Summer Reads Box Set: Volume 1

by Freethy, Barbara

  She suddenly started, glancing at the clock on the wall. "I have to go. I have a family birthday party at DeMarco's."

  "DeMarco's on the Wharf?" he asked, putting her name together with the seafood cafe on Fisherman's Wharf.

  "That's the one. Gino DeMarco is my stepfather. It's my aunt Lucia's birthday. Everyone in the immediate family, all thirty-seven of us, will be there."

  "Big family," he commented.

  "It's a lot of fun."

  "Then why go looking for trouble?"

  Her jaw dropped at his question. "I'm not doing that," she said defensively.

  "Aren't you? You think you're the girl in the picture."

  "You're the one who thinks that. I just want more information about her."

  "Same thing."

  "It's not the same thing. It's completely different. And I'm done with it. Forget I was ever here."

  Julia left with a toss of her head. Alex smiled to himself. She wasn't the first blonde to walk out on him, but she was probably one of the few he wouldn't forget. She might be done with the matter, but he was just getting started. Unlike Julia, he did have someone else he could talk to—his mother. Maybe it was time to return her calls.

  * * *

  Kate Manning loved parties, and she especially enjoyed being the center of attention as she was tonight. Actually, the party was in honor of her late husband, Charles Manning, whose photographs were on display, but that was beside the point. She was here, and he wasn't. She'd had twenty-five years to come to terms with that fact, and there was nothing to do but keep moving on. Maybe that seemed cold to some, but she was a practical woman, and as far as she was concerned, the love she'd had for her husband had been buried right along with him.

  She was now sixty-two years old, and after two failed marriages in the last twenty years, she'd resumed using the Manning name. This exhibit in honor of Charles's work had put her back on the society A-list, and she was determined to stay there. She'd been dropped from most invitation lists three years ago when her then husband, a popular city councilman, had slept with an underage girl, causing a huge scandal. He'd been booted out of office, and she had been shunned by her supposed friends. But now she was back, and if she had to play the tragic widow of a brilliant photographer, then that's exactly what she would do.

  It had also occurred to her in recent weeks that she might be able to augment her income by selling Charles's photographs to a book publisher. While she wasn't poor by any standards, she was acutely aware that her lifestyle required a steady income, and if there was still interest in Charles's work, then who was she to deny the public the opportunity to buy a book of his photographs? She just needed to convince Alex to go along with it. But he was a lot like his father—stubborn, secretive, and always leaving to go somewhere. It was no wonder he wasn't married. He couldn't commit, couldn't settle, couldn't put a woman before his work—just like Charles.

  "Kate, there you are."

  She put the bitter thoughts out of her mind as Stan Harding came up to her. Stan had been one of Charles's closest friends and the best man at their wedding. He was also one of the many photo editors Charles had worked with over the years. Stan was semiretired from World News Magazine as of last year, working only on special projects, like putting together the photographs for this exhibit.

  A handsome man, just a few years older than herself with stark white hair, a long, lean frame, and a strong, square jaw, Stan was one of the most intelligent and interesting men she'd ever known. He'd been married briefly years ago, but his wife had died of cancer the year she and Charles had split up. For a brief moment back then, she'd toyed with the idea of getting together with Stan. But his loyalty to Charles, even after Charles had passed away, had always been too high a hurdle to clear. She'd had to settle for his friendship.

  "Hello," she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek with a pleased smile.

  "Are you having a good time, Kate?"

  "Better now that you're here."

  "You always say the right thing," he said with a smile.

  She certainly tried. "We've gotten a wonderful response to the exhibit. I can't believe how many people have come tonight." The room was literally overflowing with men in formal suits and women in beautiful cocktail dresses. Waiters moved through the crowd offering champagne and gourmet appetizers prepared by one of San Francisco's best chefs. She felt a little thrill run through her as she complimented herself on her efforts. She hadn't thrown the party by herself, but she'd done a lion's share of the work, and it was turning out perfectly.

