How could the rest of the world care so little?
Because he had been just one man.
A special man. As the memories filled her mind, she questioned how she could even doubt that her father had been her father. He had loved her. He had taken care of her. He had been her adviser, her court jester, her tennis partner -- her friend.
It couldn't have all been a lie.
Michael's hand on her knee startled her out of her thoughts, and like a spark igniting a fire she felt instant awareness. Another problem, she thought with a sigh.
"Are you all right?" Michael asked. "You're quiet."
"I do my best thinking in the car."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Throwing myself out the door when you stop at the next light."
He flipped the automatic locks. "No can do. You're trapped."
"I'm sure I can open it from my side."
"Nope, this is a childproof car. I'm the only one who can let you out." He grinned. "I kind of like this. There is actually one thing in my life I can control."
"Meaning you can't control the rest of it?"
"In case you haven't noticed, Lily and Rose both have a bossy streak. At work I have the illusion of control. I even manage several people, but every one of my ideas still has to be approved by someone else."
She turned in her seat so she could face him. "When did you decide to become an architect?"
"In the seventh grade. We built a replica of city hall out of building blocks." He smiled at her. "I didn't like the way the other kids built it. I kept wanting to add floors, roofs, decks and arched doorways. It was supposed to be a team project, but the other kids got so disgusted with my ripping things down that I basically wound up doing it by myself."
"Obviously you were good at it."
"I think the teacher gave me a C and said my design was interesting but not functional. She couldn't figure out how the people who worked in the back of the building could actually get to their offices without climbing through a window."
"Everybody's a critic," she teased.
"Tell me about it. Okay, my turn. Why history, Joanna?"
"Because I like old things and I enjoy learning about the past. Actually I started out wanting to be a teacher, but growing up in my family as an only child, it didn't seem enough."
"Enough what?"
"Prestige, money, glory,"
He sent her a curious look. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who wants those things."
"I don't, but my mother and father did. It wasn't that they were that ambitious themselves, but they wanted a lot for me. There was no one else in the family to distract them. Believe me, I longed for siblings. What about you? Do you have brothers and sisters?"
"Two half brothers, both younger. My parents split up when I was four. I barely remember my father. My mother remarried when I was nine and had Connor. You would have thought the sun rose and set in that kid's face. She loved him to death. That marriage lasted until I was fourteen. She met someone else when I was seventeen and got pregnant with Brian. Once again she was in baby heaven."
"How do you and your brothers get along?"
"We weren't close as kids, too many years between us, and less close now. My mom and Brian came out for Angela's funeral. Brian is sixteen now. I've missed most of his life. I don't even know him. Connor is in the army. He sends me cards once in awhile. That's it."
"It doesn't sound like you had a great childhood," she ventured.
"It was all right. And what I couldn't get at home, I got at the De Lucas. They were my second family long before Angela and I got together. "
The De Lucas. They were back to them. No wonder Michael was so attached to his in-laws. They seemed to care more about him than his own family did. As Michael reached for the buttons on the radio, she stopped his hand. "I like this station."
"You do? Are you sure?"
"Michael, we've heard every station beaming down a signal from here to Mars."
"If you stick to one channel, you might miss something."
"Or I might actually get to hear an entire song. Wow, what a novel idea."
He grinned as he put his hand back on the steering wheel. "All right. But no singing. I hate people who sing along to songs on the radio."
"Like you've never done it," she teased.
"Only when I'm alone."
"Funny how many things we do when we're alone that we would never admit to."
He pulled up to a stoplight. "That sounds interesting. Do you want to share?"
"Not a chance."
"Mm-mm, I'm getting all kinds of ideas here. Like maybe you strip down to your underwear and dance around the house like Madonna."
Joanna put a hand to her chest. "Me? Do I remind you of Madonna? Because if so, I think you might need glasses, I' m a historian. I like libraries and I adore museums, not exactly a material girl."
