Whispers and Lies

by Diane Pershing

  “Just a moment,” June said, then turned a sympathetic look at Lou. “She’s gone again. I’m so sorry.”

  Nodding, Lou said, “I, um, think I need to go now.”

  Will squeezed her shoulder. “Sure?”

  She was having trouble thinking or formulating words, just knew she had to get out of there. She took one last look at the woman in the wheelchair. “Goodbye. I’m not sure whether or not to call you my aunt.”

  “Ant?” the woman said with a frown. “Not again. Get the spray, Helen.” She shuddered. “I hate the pesky things.”

  With Will’s arm tightly around her, they headed for the front door, June accompanying them. “What can I do to help?”

  “I have no idea,” Lou told her, dazed, unable to think straight.

  “We’ll call you,” Will told her. “Thanks for everything.”

  June said, “At least give me your phone numbers, okay?”

  They waited while she ran to the kitchen for a pad and pencil. When she returned, they both gave her their home and cell numbers. After she’d finished writing it all down, she said, “I feel awful.”

  “Don’t,” Lou managed.

  “Let me know what happens, please.” June pulled open the door for them. “I mean, this is so strange, this whole thing, but—” with a small smile, she said “—I’m glad we met, Lou. Really.”

  She managed an answering smile. “Me, too.”

  Outside, the day was bright with Florida sunshine, but again, it barely registered with Lou. Everything seemed so far away, as though she were viewing the world through the wrong side of a pair of binoculars. She let Will guide her all the way to the car, then open the passenger door and help her in. He was treating her like an invalid, and she felt like one. There was weakness throughout her system; it was as though her bones were made of lightweight rubber and she couldn’t depend on them to hold her body together.

  Once seated in the rental car, Lou stared numbly out the window. In the driver’s seat, Will made no move to start the engine, rolling down the window instead. He was waiting for her, she knew, but for a while—a long while, or so it seemed—all she could do was try to make some sense of the maelstrom of emotions churning inside her head.

  After a time, she was able to speak. “This is a nightmare,” she said quietly. “I’m having trouble putting it together. I mean, forget about my father—I have no idea what’s the truth there. But not only wasn’t my mother who she said she was…she wasn’t even my mother.”

  “You don’t know that, Lou, not for sure.”

  “Of course I do.” She angled her head to gaze at him. “It explains so many things. I always asked her why we didn’t look more alike and why we weren’t more alike. She always said I took after my father’s side of the family, and I let that be enough. But you see, there really is no family resemblance.”

  She reached into her purse, withdrew the envelope, then took out the pictures of a young Rita and an older Janice. Staring at them, she murmured, “None at all. I don’t have her eyes, her nose, her face shape, her hair, her mouth. Nothing. I’m not her daughter.” She frowned at the pictures, then looked at Will again. “Whose daughter am I?”

  “Lou.” He reached out, took the pictures from her and set them on the dashboard. Then he took one of her hands in his and held it tightly. She understood he was trying to ground her by offering his touch, but she doubted it would do any good. A huge vacuum had opened up inside her, one filling rapidly with questions and sadness and anger and, most of all, an enormous sense of betrayal.

  “And who’s my father? I can’t believe anything she told me about him. That sea captain—she might have gotten that picture from some magazine, or a picture frame store, or who knows where? God, it boggles the mind. The only thing I can come up with is that I must have been adopted, and she never told me and hoped I’d never find out.” She shook her head, closed her eyes, but hot tears had formed, burning her lids and making her open them again.

  “Not a smart choice, Mom,” she said to the universe at large, “not a smart choice at all.” She expelled a breath and looked down at her lap where fat tears dripped onto her pants. She used her free hand to swipe at her cheeks. “Wow. This is all too much to take in. I’m…just…reeling.”

  Will’s gut was in a knot. He hated seeing Lou in so much pain, just hated it. And while he knew he couldn’t take away her despair, he also knew he could do something to shed light on at least some of the mystery.

  He had no choice. He had to come clean with her; at least then she’d have some of the puzzle pieces. He took her hand, raised it to his mouth, kissed it, then released his hold. “Look,” he said, after inhaling a deep breath, “I think I may have an answer or two to some of your questions.”

  Puzzlement followed by hope flared in her moist eyes, and she angled her body to the left so she could face him. “You do? Did you find something out in your research, something you haven’t told me yet?”

  “Not really.” He grasped the steering wheel and stared through the window, where a little girl rode a two-wheeler with training wheels up and down the block. That small twist of guilt wasn’t so small anymore, and it was churning inside, even as he told himself he’d done nothing wrong. Not really. “You know I told you that I was working on an article about Lincoln DeWitt?”

  “The senator’s brother.”

  “Yes. Well, when I was interviewing him, early last week, before I came home, he saw your mother’s picture in the paper—I was looking through a back copy of the Courier—and he saw her picture and he recognized her.”

  “He recognized my mom?”

  “Yes. And he…inferred that he’d had an affair with her.”

  “An affair? With Mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “When? Recently?” Lou asked.

  “No, no. Way back.”

