"I think you're full of yourself, that's what I think."
"You like me."
"I don't." But she was still smiling when she tossed the photo back into the box. "Concentrate on what you're doing."
Slowly but surely she progressed through the boxes and moved across the room, finally landing on a box of costumes. Now that she knew her mother had traveled to Russia as a seamstress, the costumes took on new meaning. She pulled out the red cape she'd worn when she'd played Little Red Riding Hood in the third grade, then the angel costume she'd sported one Halloween. "We always had homemade costumes," she said. "My mother loved to sew. She never said she'd done it professionally, though."
"Of course she didn't," Alex replied. "She obviously wanted to hide her past in every possible way."
"Which means we probably won't find anything here."
"Keep digging. Sometimes people get careless."
With a sigh, Julia set back to work. The next box held Christmas cards and letters and an address book. The floral-patterned address book had been by her mother's bed the day she died. Her mother had wanted to let people know she was sick and was thinking of them, so she'd spent most of the last month writing brief notes. When she was too tired to hold the pen, Julia and sometimes Liz had written them for her. Unlike most of the other items in the room, which were from happier times, the address book reminded Julia of how bad that last week had been, watching her mother fade away before her very eyes. She was glad that she had been with her, but sometimes she was sad, too, because the image of death occasionally overpowered the other memories. She didn't want to remember her mother sick; she wanted to think of her happy and healthy.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she opened the address book and skimmed through the pages. There were three letters stuck in the back of the book, addressed and stamped and ready to go. Liz was supposed to have mailed them the day they were written, but she must have forgotten. The first one was to Pamela Hunt, the mother of a close friend of Julia's. The second was addressed to Grace Barrington, one of the waitresses who had worked at DeMarco's for at least a decade. And the third... Julia held the envelope up to the light, realizing that the writing was definitely her mother's, the letters weak and somewhat messy, making the name almost illegible. It took her a moment to decipher the writing.
"This is odd. It's addressed to Rick Sanders. I've never heard of anyone by that name."
Alex came to her side, squatting down next to her. "Why don't you open it?"
"Do you think I should? It's my mom's personal letter. She meant to mail it the day before she died. I remember watching her struggle to write it, but she said she had something important to say."
"Maybe a confession," Alex suggested. "Go on, open it."
"Why would she confess to someone named Rick Sanders?" At his pointed glance, she slid a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. There was one piece of notepaper inside. Julia took a breath and began to read. 'Dear Rick. I know we agreed not to speak, but I must let you know that I'm very sick. I don't think I'll make it another month..." Julia's voice faltered as she realized she was reading some of her mother's very last words. "I can't." She held the paper out to Alex.
He took over. "I'll think of you fondly always. I know you were angry with me for what I did, but it worked out the best for all of us. Julia is a beautiful woman now. And I have another daughter as well. My life turned out to be very happy. I hope that you, too, were able to find some happiness. I know you made the ultimate sacrifice, but I was never surprised by your actions. You were and are the most heroic man I've ever known. Love, Sarah."
Alex lifted his head, his gaze meeting hers. "Who do you think it is?" she asked. "Who is Rick Sanders?"
"Maybe we should ask your father."
"I don't think so. I don't believe he would want to read a letter like this from my mother to another man, one signed with love."
Alex turned over the envelope. "The address is in St. Helena. That's about an hour and a half from here, isn't it?"
"Just north of Napa. You're not thinking of going there, are you?"
"Why not? You said your mother wrote this letter just before she died, and that it was important. I think we should deliver it personally."
"It's odd how she spoke of me by name, as if the person would know me, but not Liz," Julia mused. "You're right. We need to go there."
"What about work? Do you have a show tonight?"
"That was the call I made earlier. I've already arranged to cover my job for a few days so I can devote my time to figuring out what's going on." She paused. "We haven't completely finished here."
"It doesn't look like these boxes are going anywhere."
"You're right about that. I'm sure my dad hasn't set foot in this room since he moved in." She hesitated. "I should say good-bye to him. And I should probably talk to him about the drinking he's doing. Liz is right. I have been shirking my responsibilities in that regard."
"That sounds like too long a conversation to have right now. And one you should probably have when your father is one hundred percent sober," he pointed out.
"True. I guess it can wait. I just hope my mother wasn't having an affair with Rick Sanders. My father would be devastated—" She stopped abruptly, clapping a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my God. You don't think Rick Sanders is my real father, do you?"
* * *
Julia had two hours to ponder that question on the drive to St. Helena, a small town in the wine country north of San Francisco. She'd been focusing so much on her mother that she hadn't thought about her biological father, but it made sense that her mother would have written to him just before she died. What didn't make sense was that she'd kept him a secret, never told Julia who he was or where he lived, which wasn't all that far from where she'd grown up.
As Alex turned off the freeway, Julia rolled down the window and let the fresh air blow against her face and through her hair. It really was a beautiful area, she thought, as they passed apple orchards and fields of grapevines from which were made some of the best wines in the world. Growing up in an Italian family, she'd certainly tasted her fair share of red wine, but she'd never actually toured the wine country. Her father and uncle had gone a few times, but her mother had never been interested.
