They sipped their iced tea in the kitchen, Carrie leaning against the cabinet, Suzanne on the other side of the breakfast bar. Her memories were a child’s: of a mother who pushed her kids on the swing at the park, ran and ran and ran to make the playground merry-go-round twirl faster, sewed pretty dresses but was never mad when her small daughter got them dirty. Suzanne didn’t remember her—no, Carrie corrected herself, their—father as well, because he seemed always to be at work. But she knew he’d loved growing vegetables in a small backyard plot wherever they lived, and he’d let her help plant seeds. Expression faraway, she talked about crouching between the rows gently patting tiny seeds into the soil, then seeing the first fragile green sprouts.
“And I remember him roughhousing with Lucien, and giving you a bottle when Mom was somewhere.”
“Did they want me?” She hadn’t even known she wondered. “I mean, did they plan to have three kids?”
“I think so. At least, they were happy when Mom got pregnant. I wasn’t.” She flashed a grin. “I did remember that I liked life better before Lucien came along. Another baby? Uh-uh.” The smile softened, became drenched in grief. “But Mom would talk about what a good big sister I was, and how this time I’d have a baby sister to take care of. She said how lucky you were to have me. That someday we’d talk about boys and help each other be sure how we felt before we fell in love.”
On instinct Carrie reached out a hand. “I guess that’s what we’ve been doing.”
Suzanne took it and squeezed. “I guess it is.”
But she couldn’t hide the sadness that dimmed her answering smile, and Carrie knew she was thinking that she’d failed as a big sister.
That’s when Carrie’s idea was born. She’d get Lucien’s phone number from Mark, and she’d call him. She’d tell him he was being selfish and very, very foolish, because he was lucky to have two sisters who wanted to reunite with him. And if he didn’t call or show up pretty soon, maybe they’d change their minds.
No, she wouldn’t say that last part, of course. For one thing, it wasn’t true. Suzanne needed to see Lucien, to know that he was okay, and so they’d welcome him no matter when he chose to contact them.
But maybe right now he needed to hear from one of them, not just from the private investigator who’d found him.
But I won’t tell Suzanne, Carrie decided. Not unless it worked, and Lucien decided to come to Seattle and meet them.
Friday, she decided. She’d ask Mark first thing. And if he wouldn’t cooperate—the heck with him! She’d break into his office if she had to. She’d…
“What are you thinking about?” Suzanne asked.
“Me?” Carrie plastered a look of surprise on her face. “I’m thinking I wished I’d been around to give you advice about boys. Even if I was the little sister.”
“Yeah.” The strain on Suzanne’s face eased. “I wish you’d been, too. But, hey.” She held out her hand again, and Carrie took it. “Today’s the first day of the rest of our lives and all that, right?”
Carrie smiled back. “Right.”
DESPITE SOME GUILT when he saw Michael’s disappointment at being left out, Mark persuaded Heidi to stay late Friday so that he could take Carrie out. Just the two of them.
They window-shopped in Pioneer Square, going into a couple of stores, including Elliott Bay Books, then walked down to the waterfront, eventually winding up at the Waterfront Seafood Grill, where they both had salmon and watched the boats out on Puget Sound as the sun set and they became no more than twinkling lights.
It was a magical evening. Carrie looked stunning in silky, wide-legged black pants that clung to the curves of her hips and, as she moved, outlined the fabulous legs that had helped make him grumpy the day he’d admitted, despite professional ethics, that he was interested in her. Her top was crimson in a puckered fabric, a tank with a deep vee neckline openings in front and back. Every time she walked in front of him, his gaze went to the delicate line of her neck and back, her skin smooth and tinted with gold. A back shouldn’t be so provocative, but hers was. Maybe it was because he kept imagining sliding his hand inside the shirt. Or maybe it was because he could tell damn well despite the puckered fabric that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He liked her hair tonight, too. The style made him think of a Prohibition era flapper. Somehow she’d gotten the curls to lie smoothly in a wavy bob.
