The Lovers

by Irina Shapiro

  The December night was cold and damp, so Quinn laid a fire in the grate and rummaged through her cupboards in search of something to make for dinner. She didn’t enjoy cooking for herself, but she was hungry, having had nothing since the sandwich she had a noon. Pasta would have to do. She had some mushrooms, tomatoes, and zucchini, so she’d make pasta primavera. She just set some water to boil when there was a knock at the door. Quinn’s heart leaped, buoyed by the thought that it might be Gabe coming to make peace. Quinn wiped her hands on a tea towel and went to answer the door, a smile of welcome spreading across her face. She was surprised to see a woman standing on the threshold. She looked vaguely familiar, but Quinn couldn’t place her.

  “May I help you?” she asked, seeing the woman’s hesitation. “Are you lost?”

  “No,” the woman mumbled. Quinn waited for her to state her business, all the while studying her features. She was sure she’d seen her before. And then she remembered: she’d seen her in the graveyard when she visited the church with Rhys a few weeks ago. The woman had stared at her then, making her uncomfortable. What on earth was she doing on her doorstep now?

  “Dr. Allenby, may I have a few moments of your time?” the woman finally asked. “I need to speak to you regarding a private matter.” The woman looked so nervous that Quinn felt momentarily sorry for her. She kept pleating the fabric of her coat, and her eyes were full of apprehension, as if she expected Quinn to slam the door in her face.

  “And you are?” Quinn prompted.

  “My name is Sylvia Wyatt.”

  Quinn had reservations about letting a complete stranger into her home, but the woman looked harmless enough, and she was clearly under the strain of some great emotion. Quinn had to hear her out.

  “Come in, Sylvia.”

  The woman nodded her thanks and walked into the house, looking about in wonder when she realized that she’d walked into a converted chapel.

  “What a lovely place,” she said as she shrugged off her coat and accepted Quinn’s offer of a seat by the fire. “I see you are drawn to places of worship,” Sylvia observed. Quinn didn’t respond. She had no desire to get sidetracked.

  “How can I help you?” Quinn asked gently. She longed to be alone, and this woman seemed to have trouble coming to the point.

  “May I call you Quinn?” Sylvia asked.

  “It’s my name.”

  Sylvia was scrutinizing Quinn again, gazing at her face as if she wanted to remember every feature, every expression. Her own expression was difficult to describe, and Quinn found herself wishing that she hadn’t let the woman in after all.

  “What did you want to speak to me about?” Quinn prompted, growing more uncomfortable by the minute.

  Sylvia took a deep breath and locked eyes with Quinn, her gaze unflinching. “I saw your photograph on the news after you’d been assaulted,” she began. Quinn noticed that her hands were shaking in her lap but didn’t comment.

  “Yes, it was rather an unpleasant experience,” Quinn said, her hand subconsciously going to the bruise still somewhat visible at her temple. It had healed and faded but not completely.

  Sylvia nodded. “I have never really been interested in history,” she said suddenly, making Quinn wonder what she was getting at.

  “Not everyone is.”

  “I mean that I might have heard of you sooner had I watched any of the documentaries you were in. I wish I had.”

  Quinn nodded, unsure of what to say. She was starting to seriously regret allowing this strange woman into her house. Perhaps she believed that Quinn was some minor celebrity and wanted to talk to someone who’d been on television.

  “Go on,” Quinn prompted Sylvia again.

  “You look so much like my mother,” Sylvia whispered as she reached a tentative hand toward Quinn’s face and then yanked it away, realizing how inappropriate the gesture was.

  Quinn suddenly felt cold despite the roaring fire. She had noticed the woman in the graveyard because she looked so forlorn, but there was something familiar about her. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes, the dark, curling hair. Sylvia was no older than fifty . . . old enough to be her mother.

  “Are you . . .” Quinn asked, her voice shaking.

  Sylvia nodded. “I know how angry you must be, and I was terrified of approaching you. I came here two weeks ago, but I lost my nerve and went away without speaking to you. I’ve been in hell ever since. Quinn, please give me a chance to explain.”

