Free The Immaculate Deception by Sherry Silver

down. I opened the off-white cloth vertical blinds on the wall of French doors and let the morning sunshine flood in.
    I sifted through the week’s mail. My fingers trembled as I ripped the side of an envelope from the writers’ organization. I shook out the white paper and shook my head. I’d come in dead last in the romantic suspense category. Oh well. What was it that the other authors often said? Something like making it to the final round of the contest was honor enough. Agents and editors would look favorably upon this distinction. I tossed the letter on the counter.
    My heart sank, recognizing two of the self-addressed stamped envelopes that I’d sent to literary agents in New York. I’d never once gotten an invitation to submit my work to them back in one of these. I always received form rejection letters instead. In the only request I ever got by snail mail, the agent used her own envelope. Must’ve liked my stamp. I always got the pretty ones, hanging up on racks on the post office walls. I bought the Reston branch out of the Cary Grants. They weren’t making him anymore. Limited editions, those were.
    I carefully ripped open a letter from the District of Columbia Department of Health. I’d ordered a certified copy of my birth certificate. I needed it to apply for a passport. I’d need a valid passport when I was taking the UK by storm on my book tour. I just had to sell my novel to a publisher first. Maybe I’d be escorted around by one of those handsome Englishmen or even a Scot. Their soft-spoken accents just melted me. Not the working-class cockneys imitated in American movies, nor the hoity-toity royal accent. But the cadence in between. Like my dream boy. He sounded, well, like he was born in England to a nice proper but not royal family and perhaps they’d immigrated to the United States when he was a young man, as his accent wasn’t overpowering but smooth and attractive.
    Momma had taken me down to the Department of Motor Vehicles when I was sixteen to get my driver’s license. She wouldn’t give me my birth certificate. She’d said, “You’ll lose it. I’ll keep it in a safe place.” So I’d never actually even seen it. A couple of weeks ago, I snuck and applied for one. Forty-two years old, sneaking and doing things behind my mother’s back. I grinned.
    So here it was, typed and official. Orpha Donna Payne, female, date of birth, May 1, 1964, singleton. Mother’s maiden name, Chloe Sue Lambert, age 41, born in Shrew, North Carolina. Father’s name, Nathan Lucifer Payne, age 50, born in Sacramento, California. Usual occupation, physician. Other children born to this mother, two.
    I read the last line again. Other children born to this mother, two? What was that all about? No wonder Momma didn’t want me to see this! She had had two babies before she had me? I had two more siblings! Where were they? Who were they? Why didn’t she ever tell me?
    I tasted a cool swig of soda and stared out the back door. The mixed-color flowers—cardinal climbers, blue morning glories, red sunflowers and white pineapple lilies—in the pots on the deck looked great. Ashley must’ve watered them. Gosh, I was lucky to have her.
    My mind was racing at the news. I didn’t want any new siblings. The two that I had were bad enough. I shook my head. Okay, I’m just going to slip the certificate back in the envelope and stash it in the metal filing cabinet and pretend I have never ever seen it.
    I held the first self-addressed stamped envelope up to the light. I could see the outline of a small slip of paper. I carefully ripped the end of the envelope off, not the one with the stamp on it. I squeezed it and a wisp of white paper floated out.
    It was a piece of notepad, folded in half, embossed with the fancy-pantsy New York literary agent’s name and Broadway address.
     
    Dear Author,
     
    Excuse the nature of this form response. I am overwhelmed with submissions and obligations to my clients preclude me