Ask Mariah (13 page)

Joanna glanced at the clock. It was past midnight, and she was no closer to sleep now than she had been two hours earlier when she had crept into bed. Her mind raced with thoughts ranging from Michael, Angela and the girls to her mother's secretive behavior.  She felt like she was standing at the edge of a cliff and one wrong move could cost her anything.  But what was the wrong move?  How were any of them connected?

After a few more moments tossing and turning, she slipped out of bed and turned on the light. Her room was a happy, messy representation of her life.  The desk and dresser were white with gold trim and had been picked out on her twelfth birthday. Her old aquarium sat empty on top of the bookshelf, reminding her that the only pet she'd ever been allowed to have was a goldfish named Harry, whose death she'd mourned with great passion. Her bedroom was the only room in the apartment that boasted live plants, two hanging ferns and a ficus tree in the corner that was ridiculously large for a bedroom. But if she put it in the living room, her mother would probably kill it with too much watering and too much attention.

Her bedroom was also the only room in the apartment that wasn't spotlessly clean, because she liked clutter. She liked things, mementos, reminders of her past. She still had her first corsage from the junior prom, her graduation tassels, the Popsicle stick bridge she'd made in second grade. Like her father, she hated to throw anything away.  Which reminded her ...

She walked over to the bookcase and pulled out one of her photo albums. Her father had always taken lots of pictures -- every first in her life, every moment of triumph, every family even.  There were so many memories in the pages that unfolded before her. Seeing her father so alive, so vibrant, made her sad.  She would never see him again, never hear his big barrel laugh, never crinkle up her nose at the smell of his cigar. He would never walk her down the aisle and never hold her baby in his arms. She would live so many years without him.

Oh, how she wished she could talk to him right now. Ask him how she could look so much like a stranger. Find out what he had hidden in his den that her mother didn't want her to see.

With a sigh she closed the scrapbook. She didn't know what she had hoped to find, but there was nothing there, no clues. There certainly hadn't been any sign of a pregnancy before or after her birth. Her mother had always been as thin as a rake. Her mind stopped. Her heart quickened. Pregnancy photos.
There were none.

The three words screamed at her again. There were none -- no photos of her mother pregnant, not with another child and not with her. 

Her pulse began to race as her mind dealt with the unthinkable. But those photos were probably in another album. Her mother kept albums in the den with photos of her family and her early days with Edward. They had to be there.

Opening, the door, she glanced down the hall at her mother's bedroom. The door was shut, but that didn't mean Caroline was asleep. Lately she tended to sleep in the family room on the sofa, or the easy chair in the living room, anywhere to get away from her memories.

A quick glance in the living room and family room revealed nothing, so she quietly opened the door to the den. After her mother's strong reaction earlier, she almost felt like an intruder, a thief in the night. But she wasn't here to steal anything, except perhaps some peace of mind.

She checked the bookshelves first. They were crammed with fishing magazines and books about real estate and brokering. Finally she spied two large, red bound books in the corner.

Standing on tiptoe, she pulled them off the shelf and sat on the sofa.

The first book was a pictorial of her mother's childhood, her older brother, her parents, none of whom Joanna could remember except in this way, as photos in a scrapbook.

The next book began with Edward and Caroline on their honeymoon in Hawaii. She smiled at how young and in love they looked, so adoring toward each other, her father with his arm around her mother's shoulders, her mother practically blooming in his arms.

The photograph reassured her that everything was right in her world. The camera didn't lie. Her parents had loved each other, just as they had loved her. There were no hidden secrets. It was simply her imagination. But as the pages turned, she began to notice blank spots, and fewer photos in between holiday occasions. The book ended with a picture of herself in a baby gown.

There were no pictures of her mother pregnant. No photos of them leaving for the hospital. Nothing.

She tried desperately to remember the stories they had told. Surely they had talked about her mother's pregnancy, the labor and delivery. Hadn't they? She shook her head, feeling incredibly tired.

This was pointless. What was she thinking anyway? She was the daughter of Edward and Caroline Wingate, and it was just a crazy coincidence that she happened to look like Angela Ashton.

Closing the book, she set it back on the shelf. As she walked by the desk, the lingering scent of smoke filled her senses, almost as if her father were standing in the room with her, smoking his cigar. But it didn't really smell like his cigars; it smelled like the lingering trace of a fire in the fireplace. But the fireplace was stone cold. She glanced over at the desk and saw a layer of thin black dust.

She cast a quick glance toward the door. It was closed. With a feeling of incredible dread, she walked over to the desk and ran her finger through the dust, Then she pulled the wastebasket out from under the desk. Inside was a pile of newspapers and black ashes. Her mother had burned something.

Joanna looked for the manila envelope she'd seen earlier. It was gone from the desk. Sinking down in the chair, she stared at the ashes. What on earth was her mother hiding?

* * *

The next morning Caroline strolled into the offices of Grant Sullivan, attorney at law, her handbag clutched in front of her like a shield. In terse tones she gave her name to the receptionist. She didn't want to be here, but she had no choice. Since she had seen the photo of Angela Ashton, she had been struck with terror, the same terror she'd felt when Edward had been diagnosed with cancer and she knew it would only be a matter of months before she lost him. She could not lose Joanna -- not now.

"He's just finishing a phone call, Mrs. Wingate," the receptionist said. "Would you like some coffee while you wait?"

"No, thank you."

