"He'll be all right," Lucia interrupted with a wave of her hand. "He's grieving. It's understandable. Now, it's picture time. And smiles all around. You, too," she said to Michael. "You're practically family."
"Am I?" Michael asked, looking at Julia. "Am I practically family?"
"Of course you are," Liz said when her sister couldn't seem to get the words out. She grabbed both their hands and pulled them to their feet. A moment later they were swept up in the DeMarco crowd, and Liz breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe if they could just survive this night, Julia would get over whatever was bothering her and return to being her reliable older sister who was about to marry the man of her dreams. But as Liz took her place in the group portrait, she couldn't help glancing toward the door, wondering if the man in the black leather jacket and blue jeans had really been a wedding photographer. He'd had a doozy of a black eye. She hadn't met many wedding photographers who looked like they'd just gotten out of a bar fight. But if he wasn't a wedding photographer, who was he?
* * *
Julia spent most of Saturday morning going through the storage unit that was filled with the remnants of her mother's life. After the funeral, her father had made a sudden decision to sell their home, saying he couldn't bear to live in it without his beloved wife.
Julia had suggested he wait, but he would have none of it, and within three months the house was gone. Gino now lived in a two-bedroom apartment a few blocks from the wharf, Liz had moved in with Julia, and what they hadn't had time to go through had been put in this storage locker.
Looking through her mother's things was unbelievably depressing. Julia wished she didn't have to do it alone, but she couldn't ask Liz to help. She couldn't talk to anyone about the picture—except Alex Manning. In the cold light of day she'd had to question why she'd agreed to work with a man who'd been beaten up, thrown in jail, and kicked out of Colombia. And that was just last week. She'd found that information in a recent article in the Examiner. Further research on the Internet had unveiled the fact that his reputation for being a brilliant photographer was only surpassed by his reputation for getting into trouble. The last thing she needed was more trouble.
But she'd made her deal with him and she'd stick to it—at least as long as it made sense. Or until she had proof that she was not that girl.
So far she had no proof of anything. As her mother had told her, there were absolutely no photos of either of them before the wedding pictures taken when her mother had married Gino. It was as if they'd come into existence at that moment. But her mother had had a life before Gino, thirty-three years of life. She'd had parents and grandparents, and she'd grown up somewhere. But where?
Her mother had told her she was from Buffalo, New York. That was the only information she'd ever shared. She said if her parents didn't want her, she didn't want them. Julia had often wondered about her grandparents, but loyalty to her mother had kept her from asking questions or requesting to see anyone. After all, they hadn't wanted her, either. Now she had a feeling she would have to find them if only to prove the truth about her birth.
Sitting back on her heels, she considered again how best to do that. How did one find a needle in a haystack? For that matter, she couldn't even find the haystack. She had nothing to trace, not one little clue.
"Julia?"
She looked up as her sister appeared in the doorway. Liz was dressed in running shorts and a tank top, her brown hair swept up in a ponytail. She looked like she'd just come from a jog. Liz was one of those people who liked to run and work out. Julia's favorite form of exercise was a long walk to Starbucks followed by a latte. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Looking for you. I stopped by Dad's place. He told me he gave you the key. What are you looking for?"
"I'm not sure."
"Michael told me that you think there's some mystery about who you are," she said with a quizzical look in her eyes.
"I have some questions," Julia admitted.
"How can you have questions now?" Liz demanded, her expression filled with hurt. "Our mother just died. Our father is drinking himself into oblivion every night, in case you haven't noticed. And your fiancé is upset that you want to postpone your wedding. Don't you have enough on your plate? Do you really need to find your birth father now? After all these years?"
Liz made some good points. The timing wasn't right. Then again, it had never been right. Which was how Julia had reached the age of twenty-eight without knowing who her biological father was. But he wasn't really the issue. "I'm not trying to find my father," she said. "I just want to know who I am, where I was born. I saw a picture at the museum. It was the spitting image of me. And the little girl had on a necklace just like mine."
"The one with the swan? That's why you were looking at it?"
"Yes."
"Michael said the girl in the picture lived in Russia. How can you think it's you? You were never in Russia."
It sounded worse coming from Liz's mouth. "I know it seems crazy. But that photo started me thinking about how I don't have any pictures of me or Mom before she married Gino. Isn't that odd? I thought if I came here, I might be able to find something that would prove I was living in the United States when I was three years old."
Liz stared at her like she was out of her mind. "Are you having some sort of breakdown, Julia? You're acting like a mad person."
"No, I'm acting like a person who doesn't know where she came from. It's different for you, Lizzie. You know who both your parents are. I only know about my mother. I don't know about my real father or my grandparents on my mother's side. And I can't remember anything from when I was little, which is also driving me crazy. Why don't I have any memories from that time in my life?"
"A lot of people don't remember when they're really young. I don't remember much."
