by Robin Kaye
"A child?"
"No, I thought I'd start with a cat and work my way up from there."
"Sounds like a plan. Maybe then you can meet a cute veterinarian."
"One can only hope."
"Yeah, well, I'll see if Dr. Mike knows any vets. The doctor he dragged me to wasn't your type."
"Somehow that's not a surprise, since I don't think I have a type. We're heading into Philadelphia, so I better get off the phone."
"Okay, thanks for cleaning the apartment. I'm sorry I slept all afternoon."
"Not that there was much to clean. Promise you'll come visit me soon and bring Mike. I can't wait to meet him."
"Okay, I promise. Love you Bec."
"Take care, and I love you, too, sweetie. Bye."
Annabelle hung up the phone and tried to imagine Becca meeting Mike. She'd have to show her a picture of him before she introduced them. She'd have to prepare Becca for the shock. Lord knows it would have been nice if someone had prepared her, but then who could have? No one she knew in New York knew Chip even existed. And damn if that didn't make her feel guilty too. Thank you, Sister John Claire.
Becca turned onto the drive leading to the club. A mile-long driveway over rolling green hills led to a Tudor-style mansion turned country club. Bitsy got custody of the Cricket Club in the divorce, so Daddy had to find himself a new place to play.
She pulled up to the front entrance. A uniformed attendant stood ready to open her car door before she'd even shifted into neutral and raised the parking brake. She disengaged the door locks. The door swung open, and a strong hand helped her out of the low-slung car. Becca took the hand, and when the attendant's eyes lit up, she wished he were looking at her rather than her car. Pity. He was obviously new to the job. Becca's car was nice, but nothing compared to some that frequented the club. She took the receipt and put a tip in his breast pocket, patting it down just for kicks. That earned her a crooked smile as she walked toward the front door. It was a sad day when a girl had to tip a man to get more attention than her car. Maybe she should sell the damn thing and get a beater. Then she'd never be allowed on the club grounds. Hmm, not such a bad idea at that.
She tossed her Dolce and Gabbana purse over her shoulder, pushed her Pucci sunglasses to the top of her head, and smoothed the Tracy Reese strapless dress over her hips. She dressed to impress by necessity. All she really wanted to do was go back home to her loft apartment in South Philly and hang out in her cutoff Levi's and a T-shirt. Unfortunately, she didn't want her comfort as badly as she wanted information. The only way to get the facts was to give her father what he wanted—a well-behaved, well-bred, well-dressed daughter.
Becca let her eyes adjust to the dark, formal foyer and began the search for her dad. She walked by the club room and checked the bar. He wasn't there. Great. She took a deep breath, pasted on a smile, and pretended she was on stage, which wasn't much of a stretch. She stopped at the formal dining room's entrance, and before she could even scan it, the uniformed maitre d' bowed slightly. "Ms. Larsen, so nice to see you again." He tucked a menu under his arm and raised his nose. "Please follow me. Your father is expecting you."
Well, no kidding. He walked like a general overlooking his troops, leaving her to follow in his wake. The people she passed took notice and didn't seem to find anything offensive about her attire. Score one for Becca. At least she wouldn't be getting the old why-can't-you-dress-to-your-station lecture or the why-must-you-always-embarrass-me lecture. Though, the times she'd received both, she'd thoroughly enjoyed doing whatever it was she did to deserve them. Ah, the life of a reluctant debutante.
Christopher Edmond Larsen stood and gave her a regal nod and a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling her chair out for her. She sat, and the maitre d' placed a napkin on her lap, then handed her an opened menu as a busboy rushed over to deliver a water glass.
She smiled her thanks and waited for her father to start the volley, which was the only way to gauge his mood, because Daddy was the king of cool.
"This was an unexpected surprise."
He obviously wondered if she was there to ask for money. He should know better, since she was the twin who'd never stooped so low and couldn't be bought—much to his consternation.
Becca took a sip of water and set it back on the table. "It's been a while. How you're doing?"