Hell, face it—he liked everything about her.
“I keep thinking about calling my parents,” she said, dragging him back from fantasyland.
“Did Suzanne say something?”
“You mean, did she order me to forgive and forget?” Carrie laughed. “No.” She went silent for a moment. “She did say my mom looked nice.”
Her mom hadn’t been all that nice when he’d called. But then, he did understand. She’d been scared. How would he react if he got a call out of the blue, with someone saying, Your son’s mother would like to meet him? Of course, Carrie was twenty-one years older than Michael, not six, which made a difference.
No, the real difference was that his call had meant a lifetime of lies were going to be exposed. She’d had reason to panic.
“So?” he said. “Are you going to call?”
Her expression was suddenly vulnerable. “Do you think I should?”
“I think you will, when you’re ready. Question is, are you ready?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, Oh Wise One.” She was obviously trying to sound as if she were joking, but her eyes implored him nonetheless. She hoped he had some kind of answers.
“Nope.” Mark shook his head. “Only you know how you feel. And the wise part? Don’t I wish.”
“You’ve seemed pretty wise to me.”
“Educated,” he corrected her. “Maybe experienced. I’ve helped in a lot of adoption searches. That means I know what people tend to feel at each stage. It doesn’t mean I have any more idea what to do about it than anyone else.”
Candlelight made her face mysterious, her eyes great dark pools, her skin ivory. “I think,” she said, voice velvet soft, “you’re wiser about human emotion than you know you are.”
“Carrie…”
“But I’ll let you off the hook.” Her mouth curved. “About that, anyway.”
“Ah.” He sipped coffee. “This Craig. Does he ever call you?”
“Begging me to come back to him?” She laughed. “Are you kidding? He’s undoubtedly waiting for me to come to my senses and realize how well-suited we are. Or—” she shrugged “—he’s knee-deep in nurses who have just discovered the handsome doctor is once again available.”
“You seem undisturbed by that idea.”
“I’d rather be here with you. You see, I did come to my senses.”
He toasted her with his coffee cup. “I’m flattered.”
“You should be.” Damned if the candlelight didn’t reveal the faintest of dimples in one cheek. Another part of her he ached to touch. He wanted to make her laugh when his mouth was against her cheek, so he could feel the tiny compression form.
Alarm raised its head. He was falling fast.
Yeah? So what. He was glad that being with Carrie made his memories of Emily fade. His anger fade.
It was past time.
He signaled the waiter and pulled out his wallet. A minute later, they started back along the waterfront to where he’d left the car parked under the Alaska Viaduct. Out in Elliott Bay, a ferry horn sounded, sharp and close. Carrie jumped, and he laid a hand on her back.
“You have goose bumps. Are you cold?”
“A little.” She shivered. “I’m always too optimistic. It is only May.”
Nights didn’t stay warm in the Northwest, not the way they did down south or even during sultry summers on the East coast. He hadn’t worn a jacket, but he said, “Come here,” and lifted his arm.
Carrie snuggled against him, and he wrapped his arm around her bare shoulders. She was petite enough to fit perfectly against him, and after a m
oment she murmured, “Mmm. You’re warm.”
“Warm and wise.”
“Yep.”
“You smell good.” He turned his face just a little, so her hair tickled his mouth.
“Rosemary lavender shampoo. I don’t like perfume.”
“I don’t, either.”
She sniffed. “No cologne.”
“Nope. I’m a bare bones kind of guy.”
She’d wrapped her arm around his waist. Her hand briefly stroked upward, making his muscles tighten. “Oh, I don’t know.” Her tone was deliberately throaty, but held an undercurrent of laughter. “Not too bare.”
“Are you flirting with me, Ms. St. John?”
In the pool of light from a street lamp, she laughed up at him. “You noticed, Mr. Kincaid?”
