Elena came into the room, and Sophia breathed a sigh of relief. Elena was five years younger but six inches taller than Sophia. Her hair was a light shade of brown, her eyes the color of cinnamon. She dressed with style and a conservatism that pleased her banker husband and surprised the rest of her family, who remembered her fondly as a wild barefoot girl who lived in shorts and tank top T-shirts. "Oh, it's you," Sophia said with relief. "I thought you were Vincent."
"He's still at the restaurant. I came over to remind you that we're going out Saturday night, six o'clock sharp, and I absolutely refuse to take no for an answer. I know you said not to make a big deal, but your fortieth anniversary is a big deal, and I want to treat you both to dinner."
"It's not necessary."
"It is," Elena insisted. "You did so much for me, Sophia. All those years you took care of me, protected me. The least I can do is buy you dinner for your anniversary."
Her anniversary -- the date loomed in front of her, a reminder of all the time that had passed. She didn't want to celebrate it at all. But how could she not? It was expected. She had always done what was expected of her.
Elena frowned when she didn't answer. "What's wrong?" Her gaze traveled down to the pouch in Sophia's hand. Her face paled. "What is that?"
Sophia stared back at her. "You know what it is."
"You still have it after all these years? I told you to throw it away. I never wanted you to take the picture in the first place."
"I know." Sophia could still remember that day, even though it had been thirty years. She had pushed it to the back of her mind, but now it seemed as clear as if it had been yesterday.
The baby had been brought to the room for only a few minutes. Sophia had taken the photo, and Elena had cut the hair. Then the nurse had taken the baby away to their murmured good-byes. She and Elena had cried. They had held each other, the experience bonding them for all time. Yet they had never talked about it again -- not until tonight.
They were both older now, well past middle age, but in her heart and mind Sophia still felt thirty years old. She still felt scared, eager, worried, helpless, desperate, all the emotions she had felt that night. She knew Elena had felt those same emotions.
Elena sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Do you want to see the photo?" Sophia asked.
Elena shook her head. "No. Yes. I mean, no," She sighed at her indecision. "I'm afraid to look at it again."
"There's nothing to be afraid of." Sophia handed Elena the photo of the baby.
Elena let out a breath. "She's so beautiful. I'd forgotten how much hair she had, how big her eyes were, how her fingers curled into fists as if she were ready to fight the entire world." Elena bit down on her lip, obviously struggling for control as she handed the photo back to Sophia.
Sophia returned it to the pouch, then picked up the baby's hair between two fingers. "It's so soft, Elena, filled with innocence, love, and trust. We betrayed that trust."
"It's just hair. It doesn't stand for anything. Please, put it away." Elena stared at the carpet until Sophia returned the hair to the pouch. "Is it gone?" she asked.
"Yes, it's hidden away, so we can pretend it's not there." She walked across the room and sat down on the window seat, still twirling the cords of the pouch between her fingers. "I never went to confession. I never told the priest what we did."
"You couldn't. The priests knew us too well. If any one of us had said anything, it would have been disastrous for the family. Carlotta was recovering from that horrible car accident. Papa was drinking too much, and Vincent was working hard to keep the restaurant afloat after his father died. I was just getting my life together after the divorce. It was a difficult time. We did what was best for the baby."
"Do you really believe that? Do you believe that all of our problems were more important than that child's birthright?" Sophia shook her head, feeling the constricting band of guilt tighten around her heart. "We did what was best for us, not for her."
Elena crossed her arms as she stared at Sophia, worry written in every line of her face. Elena had always been able to escape guilt. Something within her simply shut down her conscience when difficult choices needed to be made. Sometimes Sophia wished she had that faculty.
"I spoke to Michael last night," Elena said. "He told me about Joanna Wingate. It can't be her."
Sophia uttered a short, bitter laugh. "Close your eyes to the truth, Elena, but please spare me your ignorance. You know it's her as well as I do."
"Okay, so it's her." Elena's foot tapped out a restless beat on the floor. "You have to let it alone."
"She has a right to know who her mother is."
"Her mother is the woman who raised her."
"But she's not the woman who gave birth to her," Sophia argued. "She's not the woman who carried her for nine months, who struggled to give her life. Have you forgotten how hard it was, Elena?"
"No. I could never forget that. In fact, it's haunted me for years -- you, me, her." She paused, waiting until Sophia looked at her. "Michael asked me if I thought anyone in the family could have given up a baby for adoption,"
"What did you say?"
"I said no."
"Did he believe you?"
"You know Michael. He can be persistent when he wants to find out something. He told me this woman is very concerned about the similarity between Angela and herself, but that to her knowledge Caroline and Edward Wingate are her real parents. So that's good."
She turned on her sister's innocent comment like a vicious dog after a hummingbird. "It's good? That Joanna grew up without her real mother? That she doesn't know her history, who she is, where she came from? That's good?" She was suddenly furious. She didn't understand how her husband and her sister could believe such a falsehood.
"She had a loving family. You keep forgetting that," Elena said.
