They burst into laughter. They never had a day off at the same time. It would be even worse now that Monica had all of this community service to put in.
She picked up a sandwich and salad then stopped in to see her former sister-in-law, Audrey, in her floral shop.
She found Audrey alone in the store. They hugged.
“I just have a couple of minutes before I have to head back. I’ll eat my lunch in the back room of the gallery.”
“Sit down and eat it here. It’s been a slow day.”
Monica loved the scent of The Last Dance and loved being surrounded by flowers, everything in Audrey’s shop fresh and green.
“Love your dress,” Monica said. They had such different styles, but she adored Audrey’s flamboyance. Today, she wore a red dress with huge white polka dots and a neckline that fell off her shoulders. She had a full figure, so Audrey must have been wearing heavy-duty foundation garments to get away with going strapless.
“I brought something to show you.” Monica took out the hankies and Audrey pounced on them.
“Oh, my God, these are genuine, aren’t they? Handworked? None of that machine-embroidered crap. Where on earth did you find them?”
Monica explained, and then disclosed, “Noah said I can keep anything I find that belonged to my family.”
“Oh, Monica, that’s so great.” Audrey raced around the counter and enveloped her in a hug. “I’m so happy you’ve found this part of your history.”
Monica felt her eyes water. Audrey understood. “Yes. It’s too good to be true.” After she’d married Billy, she’d been so happy to find she shared a major life event with his sister—losing a mother too early—and finally had someone to talk to about it. The loss of their mother hadn’t seemed to affect Billy as much as it had Audrey. He’d never talked about it. Audrey had, though, and for that Monica would be eternally grateful.
“This was my heritage. Dad should have retrieved it for me years ago. But he said he didn’t think to check the attic when he sold.”
“Maybe he was too grief-stricken.”
Monica nodded, thoughtful, trying to remember. “I was just a newborn, but I think for a little while after her death, just from remarks I’ve heard over the years, Dad drank too much back then.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“He’s drinking too much again.”
“I suspected as much. He’s not the strongest man around.” Audrey slapped a hand across her lips, as though to catch the words and shove them back into her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Monica squeezed her arm. “It’s okay. It’s the truth. I’ve come to accept that over the years.”
“Given what my own dad is like now, I had no right to say that.”
“Another thing we have in common.” Monica’s smile felt very sad. Even as adults, children still needed their parents. But maybe now was the time to give back, for the happy childhood Monica’s dad had given her.
Audrey spread the fine linen handkerchiefs across her counter. “Look at the work on these. It’s exquisite. I’d love to see the rest.”
“Come over next week. You want to talk exquisite? The bedsitting jackets are to die for.”
They made a date for the following week and Monica left the shop.
Noah might not be crazy about her, Olivia remained a tiny bit angry at her, and her dad seemed emotionally unavailable these days, but Monica still had friends in town who cared about her. Sometimes she just needed her fix.
A woman stepped in front of her.
“Oh, excuse me.” Monica nearly bumped into her then stopped and stared, and stared more. Monica could have been looking into a mirror. This woman could be her. In that second, the air became too thin and the sunshine too bright.
Dizzy, she stumbled but caught herself.
She raised her hand not only to block out the sun, but also the vision of this woman in front of her. Monica had a strange ominous sense that her world was about to blow apart.
In a moment of unwelcome insight, a lot became clear—her father’s evasiveness, his worry, his drinking. A dark cloud had arrived in town, one her father must have known was heading this way. The storm’s face was Monica’s, albeit with a harder edge and a keen hunger in her eyes.
The hair was short and funky, but the face was Monica’s.
The woman spoke and Monica tried to block out the sound of the voice because it, too, was her own.
“We were lied to,” this nameless person with Monica’s face and voice and body said. “Our parents kept us apart our entire lives.”
Our parents kept us apart? Not just dad, but our parents? But Monica’s mom was dead. Wasn’t she?
“I’m your twin sister,” the woman said, still using the voice she’d stolen from Monica.
“My what?” Monica put out her hands to ward off this creature, this lying scumbag alien.
“Your twin.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
Wild with dread, her glance ricocheted around this normal street in ordinary Accord. She was ready to wake up from this nightmare, any minute, any second. Come on. Wake up.
But no. This was real. She pinched her arm. She was awake. She hadn’t slipped into a parallel galaxy.
Glaring at the woman, Monica leaned her hand on the outside wall of Audrey’s shop, brick abrading her palm with the bite of reality. “You’re a liar. This is a sick joke.”
This couldn’t be happening.
Coherent thought eluded her.
This person, this woman with her face and her body, had to be playing a trick on Monica.
“I’m not a liar,” the woman insisted. “But we were deceived.”
“I don’t believe you.” Nor did she believe her own eyesight. This wasn’t real, was some kind of optical illusion her fevered brain had conjured, except that she wasn’t fevered and she wasn’t overtired and she was eminently rational.
