Secrets Rising

by Sally Berneathy

  He couldn't quite put his finger on it. There was something about her that made him uncomfortable, something vulnerable and needy that reached inside him and touched places he didn't want touched, places he hadn't realized still existed.

  She sat stiffly erect during their entire interview, that small chin lifted just a little, long blond hair perfectly smooth and pushed away from her face. All the while her slim fingers gripped first her purse and now a leather briefcase so tightly her knuckles were white, and her green or blue eyes—he couldn't tell the shade for sure—widened then narrowed with conflicting emotions.

  And he had the strangest urge to loosen those tense fingers, smooth her brow, dig up loving biological parents for her, make everything all right.

  Dumb.

  He, of all people, knew the likelihood of Ozzie and Harriet parents.

  He unfolded the paper. The handwriting was neat and meticulous. Rebecca Patterson with her neat, meticulous appearance and bearing could have written it, but the paper was yellowed and the ink faded.

  To Brenda and Jerry Patterson, the note read. I can never thank you enough for everything you've done for me and for my baby. Please take care of her and never let her try to find me, it concluded.

  He read the note through twice. "All right if make a copy of this?"

  She nodded. He dialed Noreen's extension and asked her to make the copy for him. Normally he'd do it himself, but the copy machine was down the hall, and he was reluctant to leave Rebecca alone even for the necessary couple of minutes. She seemed so fragile, he had an irrational fear that she'd shatter into a thousand pieces if he left her right now.

  Noreen returned with the copy, and he handed the original back to Rebecca. "Just offhand, I'd say you're right. Your mother isn't going to try to find you. She's probably not going to be thrilled to have you show up on her doorstep, either."

  Rebecca flinched almost imperceptibly as though he'd struck her a physical blow. Well, damn it, she'd come to him to find the truth and that's what he was trying to give her.

  "I realize all that, Mr. Thornton. Nevertheless, I have to find out who wrote this note. Who my mother is. Who I am."

  Jake leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk. This woman was just asking to get knocked to the ground, and he wasn't sure she had the strength to get back up again.

  Not that it was his place to worry about that.

  "Brenda and Jerry Patterson, obviously they adopted you."

  "They did."

  "Have they been good parents to you? Make you eat your vegetables? Send you to school? Take care of you when you're sick?"

  Pain filled her eyes and put a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke. "They were wonderful parents. Nobody could have had better parents."

  "Then maybe you ought to go see them, take your mom some roses, your dad a bottle of brandy, spend the weekend with them, be glad you have somebody who loves you and forget about finding this woman who ran out on you."

  In amazement, he listened to himself trying to throw this case away. What the hell was the matter with him? Rebecca wanted information, and he had the resources to get it for her. That's what he did. He was a P.I., not a shrink.

  Her eyes glistened, and for a moment he thought she might cry, but when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly firm. "I'd love to do exactly that, Mr. Thornton, but it's no longer possible. My parents were killed in an automobile accident six weeks ago."

  Jake ducked his head and plowed his fingers through his hair. So much for his misguided efforts to be a shrink. He should definitely stick to investigating. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

  "It doesn't matter. Will you find my real parents or not?"

  Real parents. The phrase stuck him as odd. The people who'd raised her and given her their name were dead, and the people who'd given her life didn't want to be found. Will the real parents please stand up and claim Rebecca Patterson?

  Not likely.

  Jake's feet thudded to the floor. He straightened in his chair, opened a drawer, withdrew a contract and slid it across the desk toward her. "Read that."

  "Elaine showed me hers. I'm agreeable to all the terms, and I'm ready to write you a check for the retainer."

  So what if the woman wanted to pay for her own grief? That was her business, wasn't it?

  He picked up a pen and positioned a notepad in front of him.

  "Name, address and phone number."

  She gave him the information. "If you call me at work and I'm not available, please don't leave a message. I have an answering machine at home which I'll check frequently. You can be completely open with any message you leave there. I live alone."

  "Got it. Now, tell me everything you know about the woman who wrote that note."

  "I'm afraid it's not much. I do have one other item." She opened the briefcase again and withdrew a carefully folded blue dress.

  "I assume this was hers. It was with the note. I found them in a locked drawer of my dad's desk after my parents died." She lifted her hands then let them flutter down aimlessly. "They must have planned to tell me eventually or they wouldn't have saved this stuff. They didn't know they were going to die this suddenly."

  "So they never really told you that you were adopted. You just deduced it from this note."

  "No, I didn't just deduce it, though that note is pretty strong evidence. I talked to their lawyer after I found this note. He drew up the adoption papers."

  Jake nodded and picked up the dress. "She must have been tiny."

  He studied the garment carefully. He could almost see the petite blond woman with Rebecca's features who must have worn it. The label was frayed, washed many times, but the embroidered script was still legible. "Sharise's Shoppe. Ever hear of the place?"

