"You said you had a good relationship with her, so your silence bought you that."
"I suppose. We talked all the time, even when I moved out of the house. She always knew what I was up to. She just couldn't stop checking up on me."
"How long was she sick?"
"About two years from start to finish. The last six months were particularly bad. It was difficult to watch. At least we had time to say our goodbyes. I thought we had taken care of everything important. But I know now that my mom concentrated on things in the present or the future. She never spoke of the past in all the time she was sick. She only wanted to discuss what we would do later, after she was gone. Up until the very end of her life, she kept her secrets. I wonder if I'll ever know why."
"There's a good possibility you will know why, but you may wish you didn't before this is over."
"At this point, I'd take any truth over the uncertainty."
Alex shot her a speculative look. "Easy to say now. You don't know how bad it could be."
"Are you trying to prepare me for something? Do you have some suspicion you haven't shared?"
"I know what you know," he replied. "But I've seen some crazy shit in this world. You never know what people are capable of doing."
She probably didn't know. She'd led a sheltered life, protected from the harsh side of reality, protected by her mother. She sighed as she glanced out the window. The sign for St. Helena came into view. "Ready or not, here we come," she muttered.
"Are you talking about Rick Sanders or us?"
"Both. I don't have a good feeling about this, Alex."
"I haven't had a good feeling since you knocked on my door last Friday."
For a while they drove along a rural frontage road dotted by farms, horses, a couple of cows, and small homes. Julia breathed in the scent of freshly cut grass. It was a beautiful day, with a royal blue sky and a bright sun, the kind of day that reminded her summer was not far behind them and winter was still a ways off. It was also the kind of day that seemed too bright for anything bad to happen. She hoped that would be the case.
Alex asked her to check the map. She told him to turn right at the next intersection. Gradually the landscape grew more crowded with homes, businesses, gas stations, and strip malls. Rick Sanders lived on a street called Caribbean Court. Julia didn't think the area at all resembled the Caribbean. The address they were seeking matched a modest one-story, ranch-style home. There was a beat-up Chevy, at least twenty years old, in the driveway. The grass in the front yard was sparse, dry, with big areas of dirt. The flowers were wilted, weeds growing between rosebushes planted along the front of the house.
Julia's nervousness intensified as they parked the car and got out.
Was she actually going to meet her father? On this day? At this moment?
Would she know instinctively when she saw him? Or would he seem like a stranger?
She put her hand on Alex's arm as he started down the walk. "Wait. I don't think I'm ready."
"You don't have to say or do anything, Julia. I'll handle it. I'll mention your mother's name. We'll see how he responds. You can just watch, listen."
"What if he says something to me when he sees me? What if he recognizes me? What if I don't want him to be my father?" He smiled at her, and she knew she was flipping out. "Too many questions?"
"One step at a time."
"I like to be prepared for any possibility."
"Sometimes the best things come when you least expect them."
"Or the worst."
"Who's the pessimist now?"
"All right." She drew in a deep breath. "Let's go. I hope he's home."
As soon as Alex rang the bell, they heard the sound of a dog barking and a man's voice, telling the dog to quiet down. A moment later the door opened. Julia blinked. The sun streaming in behind them put the man in shadow. All she could see was his blue shirt and white shorts. His features were completely indistinguishable.
Alex grabbed her arm and squeezed tight.
"Ow," she said, but he didn't appear to hear her. He was staring at the man with shock and horror.
The man stepped onto the porch, and finally Julia could see him. His hair was dark, his eyes a light green.
"Rick Sanders?" she queried.
Silence met her question. Then the man drew in a deep breath and said, "Not exactly. Do you want to tell her, Alex?"
"You know him?" Julia asked in amazement.
Alex's mouth tightened. "Goddammit, Julia. He's my father."
Chapter 16
Alex couldn't believe what he was seeing. The man in front of him could not possibly be his father. His father was dead!
But the brown hair, the green eyes, the long, thin face looked so familiar.
Alex blinked once, twice, three times. The image in front of him didn't change. He still saw his father's face. He was older, definitely. There were lines around his eyes, some gray in his hair, slack in his skin. But he hadn't changed that much. He was still the man who'd supposedly died twenty-five years ago. The man who had driven his car off the edge of a cliff. The man who Alex believed had been murdered.
How could this be? It was impossible. It was unbelievable.
His father—Charles Manning—was alive.
Alex put a hand on his gut, feeling like he was about to throw up. His breath came fast, his heart pounding against his chest. He couldn't think.
"Alex." Charles held out a tentative hand.
Alex jumped back, knocking his hand away. "What the hell is going on? Who are you?"
"You know who I am. You just said so." Charles stared at him through eyes dark with pain and guilt. "How did you find me?"
The question went through his head twice before it made sense. "I wasn't even looking for you," Alex said finally, feeling a deep and bitter anger rising through his body. "I came here looking for Rick Sanders."
"Why?"
Alex couldn't remember why now. His mind was spinning.
"Because my mother wrote you a letter that she never mailed," Julia interjected. "My mother's name was Sarah. I believe you knew her."
