An hour later he had showered, put on his pajamas, and eaten the pizza. He rarely ate much at the weddings he officiated. He had to spend the evening talking to guests or, more likely, listening. If it was a Baptist wedding on the church premises, no alcohol would be served. For him, however, at any wedding, the drinking of alcohol was never an option.
Sated, he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. The heady scent filled the kitchen. Having poured a cup, he returned to the dining-room table. The caffeine woke him a bit and at last he felt ready to tackle whatever was in the mystery package.
What could be from the lawyers now? he wondered as he began to tear at the tape binding. His mother’s will had been read. Her estate had been left entirely to him, her only child. His father, a high-profile Atlanta attorney, had died years earlier. He had left his widow with an estate that gave her the option to stop working and live a comfortable lifestyle. Zora Green had a successful career as a magazine editor and continued working at what she loved until the cancer that would take her life forced her to retire.
When Atticus inherited his estate, he’d donated a significant portion to charities that helped the poor in Atlanta. He also made a generous pledge to the Ebenezer Baptist Church stewardship fund. What he’d do with the rest, however, Atticus didn’t know. He was a newly ordained minister and committed to his calling. He lived a modest lifestyle. Not married. He liked to take women to dinner at nice restaurants, take a trip once in a while. Other than that, he had no need for it. So until he received some message from God about what he should do with the money, he had arranged with the law firm to put the funds into safe investments. Atticus knew how fast that money would have flowed through his fingers if he’d inherited it when he was twenty-one.
Atticus felt a little apprehensive when he opened the box. He pulled out a glossy black folder bearing the insignia of the Pearlman & Pearlman law firm. There was also a plastic bag—filled with two bundles of envelopes of different sizes and colors, each bundle tied with red ribbon. Glancing at them, ever more curious, he set them aside and turned back to the folder. Opening it, he found a formal typed letter in the left pocket, a sealed envelope in the right. He reached out to take a sip of his coffee. It was hot, black, and sweet. Then he pulled out the typed letter to read.
Dear Atticus,
Following Mrs. Zora Green’s (your mother’s) instructions, we waited until all the business of the will and estate were settled before embarking on her final wishes. To date, all outstanding debts, taxes, and funeral expenses have been paid.
Which brings us to her second request. Mrs. Green gave to our safekeeping certain letters that were to be delivered to you after her death. The said letters are enclosed. A sealed, personal letter from your mother, located in this folder, is addressed to you and should be read first. The bundles of letters in the plastic bag can be read at your leisure.
The aforementioned letter is written in Mrs. Green’s own handwriting and signed by her in the presence of my secretary and a clerk. Mrs. Green also provided us with all the necessary legal documentation to substantiate the claims she makes in her letter. Please contact me at your convenience and we will send you the complete set of documents under separate cover.
Again, I am here to assist you in any way possible. My sympathy again on the passing of your mother.
Sincerely,
Robert Pearlman
Pearlman & Pearlman LLC
Atticus set the lawyer’s letter on the table, then pulled the sealed envelope out from the right side of the folder. He held it in front of him with two hands, immediately recognizing his mother’s beautiful script. On the envelope she’d written only his first name, as was her habit for all birthday and holiday cards she’d sent during her lifetime. Just Atticus. Underlined with great flourish.
His mother had told him with pride and a certain conceit that she had chosen his unusual name. He hadn’t liked the name as a child. There wasn’t an easy nickname for it, not a good thing for a boy. He’d wished he’d been named for his father, Tyrone, a good, strong, popular name. His father had once told Atticus he’d never wanted his son named after a famous white literary character, but he’d finally approved once Zora reminded him Atticus Finch was a lawyer. Zora had pushed hard for the name as hers was a literary background. Her favorite novel was To Kill a Mockingbird and her favorite male character Atticus Finch. When she was young, Zora, then an editor at a major New York publishing house, was in a commuter marriage with Atlanta-based Tyrone, but left the city when she learned she was pregnant and returned to Atlanta to settle there. She continued working in publishing, rising up to become publisher of a local magazine. Both Atticus’s parents were highly educated, but he got his love of books from his mother.
Atticus looked at the envelope as though he could see right through to its contents. What kind of news could it carry that required legal documents and a lawyer on call for questions? His mother had lived to see him change his life, become a minister, and fulfill her dream for him. God knew how hard he had struggled to find this peace. Did he want to risk shaking the emotional terra firma of his world with whatever his mother felt he needed to know in some cryptic letter from the grave?
He resigned himself to the inevitable. Picking up a knife, he slit open the envelope with one smooth sweep. On the letter, written on pale blue parchment, her name was engraved in navy script: Zora Middleton Green. Atticus took a deep breath and began to read.
My darling Atticus,
I’m writing this letter with the intention that it be delivered to you after my death. It contains information that I should have told you years ago. It’s important you understand that I had promised your father that I would never tell you. I kept that promise in my lifetime. I feel, however, that you have the right to know your history. In these modern times, genetic histories are critical for one’s health and welfare and I do not want to deprive you of these important facts.