"No, I'm not forgetting anything. That's the problem, Elena. Since this woman came into our lives, I can't stop remembering. I remember the rain beating against the windows. I remember the doctors and the nurses, the baby's first cry. And I remember how quiet the room was after they took her away."
Elena jumped to her feet, clapping her hands over her ears. "Stop it! We can't go back. It's too late."
"I can't stop it. I won't. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe this woman has come into our lives for a reason."
"You're twisting things around, Sophia. If you won't think of me or of Vincent, then think of her. Think of Joanna -- how much she has to lose. Maybe we did take away her birthright, but do you want to take away the rest of her life? Because that's exactly what's going to happen if you tell her the truth. Is that what you really want?"
* * *
Joanna was surprised to hear laughter and conversation when she returned home. It was past nine-thirty and her mother hadn't had company in -- she couldn't remember how long.
She set her purse on the hall table and walked into the living room. Her father's good friend and attorney, Grant Sullivan, sat on the couch with a brandy snifter in his hand. Her mother sat on the opposite couch, dressed in a blue sundress. Her makeup was perfect, and there was a flush to her cheeks, as if she and Grant had been discussing something of an intimate nature -- as if they had been flirting or something.
She tried to dislodge the ridiculous thought from her mind until she saw Grant smile reassuringly at her mother. Something passed between them, something Joanna didn't understand.
She had never seen her mother in the company of another man. If Caroline wasn't with Edward, she was with Joanna. It felt odd to see her now, entertaining a man with a known history of womanizing. Not that Joanna didn't like Grant. He'd always been like an uncle to her. But over the years she'd heard stories about this woman and that woman. Grant had been married three times and was currently divorced. It was probably an innocent visit between old friends, but Grant Sullivan had never been one to just drop by. He had to have a reason. She just hoped his reason wasn't her mother.
&nbs
p; That sounded bad even in her own head. Why shouldn't her mother see other men? It just wasn't something Joanna had expected to happen this fast.
"How are you, Joanna?" Grant asked.
"I'm fine, and you?"
"Great. I thought I'd stop in and see how you and your mother were doing."
"Looks like we're doing pretty well," she said pointedly to her mother as she sat down in an armchair.
"How was your evening?" Caroline asked. "You seemed rather vague on the phone about where you were."
"I took another look at that house I told you about, the one that belonged to Ruby Mae Whitcomb."
"Oh, that's right." Caroline glanced over at Grant. "I told Grant about your resemblance to that Ashton woman."
"You did?" She asked, surprised. She would have thought that was the last thing her mother would bring up.
"The world is a funny place," Grant said. "I knew another guy who met his double. He couldn't get over it. But there wasn't a speck of common blood between them."
"Really? I guess that's true in my case, too. Hard to believe, though."
Grant took a sip of his brandy. "As a lawyer I spend most of my day disbelieving my own eyes. Some of the people who walk through my door, some of their stories are completely bizarre. I guess it's that old saying about truth being stranger than fiction, huh?"
"Maybe." She got to her feet, feeling set up. Grant and her mother weren't having some secret flirtation. The man was simply here to back up her mother's story, and his presence was doing exactly the opposite. "I think I'll go to bed."
"Don't go, Joanna. I'm sure Grant would love to hear about your teaching job."
"I'm tired, and frankly I don't like this whole thing."
Her mother's face tensed. "What are you talking about?"
"What are you really doing here, Mr. Sullivan?"
"I thought I might be able to answer some of your questions, Joanna. I've known your parents since the day they first met. We've been through a lot together."
That was true. She hadn't thought of Grant when she'd called Pamela Cogswell earlier in the week, but if anyone had a photo of her mother pregnant, it was probably Grant. "I suppose you must have seen my mother pregnant," she said abruptly. "I think it's odd that there are no pictures of that time in her life."
"Joanna, what are you talking about?" Caroline asked.
"I looked through the photo albums. I couldn't find any pictures of you pregnant."
Her mother avoided her questioning gaze, concentrating instead on a piece of lint on her dress. "I thought I was so fat then. I didn't want your father to take any photos of me,"
"Of course, she wasn't really fat," Grant jumped in. "She was lovely, blooming. Your father was, too. He used to get cravings right along with Caroline. For barbecued ribs, wasn't it?"
"That's right. And watermelon -- I couldn't get enough. Luckily it was summer at the time."
"How long was your labor, Mom? Was it difficult? Did you go to the hospital in the morning or in the evening? And why haven't we ever talked about this before?"
Caroline looked stunned under Joanna's barrage of questions. "I -- I don't know. I assumed we'd talk about it when you got married and were ready to have your own children."
"You're not very convincing," she said wearily.
Hurt flashed in her mother's eyes. "Joanna, I don't know what you want from me. I showed you your birth certificate. What else can I do? Tell me, and I'll do it."
"I wish Dad was here."
"Edward would have told you the same thing," Grant said. "Because if he had anything he wanted you to know, he would have said something before he died."
She wanted to believe that. She had talked to her father about so many things during those last few weeks. They had discussed life and death, their family, and what would happen when Caroline and Joanna were alone.
