by Linda Style
Her relationship with Brock had certainly proved that point. Maybe Tanya was right when she’d joked that Whitney’s poor choice in men was her way of avoiding commitment.
“Anyway, it might do you some good not to work eighteen hours a day, either,” Whitney added.
“Okay, okay. Truce,” Tanya said. “Motorcycles it is. When do I get a proposal? And when are you coming back to New York?”
“Soon—so I can sell the condo.” Whitney waited for a shriek but got silence.
“I need to do this, Tanya. It’s all part of my plan to settle in one place once I get custody of SaraJane.”
More silence.
“Put yourself in my place. I’ve thought about it a lot. La Jolla’s a better place to raise a child than Manhattan.” Whitney braced for objections. Tanya didn’t have many close friends, and if Whitney moved away, it would affect her friend’s life, as well.
Finally Tanya said, “I wouldn’t let you get away with a cliché like this—but aren’t you putting the cart before the horse here, just a tiny bit? I mean—and I don’t want to sound like the little cartoon guy with the black cloud over his head—what if you don’t find your niece? Or even worse, what if you do and you can’t get custody?”
Whitney took another deep breath. She’d played out every scenario in her head dozens of times. And it all came back to the same thing. She had to move forward. She’d do whatever she needed to get custody of SaraJane. If that meant living in a house in La Jolla, instead of a New York condo, so she’d appear more stable, she’d do it.
“I’ve got a pretty good lead. And from what my attorney says, custody shouldn’t be a problem. All I have to do is show the father’s unfit to care for the child, and with this guy’s record, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Based on what your sister told you?”
“Sure. And some other things I learned from Albert.”
“Albert?”
“The PI. My cousin.”
“Oh, yeah. And what if the things your sister told you is just a tad biased? Or even if they’re not and you still don’t get custody? That can happen, you know.” Tanya said softly, “I’m just playing devil’s advocate because I don’t want you to get your hopes up and then have them come crashing down.”
“That’s always a possibility,” Whitney admitted, knowing how much Tanya cared about her. She and Albert were probably the only people who really did. “Right now I want to take it one step at a time.”
“Good. And you might not want to sell your place here until you’re sure about the next step.”
Whitney was sure. She wanted—no, needed—everything in her life well in place so there’d be no doubt about her ability to care for her niece. Heaven knows, she’d had enough of her own doubts without someone else chiming in.
“Well, you can rest easy. I’m not doing anything immediately. I have other things to take care of, and getting the book off the ground is one of them.”
“You know, I just don’t get this new fascination with motorcycles,” Tanya said on a melodramatic sigh.
“You’ve got all these things going, trying to find your niece and getting custody and all, and then you decide to hang out with a bunch of bikers? You gotta admit, it’s kinda out there.”
“It’s complicated, Tanya. Too complicated to get into right now. But I promise to fill you in the first chance I get.”
After their conversation Whitney considered what Tanya had said. But at the moment things were moving right along, and her insides jumped with nervous energy at the thought that everything would work out in the end.
All she had to do was stay focused.
Today she’d been so intent on appearing legitimate and asking Rhys research questions that she’d almost forgotten about gleaning any other information from him—until he mentioned he’d lived in Chicago before he’d moved to Estrade a year ago.
He’d also said he’d been married once, but hadn’t elaborated. Said he had one child, and after disclosing that, he’d gotten all moody and closed up. Whitney sincerely hoped the marriage he’d mentioned wasn’t to Morgan, because if it was, getting custody would be way more difficult.
She needed indisputable evidence that he was unfit, and after their meeting today, she had new concerns about how difficult it would be to prove. He wasn’t a user, that was certain. She’d seen enough substance abuse among her own set of acquaintances to be reasonably sure she’d recognize if he was.
So, maybe he’d kicked the habit and used the business as a cover for the sale of drugs. Still, the business seemed to be for real, and she had a hard time imagining it wasn’t. Just as she had a hard time imagining Rhys as the person Morgan described. Yes, he was charming. He was attractive. Sexy. In those ways he was everything Morgan had said.
