“He’s dead,” Eaton said. “His sister may not be.”
Dana was rubbing Lizzie’s back. “Thomas Belisle?”
“The man who started this all,” Hugh said. “Why does that name ring a bell?”
Dana suddenly remembered dark eyes that were riveted on Lizzie, and an expression that was exquisitely tender. In that instant, she understood the love with which certain hands had cradled her child.
Stunned, she whispered, “I know her,” and looked up at the others.
Chapter 25
As stunning as the notion was that Saundra Belisle was related to Lizzie, Dana had to wait to pursue it. First came Ellie Jo. Dana drove to the hospital Saturday morning to find that her grandmother had been taken from the recovery room to intensive care. This was standard protocol, no cause for worry, despite the preponderance of machines. But it was hard not to panic seeing Ellie Jo herself. Her head was wrapped in gauze. She looked ashen and frail against the sheets.
Taking a limp hand, Dana kissed it. “Gram?”
Ellie Jo opened her eyes. When she saw Dana, she smiled. It was a little lopsided, but half a smile was better than nothing, Dana thought.
“I didn’t die,” Ellie Jo murmured. “That’s good.”
“It’s awesome,” Dana said, relieved that her grandmother was speaking. “How do you feel?”
“Weak. I can’t move much.”
“You will. You need to rest and think wonderful thoughts.”
“My hair is gone,” said Ellie Jo.
“Only the back,” Dana reasoned, “and only the lowest part. We’re getting into hat season, and you’re in the right field. Tell me the kind of hat you want, and we’ll have a dozen knitted within the week.”
“A wonderful thought,” Ellie Jo murmured, and closed her eyes.
Dana wanted to ask what she had been reading in the attic when she had suffered the stroke. But she knew she couldn’t upset her. So she sat there for another few minutes, then kissed Ellie Jo’s cheek, and slipped out.
Back in her car, she headed for the house by the orchard. She wanted to read those papers in the attic. As she drove, she phoned Hugh to check up on Lizzie, but he was seeing his parents off and couldn’t talk for long. When her phone rang shortly afterward, she assumed he was calling back.
“Dana?” came a tentative voice.
Her pulse faltered. She should have looked at the caller ID. Too late now. “Yes?”
“It’s Jack Kettyle.”
Like she hadn’t known. Like she hadn’t recognized that voice even after the brief visit they’d had. The tentativeness of his voice alone would have given him away.
“How did you get this number?” she asked. Her home number was one thing. She had told him she was living in the same town where she grew up. He knew what that town was, and he knew her married name. All he had to do was call directory assistance. But her cell phone was unlisted.
“Your mother-in-law gave it to me,” he explained. “I’m glad you told her about me.”
Dana was not. While she couldn’t fault Dorothy—poor Dorothy, who likely thought she was doing the right thing since Jack Kettyle was not only Dana’s biological father but a priest—Dana didn’t need this call right now. She couldn’t handle the emotions involved—couldn’t begin to think about them. “It’s actually a bad time for me to talk,” she said. “My grandmother is ill.”
“I’m sorry,” he said with concern. “Is it serious?”
“Yes. Things are precarious. I can’t talk now.”
“Another time, then?”
“Yes. Fine. Bye.”
“Wait,” he said just before she took the phone from her ear. “I’ve told my family. They’d like to meet you.”
Dana’s eyes filled with tears. “Uhh, not now. I can’t deal with it. I have to go.” She ended the call, not caring whether she was cutting him off—and she promptly felt bad for that. What was it she had said to Hugh the night before—that intent was the important thing? If Jack Kettyle hadn’t known she existed, could he be blamed for ignoring her for thirty-four years?
The only person to blame for that was her mother, but how could Dana do that? Elizabeth had died too young. Dana didn’t want to blame her for anything.
So she focused on Earl. She pulled up at Ellie Jo’s house and, ignoring The Stitchery, went inside. Veronica was meowing, trotting in from wherever she had been waiting.
Dana hunkered down. She pulled the tabby up on her thighs and hugged her, which was all Veronica would stand. Jumping off again, she eyed Dana expectantly.