She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them. The woman, the one who was Monica but not Monica, was still there. “Who are you?”
Her mouth had gone dry. Her blood pounded, roared through her ears as though a freight train thundered down Main Street.
What was wrong with the air today? Why was it so thin? She couldn’t breathe. Light-headed, she stumbled to one of the park benches town council had installed along Main Street for beautification and sat heavily, her legs no longer able to support her.
The woman followed her. “I’m Marcie Green. I used to be Marcie Granger. I should be Marcie Accord, but our dad kept you instead of me.”
Our dad. Was that bitterness in the ersatz Monica’s tone? Dad kept Monica instead of this woman? Of course he kept her. She was his daughter. This woman wasn’t. What kind of nonsense was this woman spewing?
“Are you on drugs? Go away.” She tried to yell, but croaked instead. “Why are you lying?”
“Look at me.” Voice fervent, the woman touched her own face. “Look at this. We’re dead ringers for each other. I’m not lying. We are sisters.”
“Don’t say that!” Monica slashed her hand toward the woman, not making contact, but desperately wanting to hit her, to annihilate her, to make her go away so Monica could pretend this never happened.
The problem with seeing a thing, though, was that once seen, it could never again be unseen. Once seen, it lingered forever in the recesses of the mind. Even with shock and disbelief, Monica would never be able to lock out the memory of having seen this woman’s face.
Still, she fought. “Don’t you dare say we’re sisters. It isn’t true.”
“For God’s sake, open your eyes,” the woman said, leaning forward as though to convince Monica with the force of her per
sonality and her desire. “We are sisters.”
“Why are you being so mean to me? I don’t even know you.”
The woman looked like she was trying to control herself as she drew in a huge breath and held it. When it whooshed out of her, she seemed calmer.
“You’re right. I am being hard. I’ve had a few weeks to get over my shock, but this is new to you. I’m your sister—your twin.”
Impossible. Daddy had never lied to her in her life.
A thought occurred to her, one that gave her strength in its existence as a possibility. Why hadn’t she realized it from the start? “This is a scam, isn’t it? Did you see my photo on Facebook or on the internet somewhere?” She shoved the woman away from her. “Don’t stand so close to me. Did you think just because you look a bit like me you could get up close and personal and rip us off? Is that it?”
“I don’t look a bit like you. Except for our different styles, I look exactly like you. I’m telling the truth.”
But Monica refused to buy it. “Go to hell.”
She ran away, sped away, because she didn’t want this woman following her to her father’s house, where she planned to get answers once and for all about why her dad had been acting strange lately.
Was it this woman? Was this Marcie Green shaking down her dad for money? But she’d also called herself Marcie Granger. There were Grangers who lived a fair distance outside of Accord, but Monica didn’t know them well.
Her head hurt.
How could the woman possibly get money from Dad? There was nothing to blackmail. Dad would know he didn’t have another daughter. Mom died giving birth to one child, not two.
Our parents kept us apart.
No. Mom died giving birth to Monica.
Delivering one child. Not two.
* * *
NOAH SPOTTED MONICA farther down the block. He should tell her to come to the farm tomorrow despite predicted rainstorms. Farming didn’t wait on the weather. Farmers were a lot like postal carriers. What was their motto? Neither rain nor sleet nor...whatever.
Monica’s hair wasn’t hanging down her back as it usually did. She must have it pinned up somehow.
He picked up his pace to catch up to her.
“Monica,” he called. She ignored him.
He hustled. With a hand on her elbow, he turned her around. His breath caught in his chest.
Something was wrong. Off.
This was Monica, but not Monica.
Her hair was gone, not pinned up, but hacked off. Had she really cut off all of that gorgeous hair that shimmered almost white in sunshine?
Over the course of one morning, she’d become funky with spiked hair and out-of-character clothing. Monica was always classy. This woman looked anything but.
Noah might have thought he would want Monica to lighten up, but now that she’d changed, he wanted the old Monica back. The real her.
“What did you do?” he asked, sounding pugnacious. “Why’d you cut off all of your hair?”
The woman touched the back of her head where the short ends met her nape.
“I didn’t.” Even her voice sounded slightly different, huskier and sexy.
“This isn’t funny, Monica. What are you playing at?”
“I’m not Monica.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Marcie.”
“This is a sick game.”
“Nope. Not a game. I’m Monica’s sister. Her twin, actually.”
“Monica doesn’t have a twin. Is this some kind of scam?”
Monica-not-Monica dropped her hand because Noah hadn’t shaken it, and he had no intention of doing so. He didn’t like being played for a fool.
“I’m serious,” she said quietly, her expression sober. “I’m Monica Accord’s twin. I only found out about her a couple of weeks ago.”