  Rebecca shook her head. "No. I've made inquiries around Dallas, but nobody's ever heard of it. I asked my parents' lawyer. He said all he knew was that the woman...my mother...had worked as a waitress for Mom and Dad. They owned a small restaurant in Plano. They sold the land a few years ago to a developer and got enough money to retire. They were on their way to visit friends in Florida when a drunk driver ran into them. He survived with minor injuries, but my parents were killed instantly."

  "I see."

  He did see, but he didn't understand. Not that understanding was necessary to resolve a case.

  Dig up facts and present them to the person who wanted to know.

  Or thought she wanted to know.

  "What about records from the restaurant? The person writing this note thanks them for giving her a job. They'd have had to have a name and social security number for all employees."

  Rebecca shook her head. "According to their lawyer, she worked for tips, room and board. If my parents paid her...and, knowing them, they did...they paid her in cash. She used the name Jane Clark, but I'd be very surprised if that was her real name."

  "Probably not, but the Jane part may be right. People frequently keep their first names, especially if they're common ones. Anything else? A physical description?"

  "Only a few of Mom and Dad's friends even remember her. They all agreed that she was small, had short, dark brown hair and wore glasses. Very nondescript. She just appeared one day and started working. Mom and Dad wouldn't talk about her, so they must have known something."

  "Most people wouldn't give a job and home to a stranger off the streets, even help her hide her identity. Is it possible your parents knew her?"

  "It's possible, of course. But they were the type people who would take in a stranger. They did it all the time. Most of my life we had at least one stray person living with us. They were very generous. I was a little surprised when they didn't give away all the money they got from selling the restaurant."

  Rebecca was so transparent, Jake could almost read her mind. Now she felt she was just one more of those strays her parents had taken in, and she had the stupid notion that finding a blood relative would change things. Well, he'd tried to talk her out of it. He'd done h
is good deed for the month.

  "So you've discussed this with your parents' old friends, and none of them knew who she was?"

  "None. She just showed up one day. Pretty soon it was apparent she was pregnant. She worked as a waitress, gave birth and disappeared." Rebecca smiled wryly...or grimaced. Jake couldn't be sure which. "All we have to prove my mother ever existed is this note and her dress."

  "And you."

  She looked down at herself, then lifted one hand to the side of her face as if testing to be sure she really did exist.

  "And me," she finally said.

  He wanted to shake her, tell her to get on with her life, force her to realize that what happened all those years ago had no bearing on her now. But no one could have convinced him of that truth until he learned it for himself. Anyway, his last attempt to give her advice hadn't turned out so great.

  "Okay," he said instead, "just a few more questions."

  He obtained from Rebecca Patterson all the information she had. It wasn't a lot, but it would probably be enough. This case shouldn't be too difficult. Disappointing to the client, he suspected, but not difficult to resolve.

  He followed her to the door, walking behind her, inhaling the scent of summer flowers that trailed after her, watching the play of light and shadows in the silky strands of her hair.

  He'd heard the term willowy applied to women before but hadn't known exactly what it meant. Now he did. This woman reminded him of the branches of a willow tree...slim, graceful, moving with every breeze.

  With his hand on the door knob, ready to open it, usher her out and get back to work, he hesitated.

  "You know," he said, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing even as he spoke, "you were pretty damn lucky. Born to somebody who wouldn't—couldn't—keep you but left you with somebody who did. By your own admission, your parents were great. You had a good life with them, and now they're gone. I understand that you want them back, but you can't have that. No matter what I find for you, no matter who I dig up, it's not going to be that family. Maybe you should just go home, gather up your good memories and be happy you had them. Find a husband, make babies, start a new family."

  She gazed up at him, her eyes the color of the blue grass he'd seen in Kentucky. Deep green but with hints of the sky somewhere in their depths. Looking into those eyes, he knew she wasn't going to take his advice. Right now this woman who wore her designer suit so elegantly, this Director of Human Resources who was undoubtedly accustomed to being in control, was feeling very lost.

  "I appreciate your advice, Mr. Thornton, but you're wrong about my motives. I know I can't replace my parents. My real mother may not want me, and that's fine. I may not want her, either. But at least I'll know who I am. At least then I'll have an identity."

  Jake didn't believe that brave pronouncement for one minute, but he nodded and opened the door. "I'll let you know as soon as I find anything."

  "Thank you."

  She left, but her scent lingered behind. Or maybe it only lingered in his mind.

  Summer flowers. Now where the heck had he come up with that description? What did winter flowers smell like?

  He went over to the window and looked out at the parking lot, watched her exit the building. A willow blowing aimlessly with every gust of the hot summer wind.

  And she thought finding a mother who'd specified she must never be found would somehow fix everything, give her life direction.

  Though the sun shone brightly, a shadow seemed to overtake and surround Rebecca as she walked across the parking lot. Probably an optical illusion caused by the tinted glass of his office window.

  Nevertheless, a black chill zagged down his spine. His own projections or the sixth sense he'd developed for survival in his years on the police force?

  She got in her silver Volvo and drove away, and Jake returned to his desk. He flopped into his chair, picked up the notes he'd made on Rebecca Patterson and studied them then laid them back down.