A dark bundle just beyond the light moved. A raspy voice begged, “Spare a dollar?”
Mark let Carrie go long enough to pull his wallet from his pocket and take out a five. He extended it to the hand that reached out.
“Bless you, mister. Bless you.”
As they moved on, Carrie said, “That was nice.”
Mark shrugged. “He’ll buy wine.”
“It was nice nonetheless.” She snuggled closer and they walked in silence, crossing at a stoplight and heading into the shadowy area under the viaduct.
Pioneer Square and the Seattle waterfront attracted tourists during the daytime and early evening with fancy shops and fine restaurants, but the area was also home to missions serving the vagrants who spent daylight hours slumped in doorways and on park benches with signs and cups set out for coins. The juxtaposition was sometimes uncomfortable, luxury and desperation side by side, but it was one Seattle authorities tolerated.
Mark had once been hired by a man who had shuffled into his office in an army-green overcoat and multiple layers of clothes, his face seamed, teeth bad and eyes rheumy. He wanted to find his daughter, he said. They’d lost touch nearly twenty years back. Mark had been prepared to waive his fee, but the man turned out to have a sizable savings account. He’d been a professor at Seattle University, long ago. A philosopher.
When Mark asked why he didn’t rent or even buy a home, the seams in his face deepened. “Can’t sleep with walls around me anymore. ’Cept on the coldest nights, I don’t even go to the mission. Anyway, what would be the point of sitting by myself in some empty place?”
All he wanted was to find his daughter so he could see her once, and leave her what he did have in his will.
Mark had found her, and been grateful when she agreed to meet with the father she remembered as a drunkard.
In the car, Mark told Carrie about the client.
She was quiet for a long time. “How sad,” was her only comment.
Which, he supposed, was about all anyone could say.
It was after that, as they crossed Lake Washington on the floating bridge, dark water to each side, that she said, “I had an idea, Mark.”
He glanced at her. “About?”
Voice determined, almost gruff, she said, “I want to call Lucien. Will you give me his phone number? If you won’t, now that I know where he lives, I’ll get it myself.”
“What is it you want to say to him?”
“I want to tell him that he needs to think about other people. So, he thinks it’s too little, too late. Maybe he needs to think about what a simple phone call would mean to Suzanne. That’s what I want to say.”
A little surprised, but not sure why, Mark thought about it for a minute. Suzanne was his client, not Carrie…but he knew Suzanne would now consider them to be a unit.
“Did you talk to her about it?”
“No. I don’t want to get her hopes up.”
“Okay,” he said. “I stuck it back in the file. Can I call you with it Monday?”
She laid a hand on his arm. “Thanks, Mark. This is something I really need to do.”
Their good-night kiss at her apartment door was more passionate than the other night. He let her go with reluctance, especially when she said, “Um. Would you like to come in? At least for coffee?”
If she hadn’t sounded hesitant, he didn’t know if he could have resisted. As it was… Were either of them ready?
He cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing her mouth. “I’d better take a rain check. I promised Heidi I’d be home by eleven.”
“Oh!” If it was possible, she was both relieved and disappointed.
Hell, yes, it was possible. He felt the same.
She pressed a kiss against his palm and stepped back, a soft smile on her face. “Then you’d better hurry.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” A rosy tint washed over her cheeks. “I had fun, Mark.”
“Me, too.” The hallway outside her door seemed to grip his feet as if a magnet lay under the floorboards. He didn’t want to walk away.
“Good night,” she said, and shut the door.
Releasing him from the spell.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CARRIE certainly wasn’t timid—she’d been accused of being brazen—but she was nervous when she dialed her birth brother’s phone number. At the sound of his terse message, a flood of relief told her just how nervous. She was very tempted to leave a message. She could say what she had to say without putting either of them on the spot.
But the beep came and went while she was paralyzed by indecision, and finally she hung up.
Annoyed at herself, she said aloud, “I should put him on the spot!”