But he was more than that. He was much more complex than Morgan had described. The thought created a sudden twist of need low in her belly. Another reason to keep her guard up.
Hearing voices outside again, Whitney rested her forehead against the window frame. A child’s laughter drifted upward, and she saw a little kid…probably Gretta and Johnny’s grandchild skip across the yard while they watched from a glider swing.
The phone rang. Albert returning her call. After perfunctory greetings, she told him the information she’d gathered. Albert said he’d follow up on her lead and check for the birth certificate in Chicago. Then he began his usual litany about when Whitney might come back to California.
Hearing the child’s laughter again, Whitney parted the lace curtain and watched as the toddler, in a blue hooded sweatshirt, skipped in a circle around Gretta and Johnny. Finally they all held hands doing a ring-around-the-rosy dance, and Whitney’s heart squeezed thinking about SaraJane, who would be about the same age. She let the curtain fall, wistfully savoring the warm family scene.
“Not for a while,” she murmured. But someday she would experience the same happiness as the family dancing in the yard below. No matter how many doubts she’d had about her ability to raise a child, she was certain of one thing: she and SaraJane would be close, just the two of them. It was sad to think Morgan’s little girl wouldn’t have grandparents to love her the way Gretta and Johnny loved their grandchild, but SaraJane would have someone who would love and protect her no matter what. Whitney would never let anything bad happen to SaraJane, again.
Having lived through Sheffield parenting firsthand, she’d never allow her niece’s maternal grandparents the opportunity to destroy another life.
“I can’t finalize the move to California until I finish what I started, Albert—at least or not until I’m convinced I’ve done everything I can from here. Right now, it’s too soon to tell.”
“Look, Whitney. You’re paying me to handle the investigation. Why don’t you just let me do it my way?” Albert asked. “It’ll be easier on you.”
“I’m paying you to get information for me, Albert. And speaking of information, do you have anything more?”
Finding SaraJane, fighting for custody—was something she needed to do for Morgan, something she needed to do for herself. She knew that even when she did locate her niece it wasn’t likely Rhys would allow Whitney to simply walk off with the child. And there were SaraJane’s feelings to consider. How would she react to being taken away by a stranger?
Whitney knew only too well that even abused children still sought love from their parents—at least, until they were old enough to know better. And even then…
There were definitely more things to consider than appeared on the surface, and she wouldn’t know the full extent until she found her niece.
Albert sighed heavily into the phone. “Okay. You already know Gannon lived in California before heading for Arizona. Chicago might be a lie. Or maybe he only spent a little while there. What I learned recently from one of his live-ins is that he lived for a year or two with a young girl named Isabelle.”
“That’s the name Morgan called her favorite doll,” Whitney whispered. She cl
osed her eyes. “Go on.”
If she was going to win Rhys’s trust, she needed to know everything she could about the man.
If Rhys didn’t have the baby in Estrade, if he’d left her with friends or relatives or, God forbid, had her adopted, they had to have some clue about where else to look.
By the time Albert finished, Whitney learned that Rhys and Morgan—if the girl named Isabelle was Morgan, which Whitney believed—had lived like nomads, moving from place to place, operating a small-time drug business. She learned Morgan was a recreational-drug user, but Rhys, as Albert so aptly put it, was “into the stuff big time.”
Albert went on, telling her that even though the drug business was good, the profits went to support Gannon’s habit. When money got tight, he found a couple of johns and made money pimping his girlfriend.
Whitney stifled the ache in her chest. She’d known Morgan lived on the streets from the last time she’d found her, but the rest was too terrible to imagine. But apparently, to Whitney’s relief, when Morgan became pregnant, she stopped using drugs and alcohol altogether. And according to Albert’s source, Morgan desperately wanted to live a normal life and pleaded with Rhys to change his life, too. When he refused, she left him and disappeared.