"There's another side to you, I'll bet, one you keep locked away because it isn't appropriate for your job or your friends or your family."
She laughed nervously. He saw too much, way too much. "Don't be silly. I am who I am."
"Are you? Maybe we'll have to find out."
Joanna straightened in her seat as the atmosphere in the car went from light and breezy to personal. "I think you know enough."
He gave her a curious look. "Not even close to enough."
She drew in a breath. "Nothing can happen between us, you know that."
"You do keep reminding me."
"Because it would be a huge mistake."
"I'm not arguing that possibility."
She should have been happy he was so agreeable, but she wasn't. "Okay, then."
"Okay," he echoed. "Can you read the street sign?"
"El Camino del Mar."
"That's the one we want." He turned to the right. "Now we have to look for number one seventeen."
Joanna scanned the houses as they drove slowly along the winding street that would eventually lead them to the sea. The houses were large and set apart from their neighbors. Unlike most of San Francisco, there were shrubs and trees surrounding the homes, a suburban feel on the edge of a crowded city.
"It's hard to believe Ruby Mae Whitcomb could have lived here for fifty years and nobody knew," she mused.
"It's a secluded community. Not much in the way of neighborhood block parties."
"I always wanted to live in a real neighborhood, but I grew up in a high-rise building."
"Is that why you have a problem with skyscrapers?"
"I don't have a problem with them; I just don't think they're particularly beautiful or have any character and what's a city without character. I can't believe you an architect dream only of tall squares."
"No, when I was a kid, I wanted to build a house with gables, turrets, towers, and dungeons. Something with secret passageways and hidden staircases, and bookcases that turned into revolving doors," he said with a smile.
"That sounds fun. Maybe you still can."
"I doubt anyone would want to live in it. What about you? Did you always want to be a historian -- a teacher?"
"I thought about becoming a ballet dancer. They were all thin, gorgeous, and bitchy. I wanted to dance on the stage in the spotlight with hundreds of men vying for the touch of my hand on their brow. But I'm as clumsy as an elephant, as inflexible as a stick, and I like to eat."
"You are gorgeous," he said.
"Yeah, and bitchy, too. Especially when I'm hungry."
"That's okay." Michael opened the glove compartment. "I'm prepared for hungry, cranky females."
Joanna laughed at the assortment of crackers, chips, raisins, and cookies. "You are prepared."
"A regular Boy Scout."
"Were you?"
"No. I never had a dad to take me to those things. My first stepdad tried, but he was a salesman and traveled a lot. We moved every year for a while."
"Does your mother live close by?" she asked.
"No, she a
nd my second stepdad moved to New York when I was a senior in high school. I decided enough was enough, and I didn't go with them. I moved in with the De Lucas, and the rest is history, as they say."
"You married their daughter."
He flashed her a wry smile. "It seemed like the right thing to do at the time."
"What about now?"
"I wish I could say it was the smartest thing I ever did, but I'd be lying. It was the biggest mistake of my life to date," he said with a sigh.
"To date?"
"There's still time -- especially with you around."
Joanna looked away from his compelling gaze. She knew exactly what he meant. Only, she had a feeling she might be the one making the mistake.
Chapter Twelve
Michael pulled the car over to the side of the street, "I think that's it -- number one seventeen." He tipped his head toward a pair of wrought iron gates. "Let's check it out." He was more than ready to get out of the intimate confines of the car, because the more he learned about Joanna Wingate, the more he liked her, and he wasn't sure liking her was good for anyone.
Joanna opened her door and stepped onto the sidewalk. "The walls are so high, I can't even see the house."
"The owner is supposed to meet us with a key." He pushed on one of the gates, and it reluctantly opened with a great deal of squeaking and groaning.
"Doesn't sound like Ruby Mae got too many visitors," Joanna said, following Michael into the yard.
"Apparently she liked her privacy."
