“We named her Marlene,” Stacia said thickly.
“Beautiful.”
Stacia nodded. “She was. She was beautiful, Posey. And I still think of her. Every day.” She wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “Sit back down, honey. I’m not done.”
Posey obeyed.
Stacia looked at the table, her finger tracing the pattern in the painted enamel. “We adopted you two years later. And you were perfect and healthy and beautiful, too, but I was so afraid of losing you, too, in any way. I had nightmares about you drowning, or being kidnapped, or forgetting you on the ironing board.”
“The ironing board?”
Stacia shrugged. She was quiet for a long moment. “With Henry,” she said eventually, “it was different. Oh, I loved that little boy, but you know how he was. How he still is. Completely self-sufficient. Sometimes I used to think that if he fell out of a tree and cut his head, he’d just stitch himself back up and wouldn’t even mention it to me.”
“I know what you mean,” Posey murmured.
“But with you, I was so scared. All the time. Maybe it got in the way of me being a good mother, I don’t know.”
“Oh, Mom. You’re a good mother. A great mother.”
Stacia blew her nose again. “Mostly, though,” she continued, her voice rough, “I was afraid that your birth mother would show up one day and ask for you back. And she’d be so much more than I was…she’d be young and pretty and fun, and you’d want to be with her. And you’d leave me.”
The words cut Posey’s heart right in half. “Mom! I would never leave you! I love you. How could you think that?” She gripped her mom’s hand. “Since it’s true confessions time, I’ll tell you one of mine.”
“You broke Glubby’s antler, didn’t you?”
“Oh…um, yes. Sorry about that.” Posey smiled, then grew serious. “No, what I wanted to say was that I always thought… I was always afraid that every time you looked at Gretchen, you wished she was yours.”
Stacia jerked back. “Gretchen? I mean, I love her, she’s my sister’s child…”
“Well, it always seemed like she could do no wrong. The German chef, your twin sister’s daughter. The way she calls you Mutti…constantly reminding me that I’m adopted. She’s the real reason I hate to cook. Because I didn’t want to be compared to her and come up short.”
Stacia shook her head. “Oh, honey. It’s just that sometimes you love a kid just because they need it. Not because they deserve it, not because you really like them…just because they need love. And that’s Gretchen. The truth is, she drives me crazy half the time. Your father and I were so glad when she moved in with you, we got a little romantic on the couch.”
Posey grimaced. “Feel free to keep that to yourself, Mom.”
Stacia smiled, then grew serious. She squeezed Posey’s hand, her grip almost painful. “I’m sorry I never told you about that letter,” she whispered. “It was selfish of me, and that’s not what a mother is supposed to be. If you want to find her, you go right ahead. I’ll help you.” She wiped her eyes and looked at Posey, her face blotchy. “Do you?”
Posey didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. I’m not sure.” She looked into her mother’s face, that strong-boned, handsome face, and noted, maybe for the first time, the web of wrinkles under her mother’s eyes, the heaviness of the skin. “And maybe she’d be great. But she’d never be you.”
Stacia looked down at the table. Nodded. “There was something else in that letter, Posey,” she whispered.
Her heart twisted. “What? Am I a twin or something?”
Stacia managed to smile. “No. Oh, honey, I wish I’d kept it in a safer place. I’m so sorry about that.” She sighed, then looked at Posey. “You don’t know this, but your birth mother…she was the one who picked your name.”
“What? What about Great-Aunt Cordelia?”
“Who’s that?” Stacia frowned.
“Gretchen said we had an aunt…” Leave it Gretchen to tell her some idiotic story. “Never mind. My birth mother picked my name?”
Stacia nodded. “The social worker who handled the adoption told us that even though we didn’t have to keep your name, the birth mother hoped we’d think about it.” She stared at the table, lost in memories. “And we were so grateful to her for giving us her baby, that we did. We didn’t really love it, to be honest. When Henry called you Posey, it just seemed to fit better, and I have to tell you, I was relieved. Cordelia. It’s not even German.”
“Was there something about my name in the letter?” Posey asked. A sudden weight pressed on her heart, as if she knew what was about to come.