Atticus lowered the letter, swallowing hard at what the words indicated. He reached to pick up his coffee and took a bolstering sip. His cup clattered when he returned it to the saucer. Then, picking up the letter, he continued reading.
Tyrone Green is not your biological father. He has been your father in every way since your birth, and he could not have loved you more if you were his flesh and blood. Your biological father was a decent man. He never met you, never held you in his arms, never participated in your life. His name was Parker Muir.
Allow me to tell you the circumstances of your birth. As you know, I was an assistant editor for the executive editor of a major publishing house in New York City. What you did not know was that we were already married and that Tyrone and I were separated at the time—he was living in Atlanta working on his law career. While working I met the husband of my boss, Georgiana James. He was a writer by the name of Parker Muir. He and Georgiana James were recently married, but it was obvious they were having a hard time of it. There was little love lost between them. Parker had hoped Georgiana would edit his manuscript. But instead she tossed it on my desk and asked me to do the job. I found the situation awkward, to say the least. But Georgiana James was not a woman whose orders were not obeyed. Thus it was I began editing Parker’s novel.
Parker was a wonderful storyteller. When he spoke, his eyes lit up and with his delicate southern accent he made his story come alive. I could listen to him for hours. And did. Unfortunately, he couldn’t bring that same enthusiasm and life to his printed words. To be fair, the novel had undergone too many revisions. Like a body that had one too many surgeries, its life’s blood had been drained. Yet he was so in earnest I tried to encourage him. We would go out in the afternoon to a nearby coffee shop and discuss the book, and eventually, our lives. Over the course of months of working together, we grew close. We were both lonely. He learned of my separation. I learned that his marriage was doomed. He wanted to leave but Georgiana was pregnant. She had little interest in Parker, his manuscript, or their marriage. She
was constantly working, and when she wasn’t at the office, she was out at luncheon and dinner meetings, never inviting her husband to join her. Neither of us knew many people in the city and thus we spent evenings together as well. In short, we fell in love.
Georgiana found out about our affair. When she confronted Parker, he asked her for a divorce. I believed Parker when he said he would marry me. I know he loved me. But I did not want to marry him. Though I loved him, I knew his weaknesses. You see, at this same time I discovered I was pregnant. Atticus my darling, you were the child I desperately wanted. Tyrone could not give me a child. This was one of the reasons we separated. To his great credit, when I called him and explained my situation, without hesitation Tyrone told me to come home to Atlanta.
I’ll spare you the drama. Suffice to say it all ended quickly in New York. I was promptly fired. Georgiana and Parker were divorced. After the debacle I traveled to Atlanta and Parker to Charleston. He did not know that I carried his child.
Tyrone agreed to raise the child I was carrying as his own provided I promised him that I would never tell you or anyone that the child wasn’t his. A point of pride, perhaps. I agreed. When you were born, no one questioned that he was your father, and in every way that mattered, he was. Your skin is fair, like mine. Though your blue eyes are the same color of Parker’s. So many times when you were young you asked me where you got your blue eyes from. Now you know. I wondered if every time Tyrone saw those eyes he was reminded of my infidelity. We both know that Tyrone was an exacting man. Even cold, at times. That was his nature, not you. He wasn’t the kind of man that showed affection readily. I know this was hard for you, especially when you were young. When you grew older, it made my heart happy to see the two of you playing golf, watching basketball games, bonding. Believe me, Atticus, he did love you in his own way. Very much.
I never told Tyrone this—not long after I’d returned to Atlanta, Parker Muir wrote to me asking to see me again. Naturally I couldn’t allow that. Parker would take one look at you and know you weren’t Tyrone’s child. So I told him the truth, that I’d given birth to his son, and just like that he offered to marry me. He was a good man. I explained to him that I’d reconciled with my husband and how he’d agreed to raise my child as his own. I asked Parker for only one thing—his silence. I made him swear never to see you or contact you.
He kept that promise. Though he never met you or contacted you, every year on your birthday he sent you a card in my care, and every year I tucked it away, unopened. I think he hoped that someday I would tell you and when that day came you would know that he’d remembered you. I saved these cards for you and instructed Bobby Pearlman to give them to you with my letter. They are yours to do with as you wish.
Now it is done. I hope I’ve not made a mistake in telling you the truth of your birth. I’ve given the subject twenty-eight years of thought and always I have come to the same conclusion—you had a right to know. You had a self-centered youth which you turned around. I am very proud of you. In retrospect, I wonder if you didn’t suspect something was amiss between you and your father. I hope this information answers any questions stirring in your brain, resolves any shadowy doubts, and quiets any unrest in your heart. You are a strong man and I have every confidence that you will figure out what to do with this knowledge.
My dear Atticus, I have loved you from the moment you were conceived, completely and unconditionally. No mother could love a child more than I have loved you. I hope you’ll understand and forgive me for not telling you earlier. I’ve learned in this life that one cannot foresee the future. We must place our trust in God. After all, I was given you, the greatest gift of my life, without expecting that miracle. So trust that He has His plan and that you will come to understand it, in God’s good time.
