"Hello," she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek with a pleased smile.
"Are you having a good time, Kate?"
"Better now that you're here."
"You always say the right thing," he said with a smile.
She certainly tried. "We've gotten a wonderful response to the exhibit. I can't believe how many people have come tonight." The room was literally overflowing with men in formal suits and women in beautiful cocktail dresses. Waiters moved through the crowd offering champagne and gourmet appetizers prepared by one of San Francisco's best chefs. She felt a little thrill run through her as she complimented herself on her efforts. She hadn't thrown the party by herself, but she'd done a lion's share of the work, and it was turning out perfectly.
"You did a fine job," Stan said, as he gazed around the room. "Charles would be proud."
She wasn't so sure about that. Charles had hated her need to socialize and host parties, and he'd never been one to brag about his work or take the credit he deserved. He'd even asked the magazine to print his pictures without a byline on occasion. She'd never understood his reasoning.
"I thought Alex might be here," Stan continued. "Joe said he got back into town today."
And he hadn't called her. She didn't know why she felt hurt. It wasn't as if they were close, even though he was her only child. The rift had started years ago. Alex had blamed her for the breakup of his family. Then Charles had died, and Alex had hated her ever since. He didn't act that way on the surface, and they certainly never spoke about anything as personal as Alex's feelings, but she knew the truth.
"The photos Alex took in South America were amazing," Stan added. "You must be very proud of your boy."
"I am, of course." She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a sip. "I spoke to Joe earlier about doing an article on Alex and Charles, a side-by-side look at the father and son," she added. "It would sell a lot of magazines."
Stan nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "I'm sure it would. I understand Alex is quite popular with the ladies."
Kate didn't doubt that. Alex had his father's roguish good looks, thick dark brown hair, light green eyes, and strong, muscular build, with not an ounce of fat on him, probably because he kept too busy to eat. He was always on the run, always looking for the next great shot. She sometimes wondered if he bothered to sleep. She certainly couldn't see herself in him anywhere—he was the spitting image of his father. She suddenly realized that spitting image was walking straight toward her. She threw back her shoulders, feeling a sudden pang of nervousness.
"Mother," he said with a cool smile.
"Alex. What on earth are you wearing?" She couldn't believe he'd come to the party in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. He frowned at her question, and she mentally chided herself for getting his back up so fast. But, dammit, couldn't he think about propriety once in a while?
"It's nice to see you, too, Mother." His smile warmed as he nodded to Stan. "What's up?"
"Not much. Glad to see you made it safely back," Stan said. He stepped forward and gave Alex a brief hug, much as a father would a son. Over the years Stan had tried to fill the gaps in Alex's life by showing up at his ball games or school graduations. It made Kate feel a bit sad and a little angry to realize that Alex could hug Stan but not give her even a light pat on the shoulder.
"You should have called me, Alex," she said abruptly. "I was worried sick after I saw that photograph in the newspaper of you being dragged off to jail." She pursed her lips as she studied the purple swelling around his eye, and some latent maternal instinct made her say, "That must hurt. Did you see a doctor?"
"I'll live. Don't worry about it."
"You have to stop taking so many chances. You're not superhuman. I don't understand why you're willing to risk your life on perfect strangers."
"I'm just doing my job. But I didn't come here to talk about my job."
"Why did you come?" she asked sharply. She didn't like the intense look in her son's eyes. When he wanted something, he tended to go after it with all that he had. Maybe that was the one trait he got from her.
Alex motioned them toward a quiet corner. "It's about one of Dad's photographs—the orphan girl at the gates. Did Dad ever talk to either one of you about that picture or the girl?"
"He didn't talk to me about any of his photos," Kate replied, still feeling the pain of Charles's distance even after all these years. "Especially the ones he took on that last trip to Moscow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some people to greet. Stop by the house tomorrow, Alex, and we can talk more." By tomorrow, she'd have her wits about her. She'd be ready to deal with Alex's questions then. Tonight she just wanted to enjoy the party.
