by Berg, Patti
It went without saying that Larry hadn’t been much of a dad, and Max couldn’t remember wanting to know what had happened to him. He’d gone away, and good riddance had been Max’s only thought.
When his mother left, Max had a different attitude. He’d just turned ten, and he was hurt, angry, and not about to stay with Rich Hunt, the man who owned the Boardwalk Tavern, just one boyfriend out of many Loretta had used. Before Rich shoved Max off on the foster system, Max had run away three times. Then he’d run away from five or six foster homes before he ended up with Philippe.
Loretta Wilde had promised to send for him once she got settled in Hollywood, but Max couldn’t remember her being all that good at keeping promises, or caring all that much about what happened to him. Whether or not she ever tried to find him, Max didn’t know. But he doubted it. The only kids she’d seemed to have some feelings for were Charlotte and Zack, because she’d taken them with her when she headed for California.
Zack was seven, Charlotte only four when he saw them last. Zack had had pudgy cheeks, curly black hair and wanted to be a cop. Charlotte’s eyes had been big and brown, and she’d loved to sing and dance.
They’d eaten a lot of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese when they were little. A lot of canned pork and beans and Spam. In the afternoons they’d watch soap operas with their mom, and one night a week they were allowed to stay up late and watch MacGyver. Max had few memories left of those days; he’d worked hard to block everything but his brother and sister out of his mind.
Zack was dead now, killed in a car accident six months before Max tracked down the cemetery where he’d been buried. The only thing he’d been able to find out about his brother was that he’d been a cop, that he didn’t have a family, his friends said he was a good man, and he shouldn’t have died... but he had.
Max had placed flowers on the grave, cursed his mother for separating them, and became even more resolved to find Charlotte. With all his heart, he hoped the woman he was about to see was really his sister.
Max found the house on the outskirts of town. It was a sprawling place with white stucco walls and a red-tiled roof. The yard was sand instead of grass, landscaped with yucca, saguaro, and cholla cactus. Desert flowers bloomed yellow and red in the sunshine. It was a much nicer place than the trailer he and Charlotte had shared as kids.
Pulling into the drive, Max couldn’t miss Harry, a barrel-chested man in a blue polo shirt and khakis leaning against a white Ford Explorer. Harry Crow said he’d meet Max there at two p.m., and he was as good as his word.
Max walked toward the man with the gray crewcut. “Afternoon,” he said, shaking Harry’s hand.
“Good to see you, Max.”
Max’s gaze drifted toward the house. He could see a woman’s silhouette behind the white lace curtains. “Is that Charlotte?” he asked.
“No. Mrs. Ryan, her guardian.”
Max watched the curtains flutter behind the window, and then the woman’s silhouette disappeared. “She’s expecting me, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, and she’s not too receptive to the idea of you coming. At first I thought this was a care home, that she got money for looking after Charlotte, but I was wrong. This is a real home, clean, neat, and she and Mr. Ryan treat Charlotte like a daughter. You’ll see when you go inside.”
That was the best news Max had heard about Charlotte so far. He didn’t know Charlotte’s mental capabilities, but he’d been afraid of finding his sister living in squalor, unbathed, unloved, and left to fend for herself. The first foster home he’d run away from was like that, where the people who had taken him in did it for money only. He knew that the system tried to provide the best environment for children—and even adults who needed to be in assisted living—but sometimes the system failed.
He was glad Charlotte Wilde—whether she was his sister or not—had ended up in a home where she was loved.
He looked at the house again, took off his sunglasses, and tucked them in his shirt pocket.
“You want me to go in with you?” Harry asked.
Max shook his head. He had twenty years worth of emotions bottled up inside. He didn’t care if Harry saw him cry. That wasn’t why he wanted to go in alone. He just wanted a few private moments, time to look at this Charlotte Wilde, to remember the little girl he’d laughed with, played with... then lost. He wanted time to adjust to finding her again, or to deal with his heartache if this was another wild-goose chase.