Her father had told her he wasn't worried about her, that he knew she could handle whatever happened in her life; but he worried about Caroline being alone, her desperate need to be a part of Joanna's life. Joanna had assured him that Caroline would always be in her life, that she loved her mother despite her possessiveness.
Her father had told her no matter how angry she got with her mother, she had to remember that Caroline always acted out of love for her. Joanna told him she understood, but now she wasn't sure that she did. Had her father been trying to tell her something?
Her temple began to throb as conflicting thoughts collided in her head. "I can't do this right now."
"Joanna, if you have any questions, you can ask me," Grant said. "I'll try to help."
"Who will you be helping, Mr. Sullivan? My mother or me? You were my father's best friend. If anyone would lie for him, it would be you."
A gleam of respect appeared in Grant's eyes. "You've grown into quite a woman, Joanna. Smart as can be. Your father had every reason to be proud of you. No matter what else you think, you must believe he loved you very much."
"And I love you, too," Caroline said.
"I believe in your love, but I'm not sure what else I believe. I wish I didn't have doubts, but I do, and this charade didn't help your cause. If you weren't worried about something, you wouldn't have asked Mr. Sullivan to come here."
"It was my idea, Joanna," Grant said.
She sighed. "Now I know you're capable of lying, Mr. Sullivan. Because this scene has my mother written all over it." As Joanna left the room she couldn't help pausing in the hallway, shamelessly eavesdropping.
"Grant, I told you," Caroline said.
"Sh-sh."
Then there was silence -- as damning as any words her mother could have uttered.
Chapter Seventeen
Sophia slipped carefully out of bed. She held her breath as Vincent turned. Then she walked to the closet and pulled out a dress, taking it into the bathroom so she wouldn't wake him.
It was just seven, and she was always an early riser, but this morning was different. This morning she had something important to do besides make eggs and toast and coffee for her family.
When she finished dressing she made her way to the kitchen and pulled the phone book out of the desk drawer. She flipped the pages until she got to the one she wanted. Her finger slid down the column of Ws until she reached Wingate, E. For a brief second she closed her eyes and prayed for strength and guidance. Then she picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang several times before a woman answered.
"Hello," the woman said sleepily.
Sophia took a deep breath. "I'd like to speak to Edward Wingate."
There was a long silence. "Who is this?"
"I'd like to speak to Edward Wingate," Sophia repeated, twisting the cord between her fingers.
"And I asked who this is."
"Sophia De Luca."
A hiss of air came across the phone. Then the voice returned, sharp and dear, "Edward Wingate is dead."
Dead? Sophia gripped the edge of the counter with her hands. Edward Wingate was dead. Her plan of action evaporated. She had known she couldn't go to the other woman, the other mother. But the father -- she might have had a chance with him. Perhaps he would have listened to her plea to find some sort of compromising peace within the situation.
"I want you to leave my daughter alone." The woman's voice jerked Sophia back to the present. "She's mine. She doesn't belong to you or to anyone else in your family. I don't know what you're trying to do to her or to me, but it stops here. Do you understand?"
How could she not? There was steel in the woman's voice. And maybe underneath it all a hint of fear, a touch of pain.
The woman didn't wait for her to answer. She simply hung up. Sophia listened to the dial tone for almost a minute before she set down the receiver.
Edward Wingate was dead.
And Joanna Wingate didn't know that her life had been sewn from a fabric of lies -- a fabric that was slowly unraveling, pulling apart, until there would be nothing left but worthless strings that didn't go anywhere.
She had two choices. She just didn't know which one to make. She picked up the phone again and dialed the number for her sister Elena. "Meet me for coffee at Noel's," she said when Elena answered.
"Sophia, I'm not even awake yet."
"Edward Wingate is dead."
There was a pause. "How do you know that?"
"I just called him."
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
* * *
The De Luca's house was similar to Michael's, the same structure, the same color paint, the same feel, Joanna thought as she sat in her car with the key still in the ignition. Her foot rested on the brake, the gear shift in drive. It was seven-thirty in the morning. Too early to drop in on anyone unannounced, but since she'd gone to bed the night before, she'd been filled with a desire to take action, to stop waiting to see what would happen next and charge ahead.
It had been surprisingly easy so far. The De Lucas' telephone number had been listed in the phone book along with their address. Now that she was here, she didn't know what to do. She could hardly walk up to the front door and ask Sophia De Luca if she was her mother or if she knew who was.
She put the gear shift into park. She wanted to know the truth, but at the same time she didn't. What if Sophia or Elena had given her up for adoption? What if Caroline had lied or stolen her from the hospital, or made some kind of a deal with one of the two women?
Did she want to know any of it? Wouldn't it be easier to go on pretending?
She was a coward. An almost thirty-year-old coward. Her birthday was only a month away. At least she thought so. Maybe it wasn't even her real birthday.
Pulling the key out of the ignition, she took another deep breath and opened the door, then shut it.
Her heart pounded. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her hands shook so hard she had to clamp them together. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach, and she hadn't even made it out of the car yet.
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