Leaves Of Hope. Catherine Palmer

radical change from her watercolor bouquets.

      Perhaps such an alteration was more fundamental than Beth supposed. Curious about her mother’s art, she peeked behind the coats and sweaters in the closet. What sort of people could Jan Lowell be sketching? Rose-cheeked children? Ladies in pink flowered gowns? The high school students she had taught so many years? All of them looking vaguely like Native Americans…

      Smiling at the thought, Beth knelt and pushed aside a cardboard box in search of an artist’s pad or a hidden portfolio. The new sketches were probably in her mom’s bedroom, stashed away until she deemed them ready for presentation. In the past, Jan always held a little ceremony, complete with chocolate cake and punch at which she debuted her latest rose paintings. Her children chose their favorite, and their mother framed it—hanging the selected piece in a special place beside the front door.

      As Beth began to uncurl from the floor, she spotted a black-marker notation on the cardboard box she had pushed aside in the closet. “For Beth,” it read. The carton wasn’t large, and she wondered what could be inside it. Old school papers or childhood treasures? Perhaps a collection of mementos from Beth’s grandparents or sweet old Nanny, the children’s favorite babysitter?

      Beth ran her hand over the tape that sealed the carton. Odd that this box had been so well packed while the others in the room were simply folded in on themselves. She shouldn’t open it. Her mother had told her not to touch anything in the room. Hands off. But this carton was clearly meant to be Beth’s. “For Beth,” it announced in bold black ink.

      Glancing at the door, she noted that the house had fallen silent. Her mom might be upset with her for opening a box so carefully sealed, but maybe their talking about the items would draw them closer together. It would be interesting to see what bits and pieces had been saved from the big house, the old life in Tyler, where school and friends and family had been all Beth knew of the world.

      As she popped the tape and the carton’s flaps sprang up, Beth saw she had guessed correctly. Relics of the past. Her baby blanket—a soft knit in shades of white and pink—lay on top. A tag fluttering from one corner read, “Crocheted for Beth Lowell by her mother, Jan.” Next she lifted her red velvet Christmas dress with its row of tiny holly leaves across the hem. Her mother had printed on the tag, “Beth’s church dress when she was three years old.” Farther down, she unearthed small white shoes, worn and battered, her first pair. A sealed envelope under the shoes had been printed in her mother’s handwriting, “A curl from Beth’s first haircut.”

      Continuing to sift through the box, Beth found more carefully packed mementos. Jan Lowell’s handwritten tags provided each item’s history. How sweet that her mother had saved these things…cherished and gently tended, like the daughter who once had worn them. Misty-eyed, Beth ran her fingers over a lumpy mass of bubble wrap taped around some bulky object. As she lifted the keepsake from the bottom of the box, she saw it had no label.

      Sniffling, Beth began to peel away the plastic wrap. She had the best mother in the world. Chocolate-chip cookies and cold milk after school, freshly ironed dresses for church, a new lunch box every year and paintings of roses beside the front door. Unlike many of her friends, Beth had been held in her daddy’s arms and fed with her mother’s warm love and nourished by all the security, peace and hope her parents had been able to provide. How truly blessed she was.

      As the bubble wrap crackled and fell open, Beth smiled at the sight of still more roses. A small sugar bowl, pale ivory with tiny pink, blue and yellow blossoms scattered across it, lay nestled in the plastic. How beautiful and delicate it was. She set aside the sugar bowl and discovered the plastic wrap held two more items. She lifted a creamer rimmed in gold, and then a teapot, plump with a curved spout that surely would never spill a drop.

      Who had these belonged to? Beth couldn’t recall ever seeing them. Brushing her damp cheek, she turned over the sugar bowl and read the name of the manufacturer. Grimwade, Royal Winton. How fragile and perfect it was. At last, she cradled the teapot in her lap and peeked under its lid. A thrill ran up her spine as she spied a folded piece of paper lying at the bottom. She opened the note and read her mother’s inscription.

      “Beth, this tea set was given to me by your birth father, Thomas Wood. He was a good man.”

      The words sat on the page, unmoving, clearly legible, yet indecipherable. “Your birth father.” What did that mean? Beth read the note again. “Your birth father, Thomas Wood.” That wasn’t right. Her father was John Lowell, history professor at Tyler Junior College, barbecue king, TV football addict, Halloween treat dispenser, Easter egg hider and picture of health until he was stricken at fifty by Lou Gehrig’s disease and died at fifty-three.

      Beth picked up the teapot and studied it. Whose was this thing? Not hers. She didn’t have a birth father. She had a father. This “Beth” on the label must be another girl. A different person entirely.

      Confusion filled her as she glanced at the items scattered on the floor. These had been hers. The Christmas dress. The lock of hair. But not this tea set. Not this birth father. Not this Thomas Wood.

      But the china had been packed and put away in Beth’s box. The note inside began with her name. “Beth…this tea set…your birth father…Thomas Wood…a good man…”

      Impossible. No way.

      Shaking, Beth got to her feet and gathered up the teapot along with the bubble wrap and the note. This would make sense in a minute. Things would fall into place. The world would come back together.

      As Beth stepped out into the living room, the lid clinked against the teapot. “Mom?” she called out. “Mother, where are you?”

      Chapter Two

      Jan pushed her toes down to the very end of the bed and wiggled them inside her socks. No matter what time of year, her feet were always cold. Her husband had gotten used to it after a while. Sometimes in the night John would roll over, gather her in his arms and let her tuck her feet between his. Even now, two years after his death, she could recall the warmth of his feet seeping through her socks and between her toes. Human warmth. Male warmth. A heating pad or an electric blanket could never replicate that. How she missed him.

      Moving to the lake had been a good idea, Jan confirmed to herself once again. She pulled the quilt up to her neck and listened to the utter silence outside her bedroom window. A small neighborhood surrounded her own little cottage, but at this time of night no one stirred. The couple next to her had retired years before. Another widow—in her nineties—lived catty-corner across the street. Few of the homes belonged to permanent residents. Most people came and went on weekends. RVs pulled into driveways. Boats and Jet Skis zipped across the water. Outdoor grills scented the air with barbecue and charcoal. Firecrackers popped, and dogs howled. But by Sunday night, the weekenders had gone away, and the lake resumed its peaceful repose.

      Though she hated to admit it, Jan knew she would feel relief when her daughter loaded the rental car and sped away, too. After a sudden change of plans gave her a free weekend, Beth had arrived at the lake house unannounced. Her shoulder-length dark hair slightly mussed from leaning back against an airplane seat, she wore a tight black top, a black skirt that clung to her nonexistent hips and a black jacket. To Jan, none of the fabrics matched, but Beth never noticed details like that. Leather, denim and silk—well, they’re all black, Beth would argue. Despite her annoyance at her mother’s predictability, Beth hadn’t changed much, either. She had always been difficult…so odd and indecipherable.

      Her younger brothers were teddy bears—freckled and floppy replicas of their pudgy, amiable father. They laughed, wrestled, accidentally knocked things over, told jokes and rolled along with good-natured ease. Bobby had clowned his way through school and almost succeeded in goofing off his entire college career. Now he held a job with a computer company in Houston, but Jan had little doubt that he was still making everyone around him laugh. Billy had been so easygoing, happy to just hang around his big brother and play with his friends and do his chores. He had just graduated from Texas A&M and was back in Tyler working for one of the rose nurseries.

      But