I am tired. At last I am free to die with a clear conscience and peaceful heart. In the end, my child, regardless of who your parents are, your life is your own. We all enter and exit alone.
Farewell, child of my heart. You carry my love in yours.
Always,
Mama
Atticus’s hands were shaking as he let the last page of the letter drop. He brought his hands to cover his face and wept. He missed his mother, longed to talk to her about all she’d revealed. He wanted to hear her melodious voice comfort him, hear the gentle inflections of her southern accent, which he’d committed to memory. Needed to feel her hand on his shoulder, her kiss on his cheek. She’d written how she hoped learning this resolves any shadowy doubts, and quiets any unrest. Just the opposite! He’d never felt so alone.
After a long while he dropped his hands, emotionally spent. Atticus mopped his face with his palms, then brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and took a long, shuddering breath as his composure returned to him. Quickly, efficiently, he gathered the pages of his mother’s letter and neatly tucked them back into the envelope. This he placed into the right side of the folder and closed it, resting his palms upon the table.
He desperately wanted a drink. More than he could remember wanting a drink in years. He reached for the coffee and gulped down the final dregs. It had turned cold and bitter. Atticus rose from the table and paced the room. His mind was spinning with unanswered questions. Chief among them was who this Parker Muir was. His biological father.
He went to his desk and opened his laptop to begin an Internet search on Parker Muir. There was scant information. Just an obituary.
So his father was dead. This gave him pause. He rested his hands and closed his eyes. While he didn’t feel an emotional loss, never having known Muir, he nonetheless felt a profound regret that he’d not met him. Another vacancy in his life that couldn’t be filled. He returned to the obituary, devouring the scant information there. Searching further, he discovered a notice about some adult film Muir was involved in. Some articles written by him had been published in newspapers and magazines. Apparently Parker Muir was published; he just never got that novel published. In the end Atticus had not learned much. Parker Muir was from Charleston, part of a historic family. Parker’s surviving relatives were listed as father Edward Muir, mother Marietta Muir, and three sisters, Eudora Muir Tupper, Carson Muir, and Harper Muir-James.
Atticus paused at that revelation. The name of Parker’s then wife in New York was Georgiana James. So the last one was the child she was pregnant with when Parker and Zora had begun their affair. Atticus was shaken, too, by her first name. Harper. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she bore the name of the author of To Kill a Mockingbird, the very same novel featuring his namesake, Atticus Finch. Atticus swallowed the distaste that Parker Muir obviously had something to do with his mother’s choice of his name.
He shut the computer, frustrated that he’d learned so little about this man who was his biological father. Atticus grew up the only child of two compulsively hardworking parents. They were a solid family, celebrated the usual holidays, milestones. There was love between them. Yet now that his parents were dead, and just when he felt most alone, he was informed he had this other family living in Charleston.
Another family. Maybe this is what Atticus had felt was missing his entire life. What he’d been searching for.
Before he fell asleep that night, Atticus knew that the following morning he would call the Pearlman law office to find out more about the Muir family. He needed details. He needed his birth certificate.
He needed an address.
Chapter Five
All couples have issues to get through. That’s what marriage is all about. Taking the good and bad, the hard and easy. And making it work.
March is a mercurial month in the lowcountry, but as promised, the rain and wind blew off island during the night. The sun rose on clear skies and warmer weather than the residents had experienced so far this spring. Carson opened her eyes and stretched languidly. The sheets were warm and scented of love. Sighing, she patted her hand on the mattress beside her. Blake’s side was empty. Fear fluttered through her. She kicked off her
sheet and in a mild panic half rose to let her gaze dart around the room. Soft breezes from the open window caressed her naked skin.
“You’re awake.”
Her gaze shifted to follow Blake’s voice. He stood at the door carrying a tray. She let her eyes feast on his long, lean frame as her body slumped softly with relief. “You’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” He walked toward her.
Carson didn’t reply. When she’d found the bed empty, she felt a sudden terror that he’d left her.
Blake was already dressed in his usual khakis and dark green polo shirt bearing the logo of NOAA. She thought to herself that if he lived in Los Angeles, he’d likely wear black jeans and a tight T-shirt to show off his swimmer’s body. She chuckled to herself, knowing Blake would never be so fashion-forward. Blake put on his clothes in the morning without thought. From the moment he woke up, his mind focused on getting outdoors as quickly as possible. Blake had a long waist with taut and sinewy muscles across his chest, shoulders, and arms from hours spent on the ocean, not the gym. The scent of the sea, mud, salt, these were home to him. Like her, he needed to be near the water and spent as much time as he could out on the waterways researching the animals that lived in the depths. Blake was a marine mammal specialist at NOAA, and their shared love of dolphins had initially cemented their relationship.
She smiled up at him as he set a tray on the bed beside her.
“Merci,” she said, letting her fingers stroke his hand.
She gathered her long dark hair in her hands and pulled the locks from her face, remembering with a flush the long afternoon and longer night of talking, arguing, and making love. She gave him a slanted look. “I feel rode hard and put up wet.”
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