Why? Because the wine country was too close to someone of significance in her life?
"You haven't said a word in about an hour," Alex commented. "What's on your mind?"
"I keep wondering if I'm going to see my father in a few minutes. What will I say? What will I do?"
"You don't know that Rick Sanders is your father."
"I know my mom mentioned me specifically and then added that she'd had another daughter. He has to be someone she knew before she married Gino."
"That still doesn't make him your father."
"I need to be ready just in case. I used to think about meeting my dad, especially when I was a teenager. I'd look in the mirror, and I wouldn't see my mother in my features. I kept thinking that there was someone else in the world who looked like me. Of course, I didn't imagine that it was a little girl in a Russian orphanage," she said with a halfhearted smile,
He grinned back at her. "Good. You still have your sense of humor. That's important."
"Why is that important?"
"Laughter can get you through life. I've spent a lot of time in Africa, in villages where half the parents are gone, dead from HIV and other diseases. I couldn't believe these people could find anything to smile about, but every time I took out my camera, that's just what they did. They smiled in the face of unspeakable poverty."
Julia turned in her seat to look at him. His eyes were on the road, but she could tell his thoughts were in the past.
"I gave this one little boy a pen and a piece of paper," Alex continued. "You would have thought I'd just handed him a million dollars. He couldn't stop smiling. He played and drew all day long until there wasn't a centimeter of empty space on that piece of paper."
&nbs
p; "Did you ever see him again? Do you ever see anyone again—the people whose pictures you take?"
He shook his head. "Most of the time I don't go back to the same location. Occasionally I do. I did return to that village about a year later."
"Please don't tell me he was dead." She hated to think of such a sad thing.
"I don't know what happened to him. The whole village was gone, wiped out by a flood. They said some people got out, but they had scattered to other villages. No one knew about that particular boy."
"So maybe he's still there playing with your pen and smiling."
He offered her a tender smile. "You have a soft heart, Julia. That could get you into trouble."
"I suspect it already has."
"Is that why you let things drag on with Michael? You didn't want to hurt his feelings?"
"Partly. I do care for him, and he treated me well. I never wanted to hurt him." She paused. "But I wasn't referring to Michael. I was thinking about my mom, how I never had the guts to ask her the questions I'm asking now. I let her put me off, because I didn't want to make her mad or upset her. And look where that got me."
"You said you had a good relationship with her, so your silence bought you that."
"I suppose. We talked all the time, even when I moved out of the house. She always knew what I was up to. She just couldn't stop checking up on me."
"How long was she sick?"
"About two years from start to finish. The last six months were particularly bad. It was difficult to watch. At least we had time to say our good-byes. I thought we had taken care of everything important. But I know now that my mom concentrated on things in the present or the future. She never spoke of the past in all the time she was sick. She only wanted to discuss what we would do later, after she was gone. Up until the very end of her life, she kept her secrets. I wonder if I'll ever know why."
"There's a good possibility you will know why, but you may wish you didn't before this is over."
"At this point, I'd take any truth over the uncertainty."
Alex shot her a speculative look. "Easy to say now. You don't know how bad it could be."
"Are you trying to prepare me for something? Do you have some suspicion you haven't shared?"
"I know what you know," he replied. "But I've seen some crazy shit in this world. You never know what people are capable of doing."
She probably didn't know. She'd led a sheltered life, protected from the harsh side of reality, protected by her mother. She sighed as she glanced out the window. The sign for St. Helena came into view. "Ready or not, here we come," she muttered.
"Are you talking about Rick Sanders or us?"
"Both. I don't have a good feeling about this, Alex."
"I haven't had a good feeling since you knocked on my door last Friday."
For a while they drove along a rural frontage road dotted by farms, horses, a couple of cows, and small homes. Julia breathed in the scent of freshly cut grass. It was a beautiful day, with a royal blue sky and a bright sun, the kind of day that reminded her summer was not far behind them and winter was still a ways off. It was also the kind of day that seemed too bright for anything bad to happen. She hoped that would be the case.
Alex asked her to check the map. She told him to turn right at the next intersection. Gradually the landscape grew more crowded with homes, businesses, gas stations, and strip malls. Rick Sanders lived on a street called Caribbean Court. Julia didn't think the area at all resembled the Caribbean. The address they were seeking matched a modest one-story, ranch-style home. There was a beat-up Chevy, at least twenty years old, in the driveway. The grass in the front yard was sparse, dry, with big areas of dirt. The flowers were wilted, weeds growing between rosebushes planted along the front of the house.
Julia's nervousness intensified as they parked the car and got out.
Was she actually going to meet her father? On this day? At this moment?
Would she know instinctively when she saw him? Or would he seem like a stranger?
She put her hand on Alex's arm as he started down the walk. "Wait. I don't think I'm ready."
"You don't have to say or do anything, Julia. I'll handle it. I'll mention your mother's name. We'll see how he responds. You can just watch, listen."