“I haven’t been able to pick up her trail from that point on,” Albert said. “Though she must’ve gotten in touch with him or he wouldn’t have known where to get the baby.”
Unable to speak around the lump in her throat, Whitney barely heard Albert’s voice droning in the background. Hearing descriptions of Morgan’s life with Rhys sickened her, reminded her how she’d let her little sister down. God help her, she was as much to blame as her parents. And she could never make up for it.
“Thanks, Albert,” she said. “You’ve done enough for now.” She had other questions, but first needed to sort out what she knew for sure from what she only thought she knew.
Albert had located Rhys because he’d left a forwarding address to General Delivery in Estrade. If Albert had found him, why couldn’t Morgan have found him, too? Had Morgan even tried to get her baby back? And why had she kept the child a secret from Whitney until right before she died?
Seeing the headlights of a car, Whitney peeked through the curtains. A forest-green Jeep drove up near where Gretta and Johnny stood with their grandchild. They watched expectantly as the car came to a stop, and when the door opened, the child rushed headlong into the arms of…Rhys Gannon?
What on earth? Why is he here? Fear raced through Whitney. Had he found her out? Or was he just paying Gretta and Johnny a visit? They were acquaintances, after all.
Rhys swung the child around, and as he did, the hood on the little sweatshirt fell back, exposing a profusion of golden curls.
Whitney’s adrenaline surged. She pressed her forehead against the window, straining to see more.
Rhys’s whole face lit up. His mouth split in an affectionate smile as they all talked back and forth. And then, with the little girl still in his arms, Rhys leaned over and hugged both Gretta and Johnny.
“Oh…my…God.” Whitney mouthed as the phone slipped from her fingers and she watched in stunned silence the scene playing out before her.
“Whitney, you there? Hello? Whitney? Hellloo?”
Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t speak and she couldn’t hear over the thundering in her ears as she watched Rhys Gannon gently place the little girl in a car seat in the back of the Jeep. He strapped her in, then kissed the top of her head.
Before Whitney could gather her wits, Rhys shut the back door, climbed into the Jeep and drove off.
“Whitney?” Albert continued. “You there? Whitney?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“CAN I HELP?” Whitney fought the urge to fire off a multitude of questions. It took every ounce of her willpower to blunt the excitement of her discovery.
Both Gretta and Johnny waved her off. “Nope,” Johnny said. “Guests aren’t allowed to help. You just set yourself somewhere and relax till dinner’s ready. Cocktails will be in the parlor.”
Whitney stared at her host. No wonder Johnny had looked so familiar. It was obvious now. How in the world had she missed it?
If the little girl was Gretta and Johnny’s granddaughter, then Rhys was their son. She should’ve noticed it early on, great observer of people that she was.
Both men were tall, with similar builds, although Johnny didn’t possess Rhys’s muscularity. And deep lines had settled around Johnny’s mouth and eyes. Oddly, they enhanced his strong features and showed he was a happy man. She could see Rhys in another thirty years aging in much the same manner.
In an instant the pieces had fallen into place. And then she had even more questions. Her head began to throb as she tried to sort it all out.
How could such lovely people as Gretta and Johnny have a son with Rhys’s reputation? How could parents of their caliber have an offspring who went so bad? God, she would’ve given her inheritance for such caring parents, and to think that Rhys had done anything hurtful to them was horrifying beyond belief. Her heart went out to them.
But the most important thing was that she’d found her niece. It was, in fact, the only thing that mattered.
The thought of SaraJane sent another swift jolt of excitement coursing through her. She’d actually found her niece! The beautiful little girl she’d been watching was SaraJane. Morgan’s child. Whitney’s own flesh and blood.
Tears sprang to her eyes and reeling from her discovery, Whitney headed for the sitting room and sat in one of the two matching paisley chairs, sinking deep into the down-filled cushion. Right here under my nose the whole time. It boggled her mind.
Just then Johnny entered the room with a man and woman at his side. “Whitney Sheffield, Mr. and Mrs. Blaelow,” Johnny announced.