  After six years in uniform for the city and five in private practice, any remnants of optimism that might have survived his erratic youth had certainly been destroyed.

  Rebecca Patterson was an attractive woman, but that had nothing to do with anything. His taste in women ran to the assertive, confident variety. Women who didn't need anything. Women who wouldn't shatter when it was time for everybody to go their separate ways. Rebecca Patterson was already shattered.

  He couldn't possibly be attracted to her. That wasn't the explanation for his strange reaction, his peculiar urge to loosen those tense fingers, smooth her brow, dig up loving parents for her, make everything all right.

  Maybe the moon was full. That made people do strange things.

  He picked up his notes again, balancing them in the palm of his hand as if weighing the information there.

  He'd probably be wise to turn this over to one of his associates. He had plenty of other cases to work on right now.

  But he made no move to reach for the phone.

  She wouldn't like that. She hadn't even wanted to tell the receptionist about her situation. She certainly wouldn't want to be passed around the office to someone else.

  He should handle this matter himself. Handle it and treat it like any other case that came across his desk. That's all it was. Just another case. And Rebecca Patterson was just another client.

  But the uneasy feeling continued to dart around the edges of his thoughts, refusing to go away, whispering to him that Rebecca Patterson shouldn't be so eager to find her mother.

  Chapter 2

  August 9, 1979, Edgewater, Texas

  Mary Jordan lifted the lid of her crock pot and poked the roast inside with a long fork.

  Almost done. By the time Ben got home and took a quick shower, it would be perfect.

  She replaced the lid and leaned back against the counter, taking a long drink from her glass of iced tea. Not that there was much ice left in the tea, but at least it was wet. The big attic fan pulled air through the house, and the kitchen was well-ventilated with windows on two sides and a screen door on the other. Even so, it was unbearably hot. The air moving past her was warm and muggy and didn't feel the least bit cool.

  She lifted her heavy blond hair off her neck and briefly considered returning it to the pony tail she wore during the day. But Ben liked it down.

  She smiled to herself.

  And she liked Ben. Loved Ben. After a year, she still marveled that he loved her. When he'd left their small town to join the Army, she'd been the skinny kid next door with a crush on the teen-age boy who sometimes pushed her in the swing but most often ignored her.

  Then he'd returned with his strange friend, Charles, and they'd both gone to work for the Edgewater Police Department. And she'd been all grown up, and Ben had noticed her. Dated her. Loved her. Married her.

  A blue jay squawked outside the kitchen window, the sound familiar and warm, recalling happy summer days when she was a kid, when her father was still alive and her mother was still...her mother, not lost in some strange land, unable to deal with losing her husband, soon following him into death.

  But all the bad was in the past now, over and done with. Happiness was hers again. She had a husband who loved her and a home. A small one, true, an old house with no air conditioning, but it belonged to them. Well, them and the mortgage company.

  The yard was huge, large enough to add on to the house later and still have a big yard with a swing set and tree houses and plenty of room for their kids to play. That was all she and Ben needed to complete their family. Babies. Lots of babies. And the way they loved every night, that shouldn't be too far in the future.

  She opened the refrigerator, took out two more ice cubes and plopped them into her warm tea, then reached for another. Leaning her head back, eyes closed, she ran the third ice cube around her neck, under her hair then in front, letting the cool liquid trickle between her breasts. Thank goodness for the fashion of shorts with halter tops and no bra!

 
A knock on the screen door brought her upright.

  A uniformed police officer stood on the back step.

  "Charles? What are you doing here?" She dropped the remaining ice into the sink. She no longer needed it. A cold chill spread over her, sending goose bumps down her spine.

  Without being invited, her husband's partner and best friend opened the screen door and came in.

  "Where's Ben?" A sudden fear struck her, the fear that all wives of policemen lived with constantly. "Oh, God! He's not—"

  Charles shook his head. "Ben's fine. He got tied up with paperwork at the station and wanted me to come by and tell you."

  Relief washed over Mary in huge waves. "Thank goodness!" She smiled, restraining the urge to laugh giddily.

  Charles returned the smile, but his was unctuous. Mary looked away from him, lifting the lid and checking the roast again though it didn't need to be checked. Charles affected her like that, made her nervous, apprehensive...made her skin crawl just by the way he looked at her sometimes, and this was one of those times.

  "Why didn't Ben call me?" she asked.

  Charles didn't answer.

  Against her will, she turned back toward him.

  His pale eyes stroked down her body, making her wish she had on something more than the halter top and frayed cutoffs she'd been blessing only a few seconds before. If she'd known Charles was coming, she'd have worn an overcoat even in this heat.

  Ben said she was imagining things, that Charles respected her and loved her like a sister. He got irritated when she mentioned her reservations about Charles, the man who'd saved his life in battle and was now his partner on the police force. No man could resist ogling his beautiful wife, Ben said, teasing her, but making it clear he thought she was overreacting to Charles' friendliness.