Alex watched his mother walk away, not surprised that she'd given him such a sharp answer. After twenty-five years she was still pissed off at his father. That would probably never change. She looked good, though. Her hair was a dark copper red, and she had the face and the figure of a woman at least ten years younger. He knew she cared about her appearance. He didn't know what else she cared about. He never had.
Alex glanced over at Stan, seeing a thoughtful look on the older man's face. "What about you?" he asked.
"What do you really want to know? Cut to the chase, Alex."
Alex hesitated, then said, "I want to know if there's a chance that the Russian orphan girl is alive and well and living in the United States."
Stan's eyes narrowed. "Why would you ask that question?"
"Because I think she came to my apartment today." Alex was a pro at reading people's expressions; he'd had plenty of practice behind his camera. Even though Stan tried to cover his reaction with a bland smile, Alex could tell that he was surprised, maybe even shocked. His face paled and his eyes glittered with an odd light. Stan knew something, but what?
"That's impossible," Stan replied.
"Why is it impossible? Do you know what happened to that girl?"
"What I know is that the photo was not supposed to be published. I can't tell you any more."
"Can't or won't? My father has been dead for twenty-five years. Surely there are no secrets left to protect."
Stan stared at him for a long moment, then drew him farther into the corner of the room so that there was no chance they could be overheard. "Like you, your father sometimes got involved in things he should have left alone."
"What does that mean?"
"It means butt out, Alex. Do what your father asked. Don't talk about any of it. If the woman comes back, tell her she's crazy. Tell her that girl in the photograph died a few weeks after that picture was taken. End of story."
"But she's not dead, is she?"
"In all the ways that matter, she is. Forget about her, Alex. Trust me. You do not want to reopen the past."
Alex suddenly wanted nothing more.
DeMarco family birthday parties were always big, loud affairs. Tonight the cafe was filled to the brim with Italians of all ages, shapes, and sizes. The small tables were dressed in red checkered tablecloths, candles gleaming in each floral centerpiece. The food was plentiful, the wine flowed, and laughter filled the room like music. This was her family, Julia reminded herself. It didn't matter that she was the only blonde in a sea of brunettes. It didn't matter that she wasn't a DeMarco by blood. They loved her. They treated her as if she were one of their own. She just wished she had more in common with her family, that she didn't feel so out of step with her father and her sister. Not that they ever tried to make her feel that way. She just did.
"Julia, you're not eating." Her aunt Lucia, a short, plump woman with pepper gray hair, paused by the table, her face disapproving. She pointed to Julia's un-touched lobster ravioli. "Is it too spicy? Shall I get you another plate?"
"It's perfect. I'm just full."
"How could you be full? You ate nothing."
"Hey, she has to fit into a wedding dress in a couple of months. Don't fatten her up yet," Liz interrupted, joining Julia at the table. "But since I hate t
o see food go to waste…" She pulled Julia's plate across the table and picked up her fork. She took a bite and nodded approvingly. "Excellent."
Lucia beamed her approval. "You I don't worry about. But Julia…" She gazed at Julia again. "Since your sweet mother died, you just don't seem yourself."
"I'm all right," Julia said. "I'm just not hungry."
Lucia sighed, but held her tongue as Michael joined them at the table.
Michael kissed her aunt on the cheek, then smiled at Julia. "Have you told them?"
"Liz did. She got here before me. You know what a big mouth she has."
"I couldn't keep it to myself," Liz said with a laugh. "I'm so excited. It seems like I've been waiting forever for this wedding."
"I feel the same way," Michael said with a laugh.
"We're very happy for you," Lucia said. "Now, you must be starving. I'll fix you a plate of food."
"That would be great."
"And I'll get you a beer," Liz added, following Lucia over to the bar.
Michael sat down at the table. "Big party."
"Like always," Julia replied. "How did your charter go?"