“Carl and Helen,” the portly man said as Whitney stood up to shake hands. “Just call us Carl and Helen.” The man’s grin spread all over his face. Whitney felt an instant letdown, realizing she couldn’t ask questions with strangers in the room.
A dull ache began to throb behind her eyes and at the base of her skull. She rubbed the back of her head, still thinking about the complexities of this new situation.
“Nice to meet you both,” she responded numbly, and received a dead-fish handshake from Helen and a pumper from Carl.
Johnny excused himself for a moment, and she vaguely heard Carl rattling on about his and Helen’s trip.
“Chardonnay?” Johnny entered wielding a large tray of hors d’oeuvres and wine, which he placed on the library table. “Or a merlot?”
“Actually, I think I need to take a couple of aspirin,” she said, rising. “Maybe I’ll skip the appetizers and rest for a bit. I’ll come back later for dinner.”
Climbing the stairs, she knew it wasn’t likely she could rest. There were too many questions bombarding her.
She needed answers. Lots of answers. Learning that Gretta and Johnny were Rhys’s parents had thrown her for a loop. If Rhys was such an abominable person, why hadn’t Gretta and Johnny tried to get custody of SaraJane?
If he was the degenerate Morgan made him out to be, why didn’t Gretta and Johnny see it? Had he fooled everyone?
Mercifully, the aspirin kicked in and she dropped into a deep sleep not long after her head hit the pillow. The next thing she heard was a soft rapping on her door, and when she finally pried her eyes open, she saw moonlight slanting through the lace curtains.
Groggy, she rolled off the bed and shuffled to the door without turning on the lamp. Gretta stood in the dimly lit hallway, a silver dinner tray in her hands.
“When you didn’t come back, we figured you needed the rest, but you can’t go without dinner entirely.”
Whitney opened the door wide, inviting her in. “What time is it?” She stretched her arms over her head. “Did I sleep long?”
“It’s nine.” Gretta set the tray on the table beside the bay window and then, reaching up, turned on the Tiffany-style floor lamp
next to it. The light shone through the soft rose-and-green glass shade. Removing the covers from the plates of food, Gretta urged Whitney to sit. “Feeling better?”
Whitney rubbed her temples with two fingers. “Yes, the headache’s gone.” She was thankful for that and also for the food Gretta had brought up. “I’m starving and it smells wonderful, Gretta. Thank you. I’m sorry I missed dinner. I was looking forward to it.”
“There’ll be other nights and other dinners,” Gretta said matter-of-factly, taking the plates from the tray as she spoke. “The important thing is that you’re feeling better. Besides, you didn’t miss anything since the food’s right here.” She sighed. “And, well, let’s just say you didn’t miss any stimulating conversation.”
Whitney watched Gretta shift the table arrangement to accommodate the plates. Her eyes, Whitney noticed, were the same cobalt blue as Rhys’s and rimmed with the same dark lashes.
Gretta sent Whitney a concerned look and gently touched her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay, dear? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine. Really.” Whitney motioned for Gretta to sit across from her. “Just tired, I guess.” She glanced from her food to Gretta, observing the resemblance to Rhys and trying to see a bit of SaraJane there.
If Rhys was thirty-five or thereabouts, Gretta had to be at the least…fifty-five, but she did appear a bit older. Even so, she was a handsome woman, and it was evident where Rhys got his good looks.
“I—I saw Rhys pick up your granddaughter tonight.”
Gretta beamed at the mention of the child and nodded.
“He drops her off in the morning and comes to get her after he closes the shop. It works out well.”
“I was…surprised to see him.” She kept her eyes on her food. “When he told me about the inn, he didn’t mention your, uh, relationship.”
Gretta frowned briefly, then her eyes filled with tenderness. “Well, I can understand that. He’s had a lot on his mind. Especially since—” She stopped short. “Well, he’s a bit guarded because he’s been through so many changes in the past year, and he’s trying very hard to hold things together.”