Stacia took her hand. “She said her favorite play was King Lear. By William Shakespeare.”
“I know,” Posey said. “I read it in college.”
“Well,” Stacia said, her voice now a whisper. “She said she picked it because Cordelia’s the daughter the king sends away.”
Posey swallowed and pressed her lips together.
“But,” Stacia said, her eyes filled with tears, “she’s also the daughter he misses for the rest of his life.”
Cordelia. Not a great-aunt who was blind in one eye. Not the naive girl murdered by her evil sisters.
Cordelia, the precious, beloved daughter.
What a gift to have such a name.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” Stacia said, her eyes streaming. “Please, honey. Please forgive me. I should’ve told you the other day. I should’ve told you when the letter came, and I didn’t, and I’m so sorry. Please tell me you still love me.”
Posey gave her head a little shake. How could Stacia have not told her this? How could… And yet, Stacia had fed her and bathed her and soothed her and read to her. She’d baked goodies every day; she had never missed a teacher conference or track meet. She’d walked her to school, driven to Boston to find clothes that fit, told her she was beautiful, smart, funny, gifted. She thought Posey was the best turnip that had ever been.
“Oh, Mom,” Posey said, slipping out of her chair and kneeling next to her mother. She put her head in the soft, familiar lap, felt Stacia’s hand on her hair. “Of course I love you. I loved you since before I could say your name. Nothing—and no one—could ever change that.” She smiled and looked up into her mother’s face. “Let’s not even talk about those dumplings you make.”
CORDELIA. THE BEST NAME EVER.
The only time she’d ever loved her name before was when Liam said it. Now, though…now everything was quite different. Cordelia Wilhelmina Osterhagen. Sounded rather regal.
Stacia had stuffed her with some cold sausage and cheese, as well as a couple of boiled potatoes, but as Posey headed for the baseball field, she felt light. She may not have gotten The Meadows, she may never weigh more than a hundred and seven pounds or really need to wear a bra. Her house might in fact be past redemption, and her hair would never behave. She seemed incapable of attracting a man who saw her as a potential wife, and her truck’s muffler needed fixing.
But her mother loved her. Both her mothers. And Max, and Henry, and Jon and Brianna and maybe even Gretchen and a whole host of other people.
She was blessed. It wasn’t a word she thought often, but today, nothing else would do.
Cordelia. What a great name.
“Hey, guys,” she said, as she got to the dugout.
“Hey, Posey,” Bruce answered, stretching out his arms.
“Today’s your day,” Jerry said.
“Well, you’re a minister, so you have to be optimistic,” Posey said, punching him fondly on the shoulder.
“Get ready for some heat,” the good reverend returned. “Lift thine eyes and watch as I smite mine enemies with my mighty curveball.”
“You go, Rev,” said Kate. She thumped Posey on the back, causing Posey to stagger forward. “You done sulking?” she asked in a lower voice.
“Yes,” Posey answered.
Jon gave her a hug. “How are you, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Looking forward to my niece,” she said.
“And the heartbreak?” His eyes were full of sympathy.
“I’m really okay,” she answered firmly.
Stubby’s Hardware began trickling into their dugout, and Posey felt Liam before she actually saw him. Her skin tingled, and heat rushed to her face. Yep. There he was, dark and beautiful, his face somber. He looked over at her, and their eyes locked, and even across the baseball diamond, she could feel that tug, that warm, almost uncomfortable pulling. Then he gave a nod and turned away. Kylie Duchamps, who had recently joined Stubby’s team, stumbled (probably faked it, Posey thought), and sure enough, Liam reached out and grabbed her elbow. Kylie gave her patented hair toss and whinnied with laughter.
It was okay, Posey thought. That empty spot in her heart would fill in. She’d get over Liam Murphy. She would.
“Batter up!” the umpire called.
A typical game, a beautiful spring afternoon. Posey glanced at the stands—there were her parents, and Stacia gave her an almost shy wave, though it had been fifteen minutes since they parted. They sat with Shirley Schmottlach, who waved merrily (she often brought a flask of peppermint schnapps to these games), and Brianna and James, whose heads were almost touching as they looked at something on James’s phone. Nicole Murphy was there as well, sitting next to Henry, who was reading, as usual.