“Ellie Jo’s fine,” Dana said, stroking the silky fur between the cat’s ears. “She’ll be in the hospital for a little bit, but it’s looking good.” Someone was going to have to stop in to take care of Veronica’s food, water, and litter. Adding those things to her list, Dana saw to them now, then went up the stairs to her mother’s room.
The attic hatch was open, the ladder still down. The papers in the attic lay where they had been left, on the wood planks beside a hanging piece of insulation.
Sitting on the floor, Dana picked up the official forms. The first was from the Illinois state medical examiner’s office and listed the cause of Earl’s death as blunt trauma to the head following a fall. The second was a copy of the police report stating that the victim had been alone at the time of the fall, and that the fall was judged to be accidental. The third was Ellie Jo’s marriage certificate. Its date was the one Dana knew as her grandparents’ anniversary, and the year on the form was a full one before Elizabeth’s birth.
With nothing jarring here, Dana picked up the newspaper clipping. Massachusetts Salesman Found Dead in Hotel Room, read the headline. The opening paragraphs gave details of the discovery of her grandfather’s body, details Dana already knew. Then came the phrase she had glimpsed the day before. It was in the last line of the piece.
The victim’s long-estranged wife, Miranda Joseph, is a local resident.
Dana read the sentence again, then again. She had never heard of a Miranda Joseph, much less a first marriage for Earl. She had no idea what it meant.
Apparently, neither did Ellie Jo’s cousin Emma. A handwritten note from her lay just under the clipping. It was dated several months after Earl’s death. “Eleanor, a friend sent me this clipping. Did you KNOW Earl was married before? How could he marry YOU, if he already had a wife? Do you know what this makes EARL?”
Dana set the letter aside and, rocking on her knees there in the shadowy warmth of the attic, wept for the pain her grandmother must have felt. Bad enough, she realized, for Ellie Jo to lose Earl. But the fear of discovery must have made it worse. All those years. And now. Dana could suddenly understand why Ellie Jo had been against the search for Dana’s father. One search might lead to another, and Ellie Jo considered bigamy a mortal sin.
Dana wondered whether the stroke had been triggered by fear of discovery. It couldn’t have been easy on Ellie Jo, revering Earl in one voice while stifling another that said terrible things.
And Earl? Good, saintly Earl? Like everyone else, Dana had adored the man. A kind, gentle husband, he would have left the details of divorce up to his first wife. But how could he have failed to make sure it was done? Dana would have thought he’d have wanted a divorce decree in his hand before marrying again. She would have thought he wouldn’t want to die leaving unanswered questions for the woman he claimed was the light of his life.
Dana was oppressively sad. When she felt Veronica rub her side, she wrapped an arm around the cat and buried her face in its fur. Seeming to sense her misery, Veronica allowed it.
Finally, Dana wiped her face and sat up. She gathered up the papers, stuffed them back in the wall where Ellie Jo had kept them hidden, and carefully replaced the pink insulation. No one would find them here unless told where to look, and Dana wouldn’t tell. Apparently, Ellie Jo had planned to take Earl’s secret to her death. Dana would, too.
Was it right? Dana didn’t know. An argument could be made
that she was no less certain Earl had committed bigamy than Eaton had been about his mother’s affair. The difference, she reasoned, was that Eaton’s concealment directly affected others, whereas Earl’s—and Ellie Jo’s—did not.
Hugh stood at the edge of the patio looking out over the last of the beach roses toward the sea. Behind him, Lizzie slept in her carriage. She was blissfully exhausted after a major crying jag that had had him reaching more than once for the phone to call his mother back to the house.
But Lizzie wasn’t Dorothy’s responsibility. Hugh was the one who had to learn what to do.
Enjoying the breeze on his face, he thought about that—and then about his heritage. He felt that it ought to affect his work, but as many times as he ran through his roster of cases, he didn’t see any reason to change course. He would love to add a discrimination charge to the wrongful termination suit he had filed on behalf of his African-American client—he had wanted to do that before he ever knew about Thomas Belisle—but it simply wasn’t legally wise. Should he pervert his best professional judgment just because he had learned something new about himself?
