Sins of Innocence (47 page)

Jess

She hadn’t seen Charles since the night Maura lost the baby. He had suggested he should stay at the company condo in the city until Jess “came to her senses and started acting like an adult again.” Jess had watched him leave the hospital that night, thinking that, once again, Charles was running from the gray side of life, from those unfixable, no right-or-wrong situations he could never seem to face. She realized she might never see him again, and she didn’t care. God, his daughter had tried to kill herself. And even that hadn’t been enough to shock him into reality, to teach him that life is more than pretense and appearances.
As for the rest—their past and their future—Jess couldn’t think of that now.

Getting Maura back on track was Jess’s priority now; helping Maura through the emotional pain of her miscarriage and the events that led up to it, and helping Travis come to terms with having found his sister lying on the floor surrounded by her blood. Jess was committed to seeing to it that her children never had to suppress their feelings—there had been too much of that with Charles, too much of that in her own life.

And now, more than ever, Jess was determined to find her baby. And then there would never again be secrets in their family.

She sat in the study, opening the mail, looking over the bills. It would be her job to pay them now—that hardly mattered. The check that arrived each month from her trust fund was made out to her, had always been made out to her. The lack of what Charles had contributed to household expenses would go unnoticed.

She was thinking about selling what had been Father’s flat in London—there was really no need to keep it now; they had only been there three times in the decade since his death—when a clear white envelope caught her eye. In neat blue penmanship, it was addressed to Jess. The return address was a post office box in Falmouth, Massachusetts; the name read,
M. Frances Taylor
. Jess started to open the envelope, then her heart stopped. This was, she suspected, no ordinary letter. Inside, hopefully (please, God, let it be true), would be the names and addresses of the children.

She set the envelope on the desk, aware that her breathing had become shallow. She put a hand to her throat and felt her pulse throbbing there. She stared at the outside of the envelope. Finding Susan, P.J., and Ginny had been one thing, but what was inside this envelope was what really mattered. Suddenly Jess wanted to forget the whole thing.

She picked up the envelope and stuffed it into her purse. She left the study and headed toward the kitchen.

“DelRose!” Jess called to the housekeeper.

“Making dinner!” came the reply, in a rolling Jamaican accent.

“I’ll be out for a while,” Jess said, and before DelRose could respond, Jess scooped her car keys from the counter and dashed out the back door.

She had no idea where she was going. Anywhere. Nowhere. Jess wound through the shady streets of Greenwich, seeing, but paying no attention to, the lovely homes surrounded by manicured lawns and subtle privacy. They were not unlike her own home; guarded by low stone walls that said, “We are rich. Anyone who’s not can look, but you cannot come any closer.” She felt the unfairness of it all turn like sour milk in her stomach.

What right had Charles had to rule her life? Or, for that matter, the lives of their children? And what made him think money made him privileged—cushioned against the harsh realities of life?

Jess kept driving. She pulled to a stop at a crossroads, and looked at her purse on the seat next to her. Opening that envelope will change it all, she thought. Once you do it, you know there will be no turning back. Charles will most probably be gone forever. Was that right to do to her children? Would they be better off with an uncaring father than with no father? Then Jess thought of her own father, the man who had done nothing but screw up her life.

She checked for traffic; then a white sign caught her eye.
WESTWOOD
, it read. She gasped. Had she been headed here all along?

Turn around
, a voice in her head commanded.
Go back
.

Don’t open the wound. Don’t ruin your life
.

Then Jess thought of her mother. Had she really been fragile? Or had she merely been meek? Meek … like Jess? Meek … the way Maura could end up?

She stepped on the gas and went forward.

It couldn’t be too far from here, she reasoned, as her eyes flicked from side to side, frantically looking for familiar landmarks. Westwood was so close to her house, yet Jess had never, in twenty-five years, come back.

She drove slowly, knowing if only she could find the
center of town, she’d be able to find Larchwood from there.

A horn blew behind her. Jess jumped. She looked in the rearview mirror: A man was impatiently hugging her bumper. Jess pulled to the side of the road, and he squealed past her.

“Jerk,” she mumbled under her breath, then looked back out at the countryside. Something was right. Jess could feel it. To her left was a sprawling contemporary home, shrouded by shadows of massive pines. She tried to picture the land without the house. But it wasn’t the land that was familiar: It was the white wooden gates at the driveway—gates that stood on either side of the stone wall. Those wooden gates had once led to … what? And then Jess remembered: an apple orchard. An apple orchard set between the incredible pines.

She pulled back onto the road, shards of gravel tumbling beneath her wheels. Larchwood Hall, Jess knew, was just around the bend.

She crept along, sneaking up on the past. She rounded the curve, her heart in her throat, her mind gone blank. And suddenly there it was. Jess pulled to the side of the road again, straining to see the house that was set so far back from the street. It looked, she thought, the same. Older, a little disheveled, but the same. She didn’t want to get any closer: She had come far enough, for now. She glanced at her purse on the seat, then reached over, opened it, and withdrew the envelope. Sitting in full view of the place where so much had happened, Jess slowly opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper.