He grabbed a bouquet of spring flowers from the front seat of his rental car and walked toward the house. The screen door opened before he could knock.
“I’m Mrs. Ryan,” the woman extending her hand said. She was average height, slender, and her short hair seemed to have turned solid gray far too early, considering the youthfulness of her face.
“I’m Max Wilde,” he said. “I’m sure Harry told you why I’m here.”
Her gaze traveled to Harry, then back again to Max. “I can appreciate you wanting to find your sister, but I’m sure Charlotte’s not the woman you’re looking for.”
“Why do you say that? I was under the impression you didn’t know much about her background.”
Mrs. Ryan studied him for a long time, summing him up, Max imagined. “I don’t want to lose her,” she admitted, a touch of sadness in her eyes, making Max wonder if what he was doing was right, but he’d come this far. He couldn’t back down now.
“I didn’t want to lose my sister, either,” Max told her, “but I didn’t have any say in the matter.”
“I understand that, but—” She looked away, but Max couldn’t miss the moisture in her eyes. She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, but this has taken me by surprise. After all these years, I never expected someone to show up claiming they’re related to Charlotte.”
“She might not be my sister, Mrs. Ryan, but I’ll never know if you don’t let me see her.”
She stared at him a moment, then stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. “Charlotte’s been with my husband and me for eight years now,” she said, closing the door behind Max. “There are times when she makes me want to tear my hair out. Times when I wonder what possessed me to take on this responsibility. But when Charlotte smiles, when she puts her arms around me and says, ‘I love you,’ I realize I wouldn’t give her up for the world.”
She walked across the cozy living room decorated in shades of blue with lace and ruffles everywhere, and stood at the entrance to the hallway. “Charlotte was—we guess—about fifteen when she came here. She’s beautiful, Mr. Wilde. She’s sweet... and even though she’s a grown woman, her mental age is only around five or six.”
“Was she in a foster home?” Max asked, needing to know more about her history. “Is that how she came to live with you?”
Mrs. Ryan shook her head. “Some hikers found her in the desert. She’d been beaten and... molested.” She put her fingers to her mouth, but Max could still see her trembling lips. “My husband’s a sheriff’s deputy and he was the one who brought her in. She didn’t have any ID on her, she didn’t fit any missing person’s reports, and she couldn’t give them any information at all. She just stared at the wall. It took a long time for her to remember her name—but she’s never mentioned her past. We don’t know if she doesn’t remember, or if she chooses not to talk about what she does remember.”
“She doesn’t talk about her family? Old friends?”
“Nothing from before she came here. Seeing you—if you are her brother—could be the best thing for her. Then, again, you could frighten her, send her back into that not-talking stage.”
“I’ve spent twenty years wanting to see my sister,” Max stated. “I don’t want to hurt you, and the last thing I want is to hurt the woman you’ve been caring for. But I need to see her. I need to know if she is—or isn’t—my sister.”
Mrs. Ryan stared at him again, at the flowers clutched in his hands. She took a deep breath and walked down the hall. She put her hand on the doorknob, and looked at Max. “She knows you
’re coming. I’ve told her you’re a friend of my husband’s and that you wanted to meet her.”
“Is she used to strangers?”
Mrs. Ryan nodded, a small smile touching her face. “She has a job two days a week, working for a recycler. It’s supervised, she gets to spend time with friends—people she can relate to—and she gets a little spending money. She likes to buy stuffed animals. You’ll see.”
Mrs. Ryan opened the door, and the first thing that caught Max’s eye was a canopy bed at the far side of the room. The sheets, pillows, and canopy were decorated with Winnie-the-Pooh. Stuffed animals littered the floor and every imaginable surface. There were two big windows, and the sun streamed through one, casting light on a young woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, with an oversized picture book open in her lap.
“Charlotte,” Mrs. Ryan said, her voice sweet and kind. “This is the man I told you about. Max Wilde.”