"You don't have to remember, because I can tell you everything," Julia replied. "I was there from the minute you were born. No one that I know besides my mother was there from the minute I was born. And she's gone."
"All right, fine." Liz perched on the edge of an old trunk. "Did you ask Dad about it?"
"Not yet. He had a big headache and a hangover. I didn't want to bring it up if I could find something some other way."
"And that man you were with last night? Is he involved in this search?"
"He's the son of the photographer who took the picture." Julia didn't explain that Alex was the one who had taken the picture.
"And he thinks it's you, too?"
"He thinks it's worth looking into."
"You're both nuts," Liz said flatly.
Julia sighed. Liz tended to have a closed mind and could be very judgmental. She was always the last one to try anything new, and she often refused to look at problems in her life. She hadn't been able to accept their mother was going to die until she'd actually died. Up until then, Liz had insisted that their mother would get well, that life would return to normal. Maybe it was her age. She was six years younger than Julia, and she still wanted and needed to be protected. Julia usually tried to do just that, but not this time.
"Don't you have to work this afternoon?" Julia asked, deciding to change the subject.
"Not for a while yet. I think you're taking a risk, Julia. You could lose Michael over this ridiculous search that will probably turn up nothing in the long run. Do you want to take that chance?"
A few months ago, make that a week ago, Julia would have said no, that she was happy with the way things were, but the photograph in the museum had opened up her eyes to the fact that the status quo had changed when her mother died. There was nothing to hold her back now. She could finally ask the questions and find the answers that she needed to fill out the missing part of her life. Michael should be able to understand that and so should Liz. "I'd rather look now than later," she said. "When I get married, I want to do it knowing everything I need to know about myself. If Michael can't give me a few days to figure that out, then he should be the one you're talking to, no
t me."
"Are you sure it will take only a few days?"
"I'm not sure about anything. I'm taking it one step at a time. And while I know you hate it when people don't do exactly what you want, you're going to have to let me do this, Liz, because I'm not willing to stop until I get some answers."
"Have you considered the fact that you might be better off not knowing, that maybe Mom had a good reason for never telling you about your past?"
She had considered that, more than once. "That might be true, but I think the not knowing is worse."
"I hope you're right about that."
"So do I."
"Have you found anything yet?" Liz looked around at the mess Julia had made. "You've certainly been thorough. I still can't believe this is all we have left of Mom's life. It doesn't seem like much."
"I know. I keep thinking there must be more. Although I haven't come across any paperwork, birth certificates, that kind of thing, so maybe there is more. I remember putting a lot of boxes in Dad's spare bedroom when he moved."
Liz frowned. "I can't believe he's happier living in an apartment. He should have stayed in the house. Mom loved that house. And I'm still pissed off at him for selling it."
"The house had too many memories. He couldn't stand it."
"It's going to be strange this Christmas. No tree in the corner of the living room, no Christmas dinner around the big table. It won't be the same at Aunt Lucia's house."
"No, it won't." Julia could see how much Liz hated that thought. "But we'll still make it a good holiday. We have each other. That's what matters."
"I guess. Are you done here?"
"Almost. I have one more box to go through."
Liz kneeled down next to Julia as she opened the last large box. Instead of their mother's clothes, they found children's clothes.
"I remember this outfit," Liz said, pulling out a pink jumper. "I used to love it."
"And I used to wear this sweater all the time," Julia added, pulling out a blue sweater with embroidered flowers on the front. "I wonder why Mom kept these clothes. She was always doing spring-cleaning. I rescued a few things from the garbage on more than one occasion."
"That's true, but these were our favorites." Liz dug farther into the pile. "I guess she had a sentimental soft spot after all. Who knew?"
"There's a lot we don't know about her, Liz. I spent all night thinking about what I don't know about her, like where she grew up and where she spent her summer vacations. Where she went to school, who her friends were, her first boyfriend. She never talked about herself, and we never asked. Why didn't we ask?"
"I guess I wasn't that interested," Liz admitted, the smile quickly disappearing from her face. "I thought we'd have more time."
"Me, too." Julia touched her sister's hand to comfort. She was still the big sister, and she'd promised her mother she'd always watch out for Liz. "Even though we knew the diagnosis, we couldn't stop hoping. And Mom never wanted to say good-bye. She never wanted to talk about the end, even though we all knew it was coming."
"You're right. She asked me two days before she died to take her out into the garden so she could decide what to plant in the fall." Liz blinked back a tear, then reached back into the box. "I see something. Hey, what's this?"
She pulled out a hand-painted wooden doll about ten inches tall. The artwork on the doll was intricate and detailed. A woman's face was painted on the round head, a wreath of white flowers on her dark hair. The larger, cylinder-like body of the doll showed the woman's costume, a white dress with three feathered tiers and a floral pattern that mixed red flowers and green leaves. Along the base of the doll was a circle of swans that glistened in the lacquer finish. Julia's heart skipped a beat. The swans matched the one on her necklace. And she knew this doll. She'd held it in her hands before. "It's stunning," she murmured.
