She had continued leafing through the books until Ellie Jo called out needing help to get to the bathroom, which raised a whole other worry. Ellie Jo couldn’t stay alone.
Dana thought of moving in to help. That would serve Hugh right. But she couldn’t imagine getting up every few hours to feed Lizzie and again to help Ellie Jo.
One solution was to hire a nurse for Ellie Jo, but her grandmother flat-out refused. She insisted that she had only called for help because Dana was there and that she could manage just fine if she was alone. She showed Dana this by returning to bed on her own.
Dana gave up the fight. She was too tired to do anything else.
Now she pulled in beside Hugh’s car. He was at the open front door before she could lift the baby from the car. He didn’t offer to help, just stood there and watched.
She could have used his brawn, but would be damned if she would say it. His expression was stoically Clarke, his mood unreadable. It was only when she was inside that he finally took the carrier from her arm. Without a word, she returned to the car for the rest of her things.
By the time she was back in the house, he had unbuckled Lizzie and lifted her out. She was crying in short little spurts, and his holding her didn’t improve her spirits.
“What’s wrong?” he asked Dana.
“She’s hungry. I’ll feed her.” Dropping her bags at the foot of the stairs, she took the baby and lowered herself to the sofa in the family room.
“You look beat,” he said, mildly accusatory. “Have you been on your feet all afternoon?”
“No. I rested at Gram’s.”
“Not long enough. Ellie Jo may be sidelined, but you have to take care of yourself. Especially nursing. If you get rundown, it won’t be good for Lizzie.”
“I know that,” Dana said. She held down the swollen part of her breast so that she could watch the baby nurse.
Hugh settled into a leather chair cattycorner and put his elbows on his knees. His tone was surprisingly accommodating. “Talk to me, Dana. This silence isn’t like you. It isn’t who we are.”
She made a discouraged sound. “Do you know who we are? If you do, clue me in, because I sure as hell don’t know.”
“I’ll rephrase that,” he said. “This isn’t who we were before the baby was born.”
No. It wasn’t. The fact of that was so sad that Dana choked up.
“Talk to me,” he repeated.
She swallowed and raised her eyes. “What would you have me say?”
“That you understand. That you realize that what I did was for the best.”
“I don’t,” she said simply and held his gaze. Once, she would have lost herself in it, but not now.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “Say what you’re feeling.”
“It’s about trust,” she blurted. “Trust has always been a big thing for me—trusting that a person would be there, would always be there, like my mother wasn’t. I never wanted to lose anyone again. Then you came along, and I thought I could trust that you’d always be there, but I can’t. I can’t trust that you’re in my corner. I can’t trust that you’ll love me if my father turns out to have mixed blood. I feel dirty. I feel like you cheated on me.”
He frowned. “Are you talking about the DNA tests, or about today?”
“Today?” She didn’t follow.
“My being with Crystal.”
“Crystal? Your client?” It took her a minute to follow, then she was dismayed. “You mean, did I wonder if she was more than that? Of course not, Hugh. You’re my husband. Besides, you’re with women all the time. It’s part of your job.”
“Some wives would have been uneasy.”
“I wasn’t.” Lizzie lost the nipple and frantically turned her head from side to side until Dana guided her back. “I trust you when it comes to women,” she said without looking up. “It’s the other stuff that’s the problem. It’s your lack of trusting me.”
“I do trust you.”
“Not enough,” she said with a warning look—and was grateful when he spared her the bit about wanting solid proof for his family. “See, I keep thinking this is the first test of our marriage, and we’ve failed. By the way, I’m getting nowhere looking for my father. I’ve talked with my grandmother and my mother’s friends, and I went through some of my mother’s things, but I haven’t found anything that could even remotely tell me where my father is. My best hope is finding my mother’s college roommate. Her first name was Carol, but that’s all I know. The college doesn’t have a record of who she is, and even if they did, she might not remember anything.”
“Lakey may be able to get the roommate’s last name.”
“Fine,” Dana said and reeled off the facts. “My mother was Elizabeth Joseph; she entered the University of Wisconsin in 1968; she dropped out after her junior year to have me. I don’t know the name of her dorm. She was an art history major, but she also took English, Spanish, and math. She was lousy at math. I found some of her tests today. She got C-minuses.”
“I’ll give Lakey what you have.”
“I want you to know, Hugh, that if our baby had come out white, I would not be looking for this man. If she’d been born with red curls, would you have said I needed to find him? Of course not. So why am I doing this? Why is it so important to know? Do I really care where my great-great-great-grandfather was from? And if I find my father,” she raced on, “will I feel differently about myself?”
Hugh didn’t answer.
And that annoyed her. He was the one who had wanted to talk. “So let’s talk about this,” she ordered. “We’re all for minorities—civil rights, affirmative action, equality in the workplace—but we only want to be white. Are we hypocrites?”
“We?”
“You. First and foremost, you think of yourself as a Clarke. I think of myself as Dana. Isn’t that telling?”
“If your family had the history mine did, you would understand.”