  "You did a fine job," Stan said, as he gazed around the room. "Charles would be proud."

  She wasn't so sure about that. Charles had hated her need to socialize and host parties, and he'd never been one to brag about his work or take the credit he deserved. He'd even asked the magazine to print his pictures without a byline on occasion. She'd never understood his reasoning.

  "I thought Alex might be here," Stan continued. "Joe said he got back into town today."

  And he hadn't called her. She didn't know why she felt hurt. It wasn't as if they were close, even though he was her only child. The rift had started years ago. Alex had blamed her for the breakup of his family. Then Charles had died, and Alex had hated her ever since. He didn't act that way on the surface, and they certainly never spoke about anything as personal as Alex's feelings, but she knew the truth.

  "The photos Alex took in South America were amazing," Stan added. "You must be very proud of your boy."

  "I am, of course." She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a sip. "I spoke to Joe earlier about doing an article on Alex and Charles, a side-by-side look at the father and son," she added. "It would sell a lot of magazines."

  Stan nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "I'm sure it would. I understand Alex is quite popular with the ladies."

  Kate didn't doubt that. Alex had his father's roguish good looks, thick, dark brown hair, light green eyes, and strong, muscular build, with not an ounce of fat on him, probably because he kept too busy to eat. He was always on the run, always looking for the next great shot. She sometimes wondered if he bothered to sleep. She certainly couldn't see herself in him anywhere—he was the spitting image of his father. She suddenly realized that spitting image was walking straight toward her. She threw back her shoulders, feeling a sudden pang of nervousness.

  "Mother," he said with a cool smile.

  "Alex. What on earth are you wearing?" She couldn't believe he'd come to the party in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. He frowned at her question, and she mentally chided herself for getting his back up so fast. But, dammit, couldn't he think about propriety once in a while?

  "It's nice to see you, too, Mother." His smile warmed as he nodded to Stan. "What's up?"

  "Not much. Glad to see you made it safely back," Stan said. He stepped forward and gave Alex a brief hug, much as a father would a son. Over the years Stan had tried to fill the gaps in Alex's life by showing up at his ball games or school graduations. It made Kate feel a bit sad and a little angry to realize that Alex could hug Stan but not give her even a light pat on the shoulder.

  "You should have called me, Alex," she said abruptly. "I was worried sick after I saw that photograph in the newspaper of you being dragged off to jail." She pursed her lips as she studied the purple swelling around his eye, and some latent maternal instinct made her say, "That must hurt. Did you see a doctor?"

  "I'll live. Don't worry about it."

  "You have to stop taking so many chances. You're not superhuman. I don't understand why you're willing to risk your life on perfect strangers."

  "I'm just doing my job. But I didn't come here to talk about my job."

  "Why did you come?" she asked sharply. She didn't like the intense look in her son's eyes. When he wanted something, he tended to go after it with all that he had. Maybe that was the one trait he got from her.

  Alex motioned them toward a quiet corner. "It's about one of Dad's ph
otographs—the orphan girl at the gates. Did Dad ever talk to either one of you about that picture or the girl?"

  "He didn't talk to me about any of his photos," Kate replied, still feeling the pain of Charles's distance even after all these years. "Especially the ones he took on that last trip to Moscow. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some people to greet. Stop by the house tomorrow, Alex, and we can talk more." By tomorrow, she'd have her wits about her. She'd be ready to deal with Alex's questions then. Tonight she just wanted to enjoy the party.

  Alex watched his mother walk away, not surprised that she'd given him such a sharp answer. After twenty-five years she was still pissed off at his father. That would probably never change. She looked good, though. Her hair was a dark copper red, and she had the face and the figure of a woman at least ten years younger. He knew she cared about her appearance. He didn't know what else she cared about. He never had.

  Alex glanced over at Stan, seeing a thoughtful look on the older man's face. "What about you?" he asked.