The handwriting was neat, decisive. Jess took a deep breath to slow her thumping heart. Then she started to read.

My dear Jess
, the letter began. She clutched her blouse. She felt as though her heart were going to burst through her chest. She blinked quickly, scanning the rest of the page. She saw a short list. Her name was there. Her eyes locked on it, then, slowly, she read the words written beside
it:
Amy Hawthorne. Parents: Jonathan and Beverly. 21 Cloverdale Lane, Stamford, CT. Phone: 555-1731
.

Stamford. My God, Jess thought, my daughter grew up not half an hour from my house. She felt a catch in her throat and tears in her eyes. Amy. What a beautiful name they gave her.

She sat for a moment, holding her thoughts in her heart, feeling a warmth deep within, a kind of comfort, a kind of completeness. Then her eyes went back to the letter, and she began to read from the beginning.

My dear Jess
,

Here are the names and addresses you wanted. Please know that I got them from my original files, so the addresses may not be current
.

Jess felt her heart ease. She wiped the tears from her eyes. It was so difficult to believe it had been this simple. That all it had taken was one connection, one person, to unseal what she had for so many years believed to be unattainable, ever. She took another deep breath and continued to read.

I have decided that I would like very much to be at the reunion
, Miss Taylor went on,
so I will see you on October 16th at noon. Good luck to you, dear, and God bless you
.

Jess looked out the car window at the house that lay beyond. So Miss Taylor was going to come. That would make everything better, more fulfilling. She glanced back to the letter. The list started with Susan’s baby.

“Then that,” Jess said aloud, “is where I’ll start.”

She looked again at her own name farther down the page. She lightly touched the name beside hers.
Amy Hawthorne
.

She was back at the desk in her study, rereading Miss Taylor’s letter. Slowly she devised her plan. She would start by trying to locate the children’s parents. She would not tell them who she was, what she was doing. Hopefully, Jess sighed, she would sound calm and unthreatening, and would find the right words to convince them to tell her where she could find the children.

Jess leaned back in the chair. All the children, she thought, except Amy. It would only be fair to the others if she, too, hadn’t met her daughter before the day of the reunion; it would only be fair if she, too, would not know if her daughter would come. She twisted her emerald-and-diamond ring. To Amy’s parents, Jess would tell the truth. And take her chances.

She turned back to the letter and stared at the top of the list. Susan.

For some reason Susan’s baby had been adopted by people in Philadelphia. A family by the name of Radnor. She smiled when she realized they had named the boy David: the same name Susan had given him, the name of Susan’s long-ago lover, the father of the boy.

“Well, here goes,” Jess said, and reached for the phone. She punched in the numbers on the paper. There was a strange, high-pitched sound, then a prerecorded operator cut in.

“The number you have reached is not in service at this time.”

Jess stared at the phone as though it had stung her.
No
, she thought,
not possible
. She hung up and called Philadelphia Information.

“I’m sorry, I have no listing for a Samuel Radnor,” a monotone voice stated.

Jess held on to the receiver.
No
, she repeated to herself.
This can’t be happening. Not with Susan’s son. Not with the first one I’ve tried
. A sick premonition washed over her.

“Hi, Mom.”

Jess looked up quickly. Maura stood in the doorway. Jess quickly replaced the receiver.

“Hi, honey, how was school today?”

“Okay. What are you doing? You busy?”

Jess folded Miss Taylor’s letter and kept her hand over it. She had decided it would be best not to tell the children about her baby, about Larchwood Hall, until after the reunion.

“Just catching up on a few phone calls.”

Maura flopped in the chair across from Jess.

“I saw Dr. Marlowe this morning.”

Jess nodded. Maura had been seeing the psychologist three times a week. Jess knew the importance of it. It had taken her five years of therapy to get over the guilt of killing Ginny’s stepfather. But now it seemed as though no amount of therapy had really been able to erase the memories. “Do you feel as though it’s helping?” she asked.

“A little. I guess.” Maura rubbed the arm of the velour chair. “Mom. There’s something I have to tell you.”

Jess leaned back in the chair.

“I didn’t really try to kill myself.”

Jess got up and went to the chair where Maura was. She picked up her daughter’s hand and sat on the arm of the chair. “What do you mean, honey?”

“Exactly what I said. I didn’t really try to kill myself.”

“Maybe you’d better explain.”

Maura folded her hands in her lap and studied them. “I remembered that a couple of years ago you told me how Grandma Bates died. That she’d killed herself. I guess I figured if I scared Daddy into thinking I was going to do the same thing, he wouldn’t be so mad at me.”

Her words were clear and honest, and Jess was touched that Maura’s voice hadn’t even wavered. She was, Jess knew, learning a hard lesson in growing up.

“That’s why I only cut one wrist,” Maura continued. “But when I saw all the blood and realized what was happening, I couldn’t believe it. I got really scared. I screamed. That’s when Travis came in.”

“Oh, honey …” was all Jess could seem to say.

“I didn’t even faint or anything.”

Jess leaned down and put her arm around Maura’s shoulders.

“Mom, Dr. Marlowe says it must have been awful for you, having your mother kill herself.”