“If yours had the history mine has, you would understand.” She took a deep breath. “But it isn’t just you and your family, or me and mine. It’s wondering what our daughter is going to face growing up and whether she and I will be facing it alone.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Will you?”
“I’ve been here, haven’t I? You’re the one who’s been gone.”
She took the baby from her breast, put her to her shoulder, and patted her back. Wearily, she asked, “How did things go so wrong so fast?”
“They haven’t gone so wrong.”
“They have. Look at us, Hugh.”
“It’ll pass. A couple more days and we’ll have the lab results.”
Dana wanted to scream. “That’s not the point. I’m talking about trust.”
He sighed. “Oh, come on. It was only a cheek swab, Dana.”
Dana was beside herself. Responding to a tiny, responsible voice in her head, she slid her feet to the floor and prepared to take Lizzie upstairs.
“What about this weekend?” Hugh asked.
“What about it?”
“Will you be at your grandmother’s?”
“Some of the time.”
“Julian and Deb want to come over. And Jim and Rita.”
“That’s fine.”
“Will it be awkward?”
Awkward? Given the weekend that they might have had, it would be totally awkward. “Not for me,” she said, suddenly furious. “I think our baby is perfect. You’re the one with the problem. Maybe if you tell them about my grandmother’s medical problem they’ll wait a while.”
“I don’t think I can put them off.”
“Then you’re the one who has to worry about awkwardness. Are you going to let them know you aren’t sure she’s your child?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you’ll pretend she is. Ah. Another show. Think you can pull it off?”
They stared at each other for the longest time, Dana standing, Hugh in his chair. She refused to take back the w
ords.
Finally, he said, “Is that cynicism or fatigue?”
Quickly remorseful, she took a breath and said gently, “I suspect it’s both. I’m going to bed.”
Chapter 13
Eaton Clarke had heartburn. He suspected it was the Mexican food they had had Friday night. The restaurant was new and well reviewed. He had been the one to suggest that they try it, and the two couples with them were game. But he’d had a bad feeling about the place from the minute they walked in. The tables were too close together and the waiter too familiar.
The dinner conversation hadn’t helped. Everyone wanted to talk about Hugh and his baby—or, more pointedly, Dana and her child—because Eaton’s brother Brad had spread word about the question of the baby’s paternity. In the course of three hours, Eaton got more advice than he wanted. It was either “Do not establish a college fund if the child isn’t yours,” or “Change your will,” or even “It wouldn’t hurt to put the Vineyard house in trust.”
His chest burned all night. He felt better when he woke up Saturday morning, but worse when he joined his partners for their weekly tennis game. They, too, had advice.
He was in a thoroughly bad mood when he called his brother on his way home from the club. “What in the hell are you doing, Brad? I can’t go anywhere without people knowing about Hugh’s baby. Is there some reason you’re telling everyone in sight that Hugh may not be the father?”
“It’s true. He may not be.”
“But he may be, and then what? This is our personal business, Brad.”
“Not if the child isn’t Hugh’s. I saw the look on his face the other afternoon. He’s furious with his wife. I’m telling you, Eaton, trouble’s brewing there.”
Eaton didn’t like his tone. “Does that please you?”
“It has nothing to do with whether it pleases me or not. We all had our questions about Dana.”
“I thought you liked her.”
“I did while she was faithful, but it looks like Hugh has a live one on his hands.”
“Does that please you? Does Hugh’s situation make you feel less bad about your daughter’s divorce?”
“Anne’s divorce has nothing to do with this,” Brad shot back. “If you think I’m playing a game of tit-for-tat, you’re off the mark. Not that that surprises me. You’re the writer, and I’m the businessman. You’re sitting around waiting for royalties, while I’m making all of us more wealthy. I don’t play games, Eaton. I have more important things to do.”
“That’s right,” Eaton concluded, “so just shut your mouth about Hugh. Don’t be a petty little busybody. This isn’t your business. Keep your nose out of it.”
He ended the call knowing that he had offended his brother, but having had the last word, Eaton felt a perverse satisfaction. It vanished when Dorothy met him at the door with word that Justin Field had called no more than two minutes earlier. Justin was his longtime friend, personal lawyer, and the executor of his estate.
“What does he want?” Eaton asked, though he feared he knew.
“We talked a bit about the wedding plans for Julie. Justin and Babs are very excited. She’s thirty-eight, so they’d almost given up hope, but he went on and on about how wonderful the fiancé is. Then he said he wanted to talk with you about Hugh.”
Eaton stood at the rosewood hall table, sifting through the mail as he spoke. “Is it a coincidence that I just played tennis with Justin’s partner?” he barked. “These men are little old ladies!”
After a single silent beat, Dorothy remarked, “So am I.”
“Oh, Dot, you know what I mean. Little old ladies gossip because they have nothing else to do with their time. You have other things.”
“I gossip. Only I don’t see it as gossip. I see it as sharing news with friends.”
He looked at her, wondering where she was headed. “Are you malicious?”
“Of course not.”
