While Sara was off getting coffee, he sorted through the data, which had been e-mailed to him. Since he didn’t need to see the actual physical birth certificates until he found a viable name, he could just search and scroll through the list of names.
It was possible that if Anne had actually had a child, it had been left behind in Ireland, but Gabriel doubted that. Anne had told him she was thirteen when she’d made the trip across the Atlantic, and he had no reason to doubt that. Though he supposed his next search should be passenger lists to verify her arrival, along with her name and age. He had no birth certificate for Anne, only her word at the time that she was twenty-three.
Donovan also was her unmarried name, and Gabriel wondered if she had given birth to an illegitimate child what name it would have been given. Most likely Donovan, but it was also possible that the child had been adopted, or given to friends to raise.
It was a long shot, but something told him it mattered. Or maybe he just wanted there to be a child. Maybe he wanted to know that a piece of Anne had continued, that she hadn’t died before really living, before leaving a legacy.
There were fifty-five children born with the last name of Donovan in New Orleans Parish during the eight years in question, some listed solo, others with birth parents. Those who were listed alongside their parents’ names had their mother listed by maiden name and married name, then the father next to her. Three had mothers named Anne, though one was spelled without an “e” on the end. Then one was listed simply as A. Donovan, with no married name and no mention of a father.
Gabriel flagged those four and sent an e-mail ordering copies of the actual birth certificates for them.
Then he changed his mind. He didn’t want to wait. If he went to the library himself, he could view them on microfilm, then order copies as needed.
He would just leave a note for Sara and leave the door unlocked.
The idea of waiting for her and walking over to the library together was appealing, but he had felt her withdrawal from him earlier. He had done or said something wrong, obviously, though he had no idea what. But she had definitely bolted. Which was just as well. He had been severely tempted to touch her, and that was an extremely bad idea.
So he would stick with the note and give her some space. They’d known each other less than a week, yet their relationship felt intense, advanced, for the time span. It made sense to back off, to limit the time they were together.
Even if he didn’t want to.
Sara went in to the same coffee shop she had a few days earlier and ordered an iced coffee to go. She was too restless to sit and drink it. Gabriel had nicked at her calm, and she felt the need to walk, to burn off the nervous energy.
She had wanted him to kiss her. Badly. She had wanted him to talk her into modeling, then she had wanted him to put down his sketch pad and make love to her, touching her everywhere intimately, his lips on her body. It wasn’t why she had come to New Orleans, and while part of her felt like it would only end in utter disaster, another part of her kept whispering, Why not? Why couldn’t she have a hot affair that reminded her of the pleasure of being alive?
It wasn’t why she’d made the trek from Florida, but it could be a serious fringe benefit.
Of course, she had also come to New Orleans to try to discover bits of her mother, the way she had been in life, as opposed to death. To try to understand the girl she’d been, the careless woman she’d become. As Sara walked back down Royal Street, she realized it was a futile effort. Her mother had been emotionally distant, and in death she wasn’t going to give what she hadn’t in life.
But Sara knew that her grandmother’s death had altered the course of her mother’s life. She had been only sixteen when her mother was murdered. And Jessie Michaels had been the one to find her mother, stabbed to death in their suburban home. It was only six months later that she had run away from her father and taken up dancing on Bourbon Street.
None of those radical choices had ever been explained by her mother. She had never elaborated any more than her standard “I didn’t like rules.”
On impulse, Sara cut up Orleans Street toward Bourbon. The sun was relentless on her bare shoulders, and she pushed her sunglasses up, checking for sidewalk holes. It amazed her that every street in the Quarter shared the same basic characteristics—the narrow thoroughfare, the buildings flush to the sidewalk, the wooden shutters and doors, and the wrought iron railings. Yet each street took on its own personality, its own tone. Some were seedy, others elegant, some quiet, some boisterous. Orleans was calm and reserved, with a hotel that extended for most of the block to Bourbon, which suited her. This was truly her first stroll around the Quarter on her own, and while she wanted to like it, enjoy herself, she could never seem to shake the sensation that she didn’t belong. That she was vulnerable. A target.
It was important to confront those feelings, to recognize that she was just outside of her comfort zone, and nothing more. There was no danger, and no one was out to get her.
She debated which way to go on Bourbon, but opted for left, figuring there was more in that direction. The club her mother had danced at no longer went by the same name, but the night she’d died, her mother had been drinking a steady stream of margaritas at dinner with Sara and Rafe and she had suddenly started reminiscing about her days dancing. She had mentioned that the club was in the four hundred block of Bourbon where there were several gentleman’s clubs. Then she had told Rafe it was a shame he hadn’t seen her table dancing, because, to quote her mother, she had been hot shit.
Sara had been appalled, but Rafe just smiled and told her she still was. Then he mildly suggested maybe another margarita wasn’t wise if she wanted to be able to walk to the car. If Sara had said that, her mother would have torn into her, and defiantly kept drinking, but she hadn’t been offended by Rafe’s comment. She just laughed and said maybe he was right, but that it was still a shame that he had been in diapers when she’d been dancing.
And just four hours later, her mother was dead.
Sara was walking right past strip clubs, posters plastered all over their exterior walls, advertising barely legal girls and world famous sex acts. None of the pictures looked very appealing to her, and the one with a woman sitting aggressively on a bike seat looked downright painful. The pictures went on and on—smiling women, naked and airbrushed. Sara had never been inside a strip club, and for some reason, she paused in front of the door of one after spending a few minutes perusing their posters, wondering how the dancers themselves compared to the cheerful images on the wall. Were strippers really that happy and perky? She wanted to see inside, wanted to know, wanted to picture how her mother had been bold and sassy enough at sixteen to lie about her age and dance partly naked in front of men.