An eyebrow rose, and his lips quirked before he shut down the smile. Hmm … some real trust issues. Either that or a sure sign that a little paranoia goes a long way. He should know she was never in Mommy Dearest's camp—or his for that matter. When it came to her parents, she was Switzerland. Not that it mattered now. The divorce had been final for a year and a half.
"I'm fine, same as usual. Between my practice and my position on the hospital board, I've been busy."
"That's nice." Becca would have given her fortune for a dinner roll or a time-out to place an order. She looked over the menu and tried to figure out what would be kindest to her stomach. The tension roiled the little she'd eaten in the two days since she'd seen the photo.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about, Rebecca, or are we going to spend our meal with pleasantries?"
"It's hardly pleasant, Daddy. You haven't even asked how I am."
"Fine. How are you?"
"I'm doing well. My work is getting noticed, which is a major improvement, and I think I may have discovered a long lost relative."
"A relative?"
No need to waste time. He obviously wasn't happy to see her. No surprise there. Maybe she could get the information she wanted and leave him to eat in peace. She placed the envelope containing the pictures of Dr. Mike Flynn on the table. He looked at her questioningly.
"These were taken a couple of weeks ago at a wedding my friend attended in New York."
Her father looked to the heavens as if to ask for strength and pulled the photos out of the envelope. Becca watched as he scanned the picture of the two men and did a double take. When he flipped to the close-up, all the blood drained from his face. He reached for his water glass, took a gulp, and choked on it.
She rose from her seat, and the maitre d' made a beeline for the table. Her father wiped his now-sweaty face with his napkin and waved off the advance of the staff and Becca.
Her legs turned leaden as she made her way back to her chair and sat. "Who is this Michael Flynn to you?"
She had never seen such pain in a man's eyes.
"Daddy?"
He moved forward and lowered his voice. "Did you say Flynn?"
"Yes, Dr. Michael Flynn. Who is he?"
"If my suspicions are correct, he's your half brother."
Well, she hadn't seen that coming. A cousin, sure, a branch of the family tree her grandfather had sawed off and refused to allow anyone to acknowledge. But her father's love child? Nope. Before this moment, she'd have said it was impossible. She didn't think her father had the ability to love anyone but himself. The pain evident in her father's eyes could only be caused by heartbreak and loss. It was her turn to gulp water. At least she didn't choke on it. Her mind raced. A brother? A half brother?
Dr. Larsen lifted his hand, and a waiter ran to his aid. "A scotch, neat. Make it a double. Rebecca?"
She couldn't take her eyes off her father. "Sure." He stared at the photographs, and when he looked back at her, he seemed to have aged ten years.
"I guess I owe you an explanation."
Becca had never seen her father look contrite before. Come to think of it, he never seemed to have any feelings. Even when he acted happy, it never seemed genuine. It sure looked genuine now.
He stared at the empty plate in front of him, as if he were watching the story of his life on the china. "You know the story. Your mom and I had known each other since we were children. Our families had always been close, and they planned for us to marry … someday." He shook his head. "I was never serious about Bitsy. I just went along with it because it was easier to ignore it and hope it would all go away."
&n
bsp; "Dad—"
He held up a hand to quiet her. "I know I should have put my foot down and refused, but it always seemed so far in the future—it never felt real.
"When I was in New York doing my residency, I met a woman named Colleen Flynn. We dated. Bitsy dated other people too, as far as I knew. But Colleen and I got serious. We fell in love, but I had no idea she could have been pregnant. I never knew."
Becca took a sip of water. Her father was capable of love?
He took a deep breath and wiped his face with his hand. "Colleen and I talked about getting married when I finished my residency. We were so happy together, and I was happy for the first time in my life. I went home for a few days at Easter and had planned to tell my parents and your mother about Colleen and end the sham of an engagement."
