'MY BRAVE AND BEAUTIFUL CONSTANCE'

That evening, Grayson called again, pestering Connie about how soon she would finish going through the contents of the boxes from Findley's. His badgering was annoying. But because lately he'd become the conduit for her most lucrative editing contracts, she worked at keeping an accommodating tone.

However, at the point where he implied that she might not pick up on everything that could be of archaeological research relevance, she couldn't suppress her irritation. She might not be a tenured university prof, but all those years of working with Findley, not just transcribing but bringing coherence to his notes, meant she had more than a passing understanding of his work.

Connie stalled telling Grayson about the two notebooks she'd already found. She was pretty sure she'd pass them along. It probably didn't mean anything, but it was odd how Findley had tucked them away with the dresses she and Mother wore on that long ago wedding day.

Findley's studies fascinated her, and he had graciously and enthusiastically fostered her interest. He encouraged her to go on to graduate school, but Connie lacked confidence in her ability to find success as a full-time academic – too competitive. Plus, she didn't want to incur a pile of student loan debt. Though Findley indicated he'd help with tuition, it likely would have meant dealing with his second wife, Eunice, some place along the line, and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. Better to be practical and complete the editing program at the community college.

Connie unearthed the Findley/English dictionary binder from under a stack of books at the bottom of the bookshelf in her office. She took the binder, notebooks, and a pad of paper to the living room. Since she wasn't planning to do a long, detailed, word-by-word transcription, that was all she needed.

She closed the blinds on the darkening sky and turned on all the table and floors lamps, creating a warm glow to the room. She set herself up with a fresh mug of tea and her favourite Haydn string quartets. Now, she was ready to snuggle into the comfy couch and deal with the notebooks.

Connie decided to start with the notebook that fell out of her little girl dress. She hadn't looked inside it yet and assumed that it too would be filled with Findley's crabbed note-taking script.

Wrong.

She gasped. Inside was her mother's familiar half-printing/half-cursive handwriting. And the first words were, 'My brave and beautiful Constance, I love you more than the entire universe...

Those were the words her mother always said tucking her into bed. The entry in the notebook was dated only days before Ida died. Connie put her hands on the written words and stared out into the room. Why had she never seen this before?

After her mother died, Connie gathered every scrap of paper she could find with her mother's handwriting. There wasn't a lot since Ida mostly wrote on a computer, only messages on birthday cards, a few reminder notes, and a letter she wrote Connie in her final weeks. Connie read and held it so often, she finally put it in a plastic sheet holder as it was falling apart. Every year on her mother's birthday and death days, Connie brought out the letter.

But this notebook? Surely Findley must have known about it. It wasn't that it had just gone astray. Someone had deliberately wrapped it up in the Irish linen dress. Her mother had written it to her. Why was it kept from her?

Before reading the words, Connie closed her eyes and let her hands rest on the handwriting, imaging she could feel her mother's presence. After several seconds of slow, deep breaths, she opened her eyes, and began to read:

June 24, 2000. My brave and beautiful Constance, I love you more than the entire universe. I'm trying to imagine you reading this. How old might you be now? Twenty? I've told Findley to wait and give you this when you're older so that you can both understand and forgive me – which I'm desperately hoping - for not telling you the complete truth about your father.

What complete truth? Connie grew up believing her biological father was a sperm-donor. Her mother gave her papers with basic health information about him.

I never intended to keep things from you, but I wanted to wait until you were ready for a more adult conversation. When I could explain things at length and you could ask me questions, and we could go back and forth. While you were little, I thought it was better to give you a simple story about your father. And now this cancer has come along, and I'm left with trying to explain everything to a future adult you in a one-sided conversation on a piece of paper.

So, to begin. Your biological father was not a sperm donor. He was someone I knew and loved deeply.

IDA'S SECRET

Connie stared at the words, 'He was someone I knew and loved deeply.' She read the sentence over and over as if repeatedly reading it would somehow validate what it said. It felt like what little familial foundation she had left was cracking apart.

We were together for nearly 10 months and then he had to return to his home, and he wouldn't ever be able to come back to me. Nor could I go with him. The situation was complicated and would have been hard to explain when you were little. You needed a simple story while you were growing up. I didn't want you having to carry lingering questions and uncertainty.

I want to tell you a little bit about him, about us. I first noticed him when he started coming to my Intro to Archaeology lectures. He stood out as he was older than most students, sat right in the front row, never took notes, and seemed unusually attentive. 

There was something a little odd about him, the way he dressed, held himself - something. I admit I half assumed he'd make a pass at me at some point, but he never did. I guess I was subconsciously disappointed because when I saw him giving rapt attention to an exhibit of Itchiku Kubota kimonos at the textile museum – I approached him. And that day, we began a conversation that never really stopped until the day he left.

There was no way around it. Her wonderful mother had lied to her from the day she was born. Even if her father had abandoned them, why not tell the truth? It felt so uncharacteristic of what she remembered about her mother, a beautiful, smiling, frank, and lively woman.

And what about her grandparents? Had they also lied to Connie or had her mother lied to them too? And Findley? Why hadn't he shown her this notebook? He was still mentally competent when she turned 20. Was Eunice somehow involved? But why would she wrap it in the linen dress? The questions kept piling up.

Connie was panting. Slow down, take deep breaths, she told herself, and walked into the kitchen. She dug out one of the Irish whiskeys she scavenged from Findley's and poured herself a generous double shot. 

She'd always accepted the blank space occupied by her biological father. Having a sperm-donor dad wasn't unusual, and her mother more than fulfilled her role as a loving, nurturing parent. And then Findley came along, and while he was largely a self-absorbed sort, in his own way, he was kind to Connie. Though he was somewhat powerless against Eunice's treacheries once she came on the scene, he did find a safe harbour for Connie with her grandparents.

She went back to the living room and continued reading in the notebook.

'Now comes the tricky part. I can't tell you where your father went. It would put many people in jeopardy. And even if I wanted to, I don't exactly know how to get there. He told me more than he should have about his home, and I promised never to tell anyone, and I have not. 

I had planned that when you were older and could fully grasp the reason why secrecy was important, that I would talk to you about all this as best as I could. Now that won't be possible, and it's not safe for me to write anything more than I have.

'There's one more thing, and this is the hardest. He never knew about you. When it was time for him to leave, I had just discovered I was pregnant. I didn't tell him because I knew the anguish it would cause him. I don't know how it happened. We had always been so careful. Yet it did and, for me, I'm so grateful. You are the greatest happiness in my life.

Ida's handwriting was becoming increasingly hard to read as if she was having difficulty holding onto the pen and moving it across the page

'I'm so sorry for all this vagueness and maybe I shouldn't have attempted to write anything at all, but you have special gifts. They come from him and the special place that is his home. You should know that they are from him and not feel like there is anything wrong with you. Also, all these years I've harboured a small hope that one day Arden might be able to return. He won't find me, but hopefully he might find you. 

If he does, welcome him into your life. He was the most wonderful person I ever knew. You'll recognize him as you have his eyes. And, Connie, I believe you hold the ability in you to some day find the way to his home.'

Inside Connie was in turmoil. Outwardly, she sat frozen, staring at her mother's words. So many questions. So much hurt. She cried softly, staring at nothing.

Finally, she pushed the notebooks and papers onto the floor and laid down on the couch. One of her grandmother's afghans was folded across the armrest. She pulled it over and wrapped herself in the warmth of the colourfully crocheted granny squares and fell fast asleep, not waking until morning.