  “How far back?”

  “The seventies, he said.”

  “The seventies.”

  “Yes.” Will turned to face her. “And then when I saw you, at the clinic last Friday, I couldn’t get over the resemblance. To his daughter, Gretchen. Gretchen DeWitt Craig, her married name is, and I think she’s your sister. I mean your half sister. I’m pretty sure you’re Lincoln DeWitt’s daughter.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “I’m what?”

  “His daughter. Although now I’m not sure. I mean, who knows about any of this, to be honest? If what Mrs. Kennedy said is true, if Janice, Rita, whatever her name was, wasn’t able to have children, then I honestly don’t know what to think.”

  Lou, frowning now, held up a hand in a time-out gesture. “Hold it right there. Let me get this straight. You saw me in the clinic last Friday, right? And you thought you knew who my father was?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “There was nothing to tell. First of all, it was an impression, only. I had no evidence—still don’t. And, frankly, I also didn’t know if your paternity was any of my business. I mean, I had no idea what your mother had told you about your father. She might have had good reasons for keeping it a secret.”

  All the misery she’d been showing on her face was gone; her brown-eyed gaze was penetrating. “Is that why you kept studying me, why you kept asking me all those questions about myself and my background?”

  “Yes.”

  “Basically, you were researching me, weren’t you? For your article. Some little extra tidbit to throw in about Lincoln DeWitt’s wild past.” She was becoming angry.

  He would be, too, in her place. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but, yeah, that’s the idea. Part of it, anyway.”

  “So,” she went on, her gaze narrowing with distrust even more, “you weren’t asking all those questions because you were, as you put it, interested in me? ‘Attracted’ to me?”

  “Maybe, at first, yes. But then I did become interested in you, too. I mean for another reason. Because of this—” he pointed to her, then at himself “—thin
g we have between us.”

  “This thing,” she repeated, making it sound like something found on the bottom of a pond. “You’ve known that there were questions about my father for at least a week. And in all that time, we’ve talked, we’ve made love, but you didn’t tell me about your suspicions.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let me ask you again. Why?”

  He was feeling trapped, cornered by her questions and her building anger toward him, and he sure didn’t care for the feeling. The thought briefly crossed his mind that this must be how the subjects of his interviews felt when he pushed and cornered them, and it sucked.

  Still, he knew he owed her the truth, even if it didn’t paint him in a particularly flattering light. “Lou, I didn’t have all the facts. And when I’m working on a story, I never reveal anything, to anyone, until I’m one-hundred-percent sure of its veracity.”

  She pursed her lips. “So I was a story to you.”

  “No, no, only at first,” he said, trying for patience but getting a little hot under the collar himself. “I’ve explained that.”

  “Yeah, you did.” She turned and faced front again, rubbed at her closed eyelids with her thumb and index finger. “I hate this. I hate that you lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie. I kept things back.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not in my book.”

  “In mine, it is.” She sat and stared front for a while, and he wondered if—hoped that—she was done with her questions. Then she turned and glared at him again. “What else are you keeping from me?”

  Nope, not done yet. “That’s it. I promise.”

  As she looked into his eyes, her gaze went back and forth as though searching for a sign. “And I’m supposed to believe you. Why?”

  “Dammit, because it’s the truth.”

  A small, mirthless chuckle let him know how much weight that one held. “You have a funny idea of what the truth is, Will. See, to me, leaving things unsaid is a form of lying, and there have been too damned many lies in my life.”

  “Gotcha.” Which he did, in spades.

  She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes again, and he could tell that the immediate storm had passed. She was not going to scream and rage at him, for which he was grateful. There was already too much drama in the air.

  He waited, watched as she scratched her head, dislodging the headband but seemingly unconscious of the fact. “God, this is a lot to take in,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She angled her head to face him again. “Lincoln DeWitt, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  Her expression turned stern and accusatory again. Uh-oh, he wasn’t off the hook yet. “I’m really pissed off at you.”

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  “But I also need you,” she said ruefully. “I need to find out what’s going on.”

  “So do I.”

  She glared at him a moment longer, but he could tell her heart wasn’t really in it. “Okay, then, I want to meet Lincoln DeWitt. He’ll know who my mother was. I hope, anyway. Can you introduce me to him?”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t find him. He hasn’t been answering his phone all week.”

  “Really? Does he do that all the time?”

  He shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, yes. But my experience with him has been that he returns my phone calls right away. He’s always been more than eager to be interviewed by me. The man loves the spotlight.”

  “Well, I sure didn’t inherit that from him. If he’s my father. Which you don’t know and I don’t know and we’re back to that, one more time.”

  Again, the confusion Lou had to be feeling was reflected in her expression. And again, her gaze roamed his face as though searching for something that had no name. “Look, I’m pretty fragile here, Will, and I need something, someone to count on. Promise me you won’t lie to me again. Or keep things from me I need to know.”

  “Lou, I swear it wasn’t personal.” He wanted to touch her, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate it. “I’m not alone here. Journalists don’t talk about a story before it’s ready to be talked about. Fifteen years and I’ve learned the hard way—there’s always the possibility of a leak or something said by accident.”