Nor could he see himself sitting his clients down and announcing that he had just discovered he was African American. Not only was it patronizing, but it was irrelevant.
Dana had said something should change. But what?
A murmur came from the sea on a gust of wind, but before he could make out the words, they rolled back out with the surf.
Dana came home to pick up Lizzie, but she didn’t stay long. She needed the comfort of the shop. She was trying to be angry at Earl for botching a crucial phase of his life, but Earl was dead. So her anger shifted to Ellie Jo for suffering in silence all those years.
The instant she stepped foot inside The Stitchery, her pulse beat more smoothly. Customers sat at the long table working up gauge swatches or knitting through problems. Others flipped through notebooks filled with patterns, searching for one that they liked. Others were fingering the newest of the yarns, a collection of winter wools, alpaca, mohair, and yak. Some were of solid colors, others were hand-painted and multi-hued.
Corinne James was admiring the latter. She was dressed in navy slacks with a silk camisole. Her hair was pulled back in a carefully placed ponytail. An Hermès scarf hung from the strap of her Ferragamo bag.
She was deliberating over a hand-painted skein that went with her outfit. It was reminiscent of a black watch plaid.
“That’s handsome,” Dana said as she passed.
Corinne looked up. “Maybe a scarf for Oliver? Or a sweater?”
Dana stopped. “A sweater.” She couldn’t resist. A sweater would require several hundred dollars’ worth of this yarn. But didn’t an Hermès scarf deserve fine company? “A sweater. Definitely.”
Corinne nodded toward the sleeping Lizzie. “She’s very pretty.” Her gaze rose. “How’s Ellie Jo?”
“Okay, I think.”
Corinne nodded. She lifted the sample swatch that Ellie Jo had made just days before. “This is soothing. Traditional.”
“I bought some myself,” Dana said. She was thinking of making a felted tote.
“Of this? Really?”
“It’s so beautiful. I couldn’t resist.”
Corinne eyed the skein again. She held it in her palm, tested its loft with a squeeze, shifted it in and out of the sun. Buy it, Dana nearly said, then thought of the bounced check. She needed to ask about that, but something about Corinne discouraged it. A fragility?
Dana had never thought of Corinne as fragile. Fanciful, perhaps. But fragile?
She didn’t particularly like Corinne. But Ellie Jo did. So she asked, “Is everything okay with you?”
Corinne looked surprised. “Definitely. Why do you ask?”
“You seem tired.” It wasn’t tired, really. She looked tense. “You haven’t been around as much.”
“Oh, we’ve had glitches with the museum gala. The people who were supposed to be working on the ad book have one excuse after another for not coming to meetings, and the deadline is next week. I’ve had to spend extra time on that.”
“It’ll get done.”
“I’m sure.” She put the yarn back in its bin. “This’ll have to wait. I’m too muddled to be sure this color is right. Besides, I won’t have time to work anything up for a while. Please give Ellie Jo my best. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
“I will.” Dana watched her leave. She was trying to put her finger on what it was that worried her about Corinne when Saundra Belisle approached—and Dana realized she was talking to Lizzie’s great-great-aunt. That made Saundra not only a trusted friend, but, at this moment, the only relative Dana had here in the shop.
Dana didn’t hesitate in handing her the child. Nor did she hesitate in giving Saundra a long hug. Saundra seemed to understand it. “Your grandmother will be fine, Dana Jo,” she said softly. “This is not her time to go. I feel it strongly. She’ll be sitting on that stool again in no time.”
Dana drew back to see her face. “Will she be able to function?”
“Maybe not as smoothly as before, but near to it.”
“Do I need to make changes in the house?”
“Not yet. Let’s wait until we know more.”
Saundra was no seer. But Dana clung to her words. She saw to things at the shop, keeping her eye on the cradle. A little later, she nursed Lizzie, then sat beside Saundra to work on the Faroese shawl. She had finished the most laborious part, eight inches of intricate design that circled the wide bottom hem, but there were still decreases to make every other round, markers to move, and a difficult pattern to follow to maintain side selvages and the back gusset.