Charlotte was beautiful, just as he’d been told. Her hair was long and black, and she wore it in a braid that hung over one shoulder. Her eyes were big and brown and she had a beautiful smile. If only she would stand, Max thought. His mother had been tall. If this Charlotte was, too, that would be another characteristic that might prove she was the sister he sought.
“You have the same last name as me,” Charlotte said. She spoke slowly, as if she had to concentrate on how to string a sentence together, but he liked the childish delight in her voice and the sparkle in her eyes.
Twenty years had gone by without seeing his sister, and now he didn’t know what to say, so he merely walked across the room and handed her the flowers.
“Thank you,” she said politely. “I like flowers. These are carnations.” She pointed to the fluffy yellow chrysanthemums, and Max ignored her mistake. Hell, not everyone knew the difference between the two flowers.
“What are you reading?” he asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her.
“Beauty and the Beast,” she said, dragging her finger from word to word as she spoke. “Mama reads it to me a lot. I’m not a good reader. Mostly I just look at the pictures.”
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
She looked to Mrs. Ryan for approval, and when the older woman nodded, Charlotte handed him the book.
He heard Mrs. Ryan’s shoes on the floor and watched her out of the corner of his eye. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she picked up one of the stuffed animals and held it tightly in her lap. Max wanted time alone, but he couldn’t help but admire Mrs. Ryan for not leaving Charlotte with a “stranger.”
He opened the book to the first page, remembering back to the days long ago, when he’d read to his sister and brother most every night. It didn’t matter to Charlotte and Zack what Max read, as long as the three of them were together.
And then they’d been pulled apart.
Max flipped to the second page where the story began. “Once upon a time ... he read, his gaze fluttering up occasionally to look at Charlotte, wishing there was some way he could know for sure if she were his sister. Her hair was the right color, so were her eyes. He couldn’t remember any birthmarks, couldn’t remember any scars. Twenty years had wiped out a lot of memories, and now it seemed that the only way he’d ever know for sure was through blood or DNA testing. He hadn’t wanted to resort to that, but it seemed there was no other choice. He needed to know the truth.
Charlotte moved closer to him as he read, repeating his words, pointing out Belle, Mrs. Potts, and Chip, the same way his own Charlotte had pointed out characters when he’d read one of her favorite stories.
Across the room he saw Mrs. Ryan lift her glasses to wipe her eyes with a tissue. How could he possibly take Charlotte away from this woman, if he did find proof she was his sister?
He finished the story and closed the book.
“Read another one,” Charlotte said.
“One’s enough,” Mrs. Ryan told her. “Mr. Wilde has a plane to catch.”
He didn’t, of course, because he hadn’t known when he’d be leaving or whether he’d need one seat or two on the return trip. He knew the answer now. He’d be heading home on his own.
Cradling Charlotte’s cheek in his palm, he felt a heaviness in his heart. She was sweet and lovely, but this was her home now. He could never take her away from here. “It was nice meeting you,” he said softly. She smiled back, opened another book, and stared at the pictures.
Mrs. Ryan led him from the room, closing the door behind him. “Is she your sister?” she asked, a touch of worry lining her brow.
“I don’t know. I don’t have any pictures. No fingerprints. I’d like to have some blood work done.”
Mrs. Ryan shook her head and tears fell from her eyes. “No. I’ve let you see her. I’ve let you talk to her—but that’s enough!”
“I need to know for sure, Mrs. Ryan. That’s the only way I’m going to find out.”
“Then you’ll have to get a court order.”
Max plowed his fingers through his hair. Mrs. Ryan didn’t want to give up her daughter and he couldn’t give up trying to find out if he’d finally found his sister. “I know you love her—”
“I’m not going to let you take her away. I don’t care if she’s your sister or not.”
“I don’t want to take her away. I did at first, but it’s obvious she belongs here. I just need to know the truth.”
The door opened, and Charlotte stepped close to Mrs. Ryan. “What’s wrong, Mama?”
Mrs. Ryan smiled. “Nothing at all,” she said, smoothing a hand across Charlotte’s cheek. “We were just talking a little too loudly, I’m afraid. Why don’t you go back in your room and play while I say goodbye to Mr. Wilde.”