Becca's father straightened his silverware and finally met her eyes. "When I told Bitsy that I wanted out, that I was in love with Colleen and wanted to marry her, you can imagine your mother's reaction. She went crazy. My family threatened to disown me. And two days later, both families went behind my back and put the announcement of my engagement to Bitsy in every society page between Philadelphia and Boston."
He shook his head and winced. "When I saw the announcement, I ran back to New York to tell Colleen it was a mistake. By the time I'd gotten there, she was gone."
He took another sip of his water, and his face was devoid of color. "Where the hell is that scotch?" He looked and didn't see the waiter, so he seemed to steel himself and continued. "When I showed up at Colleen's house, her family spit in my face."
Becca reached for his hand before she could stop herself.
He gave her a weak smile. "They told me she'd gone back to Ireland." His voice quivered. "They said she'd married the man they'd approved of—someone who wouldn't cheat on her. They threatened to call the police if I ever darkened their doorstep again."
He patted her hand and sat back, distancing himself like always. "I didn't give up right away. I talked to every one of Colleen's friends trying to find out where she'd gone. No one knew. My family refused to help. They cut off my trust to ensure I wouldn't go off to Ireland to find her. I had no money of my own. As it was, I could barely pay the rent with my meager income."
He took a deep breath and stared at Becca as if he were looking through her into the past. "I was hurt, and although I never loved your mother, I took the easy way out. I was so stupid. I did what everyone wanted me to do. I married Bitsy.
"Becca, your mother was never the woman I loved. Marrying her was unfair to both of us. After all these years, I don't think I ever got over Colleen. And now, to find out she may very well have had our son—"
Becca dropped her head in her hands. Oh God, what have I done?
"I've got to find them. To explain. Christ. Colleen must hate me."
Becca was glad she was sitting down as her head started to spin, thinking of the ramifications of her actions. Her father would offer Mike the world, and the only way Annabelle would stay with Mike is if he rejected everything that goes along with being a Larsen—the father, the money, the page in the Social Register. Everything that Chip was incapable of doing. Her father would find Mike and destroy Annabelle's life again.
"I'd love to say I regret marrying your mother, but how can I? I got you and Chip out of the deal. I know I was never present in either of your lives—at least not in any way that counted. I'd like to change that now, with you, and with Mike. I've already lost one child. I don't want to lose my other children, too. Not when I have a second chance. I'm not going to make the same mistake again."
When the drinks were delivered, he drained half the glass, set it down, and watched Becca do the same.
How was she going to tell Annabelle? Becca didn't think about it before, but she should have told Annabelle she'd taken the pictures and was going to talk to her father. Christ, now it looked like she'd gone and done this behind Annabelle's back. She had, but not intentionally. Becca was so used to her what's-yours-is-mine and what's-mine-is-yours relationship with Annabelle, it never occurred to her to ask permission to take copies of the photos. Now that she had, and then compounded the offense by showing the photos to her father, she'd crossed the line.
Annabelle was going to freak when she found out her lover was Chip's brother, but even worse than that, one of the two people who'd made Annabelle's life miserable the whole time she was with Chip planned to make a place for himself in Mike's life. After all the hell Becca's parents had put Annabelle through when she and Chip were together, Becca couldn't imagine Annabelle would sign up for more of the same.
What would Mike think when he found out his father saw him as the answer to all his prayers. Someone to carry on the family name. A son who followed in his old man's footsteps. Another doctor to carry on his work. Dad planned to right all the wrongs he'd done to both her and Chip, even if most of it was his absence.
Dad wasn't the only one who wanted a second chance. Becca wanted a place in Mike's life, too. It would be nice to have at least one normal family member. Maybe that hollow feeling she'd had since Chip's death, the feeling of being utterly alone in the world, would diminish.
Her father took a sip of his scotch. "We need to order so we don't give them anything to add to the gossip mill."
She was too shocked to argue. "Fine. I'll have a salad, but don't expect me to eat."