“Hi, Posey!” the girl called. Nice, that Liam’s daughter came to see her dad play. She seemed like such a good kid. Then again, with her parents, how could it be any different?
Posey waved to her cheering section. She didn’t look at Liam. Not a lot, anyway. It was a little difficult to avoid, since she was the catcher. “Hey,” he said as he came up to the plate in the top of the first.
“Hi, Liam.” Her voice was pleasant. Hopefully, her face mask hid the blush that was burning its way up from her chest.
The first pitch came, Liam swung. Fly ball…Jon only had to open his glove to catch it. In the two games they’d played against Stubby’s, Posey had yet to see Liam pop up—his batting average was even higher than Bruce Schmottlach’s. But he was already trotting back to the dugout before Jon had even tossed the ball back to Jerry.
Liam lined out to first base out in the third inning, grounded out in the fifth, and popped out again in the eighth. First-pitch swings, all, and Posey knew it was his way of getting out of her vicinity as fast as possible.
Posey herself struck out in the second, the fifth and the seventh. Those batting lessons from Liam, while arousing, hadn’t done squat. Still, each time she went down swinging.
“You’ll get there, sweetheart,” Max said, lowering his large video camera.
“Any decade now,” Brianna called, getting a grin from James.
“Nice swing, Posey,” Nicole added. Yep. Great kid.
“Thanks, guys!” she said. There weren’t a lot of other parents here, that was for sure, and Posey grinned as she walked back to the dugout. Not many people with a .000 batting average had a fan club, but she did.
Still, her heart ached every time she caught a glimpse of Liam. She tried to ignore it.
By the bottom of the ninth inning, the score was 14-1, Stubby’s. Liam was the only one on his team who hadn’t scored. The reverend’s curveball wasn’t quite the mighty sword he’d envisioned, whereas José Rivera was pitching for Stubby’s and looking about as good as Mariano, his famous third cousin. Kate had belted a solo homer in the second, but that was Guten Tag’s only run of the night. But José was tiring, and Jon had singled and Bruce walked. Two outs, and Posey was up.
As she walked to the batter’s box, she saw Kylie packing up her gear. Indeed, most of Stubby’s assumed the game was about to end, chattering and shuffling and checking their phones. Only Liam still sat on the bench, arms folded over his chest. He glanced at her, and the corner of his mouth pulled up just a little. Then his gaze dropped to the ground.
“Come on, Posey!” called Nicole.
“You can do it, sweetheart!” said her mother.
“Swing away, Merrill!” yelled Jon and Kate.
Posey settled into her stance. Bat up, knees bent, back foot planted, just as Liam had shown her, same as she’d been doing for the past four years. The handsome yet evil Derek Jeter had what—three thousand hits? More? Surely she could get just one. She took a practice swing, tapped her cleats, and got ready, staring at José, who gave her the full power of his third-cousin stare, then brought his glove up to his face. The wind-up. The pitch.
She swung, and something went wrong, because her arms reverberated and the bat was heavier than normal, there was a loud thwack, and a roar, and Stubby’s entire team turned away from her.
To watch the ball fly over the outfield fence.
Her mouth hung open, the bat dangling from her buzzing hands.
“Posey, run!” Jon shouted as he came down the third-base line.
And so she did, trotting in a daze to first base…and then second, where Emily Rudeker slapped her butt, and then to third, and her team was cheering and jumping up and down as she came home.
A home run. Her first hit, ever, was a three-run homer.
She was slapped and pounded and generally roughed up as her teammates whooped and hollered. In the stands, her fan club, as well as Nicole, were on their feet, Stacia crying, Henry grinning and accepting high fives (not that he’d been actually watching, Posey guessed), her father jumping up and down, the camera still in his hand. She grinned up at them, realized she was laughing. Amid the cheers of her teammates, she walked—floated, really—back to the dugout and sat down, dazed and utterly thrilled.