"Fine. Sorry I'm late. I got hung up talking to my father about our advertising. I want to make changes. He doesn't. Same old argument. What did you do this afternoon?" he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand in his, his thumb playing with the engagement ring on her finger. "Did you go shopping for a wedding dress?"
She shook her head. "No. I'm sure Liz wants to do that with me."
"Just make sure you get something sexy and low cut."
She smiled as she knew she was meant to, but it must have looked halfhearted to Michael, because the light disappeared from his eyes. "What's wrong, Julia? You've been acting strange since we left the museum."
"You'll think I'm crazy if I tell you."
"I could never think that. If something is bothering you, I want you to share it with me. I'm going to be your husband."
She gazed down at their intertwined hands and knew she had to be honest with him. "I'm feeling rushed."
"Because of the December wedding date?"
She glanced back up at him and nodded. "It's fast, Michael. Only a little over three months."
"We've been engaged for a year."
"But not a normal year. Not a year of just being together without my mom being sick and endless trips to the hospital."
"I understand that you're still sad, Julia, but it will get better. And it will get better faster if we're together. I can't wait to get on with the rest of our lives. I have so many plans for us. I promise to do everything I can to make you happy. And I honestly believe that once you get into the wedding planning, you'll feel more confident that this marriage is absolutely right."
She thought about his words. He might be right. Maybe she just needed to be settled. But how could she settle down when there were so many questions running through her mind? "There's more," she said slowly. "I've been thinking about my past, about my real father and who my mother was before she married Gino."
Michael looked at her in confusion. "Why would you be thinking about all that now?"
"That girl in the photograph at the museum. She looked just like me, and she was wearing the same necklace that my mother gave me when I was a little girl."
"I don't understand. You're saying you're… Russian?"
She winced at the incredulous note in his voice. It did sound ridiculous Coming from his mouth. "I'm saying I don't know who I am," she amended. "I don't have anything from before my mom married Gino. Nothing—no pictures of anything or anyone. It's like I didn't exist before I became a DeMarco."
"Didn't you ever ask your mother about your real father?"
"Of course I did, hundreds of times. She wouldn't talk about him. She said he left us and what did it matter?"
"It doesn't matter, Julia," he said, squeezing her hand. "You don't need him. You don't need anyone but me, and I don't care about your bloodline."
But she did need something besides him—she needed the truth. "I have to find out who I am, where I come from. It's important to me."
"Before the wedding?"
She nodded, seeing a flicker of annoyance cross his face. "Yes."
"And this is all because of some photograph?"
"That was the trigger, but to be honest, if it wasn't that, it would have been something else."
His eyes narrowed at that comment. "Because you want to postpone the wedding? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
She wasn't quite sure how to answer that question. "It's just so fast."
"Yeah, that's what you said." He sat back, releasing her hand. "Look, Julia, just let things ride for a few days, see if you feel the same way in a week or two, before we change the date. If we don't take December, we'll have to wait another year. I know how much you love history, and I think the museum would be the perfect setting for you."
"I know." God, she felt so guilty. Michael had been so happy earlier. Now his face was pinched and tight, his eyes filled with disappointment.
"Here's your beer." Liz set the bottle down on the table, glancing from Michael to Julia, then back at Michael again. "Who just died?"
"Julia wants to postpone the wedding," Michael said glumly.
Julia sighed, wishing Michael had not shared that piece of information just yet.
"Are you out of your mind?" Liz asked in astonishment. "Why would you want to wait? You have the best place in the world to get married and the perfect guy. What's wrong with you, Julia?"
"Good question," Michael said, standing up. "Maybe you can talk some sense into your sister, Lizzie. I'm going to find some food."
Liz quickly took his seat. "Tell me what the problem is," she said as Michael left.
"I just need more time. I don't want to rush into marriage."
"Rush? If you go any slower, you'll be moving backwards."