As they walked toward the house, a man came down the driveway. He looked to be in his mid-forties, and his expensive suit and silk tie spoke well of his success.
"Michael Ashton?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm here to pick up the key for Mrs. Sandbury."
"Of course. I'm Jeremy Gladstone. I'm the owner of this house, such as it is."
"Nice to meet you. This is a friend of mine, Joanna Wingate," Michael said as he shook hands with Jeremy.
"Are you really related to Ruby Mae Whitcomb?" she asked, unable to contain her excitement at meeting a descendant of one of the city's most infamous women.
"I'm not sure," Jeremy replied with an apologetic shrug. "This house was owned by a woman named Rebecca Margaret Whitcomb. I do believe that might be the same woman you're referring to."
"Yes, that's her." Joanna nodded. "Ruby Mae was her stage name."
"I don't know anything about her, I'm afraid. And there's no one left who does. My grandmother Elsa was apparently her illegitimate daughter. Rebecca Margaret or Ruby Mae, as you call her, apparently gave her up for adoption when she was an infant."
"Adoption?" she echoed.
He couldn't help but be struck by the word as well. He'd rarely thought much about adoption, but now the word seemed to be haunting him.
Could Joanna have been adopted? He mentally ran through the list of De Lucas who would be the right age to have a daughter of Joanna's age. He only came up with three. Carlotta, Sophia's younger sister by two years; Elena, Sophia's younger sister by five years; and Sophia herself. But Sophia had three children. Carlotta had three and Elena had two. None seemed likely candidates to have given up a baby. Although Elena had lived a somewhat wild life before her marriage.
"Did Ruby Mae ever contact your grandmother?" Joanna asked as Jeremy led them up the driveway toward the house.
"I believe she did once. My grandmother didn't want anything to do with the woman who'd abandoned her."
"But Ruby Mae was a legend," she said.
"Not in grandmother's mind. She was just the woman who'd given her away. I guess she never got past that. Anyway, this Ruby Mae kept stacks of paper. Her house is filled to the rafters with things." Jeremy wrinkled his nose. "I can't even imagine what's in there."
"Maybe a gold mine of historical information," Joanna said. "Just think. She might have letters from some of the men who frequented her house of ill repute. Oh, the stories she could have told."
He smiled. He loved the way Joanna's eyes fired with enthusiasm, the passion in her voice. She looked as if she'd just been given the keys to a treasure chest that had been buried for hundreds of years.
He stopped abruptly as the house came into view. While Joanna had been excited by the prospect of what was inside the house, he was absolutely captivated by the house itself. The Victorian stood three stories tall with a mansard roof and a grand stairway in the front. The design was late I800s, and the original craftsmanship took his breath away. There were small half-moon windows along the third story. Garlands and scrolls decorated the facade. It was a house of history, of beauty -- of neglect. The dangerously weak roof, the chipped paint, the broken shingles, the cracked windows, made him sick to his stomach. How could anyone have let this house go?
"Not much to look at, is it?" Jeremy said. "When I first came through the neighborhood, I thought I might have inherited a mansion, but this ..." He shook his head. "I think the best thing is to level it and start all over."
"No!" Joanna cried. "No," she said more quietly at Jeremy's look of astonishment. "The house is part of history, especially if the owner was Ruby Mae Whitcomb, It might even be considered a historical landmark."
"I don't know about that," Jeremy replied. "And frankly, I'm from St. Louis. All I want to do is sell this house and take whatever I can get for it and go home." He handed Michael the keys. "Here you go. I'll be back on Monday. I'm hoping to put the house on the market next Tuesday. In fact, if you know of anyone else who might be interested, you can have them call Conrad Davenport, my real estate broker. Here's his card. I promised Mrs. Sandbury an early look, but when I get back I'll be eager to find a buyer."
"Mr. Gladstone," Joanna said, "would it be all right if we looked through some of the papers inside? Just to see if there's anything of historical value?"