His father drew in a quick, hard breath. "Sarah? She sent you?"
"No. She's dead," Julia said bluntly.
Alex saw the surprise flare in his father's eyes. Whatever else he knew, he hadn't known that.
"When did it happen?" Charles asked.
"Six months ago." Julia handed him the letter. "She wrote you the day before she died. I didn't find the letter until today. I thought I'd personally deliver it. I didn't know that you…" Her voice trailed away.
Charles Manning stared down at the letter in his hand but made no attempt to read it. Then he glanced back at Alex. "Will you come in, so we can talk?" He stepped aside so they could enter the house.
Alex hesitated. Did he want to go in? Did he want to listen to anything this man had to say? He was still reeling. His father had let him believe he was dead for years and years. How could he possibly explain that?
"Let's go inside," Julia said quietly, her hand on his arm.
He'd forgotten she was there. He looked down at her and saw compassion in her eyes. "Looks like you weren't the one who had to worry," he said sharply.
"We need to hear what your father has to say."
"What could he say? How could he possibly explain the fact that he's alive and living under another name?"
She didn't try to answer his question. Neither did his father. They both just stared at him. Alex knew he needed to go inside. He needed to talk to his father. But this was wrong. It was all wrong. They had come here to find Julia's father, unlock the secret of her past. He was supposed to be the observer, not the participant. Dammit.
He wasn't ready for this confrontation. He'd never be ready.
This was his father.
The last time they'd spoken, Alex had been nine years old. And right now he felt about nine, overwhelmed with emotions that normally had no place in his life.
Julia tried to take his hand, but he
pulled away. He couldn't stand to touch her. Couldn't stand to feel anything more than he was feeling. He walked into the house, looking around the dingy room. There was a green couch along one wall, a ripped, taped armchair in a corner in front of an old television set. A dog barked from behind a gate in the kitchen.
"Noah, quiet," Charles said sharply.
The dog barked once in reply, then sank to the ground.
Alex stared at the black lab with the white streak down its nose. His father had a dog—the pet he'd never been allowed to have. His mother had always said dogs were too messy, too much work, and his father was always on the road, so that was that. But now his dad had a dog. Unbelievable.
"Alex, let's sit down," Julia suggested.
He shook his head, his gazed fixed on his father's' face. "You want to talk—talk."
Charles cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say. I wondered if this day would ever come."
"You did? You wondered?" Alex tasted bile in the back of his throat. "When did you wonder? The day we buried an empty box in the ground, or was it later? Were you at your own funeral? Did you watch us grieving over you? Was it a big joke?"
"No, of course not."
"How could you do that to us? How could you let us believe you were dead?"
Charles stared back at him with apology in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Alex. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."
"No, you're just sorry I found out."
"It's a long, complicated story."
"So start explaining. Not that I have any reason to believe a word you say."
"I deserved that," Charles said.
"I don't know what you deserve. Why don't you start with why you faked your own death to your wife and child?"
"To protect you," Charles answered.
"From what?" Alex's hands clenched into fists. He was so angry he wanted to hit someone or something. It was all he could do not to give in to the impulse.
"From the people who were after me because of the photo you'd taken."
Alex hated being reminded that the photo was his fault. He'd blamed himself for his father's death even before this past week. He'd always felt that somehow he'd been responsible. Then when Stan and later Brady told him his father had been murdered… He shook his head as anger raced through him once again. "I can't believe I blamed myself for your fake death."
"Why would you blame yourself for my accident?" Charles asked sharply.
"Let's see—maybe it was because Daniel Brady told me yesterday that you were killed because of that picture I took."
"Brady told you that? Did he tell you I was alive?"
"No, he didn't mention that little fact." Alex's stomach burned once again as he remembered that Brady had told them Charles was probably murdered, and he'd said it with a straight face. "That bastard," he murmured. "He knew all along you were alive."
"He helped me set up the crash," Charles admitted. "Brady was never supposed to tell you it was anything but an accident." He paused, his eyes serious. "He must have wanted to scare you off. Why were you talking to him?"
Alex ignored that. "Does Mom know that you're alive?"
Charles shook his head. "No."
That was a small consolation. At least he hadn't been the only one duped.
"After the photo was published, I received a death threat," his father said. "I knew you and your mother were in danger. The only way I could protect you was to die. If I was dead, you would be free."
"You're going to have to give me more than that," Alex said, pacing back and forth across the room, adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream. He couldn't handle the emotions ripping through him—anger, frustration, disappointment, sadness, bewilderment…
"It's too dangerous to tell you more," his father replied. "I've protected you all these years. I won't stop now just because you're grown."
"How dare you tell me that you've protected me! You left me fatherless and alone. You let me grow up thinking you were dead. Do you have any idea what that was like?" Twenty-five years of grief and rage for all that he'd lost with his dad drove him over the edge. Alex picked up the glass vase on top of the television console and heaved it toward the fireplace. The glass shattered into a million pieces. He felt only marginally better.
"Alex, calm down," Julia said, worry in her eyes.
"Why should I? He broke up my life."