  “Okay, that’s about your stories, but this is my life. If you uncover anything else about my past, anything, you have to promise to tell me. Or I’m getting out of this car this minute and snooping around all on my own.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Maybe you’d like that, anyway. You now know everything I know about my mother, we’ve met her sister, found out my mother wasn’t my mother and that Lincoln DeWitt is probably my father. What else do you need me for?”

  “Don’t say that.” Out of nowhere, red-hot fury erupted inside him and he grasped her upper arms. “Don’t ever say that again. I do need you. You’re important to me. More important than I want you to be, dammit, but there it is.” He tightened his grip. “Don’t get out of this car, Lou, or I’ll track you down. You hear me?”

  It was over the top. There was way too much passion in his words and in his churning insides. It not only took him by surprise, it scared him spitless. But what he’d said was the gospel truth. He simply couldn’t stand the thought of Lou leaving him. Couldn’t tolerate it.

  She pulled back, trying to dislodge his grip on her arms. He dropped his hands instantly, revealing the angry red marks that had formed on her pale skin. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got a little out of control there.”

  As she rubbed her palms over the sore skin, she gazed at him in wide-eyed wonder. “Amazing,” she said slowly. “I think you really do care about me.”

  Way too much passion, he told himself again as he felt his jaw muscles clenching. “Yeah, well, what can I say?”

  “Only that you’ll never lie to me again,” she replied softly. “I mean it, Will.”

  He took in, then expelled, a huge breath. He had to settle down, get control of himself. Had to give her something, someone, she could count on. “All right. Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said in a slightly mocking tone, then turned serious. “I will always tell you the truth.”

  “Even if you think the truth will hurt me.”

  “Even if I think it will hurt you. I promise.”

  “All right, then.”

  Lou seemed to go inside herself for a while, but Will knew—for real, this time—that the storm was past. She’d accepted his explanation and his promise to be truthful in the future; now she was figuring out what to do next. He turned the key in the ignition.

  “I need to meet this man you think is my father,” Lou said. “He’ll have the answers.”

  “If we can get them from him.” He pulled out of the parking space and onto the street. “While we were down here, I was planning to go to his house in Orlando. Now, I suppose you’ll be coming with me.”

  “I guess I will,” she said wryly. “How far away is it?”

  “Four to five hours, I think. He hasn’t been answering his phone, and I want to check it out.”

  “Maybe he’s ill and can’t get to the phone.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that.”

  As they drove, they left behind the small, rural towns that dotted northern Florida and seemed to be stuck in the 1950s. They traveled along freshly paved, palm-tree-lined highways, passing brand-new condominium developments and malls, housing for the elderly behind tall concrete walls, shopping malls and amusement parks. By midafternoon, they’d arrived at Lincoln’s street, part of yet one more new development created out of Florida swampland. This one featured symmetrical streets, twenty-four-hour patrol service, six model homes to choose from and landscaping that bore no resemblance to the land’s origins.

  Lou stood next to Will while he knocked on Lincoln’s door and rang his bell, several times. But there was no answer. Will glanced at the houses on either side of them for signs that any neighbors might be observing them, any telltale curtains r
ustling or blinds being peeked through. Nothing. Most probably these were folks who were in their pools or at their country clubs. They might even have jobs.

  “You be lookout,” he told Lou. “Anyone comes by, any sign of trouble, ring the doorbell furiously.”

  He opened the side gate and walked around to the rear of the house. A large, sliding glass door connected the house’s interior to the backyard, where a large clean pool picked up reflections of the ever-present sun. The shrubbery, too, looked cared for. But that only meant a pool service and regular gardener were on the job; Will didn’t know who was actually inside the house.

  There were no signs of an alarm, nothing pasted on the windows warning potential intruders to stay away. Will walked around to the far side of the house and found one crank-out window fully opened. He was able to work the screen off and wriggle through, where he found himself in a small laundry room.

  Carefully he prowled the entire one-story house—a large modern kitchen that looked largely unused, two guest bedrooms, den, living room and finally the master bedroom. Lincoln had used the services of an unimaginative but competent decorator who’d done up the walls and large, comfortable furniture in colors that ran the gamut from ecru to pale beige.

  And over everything lay a layer of fine dust. There was a moderate-size SUV in the attached garage, also with a layer of dust. Lincoln wasn’t there, and from the looks of it, hadn’t been there in a while. Will entered the guest room that seemed to be an office and gazed around it. All the file cabinets and desk drawers were locked. He would love to know their contents, but—ethics and legality aside—it wasn’t smart to pick locks and rifle through private papers, not while Lou was waiting for him outside and the patrol might be by at any moment.

  After exiting through the rear door of the same laundry room he’d entered from, replacing the screen and closing the window, Will walked around the front of the house to find Lou leaning against the rental car, her arms crossed over her chest. He shook his head at her. “No one home. And no one’s been there for a while.”

  “What’s next?”

  “Something I should have done yesterday. Come.”