What if Mark hadn’t talked to her in person? If he’d just left a message saying, “Your birth sister is looking for you. Here’s her phone number?”
She’d have laughed and deleted the message, dismissing it as either a hoax or a big mistake. She wasn’t adopted. And even if her own niggling uncertainties had crept up on her, making her wonder if she could be, she doubted she’d have followed up with a call to Suzanne. No, a message would have made it too easy for her to avoid uncomfortable realizations. She’d needed to be confronted.
So she waited an hour, pretending to go through the Sunday job classifieds she’d set aside the day before, then tried again.
This time, a voice said brusquely, “Gary.”
Her pulse revved. He’d answered! She hadn’t been expecting him to.
“Gary, my name is Carrie.” She laughed weakly. “Gosh, that rhymes.”
Her sally brought only unamused silence.
She took a deep breath. “I’m your little sister.”
He swore. “You people won’t let up. I said I’m not interested…”
“Don’t you hang up on me!” she snapped, her nervousness dissipating in the heat of exasperation. “I’m asking you to listen for just one minute.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“No, you don’t, but I am your sister. I was adopted out, too. Maybe I got a better home than you did. I don’t know. I never will if you don’t talk to us. What I want to say is that I just met Suzanne a few weeks ago, and I’m really glad that I did. The thing is, she’s felt guilty all these years because she couldn’t keep us with her, even though she was only six when our parents died. Maybe you think it’s too late to make family connections. Well, fine. But it would mean a lot to her just to get a chance to talk to you once, make sure you’re okay. It would be—” for the first time she hesitated “—a kindness.”
The distinctively husky voice said, “You’re strangers to me. Let’s keep it that way.” Click. The quality of the silence told her he’d hung up.
Mouth agape, she held her phone in front of her and stared at it. How rude! She should call him back and tell him what a selfish bastard he was! Fuming, she knew he wouldn’t answer, and if she left a message he’d delete it unheard.
Jerk.
Maybe they were better off without a brother, she thought indignantly. But she couldn’t tell Suzanne that without admitting what she’d done. And Suzanne wouldn’t agree that he was a jerk, she’d just feel worse, believ
ing that if he preferred isolation he must have had a terrible childhood. And she’d blame herself even more. It would never occur to her that maybe he’d have turned out to be a jackass no matter what.
Carrie plopped onto one of the stools at her kitchen breakfast bar and rested her chin on her hand.
No matter how hard she tried to be mad, she kept seeing the photos in the album Suzanne had given her of her dark-haired, laughing brother. Then she pictured how he must have felt when strangers took him away from everything that was familiar except for his baby sister. Finally more strangers took her away.
If his disaffection and selfishness now was anyone’s fault, it was Carrie’s parents’. If only they’d been braver, more willing to try to win the little boy’s heart, Lucien/Gary might have had the same privileged, loving childhood she’d had. And then Mom and Dad wouldn’t have been able to lie to either of them, because Lucien had been old enough to remember his real mommy and daddy. Of course, he wouldn’t be Gary now, he’d be…something else. Charles, or something like that.
Carrie wanted desperately to go back, to change his fate. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t too late to rediscover family. If he’d quit being so stupid, he’d find out that having two sisters was pretty cool.
She sniffed, disgusted to realize that she was getting teary-eyed even though he’d been so unpleasant.
Carrie reached for the phone. Again, she thought how she’d always been able to call her mom when something upset her. That had all changed. But she could talk to Mark.
He answered, then covered the phone, muffling his voice for a moment. When he came back, he said, “I was starting to put Michael to bed. So, did you call your brother?”
“Yes, and he didn’t receive me with open arms. Not that I expected him to, but…”
She told Mark about the conversation, then said, “Maybe if Suzanne and I mail him the album she put together…”
“You know, he’s asked twice now to be left alone. How would you have felt if Suzanne had sent that album before you were ready to deal with everything it meant?”
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