  Quinn forced herself to take a few deep breaths. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and gooseflesh covered her arms. She’d dreamed of finding her mother, of learning where she came from and why she’d been abandoned, but now that the moment was here, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to know. Sylvia Wyatt was a stranger to her, yet there was a connection between them that needed to be explored and would be within the next few minutes. Quinn wished she’d had time to prepare for this meeting as Sylvia had. She’d obviously had time to consider how to best approach Quinn and what to say, whereas Quinn was completely at a loss. She wished that her other mother was there with her, or Gabe. Oh, how she wished Gabe was with her to offer moral support. She felt an almost physical need to have him by her side, but he wasn’t. She was on her own.

  “Why did you not want me?” she finally asked. Quinn held her breath as she waited for the answer. All this time, she chose to believe that her mother couldn’t keep her, but now that she was looking at this well-dressed, attractive woman, she suddenly had doubts.

  Sylvia shook her head. “I didn’t think I could love you,” she said. Quinn wanted the truth, but the words sliced like a knife through her heart, making her wish that she’d never laid eyes on Sylvia Wyatt. What kind of person said that, especially after going through the trouble of contacting her long-lost daughter after thirty years?

  “Why?” Quinn cried. She wasn’t ready for this, didn’t want to hear any more, but she knew there was no turning back. Now she had to know.

  “I need to tell you what happened before I can answer that,” Sylvia said. She was infuriatingly calm now, almost as if, for her, the worst part was over.

  “So, tell me,” Quinn cried. “You are the one who approached me, so quit stalling and tell me the truth, or get out.” She hadn’t meant to have such an outburst, but her emotions were boiling over, and she felt as if she might cry. Nothing had really changed, but suddenly Quinn felt as if she’d been rejected twice. Having this woman tell her that she couldn’t love her was more painful than she ever expected.

  “Quinn, my parents divorced when I was fifteen. My mum had a string of affairs, and my father finally lost all hope of turning their marriage around and asked her to leave. I didn’t really want to stay with my mother, but it wasn’t as if I had a choice. She never offered me a home; she just left. So, Dad and I moved to a village outside Lincoln, where he opened up a gourmet shop. Dad used to be in the restaurant business and hoped to expand the shop into a café and maybe even a restaurant, but the divorce was costly and his savings were depleted.”

  Sylvia stared past Quinn’s shoulder as she spoke, her voice strangely flat. “I helped out in the shop after school. We’d been there for more than a year, but I still felt like an outsider. I didn’t have many friends and having to help my dad every day curtailed any social activities I might have joined in after school.”

  Quinn watched Sylvia as she spoke. She could see the emotion in her eyes, but Sylvia couldn’t seem to bring herself to look at Quinn as she told her story. She stared into the fire instead, preferring its mesmerizing comfort to facing the daughter she’d abandoned.

  “There was a grand old house just outside the village—Bixby Hall. It belonged to the Bixby family for hundreds of years, since Tudor times, but there was only one descendant left, and he had no wish to retain the family seat. The hall was sold to Jeffrey Chatham, owner of Chatham Electronics. New money, that’s what people in the village called him, as if new money was tainted somehow. I’d met Mr. Chatham a few times. He wa
s a charming man, very fond of good wine and French cuisine. He came in often, so my father ordered certain items just for him.”

  Quinn felt as if she might burst with impatience, but Sylvia had that faraway look in her eyes, and Quinn let her talk. She needed to tell the story her way, so she had to be patient despite wanting to scream.

  “One day, just before Christmas, Robert Chatham, Mr. Chatham’s son, came into the shop. I’d never met him before, but he had his father’s charm and beautiful manners. He bought nearly a hundred pounds’ worth of food and wine. Said he was having drinks and nibbles at the manor house that evening for a couple of friends of his who’d come down from the University of Edinburgh for the holidays. He invited me to come. Said he would pick me up at seven.” Sylvia paused for a moment, clearly reliving the moment in her mind.

