“I’m interested in accessing a birth certificate,” she told him. “Can you recommend how to go about that?” If she could find Ian O’Reilly’s birth certificate, she’d learn his mother’s name, his father’s name, his place of birth, and more that might help her locate him.
“Are you the person named on the birth certificate?”
“I’m not.”
“Are you a primary family member of the person named?”
“I’m not.”
“Sorry, but those are the only two categories qualified to request birth certificates.”
“Ah. I see.”
“You can get a look at some of the information provided on birth certificates through census records.”
“How long after a census is taken is it released to the public?”
“Seventy-two years.”
“Thank you.”
Leah walked toward her parking space. Ian O’Reilly wouldn’t have been born seventy-two years ago, so the census would be no help. Bonnie O’Reilly, however, likely would have been born by then if Joyce had estimated her age accurately.
As soon as she settled behind the wheel of her Honda, she logged into YourHeritage.com. She clicked on the tab for census records and began typing in Bonnie’s last name—
Stopped.
Joyce had said that Bonnie was a single mother when they worked together. But if Bonnie had been married back when she’d had her child . . . then O’Reilly was likely Bonnie’s married name. When the census was taken more than seven decades ago, Bonnie would have been a girl. Her last name would not have been O’Reilly. Her last name would have been her maiden name.
Still, it was worth a shot to search for census records for Bonnie O’Reilly. Maybe Bonnie had never married. Or maybe she had, but had kept her maiden name all her life.
Leah filled in the scant information she knew about Bonnie and ran a search for census records pertaining to her.
No promising matches whatsoever.
She lowered the phone to her lap with a frustrated exhale.
The second Sebastian entered the coffee shop and saw Leah, he knew something was wrong.
His workday had passed incredibly slowly because he’d looked at his watch every few minutes to see how many hours remained until his afternoon break and the chance to see Leah. Now he was finally here. She sat at a small table inside the crowded interior, two cups of coffee before her, talking to someone on her phone. Her eyes blazed accusation at him.
A quicksand sensation overtook his chest. A sinking down, down, down.
“I see,” she said to the caller. “Thank you very much for your time.” A pause. “All the best.” Another pause. “Good-bye.”
She pushed her phone into her purse and frowned. Then she carried her cup from the shop. He followed, throwing away his drink when he passed the trash can because, if she was mad at him—which she was—then he definitely couldn’t stomach coffee.
She marched into the mouth of a nearby alley, her shoulders stiff beneath the same bright pink sweater she’d worn the day of the farmers market. Brick buildings, dumpsters, and weeds lined the sides of the alley. Above, white clouds that looked like whipped cream blocked the sun.
They faced each other. Her, beautiful. Him, standing very still in his pale blue business shirt and gray suit pants. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Her eyebrows drew together. “While I was waiting for you, I called the dean of the fine arts school at Georgia Southern to thank him for his interest in Dylan. He was very cordial. During our conversation I asked him how Dylan’s drawings had come to his attention. He told me that his favorite niece’s little boy had been born with a hole in his heart, and that Dr. Grant at the Clinic for Pediatric and Congenital Heart Diseases had performed a fabulously successful surgery. Dylan was brought to the dean’s attention by Dr. Grant himself, who called the dean to alert him to Dylan’s application. The dean informed me that I’m very fortunate to have the esteemed Dr. Grant in my brother’s corner.”
He kept his face impassive. His heart thudded in his eardrums, which was stupid. His heart didn’t thud like this when he was cutting on a child’s aorta.
“I told you about the dean’s email concerning Dylan on Saturday,” she continued, “and you said . . . What did you say? I think you said, ‘Good for him.’ You most definitely did not say that you were the one who’d . . . who’d—” she sliced a hand through the air—“manufactured the dean’s interest in Dylan!”
“I don’t have the power to manufacture anyone’s interest. I simply called the dean to tell him about a promising new recruit.”
“And, no doubt, to ask him to keep us in mind for scholarships.”
“Yes,” he admitted.
Color flared on her cheeks. “So. Not only did you go behind my back to pull some strings, but then you didn’t come clean about your involvement when you had the chance.”
She was blowing this all out of proportion. “I know the college applications have been hard on you and Dylan. When I found out that he’d applied to Georgia Southern and realized I had a contact there, I wanted to do something to help. So I called the dean. But I planned to keep my involvement anonymous—”
“Because you knew I wouldn’t like it. But you got caught.”
“I got caught doing something good for your brother.”
She scowled at him. “Dylan and I are not helpless. We are not incapable. We are not incompetent! We don’t need a Daddy Warbucks to pull strings for us behind our backs!”
“I know you’re not helpless—”
“That’s not what your actions say.” A strand of hair slipped over one eye. She shoved it back. “Do you, with your degrees and your money, pity Dylan and me?”
“No.” But honestly, how could he not pity her? She was supposed to have accepted a full ride to Princeton.
“I think that you do pity us,” she said, reading his mind. “Which annoys me no end because, in case you’d failed to notice, I’m an exceptionally independent person. My job is important and satisfying. Dylan and I are doing fine. We don’t need necklaces or graphing calculators or art supplies or hubcaps or phone calls to deans. My affection can’t be bought. So, please. No more.”
His temper stirred. “I was trying to lend a hand.”
“But you didn’t ask me first before involving yourself in something that pertains to my brother.” She drew herself tall. “I’ve been taking care of him for a long time, and you can trust that I will continue to take care of him. We don’t need your intervention.”
“Everybody needs the help of others sometimes, Leah.”
“I don’t need help from you. At all.”
Sebastian crossed his arms and said nothing.
“Well?” she said, clearly waiting for him to tell her he was sorry.
For making a phone call for her brother’s sake? He wasn’t sorry. “If you think I’m going to apologize, I’m not.”
Without another word, she stalked from the alley and down the sidewalk.
Seething inside, he watched her go.
Turn around, Leah.
She didn’t.