Saundra fingered the hem of the shawl. “You do a beautiful job. This is a perfect wool.”
“It’s part alpaca, part silk.”
“Alpaca for warmth, silk for strength and sheen—it takes the best from both. There’s something to be said for blends, you know?”
Dana smiled and continued to knit. Was there an analogy here? Did Saundra intend it? Of course she did.
An easy silence lay between them. It had always been this way with Saundra—this instant rapport. Dana wanted to question her about Hugh’s grandfather. But she didn’t. She prized the serenity of the moment too much to risk it.
Late in the afternoon, the door dinged. In the seconds following, a brief silence stole over the shop. Curious, Dana looked up. Hugh had come in, with Eaton close behind.
Saundra had risen. Dana realized that she wasn’t looking at Hugh, but at his father. Stepping around Hugh, Eaton headed toward their corner, and the pulse of the shop resumed. The register spewed out a credit card slip; the winder cranked; needles began clicking again.
When Eaton reached them, he extended his hand to Saundra. “I’m Eaton Clarke,” he said.
The formality was marginally absurd. But Eaton was Eaton. And what else should he do? Dana wondered.
Saundra’s eyes were clear. “Saundra Belisle,” she answered.
“Is Thomas your brother?”
“He was.”
“Did you know that Thomas had a relationship with my mother?”
“I did.”
“How?”
Saundra smiled. “One-word answers won’t do. Sit with me, please.” She returned to the sofa that she and Dana were sharing.
Dana hadn’t moved. She wouldn’t have chosen this time for Eaton to come. She wanted Saundra to herself a bit longer, wanted more time to gather her resolve before facing Ellie Jo again.
But she could only begin to imagine what Eaton was feeling. He sat bolt upright, crossing one leg over the other and straightening the crease of his pants in a gesture she had seen him make dozens of times.
“How did you know about their relationship?” he asked.
Saundra spoke softly, keeping Eaton’s confidence. “My brother was nearly twenty years older than me. I worshipped him. I used to follow him around. I was five when he started meeting with your
mother.”
Eaton showed no emotion. “Did you ever see them together?”
“Not in bed. But soon after. And once in the backyard. I was too young to understand what it meant when people took their clothing off. When I got older and did, I asked Thomas about it. He admitted to the affair. He was proud of himself. Thomas was incorrigible that way.”
“Did he know I was his son?”
“No. To hear Thomas tell it, your mother sweated it out that summer wondering whether her baby would look African American. To hear him tell it, there was a collective sigh when you were born looking like your mother. No, Thomas never knew you were his.”
“But you did.”
She smiled. “Not until your granddaughter arrived. I always suspected it, so I kept my ear to the ground where you were concerned. You were a good man. I wanted to think you were his son. Then you had your boys, and Hugh looked just like you. When he became a lawyer, I wondered if he had inherited some of Thomas’s interests. So I kept my ear to the ground about him, too.”
“You followed us?” Eaton asked.
Saundra chuckled. “Nothing as fancy as that. I watched for mention of you in the newspapers. When Hugh has a high-profile trial, I read about it. You write books. I read the reviews and listen to interviews. And I watch television. Hugh was on the news last year when he represented that fellow who shot up the post office. And then there was the Boston magazine article on father-son teams. There were pictures of both of you. I hit the jackpot with that one.”
Dana smiled at the remark.
Neither of the men did, but Hugh asked, “Did you move here because of us?”
“Not entirely. I had been living on the Vineyard—oh, not that whole time. I lived in Boston when I worked as a nurse. I retired twelve years ago and returned to the island, but it had lost its appeal. The winters were harsh. I felt isolated. The older I got, the more I wanted to be close to friends and to the doctors I trusted. So I picked out several retirement communities and began reading the local papers to learn about each. I used to pore over the listings of real estate transactions.” She brightened. “And one day there you were, Hugh, named as the buyer of a piece of land, and I said to myself, ‘This town was meant for me.’ So I bought my house.”
Family Tree Page 25