  “I was flattered. He was so good-looking. He drove a red sports car that must have cost more than my father’s whole shop. I agreed to come,” Sylvia said and Quinn noticed the moistening in her eyes. Was Robert Chatham her father?

  “Robert picked me up as promised and took me to the house. It was grander than I’d expected. It looked like something out of Pride and Prejudice. Like Pemberley,” Sylvia said dreamily.

  “What happened?” Quinn cut in, unable to hold back any longer. “I need to know.”

  “There were two other young men and two girls from my school. I knew them, but we weren’t friends. They were from wealthy families and not interested in the shopkeeper’s daughter. I was nervous at first, but I began to relax. Everyone was friendly, and Robert made me feel welcome. He flirted with me and told me I was pretty.”

  “So, you slept with him?” Quinn asked.

  Sylvia shook her head. “The party lasted for several hours, and Christina and Tamzin eventually left. Tamzin was old enough to drive and had her father’s car. I was left with Robert and his friends. I asked him to take me home, but he invited me to stay for one more drink. I wasn’t much used to drinking, and I was tipsy already, but it seemed churlish to refuse. Robert poured me another glass of champagne and we all sat by the fire, just talking, laughing, and having one last drink.”

  A tear slid down Sylvia’s face, and she defiantly wiped it away. “He’d spiked my drink. I began to feel woozy and confused. My head grew heavy, and I slid down on the sofa. I wasn’t asleep, but I couldn’t summon the strength to fight back. Robert pulled down my jeans and knickers, and I heard him laugh as he undid his own fly. I tried to call out, but I couldn’t seem to find my voice. Everything looked distorted, like in a funhouse mirror. I put my hands up to stop him, but he bent down and kissed me, silencing my protests. He pulled me down onto the floor and got on top of me. I might have been crying, but no one was moved by my tears. Robert’s friends just sat there watching. He went first, and his friends followed. All three of them had sex with me that night. Then Robert dressed me, put me in his car, and took me home. He told my father that I was drunk and needed to be put to bed. My father thanked him for bringing me home and walked me to my room.”

  Quinn looked at Sylvia, horrified. “Did you report them?”

  “No. I got a terrible scolding from my father the next morning. He couldn’t believe I got drunk and behaved like such a slag. I was just like my mother, he said. I couldn’t tell him what happened after that. I didn’t think he’d believe me, and even if he did, he’d think that I brought it on myself. Robert and his friends left on Boxing Day, and I didn’t see them again. I tried to deal with what happened and just get on with my life,” she said with a sad smile. “Of course, that was not to be.”

  “Why didn’t you have a termination?” Quinn asked, surprised that Sylvia would want to keep the child after what happened.

  “My periods were never regular, so it wasn’t unusual for me not to have it for three or four months. By the time I discovered that I was pregnant, I was nearly five months along. I didn’t feel any different, so I had no reason to suspect anything. I’d put the whole episode out of my mind, so desperate was I to forget what happened.”

  “Did you tell your father?” Quinn asked.

  “I couldn’t. It would break his heart. He’d think that he failed me somehow and that he should have been a better parent. He’d have blamed himself, or worse yet, would have thought that I was just like my mother and there was nothing he could have done to prevent what happened. I waited until the school year was over, then told him I was going to stay with Mum for the summer. He was upset, but he let me go. I knew that he wouldn’t call my mother and check, so as long as I called him regularly, he would think that everything was all right. I went to Lincoln and found a waitressing job and a bedsit. I was hardly showing and wore baggy clothes in the hopes of keeping my pregnancy a secret. The summer went by, and I told my employer that I had to go back home in time for school. I’d found a midwife in the newspaper and called her when my labor began. I didn’t want to go to a hospital since they would have insisted on calling my father because I was still a minor. The poor woman was surprised to hear from me since I hadn’t consulted her before, but she had no choice but to assist me. The labor was quick, and before I knew it, you were born.”