"I know you're upset," Charles began. "That doesn't even touch what I'm feeling. How the hell can you stand there and talk about protecting me when you walked out on me? I wanted to be just like you. God! I can't believe I ever thought that way." He bit down on his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood. "I'm not doing this," he said. He headed for the door, his only thought to get as far away from his father as possible.
"Wait, don't go," Charles said. "We need to talk this out."
Alex paused in the doorway. "How are we going to talk when you won't tell me anything? I'm done. You can keep your secrets. I don't give a damn anymore. I'm out of here." Alex slammed out of the door, striding down to the sidewalk so fast he barely felt his feet hit the pavement. He was so mad. His head was pounding, and his nerves felt as if they were on fire.
"Hang on, Alex," Julia yelled. She caught up with him at the car. "I'm driving."
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am. You're in no condition to drive. You'll probably run us off the road."
"You must be mistaking me for my father. He's the one who runs off roads and pretends to be dead." He slammed his fist down on the hood of the car, relishing the pain that shot through his fingers and up his arm. He could handle that pain. He could handle what was real, what made sense.
"Give me the keys," Julia said, blocking his way into the car.
"I am fine."
"You're nowhere close to fine. And you know it."
He didn't want to waste time arguing with her. He tossed her the keys. "Drive fast," he ordered. "I want to get the hell away from here."
They should have stayed and talked it out, Julia thought as she drove Alex back to San Francisco.
There were questions that should have been asked—about the photograph, about Sarah, about herself. Those questions would have to wait. When Alex had time to think, to recover, maybe he'd be more receptive to another discussion. If not, she'd do it on her own. But she wouldn't leave him now. For the first time since she'd met him, he seemed completely overwhelmed and out of control. Every muscle in his body was clenched. There was a nervous, reckless, angry energy about him as he tapped his fingers on his leg, then the armrest, shifting every few minutes as if he couldn't possibly get comfortable. She doubted he would feel comfortable for a very long time.
His father was alive. She couldn't imagine what Alex must have felt when his father stepped onto that porch. She knew how much Alex had idolized his father and how much he loved him. In fact, up until this moment she might have said that Charles Manning was the only person Alex had ever loved with any kind of depth. He certainly didn't seem to possess the same emotion for his mother or for any other woman in his life.
She shot him a sideways glance, wondering what he would tell his mother. But she wouldn't ask. She couldn't push him right now. He was a spark ready to explode.
"Can't you drive any faster?" Alex asked as they crossed the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. "Why don't you change lanes?"
"Alex, chill. Do you want me to turn on some music?"
"No." Alex tugged on the seat belt restraining him and shifted in his seat once more. He breathed out a heavy sigh, then said, "He's not dead, Julia."
She cast him a quick glance, but he was staring straight ahead. "I know," she said.
"I watched them put an empty casket into the ground. I didn't know it was empty at the time. No one explained that to me when I was nine, but I figured it out later. I don't even have to close my eyes to remember the cemetery staff throwing big chunks of dirt onto the casket after they'd put it in the ground. My mother didn't want me to watch, but I couldn't look aw
ay." He turned to her. "Where do you think he was? Hiding behind some tree or statue in the cemetery? Was he watching us cry for him? How could he let us think he was dead? What kind of man does that to his child and his wife?"
"I'm sorry, Alex."
He didn't seem to hear her. He was too lost in his thoughts, his memories. "I went into my parents' bedroom during the reception after the funeral. I didn't understand why people were laughing and talking as if nothing had happened. I wanted to feel closer to my father, so I went into the room my parents shared when they'd been living together. He hadn't been there in months, but I thought I could still smell his aftershave. I went into the closet where he had left some clothes hanging in the back. I stayed in that closet for over an hour."
Her heart broke at the image of the lonely, terrified little boy he described. "Did your mother find you?" she asked softly, hoping that Kate Manning had had enough tenderness at that point to pull a nine-year-old Alex into her arms and hold him.
"No, she didn't come looking for me. Eventually, I came out on my own and put myself to bed. He was gone and I had to accept it. So I did." Alex rubbed his forehead with his fingers as if he had a pounding headache.
"I have some aspirin in my purse," she offered.
"I don't need it. I'm fine."
"Yeah, you already told me that."
A few minutes later she exited the bridge and drove straight to Alex's apartment building, hoping she wouldn't find any more surprises. They'd have to pick up their cars later and return the car they were driving to Alex's friend. But at the moment all she wanted to do was get Alex home.
When they entered the apartment, it was just as they'd left it—complete and total devastation. Maybe it was a good time to clean up. It would give them something else to focus on besides the horrible truth they'd just uncovered.
She followed Alex into the bedroom, surprised when he pulled out an overnight bag from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm leaving."
She was shocked. Those were the last words she'd expected him to say. "What do you mean?"
"I'm getting out of here. I don't need this," he said, running his hand through his hair. His eyes were wild, filled with reckless anger. "A good photographer doesn't get involved with his subjects. He stays on the right side of the lens," he added. "I never should have gotten involved with you."
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