Noah scratched his beard. “How—? What—?” He couldn’t fathom what he should ask first. He knew she was telling the truth because, despite the surface similarities, there was a profound difference between this woman and Monica. This was not Monica. “Stuff like this happens in fiction, not in real life.”
“I know. As shocked as you are about this, imagine how I felt discovering I had a sister my parents had kept from me.” The smile on her face belied the bitterness of her tone. This woman wasn’t happy, no matter how hard she would like him to believe she was.
He backed away from her.
He needed to talk to Monica before she saw this woman. He started down the street toward the gallery before pulling up short.
The woman still stood on Main Street watching him.
“Does Monica know?”
A sad smile tugged at her lips. “As of five minutes ago.”
Oh, no. Noah flew to the gallery.
He stared in through the large front window. No Monica. He rushed inside.
“Mom!”
She came out of the back office.
“Where’s Monica?”
“How should I know? I don’t know what’s going on with her these days. She went out for lunch and never came back.”
“I’ll try to find her.”
“When you do, tell her I’m angry enough to fire her.”
“Hold off on that thought, Mom. I think she has her reasons. Good reasons.”
The expression on her face changed, morphed from anger to curiosity to concern—he guessed that she’d been alerted by the panic that must be showing on his own face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but something really strange just happened on Main Street and it affects Monica. She’s got to be in shock right now.”
He opened the door and said before leaving, “The second I get an explanation, I’ll let you know.”
He searched every shop and her apartment, but couldn’t find her. He surmised she might be at her father’s house, in which case it was best to leave them alone. So that’s what he did, grudgingly.
But all afternoon and into the evening, while gossip swirled through town, it ate away at him. If he was so bothered by this new person in town, the whole thing must be catastrophic for Monica.
Why should he be worried about her? Sure, he’d had a crush on her for years, but the feeling had not been reciprocated. So why worry about her?
The simple answer stunned him. He cared. He was learning that she was more than she appeared to be and he didn’t want to see her hurt.
He cared.
* * *
THE SECOND MONICA entered her father’s house sorrow wept into her bones.
It no longer felt like home. Her childhood, her life to this point, had been a huge deception. A fraud.
Her mind, already giving in to the suspicions her heart fought so strenuously, shifted when she stepped into the living room and found her father sitting on the sofa, red-faced, his demeanor sloppy.
He’d been drinking. A glass hung precariously from two fingers, about to fall. No matter. It was empty.
When she entered the room, he watched her with a level of insolence she’d never seen in him before. The room reeked of body odor and booze. She flung open curtains and windows.
When he saw her face, his insolence faded and became what she was certain he’d been trying to bolster himself against—his own guilt.
“So you finally know,” he said with a resigned sigh.
It was true.
Oh, Daddy.
A sense of betrayal choked her. Her childhood home was now a deep freeze of a tomb—a repository of dead dreams and memories.
A chill that had been only skin-deep now spread through to her core. She rubbed her arms then wrapped them around her waist, but the rawness intensified.
She couldn’t begin to process this huge, heinous crime.
“Why?” she whispered, because her voice wasn’t working well enough to yell. She wanted to rant and ask more and maybe even hit him for this grave, awful secret. Secrets. Plural. He’d not only never told her she had a sister, but, far worse, he’d also led her to believe her mother was dead. They could have known each other. They could have visited.
Where was she now?
The depth of her heartache couldn’t be measured in ordinary words.
“Why?” she blurted on a ragged wail.
The last of her father’s defiance faded and he sobered up. He patted the sofa beside him.
“Sit. Please.”
She did, but chose an armchair across the room, where she curled herself into a ball. She couldn’t touch him right now, couldn’t be close to him.
For the first time since entering the room, she allowed herself to really look at him. His bloodshot eyes were caused by more than just drunkenness. He’d been crying.
She crossed her arms, both to protect herself from what was to come and from any flimsy excuses he might offer up. Nothing could excuse this. Nothing.
He seemed to take note of her body language and sighed. When he rose to retrieve the Scotch bottle from the sideboard, she shook her head.
“No. Leave it. We talk without it. It’s time for honesty because, apparently, there has been none in our relationship. First question. Is my mother alive?”
He grimaced, but set down the bottle and returned to the sofa empty-handed.
“No.” He rested one elbow on the arm of the sofa and covered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
When she made a sound, a mewl of disappointment, he dropped his hand and regarded her with a damp gaze. “I wish she was. I would give anything for you to have known her.”
The temptation to cross the floor and hold him, both to offer comfort and to receive it, softened her too much. She hardened her heart.
“I need answers.”
“It’s a long story.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more. “Sometimes it doesn’t make sense to me, but your mother and I did what we thought was best.”
When she would have interrupted, he raised a staying hand. “I know it won’t seem like it to you. Not at first. But hear me out. We were young and scared and had tough decisions to make.”
Safe in Noah's Arms Page 13