“Could I go outside and water the flowers?”
“Of course.”
Charlotte looked at Max with big brown eyes. “’Bye, Mr. Wilde,” she said, waving as she made her way down the hall, letting Max see for the first time that she walked with a limp, that one leg was decidedly shorter than the other.
He stared at her, remembering the way his own Charlotte had loved to dance, that her legs had been perfect.
“I rarely notice Charlotte’s limp,” Mrs. Ryan said, when Charlotte was out of sight. “I should have mentioned it before, but it isn’t something I think about. The doctors told us she was born that way. It isn’t something that happened when she was abused. I know you think I might be lying, to cover up her identity. But you can contact our doctor for verification if you wish.”
“I believe you, Mrs. Ryan.”
She touched Max’s arm gently. “Did your sister ever have trouble walking?”
Max shook his head. “No,” he said, fighting back the well of disappointment behind his eyes.
“Then I’m sorry,” Mrs. Ryan said. “I don’t want to lose Charlotte, that’s why I was against you coming here, why I didn’t want you doing blood tests. But part of me was hoping she was your sister, just so you could tell me what she was like as a little girl.”
“I’m sure she’s always been wonderful,” Max said, then headed for the front door. He had to get out of this house, back in the car. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.
He shook Mrs. Ryan’s hand when he reached the front door. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I hope I didn’t cause any problems for Charlotte.”
“She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Ryan said, and a tear slipped from her eye. “I hope you find your sister.”
“Thanks.”
Max opened the door and let himself out, waving to Mrs. Ryan when he reached the car.
The door closed behind her, and he took a deep breath before looking directly at Harry.
“Any luck?” Harry asked.
“No,” Max said, and shook Harry’s hand. “I guess that means you’re still in my employ.”
“Not exactly the words I wanted to hear, but I’ll be back at work tomorrow, hot on the trail. I’ll find your sister, Max. Trust me.”
“I’m holding you to that. She’s o
ut there somewhere, and I don’t plan to ever give up looking.”
Fifteen
The flight out of Phoenix was late and Max almost missed his connection in Dallas. He’d run through the terminal, was the last passenger to board the plane, and had to squeeze into the middle seat, between an elderly woman wearing too much perfume and an overweight, sweaty businessman who continually mumbled about his bad day as he slugged down one drink after another.
Max had tried to sleep, but the plane tossed and turned through storm clouds. His own mind was just as turbulent, as thoughts of Mrs. Ryan, the Charlotte Wilde he’d seen today, and his own sister thundered through his mind. Exhaustion told him he should give up his search, that he’d never find the real Charlotte, that he was wasting time, money, and energy. His heart said just the opposite.
He pulled into his driveway at two a.m. The lights were off in the house and all was quiet. If this were any other night, if he’d had someone other than Lauren watching the kids, he’d send the sitter home and head for bed. But tonight he needed to talk. Tonight he needed to hold someone—and Lauren was the woman he wanted in his arms.
He wondered if Jamie and Ryan had tortured her, if they’d made her afternoon and evening absolute hell with their playful bickering, their refusal to do chores and homework. They could be a handful. Of course, Lauren could be a handful, too, and he had the feeling the kids had met their match.
Walking into the laundry room was a shock. The socks and towels that had been scattered on the floor that morning were nowhere in sight, and the month’s worth of smelly gym clothes Ryan had emptied out of his locker at school had been laundered and folded, and sat on top the washer next to a purple tote bag. He could smell the sweetness of Lauren’s perfume on the bag, and ran his fingers over it lightly as he headed for the kitchen.
The dirty dishes he’d expected to see stacked a mile high on the counter didn’t exist. A vase full of plumeria sat in the middle of the table, the strong fragrance wafting through the kitchen, which usually smelled of spices, fruits, and barbecued meat. The change wasn’t bad. In fact, he could get used to having flowers in the house on occasion.