“There’s your difference,” he decided. “My tennis friends are very happy to see me slip up. Same with Bradley. He’s never gotten over the fact that I refused to follow him into the business, and as for my tennis partners, they’re still smarting because I won’t give them unlimited numbers of signed editions of my books. Is there some good reason why they can’t go out and buy the copies that they want signed for their wife’s cousin’s proctologist? Am I a charity?”
“No, dear,” Dorothy said. “I believe that’s what Justin wants to discuss.”
Eaton eyed her sharply. “My being a charity?”
“Your being treated like one by Hugh’s wife in the event that his marriage falls apart. It’s no different from what our friends said last night.”
“Which was extremely annoying.”
“They’re simply acting out of concern for you.”
“Have I asked for their help?”
“No, but you haven’t denied it, and that is often an invitation.” Her tone grew plaintive. “You don’t say anything, Eaton. You just let the questions sit there. Why don’t you simply tell them they’re wrong? Why don’t you tell them that this child is Hugh’s, and that there’s nothing wrong with his marriage, and that the child’s coloring adds an interesting element to the family, because it does, you know. I have no problem having a grandchild of African-American descent. Do you?”
Eaton sighed. “Are you still annoyed that I won’t go visit Hugh?”
“Well, he did call.”
“And was no help at all. He’s asking the same questions you are, at a time when I don’t want to think about it. Dorothy, I have a book due out in a little over three weeks. Have you made it clear to the events coordinator that I want hors d’oeuvres passed at the book party?”
“Yes, dear.”
“What about the invitations? Have they gone out?”
“They were mailed yesterday. I’ve told you these things, Eaton.”
Eaton took a breath in a bid for patience. “If you’ve told me and I haven’t heard, it’s because I have other things on my mind. I’ve been booked to appear on national television, and you can be sure I’ll be questioned about my family. They’ll want me to vouch for the things I’ve written.”
“Vouch for what things?” Dorothy scolded. “You wrote this book well before little Elizabeth was born. No one will hold it against you if she isn’t listed on an ancestral chart, and there would be absolutely no need for you to include a chart of Dana’s family. But forget the book,” she said with the dismissive wave of a hand. “I’m not talking about the book. I’m talking about our son and his child. I want to go over and visit.”
Eaton looked up in surprise. “Fine. Go.”
“I want you with me. It won’t be the same if I go alone. They’ll think something’s wrong.”
Eaton said, “Something is wrong.”
“Then do something about it,” Dorothy cried. “Hire an investigator. Change your will. Put the Vineyard property in trust so that she can’t get her hands on it. Either you accept the baby or you don’t. Don’t you see the damage that’s being done while you vacillate?” She glared at the clock on the wall, then reached for her purse. “I have to go to the market. If we’re having the Emerys here for hors d’oeuvres before the theater, I need to buy food.”
Eaton stared after her as she went out the door. “Drive carefully,” he finally said out of sheer habit.
Dorothy kept both hands on the wheel and her lips pressed together. She didn’t need Eaton telling her to drive carefully. She drove carefully all on her own—had been doing so for forty-nine years—and had a spotless record to show for it, which was more than Eaton could say. He had two accidents on his slate—one from a winter-blizzard skid, the other from a ten-car chain pile-up on the expressway. She could blame the first on the weather, but the second would have been preventable if he had left the requisite number of car lengths between his own car and the one in front of him.
No, she didn’t need Eaton to tell her how to drive.
Nor, she decided, did she ne
ed him to tell her whom to call and whom not to. Taking one hand from the wheel, she flipped open her cell phone and thumbed in Hugh’s number. The phone rang several times, and then Dana’s recorded message came on.
With both hands on the wheel again, Dorothy negotiated the local roads to the supermarket. She put on her blinker, about to pull into the parking lot, when she had another thought and drove on past. Three minutes later, she parked in front of a local boutique that radiated yellow, orange, and pink. It was a small place, owned by two young women. She had discovered it quite by accident when she had needed a last-minute bread-and-butter gift to take along for a weekend visit to friends.
She went inside, smiled at the owner, and said firmly, “I want one of your mother-and-daughter sets for my daughter-in-law and her brand-new baby. What’s the most unusual thing you have?” Dana liked bright and unusual. Dana could wear bright and unusual.
Soon Dorothy walked back out with a package wrapped and ribboned with the same yellow, orange, and pink that had initially drawn her to the store. Satisfied, she skipped the supermarket and pulled into the smaller lot of a gourmet cheese and wine shop. Inside, she bought a wedge of cheese, several cracker selections, and—defiant still—a dozen each of the home-cooked coconut-crusted chicken fingers and skewers of beef satay. So Eaton wouldn’t get his favorite mini-quiches from the recipe she had been making for years. These other appetizers were every bit as good, without demanding an hour of her time in the kitchen. Present them on elegant serving-ware, she reasoned, and their guests wouldn’t know the difference.
Satisfied for the second time in thirty minutes, she returned to the car. Spotting the bright package in the passenger’s seat, she started the engine and let it idle while she tried Hugh’s number again.
Family Tree Page 13