The House Near the River by Barbara Bartholomew Page B

said.
    David grinned back, leaning confidently against his father.  “My favorite.”
    Ignoring the others Clarence went in the doorway of his niece’s house. Amanda followed, “I don’t think I have any raspberry, David. Would blackberry do as well? My mother made it. ”
    On shaking legs, Angie followed them, turning before she closed the door to summon the others inside.
     
    Several weeks passed before they were allowed to go home. Clarence Ward passed a polygraph test, though his daughter did not submit to one. The most convincing evidence was that of DNA. Though nobody understood it, the evidence was that the small boy found at the old Ward farm was the son of his father, grandson of his grandmother and cousin of his cousins.
    Neither Angie or her father made any explanations other than the claim that David belonged to them and, of course, Angie could make no DNA claim since she had  joined the family not by birth, but by adoption.
    Nobody else stepped forward to claim the child. No trace of such a missing child was found, so watchfully, cautiously Clarence was allowed to return home with his daughter and son.
    Angie had a fair idea of just how much they would be under the eye of officialdom for a while, but supposed that those persons had developed their own ideas about what had happened and they had to do with dad having fathered a second, much more recent son than David. She couldn’t much blame them. Human nature demanded a believable explanation.
    They drove to Texas with a feeling of release, nevertheless, passing along the northern top of the state from Wichita Falls through numerous small towns, stopping briefly at the assisted living center in the small border city of Sherman where Grandma lived now in a comfortable assisted living center.
    Naturally they had talked by phone and Grandma had been told about David, but it wasn’t until the tall, thin old lady looked up and saw them approaching that she said with obvious conviction, “but it is David.”
    The boy, who seemed accustomed now to the unexplainable aging of his relatives, went readily into her arms. He had been Grandma’s pet and was ready enough to take up that role again.
    Angie was disturbed to see that her grandmother showed the strain of the past weeks and guessed that having a missing granddaughter had not contributed to her good health. She took her turn at being hugged and patted and felt almost that she was back home again. The inward ache at the absence of her other family, so hopelessly lost in the past was stilled for a moment.
    This was where she belonged, where she was meant to be.
    They hated to break off the visit with Grandma, but finally they went on to the b ed and b reakfast that had been home and business to their family since they’d had to rebuild their lives after the loss of David. It was late in the day and the child was visibly tired. He sat huddled in his father’s lap while Angie drove them home, thinking that it was odd that neither her father or her grandmother had asked her many questions.
    They seemed to think that getting David back was answer enough for everything, but she couldn’t understand how they could be so lacking in curiosity.
    The Prairie House , the b ed and b reakfast her family owned and operated, had once been a country school house. Made of red brick by the WPA during the 30s, it had been large enough to house a good-sized populace of young st ers through eighth grade and been closed down in the late 80s when the children were bused into the nearby town of Van Alstyne for school.
    The building had been basically sound, but very shabby when her parents bought it. Mom had still been lackluster, all her fire and energy gone, but Dad had at least pretended to enthusiasm as they refurbished the building for commercial purposes and rebuilt their own lives.
    “It’ll be like a visit to the farm for city families,” Dad had told her. Accordingly when the building was mostly finished, he’d