  “What happened then?” Quinn asked. She already knew, but she wanted to hear it from Sylvia.

  “I left the midwife’s house and went back to my bedsit. I stayed there for several days, debating what to do, but I knew the answer all along. I simply couldn’t keep you. You were a stranger to me, an alien being planted in my belly by one of three men who had sex with me without my consent. I was afraid that I would mistreat you or emotionally abuse you if I chose to be your mother. And then there would be the questions once you got older. So, I took you to the church. I’d been there a few times and thought you’d be safe there. I put you down when no one was looking and walked away.”

  “Why did you leave the note?” Quinn asked.

  “I felt it was important for Child Services to know your birthday, and I thought of you as Quinn all throughout the latter part of my pregnancy. I thought you were a boy for some reason, and Quinn was a good strong name. I thought it might work for a girl as well. I assumed that your adoptive parents would change your name, but they hadn’t, and seeing it on the screen gave me such a turn. I knew who you were as soon as I laid eyes on you, and it nearly broke me.”

  “Do you have children?” Quinn asked quietly.

  “Yes. I have two sons. I returned home after you were born and, in time, married a local boy. I live in London now.”

  Quinn stared at Sylvia. She felt numb. It would take time to fully absorb what she’d just learned, but being an academic, she needed to learn as much as she could.

  “Did you ever see Robert Chatham again?” she asked.

  “Yes, I saw him several times in the village. He smiled and said hello to me as if nothing had happened. If I hadn’t become pregnant, I probably would have begun to doubt that anything had.”

  “And the others?”

  “I never saw them again. They only came down for the holidays that one time.”

  “Do you know their names?” Quinn asked.

  “One was called Seth and the other Rhys. Rhys was from Wales.”

  “It’s a common enough name,” Quinn said, talking to herself. She was shaken to the core by Sylvia’s story and couldn’t handle one more shock.

  “Yes, it is, but that man you were with at the church,” Sylvia said. “I think that was him. He didn’t recognize me. Why should he? I meant nothing to him,” she said bitterly.

  Quinn felt as if a bucket of cold water had suddenly been upended over her head. Was it really possible that the man she’d come to like and admire, the man who made romantic advances toward her, was a rapist? And what’s worse, that rapist could be her biological father.

  Chapter 46

  Quinn remained immobile, staring into the dying fire long after Sylvia left. She scribbled down her mobile number and said that she would remain in the village until lunchtime tomorrow should Quinn wi
sh to talk. Sylvia anticipated that Quinn would have more questions once she’d had ample time to think about what she’d learned. Quinn hugged her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them, wishing to make herself as small as possible. The tears had dried, but she still felt as fragile as a glass bauble that could shatter into tiny fragments if not handled with the utmost care.

  She’d spent over twenty years dreaming of her biological parents, imbuing them with all kinds of wonderful characteristics and inventing tragic love stories fraught with insurmountable obstacles in her desperation to believe that they would have kept her if they could. And now that she knew the truth, she wished that she could go back to her fantasies and never, ever learn the reality of what happened. Her father was a rapist, and her mother admitted freely that she simply didn’t want her, couldn’t love her despite the fact that Quinn had grown in her body for nine months and belonged to her more than to any of the men who’d forced themselves on her. And how was she supposed to work with Rhys Morgan after what she’d learned? The thought of facing him tomorrow was more than she could bear.

  Quinn’s first impulse had been to call her parents and tell them what happened, but after nearly dialing the number, she replaced the phone on the sofa next to her. She couldn’t do that to them. They’d be devastated for her and suddenly unsure of their place in her world. Well, their place would never change. They were her mum and dad. They’d taken her in, loved her, cherished and protected her, and given her the encouragement and support she needed to be the person she was today. She’d rather die than hurt them. Perhaps they never needed to find out about Sylvia at all. Quinn had no intentions of ever seeing the woman again. What was the point? But she did need to talk to someone, and that someone was Gabe. It was just past ten, and she hoped that he’d be at home.