Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri

I sigh. But I open my purse to pull out the bills I got this morning, nonetheless. I need to pay them and do some back of the napkin calculations to figure out how long we can survive on my savings.

However, my heart stops when I see the letter I forgot.

The one from R. Smith.

Chapter Four

For some reason, my heart is pounding as I take the letter out.

I once again read the name in the front corner. R. Smith followed by the South Dakota address. My chest tightens with fear. And it takes me a while, but eventually, I turn it over and run my finger under the triangular seam.

Inside I find a single piece of notebook paper, wide-ruled like the stuff in the Mead notebooks. But the writing is pretty. It’s a smooth feminine cursive similar to my mother’s who’d been drilled on neat handwriting at the Lutheran schools she’d attended until the age of eighteen.

For that reason, I guess who R. Smith is even before I start reading.

Dear Cynda,

This is Reina writing. We haven’t ever met that you would remember, but I’m Marilee’s sister.

Yes, Reina! That was her name! I remember now. Reina, the wild sister whose name was only spoken in whispers at Smith family picnics.

But as it turns out that was all I was right about. The next few lines stop my heart….

I’m writing to tell you a family secret we’ve been keeping from you for years. Marilee raised you. She was your mother. Your real mother. I’ll never deny her that.

But I’m just now finding out about your father’s death, and realizing that you’re alone in the world, probably thinking you’re an orphan. So I’m hoping it brings you some solace to know, that though Marilee was your mother true, I’m your birth mother.

I know this is probably coming as a complete shock to you. When Marilee and Mac agreed to keep you, it was on the condition that I never come back to Missouri. Never try to see you.

It still feels like I’m betraying some promise by doing it now. She and mama didn’t answer when I wrote them my amends, and I’m pretty sure that was because they wanted me to stay gone. But my guilt isn’t any worry of yours.

Anyways, I live in South Dakota. And I’m twelve years sober. Maybe you have some questions for me or just want to talk? Whatever you need, please don’t hesitate to call me. Here’s all my information.

I read but don’t necessarily see the telephone number and email written out below.

No. She couldn’t be. This has to be some kind of trick.

But as soon as I think that, I somehow know it isn’t.

Because suddenly everything makes sense. Why Mama said what she said about there being room for only one beauty per family. Why I once overheard her talking to a friend about how she couldn’t have kids, even though I was right there. Why my older parents treated me like a miracle and doted on me more than most parents did. Why the wild sister who’d tried to apologize had never been made prodigal by her church going kin.

The sound of the doorbell interrupts my series of revelations.

And proving that teenagers have the attention span of fish, both twins appear at the top of the stairs.

“Who is it?” A demands.

“It’s probably one of my friends wondering why I’m not at August the Fifth’s party,” E answers.

“Why wouldn’t they just text you?” A asks her, his tone snide.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m popular and people actually like me enough to show up in person?” E answers back, her tone ten times snider.

I ignore them both in favor of opening the front door.

Only to freeze at the sight of the handsome man standing on my doorstep, his hand raised as if he were planning to knock just in case the doorbell wasn’t working.

It’s Rhys!

The Fine Prince is back and standing on my doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“This is where I live.” I blink at him, barely able to believe I’m seeing Rhys Prince for the second time in one day after three years without a word. “What are you doing here?”

He holds up the ad I posted at Coffee Me Bleu, the café/art gallery on Main Street. “I’m in need of a place to stay within walking distance of the clinic for a few months. And apparently there are no other vacancies in town at the moment.”

Now I’m really blinking. Is he serious? Judging from the expectant look on his face, he totally is.

“No,” I tell him. “You fired me. There’s no way I’m letting you stay here.”

He tilts his head. “Is that so. The chatty barista informed me that you really needed the money, so you’d be happy to let me stay. She was the one who suggested I walk right over. Though obviously she didn’t mention you by name.”