  "What do you really want to know? Cut to the chase, Alex."

  Alex hesitated, then said, "I want to know if there's a chance that the Russian orphan girl is alive and well and living in the United States."

  Stan's eyes narrowed. "Why would you ask that question?"

  "Because I think she came to my apartment today." Alex was a pro at reading people's expressions; he'd had plenty of practice behind his camera. Even though Stan tried to cover his reaction with a bland smile, Alex could tell that he was surprised, maybe even shocked. His face paled and his eyes glittered with an odd light. Stan knew something, but what?

  "That's impossible," Stan replied.

  "Why is it impossible? Do you know what happened to that girl?"

  "What I know is that the photo was not supposed to be published. I can't tell you any more."

  "Can't or won't? My father has been dead for twenty-five years. Surely there are no secrets left to protect."

  Stan stared at him for a long moment, then drew him farther into the corner of the room so that there was no chance they could be overheard. "Like you, your father sometimes got involved in things he should have left alone."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means butt out, Alex. Do what your father asked. Don't talk about any of it. If the woman comes back, tell her she's crazy. Tell her that girl in the photograph died a few weeks after that picture was taken. End of story."

  "But she's not dead, is she?"

  "In all the ways that matter, she is. Forget about her, Alex. Trust me. You do not want to reopen the past."

  Alex suddenly wanted nothing more.

  * * *

  DeMarco family birthday parties were always big, loud affairs. Tonight the cafe was filled to the brim with Italians of all ages, shapes, and sizes. The small tables were dressed in red-checkered tablecloths, candles gleaming in each floral centerpiece. The food was plentiful, the wine flowed, and laughter filled the room like music. This was her family, Julia reminded herself. It didn't matter that she was the only blonde in a sea of brunettes. It didn't matter that she wasn't a DeMarco by blood. They loved her. They treated her as if she were one of their own. She just wished she had more in common with her family, that she didn't feel so out of step with her father and her sister. Not that they ever tried to make her feel that way. She just did.

  "Julia, you're not eating." Her aunt Lucia, a short, plump woman with pepper gray hair, paused by the table, her face disapproving. She pointed to Julia's untouched lobster ravioli. "Is it too spicy? Shall I get you another plate?"

  "It's perfect. I'm just full."

  "How could you be full? You ate nothing."

  "Hey, she has to fit into a wedding dress in a couple of months. Don't fatten her up yet," Liz interrupted, joining Julia at the table. "But since I hate to see food go to waste..." She pulled Julia's plate across the table and picked up her fork. She took a bite and nodded approvingly. "Excellent."

  Lucia beamed her approval. "You, I don't worry about. But Julia..." She gazed at Julia again. "Since your sweet mother died, you just don't seem yourself."

  "I'm all right," Julia said. "I'm just not hungry."

  Lucia sighed, but held her tongue as Michael joined them at the table.

  Michael kissed her aunt on the cheek, then smiled at Julia. "Have you told them?"

  "Liz did. She got here before me. You know what a big mouth she has."

  "I couldn't keep it to myself," Liz said with a laugh. "I'm so excited. It seems like I've been waiting forever for this wedding."

  "I feel the same way," Michael said with a laugh.

  "We're very happy for you," Lucia said. "Now, you must be starving. I'll fix you a plate of food."

  "That would be great."

  "And I'll get you a beer," Liz added, following Lucia over to the bar.

  Michael sat down at the table. "Big party."

  "Like always," Julia replied. "How did your charter go?"

  "Fine. Sorry I'm late. I got hung up talking to my father about our advertising. I want to make changes. He doesn't. Same old argument. What did you do this afternoon?" he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand in his, his thumb playing with the engagement ring on her finger. "Did you go shopping for a wedding dress?"

  She shook her head. "No. I'm sure Liz wants to do that with me."

  "Just make sure you get something sexy and low cut."