She sat down on the white leather couch. As she looked around the plush offices, she was reminded of how far Grant Sullivan had come. She had worked as his receptionist thirty-six years earlier. In those days he'd offered her a typewriter and a scratched desk. Now his reception area was filled with plush chairs, glass tables, ornate vases, and silk flowers.

Grant had certainly done well for himself. Although she'd socialized with him over the years, only he and Edward had conducted actual business, so she hadn't really been aware of his success. Now she felt a burst of renewed confidence. Grant was a smart man. He would know what to do.

"He'll see you now," the receptionist said.

She stood up and walked into the inner office. Grant stepped out from around his large desk. He was a rather short man, not many inches taller than herself, with golden blond hair, the color of which surely came out of a bottle, sparkling green eyes and a deep tan.

"Caroline, it's good to see you."

"Thanks for letting me barge in on you like this."

"I'm always available for you. Have a seat."

She sat down in the chair in front of his desk, nervous about what she should say. She didn't know how much Grant knew. What if he didn't know anything? What if by telling him, she was jeopardizing the very secret she wanted to protect?

"How have you been?" Grant asked, resuming his seat. "I didn't get to talk to you much after the service. The house was so crowded,"

"Edward had a lot of friends. It was nice to see so many people there."

"He was a great guy, right down to the end. I've never seen such courage. He had a lot of heart."

"Yes." She hadn't come here to reminisce about a man they had both loved. She had come here for answers, and she wouldn't leave without them.

"How's Joanna?" Grant asked, distracting her again.

"Keeping busy. She's teaching first grade this summer."

"No kidding? I thought she was Ivy League all the way."

"It's just to fill in the time, take her mind off things. She'll go back to Stanford in the fall." Caroline wondered how long they would have to exchange pleasantries before she could tell him why she was here.

"I still can't believe Edward is gone. So fast," Grant added. "We were the same age, you know. And he was always in such great shape, except for the cigars, of course."

"He couldn't give those up."

Grant smiled encouragingly at Caroline. "What can I do for you? Do you have questions about the trust, the will, investments?" He sat back in his chair and waited for her answer.

"No. You explained all that to me after he died." She glanced over at his locked filing cabinets, wondering if the information she feared was there, wondering if he would give it to her.

"Caroline? What's wrong?" he pressed, his tone more somber now.

She met his concerned eyes. "I wondered if Edward ever spoke to you about -- about an arrangement that he made many years ago involving Joanna."

Grant's smile faded. "Why do you ask?"

"Because Joanna recently met someone. Apparently she looks like this man's wife. I saw a photograph, and the woman could have been Joanna's sister -- if Joanna had a sister, which of course she doesn't."

Grant picked up a pen on his desk and twirled it between his fingers. He was silent for a long moment, then he looked at her through concerned eyes. "Do you know the name of this woman?"

"I believe her name was Angela Ashton. But that would be her married name. I think Joanna said her maiden name was De Luca."

"De Luca. I see. Has Joanna met this Angela?"

"No. Angela is dead."

"Really?" He looked somewhat relieved for some strange reason.

"Yes, she died a year ago."

"If she's dead, then it doesn't matter that Joanna looks like her, does it?"

Caroline scooted to the edge of her seat. "She's dead, but she has children, and a husband, and presumably a mother and a father."

Grant's expression wavered slightly. "That's true. What does Joanna think?"

"She has a lot of questions. You know how she is, Grant. She's a digger. She loves to sink her teeth into a good mystery and dig, dig, dig until she finds out what really happened. That's why she's such a good historian. She never accepts anything at face value." Caroline paused. "She asked me if we gave up a child after her. Apparently this woman is or was a couple of years younger than her."

"I'm sure you told her that was ridiculous."

"Of course, but she's worrying about it. Grant. I don't know what to do. Edward would have known. But he's not here," she said with a growing sense of panic. "What I want to know -- what I
need
to know is if she starts digging, is she going to find out anything?"

Grant tossed the pen down on the desk. "For your sake, Caroline, I hope not."

"You know, don't you?" she asked.

Grant sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Edward asked me for advice. He didn't take it."

"What was your advice?" She changed her mind as soon as she asked the question. "Never mind, I don't want to know. I need your help. Grant. I need you to help me protect Edward's secret. You will, won't you?"

"Edward was my best friend."

"Is that a yes?"

"What exactly are you asking me to do, Caroline?"

"I want to know if there is anything in writing."

"I believe everything was in Edward's possession. I have no idea what he did with it."

Caroline let out a breath of relief. It must have all been in the manila envelope, and that was gone now. "That's okay then. I've taken care of that. I wasn't sure if you had any copies."

"No. Quite frankly, I didn't want any."

"Good. I won't take up any more of your time then. Thank you, Grant. I appreciate your help."

She reached out to shake his hand. Grant took her hand, but didn't let it go. His eyes became intensely serious. "There were always two sides to this secret, Caroline. You may be able to control one, but I'm not so sure about the other."

"There are privacy laws."

"They don't always work. It depends on how badly someone wants to invade your privacy, how much they want what you have. And the way Edward did things -- well, let's just say that the law is not on your side."

"I won't let anyone take Joanna away from me."

"The decision may not be yours to make."

"Who else would make it?" she asked.

"Joanna."

Her confidence fled with that one word.
Joanna
. Her daughter who loved history, who had always wanted to know who her ancestors were, where they came from, what they did for a living. Somehow or other she had to get Joanna away from the Ashtons before it was too late.