Excerpt of Lightly Seasoned: My secretary/ receptionist, Maeve Lister, had left an hour earlier, and I had just finished charting on the occupational therapy client I had seen from my temporary home office. I opened the door to a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties, with shiny, thick dark hair and expressive brown eyes. Something about him made me curious, though I couldn’t have explained why. He had wide set eyes with long black lashes, framed in a fair complexion, and handsome regular features. Standing there, he reminded me of someone, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think who it was. His gaze held mine as he asked, “Excuse me, but are you Della Bradshaw?” With an apologetic smile, I said, “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I’m Creighton Bradshaw. May I help you?” “I beg your pardon?” he asked. “Please come in, and we can talk.” In my wildest imagination, I couldn’t fathom why I had just opened the door to a perfect stranger. I grimaced and sighed briefly at my own odd behavior, as I turned to show him to the living room.  Having been threatened several times over the past few months, I would’ve thought I had gained some perspective on the subject of stranger danger, but perhaps that was too much to hope for. I gestured to a chair. “Please sit down, and tell me what I can do for you.” Awkwardly, he said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I came to find my mother. Your neighbor told me where to find you.” He sank into a chair. I blinked in confusion. “Your mother? Did you say ‘your mother’?” He nodded. After a pregnant pause while I pondered his words, I said, “Could I get you something to drink? Coffee or juice perhaps?” “Oh, juice would be nice. Thank you.” “All right. Please excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I stood and strode toward the kitchen, my mind whirling. His mother? A minute later, I handed him a glass of apple juice and held another in my hand. Suddenly, my mouth felt dry, and my heart raced. I took a sip of the juice then sank into my seat. I said, “Pardon me, but I don’t know your name.” Suddenly embarrassed, he jumped to his feet and extended his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Michael Farraday.” His handshake felt confident, safe, and I relaxed just a bit as he reseated himself. “Well, perhaps you can explain what you meant when you said you were trying to find your mother?” He took a quick sip of juice, then set the glass on a coaster on the coffee table and folded his hands in his lap. I noticed his hands, long and graceful, like those of an artist. They began moving restlessly in his lap while I watched. He gave me a sardonic smile. “This is going to sound unbelievable, but please bear with me.” I nodded, wishing he would get to the point. But the gentle yearning in his eyes encouraged me to be patient. His gaze scanned the room and finally settled on my face. “I have reason to believe that Della Bradshaw is my mother.” I blew out a gentle puff of air, hearing his words. “Excuse me?” “Della Bradshaw is my mother.” My own hands felt suddenly restless, and I had to force them to stay put, as I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” After a beat, I added, “Della Bradshaw couldn’t have children. She and Will were childless during their marriage, so I’m at a loss to understand how she could have had a son.” “I don’t know about that, but I’ve been trying to track her down for several months now and from all indications, I find that she lives here. Could you tell me where I can find her?” Feeling awkward, I realized that he had no idea she was dead.