"Rummage to your heart's content, Ms. Wingate. I'd be happy to turn over anything and everything to the historical society. In fact, it would make cleaning out the house a lot easier."
Joanna moved next to Michael as Jeremy Gladstone got into his car and drove away. "I can't believe that man wants to sell this house. Can you?"
"It needs a lot of work."
She frowned at him.
"What did I say?" he asked.
"You don't think this house should be torn down, do you?"
"I haven't looked closely enough to determine that," he said, deliberately baiting her.
"Oh, come on. It's an architect's dream."
"It may be unsafe to live in."
"So you can make it safe with the right remodeling design."
"You never throw anything away, do you?" Michael asked as he walked up the steps to the front door. "You're probably one of those people who has the first dollar she ever made and every certificate she won in school."
"And what if I do? Keeping things that are important to you isn't a crime. Someday future generations will be fascinated by the way we lived. But how will they know how we lived if we don't preserve things, if we send everything to the garbage dump or burn it until nothing is left but ashes?" She stopped abruptly, an odd expression on her face.
"What's wrong?" he asked, surprised at her change of mood.
"My mother burned something last night, something she didn't want me to see. I found the ashes."
"What are you talking about?" he asked in confusion.
"When I showed my mother the photo of Angela, she was in my father's den, going through his things. He was the kind of man who kept everything, too. I asked if I could help, and I reached for an envelope on the desk. She practically slapped my hand away. Later, when I went into the den, the envelope was gone, and there were ashes in the wastebasket."
He listened with growing disquiet, once again reminded that her identity could put him in a difficult position. It wasn't just her resemblance to Angela. It was the suggestion of a blood tie, a relationship that had been kept secret for thirty years, that bothered him.
"I should just go home and
confront my mother," Joanna said. "But I'm scared. I'm afraid she'll lie, and I'm afraid she'll tell me the truth. Maybe I don't want to know what she burned. Maybe it's better if I don't."
"That doesn't sound like a historian to me."
"I'm also a woman and a daughter, and God knows what else."
Michael didn't think past the pain in her eyes, the fear in her voice, the trembling of her lips. He pulled her into his arms and pressed her head against his chest.
"I don't want to erase my past," she muttered.
"That won't happen."
She lifted her gaze to his. "What if everything I know about myself is a lie?"
"Then it's time you found out the truth."
"It will change everything."
"It might," he agreed. "But not knowing will be worse." At least he thought it would be.
* * *
Tony had barely set foot in De Luca's when he saw Kathleen Shannon, the pretty, sharp-tongued Irish woman he couldn't seem to forget. She was serving dinner to a party of four businessman, but the men appeared to be more focused on the undone buttons of her blouse than their arriving meals.
He scowled, not sure why he felt so damn irritated. His bad mood got worse when he saw Helen and Joey sitting in one of the dark booths against the wall. Helen was laughing at something Joey said. Joey Scopazzi, Tony thought with disgust. The guy had never been able to tell a joke. If he didn't forget the punch line, he usually screwed it up. In fact, Joey Scopazzi had been one of the biggest screw-ups at Our Lady of Angels Elementary School. And now Joey Scopazzi, of all people, was marrying Helen. Tony would never understand women, not in a million years.
He turned his attention back to Kathleen.
When she saw him she quickly turned her head toward the kitchen, then back again, as if she were looking for someone else. She set down the plates and walked over to him. For some reason his stomach clenched and he felt expectant. For what, he had no idea.
Without a word Kathleen took his hand and led him across the room.
"Where are we going?" he muttered.
She ignored him.
Wherever they were going had to be better than this room, where Joey and Helen were acting like people in love. He waved to Lily and Rose, who were having dinner with Sophia and Vincent and a couple of the cousins. Sophia's eyes narrowed when she saw him with Kathleen. Fortunately Vincent didn't notice him at all.
Ask Mariah Page 14