  She smiled as she knew she was meant to, but it must have looked halfhearted to Michael, because the light disappeared from his eyes. "What's wrong, Julia? You've been acting strange since we left the museum."

  "You'll think I'm crazy if I tell you."

  "I could never think that. If something is bothering you, I want you to share it with me. I'm going to be your husband."

  She gazed down at their intertwined hands and knew she had to be honest with him. "I'm feeling rushed."

  "Because of the December wedding date?"

  She glanced back up at him and nodded. "It's fast, Michael. Only a little over three months."

  "We've been engaged for a year."

  "But not a normal year. Not a year of just being together without my mom being sick and endless trips to the hospital."

  "I understand that you're still sad, Julia, but it will get better. And it will get better faster if we're together. I can't wait to get on with the rest of our lives. I have so many plans for us. I promise to do everything I can to make you happy. And I honestly believe that once you get into the wedding planning, you'll feel more confident that this marriage is absolutely right. She thought about his words. He might be right. Maybe she just needed to be settled. But how could she settle down when there were so many questions running through her mind? "There's more," she said slowly. "I've been thinking about my past, about my real father and who my mother was before she married Gino."

  Michael looked at her in confusion. "Why would you be thinking about all that now?"

  "That girl in the photograph at the museum. She looked just like me, and she was wearing the same necklace that my mother gave me when I was a little girl."

  "I don't understand. You're saying you're... Russian?"

  She winced at the incredulous note in his voice. It did sound ridiculous coming from his mouth. "I'm saying I don't know who I am," she amended. "I don't have anything from before my mom married Gino. Nothing—no pictures of anything or anyone. It's like I didn't exist before I became a DeMarco."

  "Didn't you ever ask your mother about your real father?"

  "Of course I did, hundreds of times. She wouldn't talk about him. She said he left us and what did it matter?"

  "It doesn't matter, Julia," he said, squeezing her hand. "You don't need him. You don't need anyone but me, and I don't care about your bloodline."

  But she did need something besides him—she needed the truth. "I have to find out who I am, where I come from. It's important to me."

  "Before the wedding?"

  She nodded, seein
g a flicker of annoyance cross his face. "Yes."

  "And this is all because of some photograph?"

  "That was the trigger, but to be honest, if it wasn't that, it would have been something else."

  His eyes narrowed at that comment. "Because you want to postpone the wedding? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

  She wasn't quite sure how to answer that question. "It's just so fast."

  "Yeah, that's what you said." He sat back, releasing her hand. "Look, Julia, just let things ride for a few days, see if you feel the same way in a week or two, before we change the date. If we don't take December, we'll have to wait another year. I know how much you love history, and I think the museum would be the perfect setting for you."

  "I know." God, she felt so guilty. Michael had been so happy earlier. Now his face was pinched and tight, his eyes filled with disappointment.

  "Here's your beer." Liz set the bottle down on the table, glancing from Michael to Julia, then back at Michael again. "Who just died?"

  "Julia wants to postpone the wedding," Michael said glumly.

  Julia sighed, wishing Michael had not shared that piece of information just yet.

  "Are you out of your mind?" Liz asked in astonishment. "Why would you want to wait? You have the best place in the world to get married and the perfect guy. What's wrong with you, Julia?"

  "Good question," Michael said, standing up. "Maybe you can talk some sense into your sister, Lizzie. I'm going to find some food."

  Liz quickly took his seat. "Tell me what the problem is," she said as Michael left.

  "I just need more time. I don't want to rush into marriage."

  "Rush? If you go any slower, you'll be moving backwards."

  Julia looked away from her sister's determined face, wondering if she could make a quick exit through the front door. But a tall, dark-haired man with light green eyes blocked that door. Her breath caught in her chest. Alex Manning? He'd cleaned up, shaved, showered, and put on more clothes, but it was definitely him. What did he want? Did he know something? Did she want to know what he knew?