jane said and Robin had to agree with her. Jane wasn’t one to hold back. She was glad she’d called her old friend and she told her the whole story. 

“On a happier note, I have to tell you about my shopping expedition with a very charming man,” Robin said, feeling so much better.

“Man! You’re wandering the streets of Baltimore with a handsome man and you’re telling me an old Nancy Drew story instead,” Jane exclaimed. “What’s gotten into you? Forget about that old man upsetting you. Pack up those cookies and head down the street, girl. I can’t believe you’re wasting time. I’m hanging up now. Call me tomorrow and tell me all about Mr. May-Be-The-One. I cannot believe you. School’s going to be canceled so call early, unless you, well, can’t...” 

“Good-bye Jane,” Robin hung up while her friend was still carrying on. She was right, Robin realized. It probably was best to leave her sister alone. Tonight she was taking those cookies over to Jim. And the bottle of wine, too. Suddenly, it looked like she had a future. It had never occurred to Robin that she’d somehow put her life on hold in the last few weeks — or had it really been years? For too long, she’d kept people at arm’s length until she hadn’t had a close friend (except Jane) or a boyfriend in a long time. Her sister was gone, her mother was far away. Her father and grandmother were dead. She was tired of being alone, she realized. She’d felt a warmth today she barely remembered. Jim didn’t know anything about her but he cared. It was time for her to start living.  

She’d been searching for more than a month, now. All she’d really found was a living sister who didn’t want her. All she’d uncovered was hurt and anger and confusion. She didn’t need it. And she certainly didn’t need a sister who didn’t want her. She swallowed hard and said to herself. “Eleanor is dead.”