Julia looked away from her sister's determined face, wondering if she could make a quick exit through the front door. But that door was blocked by a tall, dark-haired man with light green eyes. Her breath caught in her chest. Alex Manning? He'd cleaned up, shaved, showered, and put on more clothes, but it was definitely him. What did he want? Did he know something? Did she want to know what he knew?
Oh, God! She suddenly felt terrified that she was about to go down a path from which there would be no turning back.
"Who's that?" Liz asked, following her gaze.
Julia looked at her sister. "What?"
"Is that man the reason you want to postpone your wedding?"
"Maybe."
"Julia! How could you?"
"It's not what you think, but I do have to talk to him." She jumped to her feet and crossed the room, intercepting Alex before one of her aunts could shower him in cheek kisses, plates of ravioli, and cake. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I wanted to see your face again."
Julia fidgeted under his sharp, piercing gaze. "And?"
"I talked to someone about the photograph."
Julia pulled him out the front door of the cafe and onto the deserted pier, where darkness and shadows surrounded them. "What did you find out?"
"I was told to tell you that the girl died a few weeks after the photograph was taken. I was also told to butt out and mind my own business. That's not my style."
She wasn't sure how to read the gleam in his eyes. "What is your style?"
"To find the truth. Are you up for it?" he challenged.
Goose bumps raced down her arms. She should be focusing on her relationship with Michael and her wedding—she had a million things to worry about, things that were far more important than that old photograph. But something inside of her wouldn't let it go. All the questions about herself that she'd never had answered suddenly demanded attention. Maybe once she knew those answers, she'd feel more confident about moving on with the rest of her life.
"Yes," she said. "I want to find out who that girl is."
"Whatever it takes? Because there's no turning back once we get started."
She bristled at his controlling tone. "Look, I'll turn back whenever I want. So—"
"Then I won't help you."
He started to leave. He was actually going to walk away from her? In fact, he was six feet away before she said, "Wait. Why are you acting like this?"
He hesitated for so long she wasn't sure he would answer. Then he said, "The only reason I'm here is because you bear a striking resemblance to that girl. The necklace and the fact that you have no concrete evidence of where you lived before the age of four are also intriguing. But I promised not to talk to anyone about that photo. I won't break that promise with you unless I know you're committed to finding out the truth about that child."
"Who would have asked you to promise such a thing?"
"Are you in or are you out? Because I tell you nothing unless we have a deal."
She could see the resolve in his eyes. If she said she was out, she'd never see him again, and she'd never know if that picture had anything to do with her. She could research it on her own, but she wouldn't know where to start. Alex would have more contacts, more information. Oh, what the hell. It wasn't like she was selling her soul. She drew in a breath, praying she wouldn't regret her decision. "I'm in. Tell me what you know."
He met her gaze head-on. "My father didn't take that picture. I did."
Chapter 3
What do you mean, you took that photograph?" Julia asked, shocked by his statement.
"Just what I said. I was with my father on that trip to Moscow."
"But you're young. You must have been a little boy then."
"I was nine."
"I don't understand." Julia sat down on one of the wooden benches outside the cafe. She could hear the laughter and the music from inside the restaurant, but they sounded like a million miles away.
Alex sat down next to her. "I went to Moscow with my father," he explained. "It was the first and only time he took me with him on one of his assignments. My father was photographing a cultural exchange—an American theater group performing in Moscow. It was 1980. The Cold War was beginning to thaw, and both sides were eager to show that East and West could come together. My father got me a small part in the play so that I could go with him. It's a long story, but bottom line—my parents had separated that year, and this was the only opportunity my dad and I had to spend together. A few days after we arrived, he had a meeting one afternoon in Red Square. I got bored, and I picked up his camera. I wandered away, pretended I was shooting pictures the way I'd seen my father do. That's when I saw the girl at the gates." He paused, his eyes distant, as if he were recalling that moment. "She looked like she was in prison. I moved closer and said something to her, but she answered too softly for me to hear. She was… terrified. So I took her picture."
Don't Say a Word Page 3