"What if he says something to me when he sees me? What if he recognizes me? What if I don't want him to be my father?" He smiled at her, and she knew she was flipping out. "Too many questions?"
"One step at a time."
"I like to be prepared for any possibility."
"Sometimes the best things come when you least expect them."
"Or the worst."
"Who's the pessimist now?"
"All right." She drew in a deep breath. "Let's go. I hope he's home."
As soon as Alex rang the bell, they heard the sound of a dog barking and a man's voice, telling the dog to quiet down. A moment later the door opened. Julia blinked. The sun streaming in behind them put the man in shadow. All she could see was his blue shirt and white shorts. His features were completely indistinguishable.
Alex grabbed her arm and squeezed tight.
"Ow," she said, but he didn't appear to hear her. He was staring at the man with shock and horror.
The man stepped onto the porch, and finally Julia could see him. His hair was dark, his eyes a light green.
"Rick Sanders?" she queried.
Silence met her question. Then the man drew in a deep breath and said, "Not exactly. Do you want to tell her, Alex?"
"You know him?" Julia asked in amazement.
Alex's mouth tightened. "Goddammit, Julia. He's my father."
Chapter Sixteen
Alex couldn't believe what he was seeing. The man in front of him could not possibly be his father. His father was dead!
But the brown hair, the green eyes, the long, thin face looked so familiar.
Alex blinked once, twice, three times. The image in front of him didn't change. He still saw his father's face. He was older, definitely. There were lines around his eyes, some gray in his hair, slack in his skin. But he hadn't changed that much. He was still the man who'd supposedly died twenty-five years ago, the man who had driven his car off the edge of a cliff, the man who Alex believed had been murdered.
How could this be? It was impossible. It was unbelievable.
His father—Charles Manning—was alive.
Alex put a hand on his gut, feeling like he was about to throw up. His breath came fast, his heart pounding against his chest. He couldn't think.
"Alex." Charles held out a tentative hand.
Alex jumped back, knocking his hand away. "What the hell is going on? Who are you?"
"You know who I am. You just said so." Charles stared at him through eyes dark with pain and guilt. "How did you find me?"
The question went through his head twice before it made sense. "I wasn't even looking for you," Alex said finally, feeling a deep and bitter anger rising through his body. "I came here looking for Rick Sanders."
"Why?"
Alex couldn't remember why now. His mind was spinning.
"Because my mother wrote you a letter that she never mailed," Julia interjected. "My mother's name was Sarah. I believe you knew her."
His father drew in a quick, hard breath. "Sarah? She sent you?"
"No. She's dead," Julia said bluntly.
Alex saw the surprise flare in his father's eyes. Whatever else he knew, he hadn't known that.
"When did it happen?" Charles asked.
"Six months ago." Julia handed him the letter. "She wrote you the day before she died. I didn't find the letter until today. I thought I'd personally deliver it. I didn't know that you..." Her voice trailed away.
Charles Manning stared down at the letter in his hand but made no attempt to read it. Then he glanced back at Alex. "Will you come in, so we can talk?" He stepped aside so they could enter the house.
Alex hesitated. Did he want to go in? Did he want to listen to anyth
ing this man had to say? He was still reeling. His father had let him believe he was dead for years and years. How could he possibly explain that?
"Let's go inside," Julia said quietly, her hand on his arm.
He'd forgotten she was there. He looked down at her and saw compassion in her eyes. "Looks like you weren't the one who had to worry," he said sharply.
"We need to hear what your father has to say."
"What could he say? How could he possibly explain the fact that he's alive and living under another name?"
She didn't try to answer his question. Neither did his father. They both just stared at him. Alex knew he needed to go inside. He needed to talk to his father. But this was wrong. It was all wrong. They had come here to find Julia's father, unlock the secret of her past. He was supposed to be the observer, not the participant. Dammit.
He wasn't ready for this confrontation. He'd never be ready.
This was his father.
The last time they'd spoken, Alex had been nine years old. And right now he felt about nine, overwhelmed with emotions that normally had no place in his life.
Julia tried to take his hand, but he pulled away. He couldn't stand to touch her. Couldn't stand to feel anything more than he was feeling. He walked into the house, looking around the dingy room. There was a green couch along one wall, a ripped, taped armchair in a corner in front of an old television set. A dog barked from behind a gate in the kitchen.
"Noah, quiet," Charles said sharply.
The dog barked once in reply, then sank to the ground.
Alex stared at the black lab with the white streak down its nose. His father had a dog—the pet he'd never been allowed to have. His mother had always said dogs were too messy, too much work, and his father was always on the road, so that was that. But now his dad had a dog. Unbelievable.
"Alex, let's sit down," Julia suggested.
He shook his head, his gazed fixed on his father's face. "You want to talk—talk."
Charles cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say. I wondered if this day would ever come."
"You did? You wondered?" Alex tasted bile in the back of his throat. "When did you wonder? The day we buried an empty box in the ground, or was it later? Were you at your own funeral? Did you watch us grieving over you? Was it a big joke?"
Summer Reads Box Set: Volume 1 Page 89