She was tiny, barely five feet, and looked oddly familiar to him. Her frame was petite, hair dark, olive skin, and light eyes. She reminded him of someone. At first, he thought it was because she bore a striking resemblance to the actress Ana de Armas, in fact it could be her in five or ten years. But then he realized she eerily resembled of Michael’s wife, Teresa, and Poppy’s mom, Kerri. His father definitely had a type.
He knew, without her saying a word, this was Selma Montez, his mother.
When Deacon realized he was just standing there staring mutely as he tried to reconcile reality, he finally spoke, “Hi, I’m?—”
“Deacon.” Her lip quivered and two tears ran down her face. “You finally came.”
She stared up at him, still looking at him in disbelief, and then a dog barked and she blinked. “Come in, come in!” Selma said, stepping aside with a practiced hostess’s efficiency, welcoming them into a large foyer where a pack of very well-behaved dogs waited. Four of them, two German Shepherds and two yellow Labs, sat with tails thumping against the stone entry, excitedly ready to meet new guests.
“Finally?” he asked, catching up to what she’d originally said as she ushered them inside.
“Hi.” Deacon and Jenna both bent down and said hello to the dogs. “Hello.”
Selma pointed to each in turn. “That’s Ranger, Rex, Lady, and Duchess.”
“Oh my goodness, what gorgeous angels!” Jenna said, basking in the puppy party.
Deacon straightened and turned to Selma. “So… you know who I am.”
“What?” Selma’s brow furrowed. “Of…of course I do. The letters…”
“What letters?” Deacon was confused.
Selma’s face went blank, then the color drained. “Just…wait right here.” She turned and walked down a hallway. Deacon watched, and halfway down she touched the wall, bracing herself, as if her knees were about to buckle.
Jenna straightened and whispered, “Do you know what letters she’s talking about?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, touching his forearm.
He nodded. “She looks like Poppy’s mom and Michael’s wife.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” she agreed.
“Have you met them?” he asked.
“I did, at Frankie’s wedding.”
“Oh right.” He kept forgetting how long she’d lived in town and that she knew so many people.
He stared at the hallway until Selma returned with a stack of envelopes wrapped in string and handed them to Deacon. “These letters.”
His hands shook as he looked down and flipped through them, seeing there were cards and letters written to him, addressed to his childhood home: Deacon St. Claire from Selma Montez, then Selma Montez-Lockhart, then Selma Lockhart. Every single one was marked “Return to Sender” in a cold, impersonal rubber stamp. There were also several letters addressed from him to her, which was impossible, because Deacon knew that he had never, not once, written a letter to his birth mother that he found out about a week ago.
What the fuck?!
He walked over and set the stack down on the console table, untied the twine with fingers that shook more than they should, and grabbed the first letter supposedly sent by “him.” It was dated a month before his eighteenth birthday. He was already at MIT. He didn’t even live at his parent’s home address. The handwriting was unfamiliar, a tight, almost angry cursive he didn’t recognize. The signature, though, hit him like a slap.
Selma,
Having you contact me has been a disruption to my life. I do not know you. You made your choice and gave me up. I am not your son, I have parents. You have your own sons. Please focus on them and forget about me.
I have not had any rights of my own until now because of the agreement you had with my parents. I am terminating that agreement. If you contact me again, I will take legal action.
Deacon St. Claire
He read the closing line three times, then a fourth, heat rising up the back of his neck. He’d never seen this letter before, but the signature was unmistakable. He’d watched his father sign hundreds of checks, contracts, and holiday cards with exactly that angular, self-important flourish. He couldn’t disguise how he signed his own last name no matter how much he’d tried to. It wasn’t just a forgery, it was a deliberate effort to mimic Deacon’s signature, but a piss-poor effort. His stomach pitched.