She wouldn't be able to eat a thing until she broke the news to Annabelle. Maybe she'd wait until Annabelle called her tomorrow to report on her adventures in dining. Besides, there was only so much a person could go through. Her plan to dine with each of her parents at their respective country clubs within a twenty-four-hour period was over her personal limit. Expecting her to break the devastating news to her best friend was more torture than any human being should be expected to face. No, even Annabelle would understand why Becca waited; that is, if Annabelle ever spoke to Becca again. She took another slug of scotch and waited for the fire to hit her stomach and maybe give her the strength she needed to get through the next day.
Chapter 9
Four days had passed since Annabelle torqued her ankle, and she still wasn't used to the crutches. She rushed through the sanctuary doors. Okay, she pushed one open with her shoulder, and as quickly as possible, got her crutches and the rest of her body through the swinging doors, blessed herself with holy water, and scanned the pews for the family. Her mother always insisted on sitting as far in front as possible and this time had snagged the third pew. Goody. Annabelle tugged at her skirt and pulled her cotton sweater more closely around her before she hobbled down the aisle, ignoring the stares, and the cloying scent of flowers.
There was nothing like walking into church late and on crutches to bring back every nightmare experience she'd ever had within the hallowed halls of St. Joseph's. The memory of Sister John Claire pulling her around by the ear and parading her up and down the aisles in front of the entire school population assaulted her. Every person who attended daily Mass during Lent had witnessed her humiliation. The Friday morning Mass-acre, as she dubbed it, ran on a never-ending loop through her mind like a bad B movie on the late-night cable lineup.
Today only added a new episode to Annabelle's Life: The Good, The Bad, and The Humiliating.
The congregation watched as she limped down the aisle like a badly dressed disabled bride. The stabilization boot, obviously designed by a straight man, made her leg look ugly and forced her to wear flats on her uninjured foot. God forbid the designer put a little heel on it, or make it a slingback. Sheesh. No wonder she was depressed. It looked worse than Aunt Rose's orthopedic shoes. Which, when you think about it, went a long way to explaining Aunt Rose's perpetual nasty mood. A mood Annabelle had been suffering from since the day she hurt her stupid ankle.
It didn't help that the morning had not gone as planned. She and Mike had a late night and an even later morning. Okay, so she was easily distracted. Who knew people actually made love in the shower? Although doing it on one l
eg was a bit of a challenge. Being late for Mother's Day, however, was unforgivable and liable to haunt her for the rest of her days.
Thumping down the aisle late for Mass earned her death glares from both Mama and Aunt Rose. Papa looked as if he was already asleep. He was lucky Mama stared at her instead of elbowing him in the ribs.
Richie gave her one of his annoying knowing looks, which made her want to stick her tongue out at him. God, she was reverting to childhood.
She genuflected—as much as she could, considering the crutch situation—and then hopped on one foot while she tried to figure out what to do with the crutches. You'd think they'd have come up with collapsible crutches by now or at least prettier ones.
After what seemed like an eternity, Rich took pity on her and laid the crutches on the floor in front of the kneeler. He held her elbow as she scooted into the pew. Not ten seconds after she got her butt settled on the bench, the congregation stood to say the Our Father.
Mama elbowed Papa in the ribs to wake him.
Rich gave her a hand getting her butt off the bench. "Nice entrance," he whispered like he had when they were kids.
Mama shushed them just like old times, and the Mass went on and on and on.
When Mass was almost over, Rich retrieved the crutches and walked her out ahead of the crowd, holding the doors open for her as he went. He opened the outer doors, and sunlight spilled in. Annabelle felt as if she could breathe for the first time since she'd arrived. The church wasn't stifling—it was her parents.
She enjoyed going to Mass, but she always went alone. She tried to go Saturday afternoon to avoid her parents. She even begged out of Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, claiming she was too tired. With the exception of Rosalie's wedding, she hadn't celebrated Mass with her family since before she'd moved to Philadelphia. If Annabelle could have avoided the whole "always the bridesmaid and never the bride" nightmare, she would have skipped that Mass, too.