"I don't remember seeing it before," Liz said.
Julia took it out of Liz's hand. She opened the top and found another doll inside, then another one, and another. "It's a nesting doll," she said. "It's called a matryoshka doll."
"What? How do you know that?"
"I don't know how I know that." Julia looked from the doll to her sister, feeling like she was about to fall over the edge of a cliff. "But I know what it is. It's a Russian doll. And it's mine."
Chapter Four
"I need to look through Dad's negatives," Alex said to his mother as she ushered him into the living room of her two-story house in Presidio Heights.
"And good morning to you, too," Kate Manning said sharply. She sat down on a spotlessly clean white couch that took up one wall of the large room, and crossed her arms in front of her. Dressed in a light blue silky pants outfit with a pair of impractical spike heels, she looked very sophisticated. Alex couldn't remember ever seeing her in sweats or tennis shoes, and certainly never without her makeup. She had always been very conscious of her appearance.
Alex sat down in the antique chair across from her, sensing this would not be the easy visit he'd hoped for. Time had not mellowed his mother's attitude, and he was reminded of why he rarely chose to visit her. If he wanted to get anywhere with her, he’d better backtrack and start over. "Sorry, Mother. How are you?"
"I'm fine, not that you care. It's been months since we've spoken."
"We saw each other last night."
"Before that. Don't get cute with me, Alex. You don't return my calls. You don't answer my e-mail, and you couldn't be bothered to remember my birthday."
"I sent you a card."
"Three weeks late."
"I was in a remote jungle in Africa. The mail service wasn't good."
"You always have an answer to everything," she said with a wave of her well-manicured hand. "Just like your father."
Alex sighed. How many times had he heard that phrase? Just like your father. Well, he was proud to be just like his father. But that wasn't an issue he intended to discuss with her. "Do you still have Dad's negatives?"
Her mouth drew into a tight frown. "I might. Why would you want them after all these years?"
"I'd like to take a look at something."
"At what? Are you here about that photo taken in Moscow? The one you were asking about last night?"
"Maybe." He saw something flicker in her eyes, and he couldn't help wondering what it was.
"Your father was very upset after that trip," she murmured. "Or maybe it was later—when the photo was published in the magazine. I overheard him yelling at Stan about it. He never told me what the problem was." She paused, a question in her eyes, a question he still couldn't answer. When he didn't speak, she added, "Then it was too late to ask. Your father was gone, and you were so angry with me, you wouldn't look at me—not even at the funeral." Her voice caught, and he saw an expression of pain in her eyes. "When you did speak to me, you told me I'd broken up the family. But that wasn't completely true, Alex. I didn't do it alone."
"I don't want to get into our family history," he said quickly.
"Then you shouldn't be digging up the past. Your father had a lot of secrets. That last year of his life—he was different. I didn't know what caused the change. Maybe it was his job. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was another woman," she said with a bitter edge to her voice.
"You don't have any proof there was ever another woman." He couldn't refrain from defending his father. He'd heard her make the comment a number of times, and it irritated the hell out of him.
"I may not have proof, but I know something was off. Charles used to get calls from a woman late at night. I heard her voice more than once. He said she was a business associate, but he was a freelancer, and there were no female editors working at any of the magazines."
"You can't be sure of that."
"Oh, I am. I checked." She paused, her mouth tightening in a hard line. "I'm not sure I ever told you this, but I spent most of my childhood watching my mother turn a blind eye to my father's cheating. I swore that I would never do the same. I wouldn't allow your fathe
r to turn me into a pathetic, hopeless, helpless woman like my mother, who was suddenly shocked to realize the whole town knew her husband was cheating on her."
Alex had known his mother wasn't close to her parents, but he'd always thought it was because she was ashamed of their blue-collar roots. Her father had been a plumber, her mother a waitress. Apparently there had been more to the story.
Kate drew in a deep breath, a frown on her face now, as if she were sorry she'd said so much. "I just want you to leave the past alone, Alex."
"It's funny that you would say that. You're the one who is throwing a spotlight on Dad's work every chance you get. You hated his job, and you probably hated him, too, yet here you are acting like the tragic widow, and it's been twenty-five years and two marriages since you were with him."
"I'm not acting like a widow. That's what I am. You'll never understand the relationship I had with your father or how I felt about his work," she said hotly. "But I know what it was, and I have every right to make sure his photographs continue to be recognized. I'm even negotiating a possible book contract."
"Really." He studied her thoughtfully, not liking the way she avoided his gaze. "Why? Do you need the money?" Her home was beautifully decorated, her clothes expensive and well made. She didn't look like she was short of cash, but he had no idea where she stood with her personal finances. Her last two husbands had not been rich, but very comfortable. And if he knew his mother, she'd gotten her fair share in the divorces.
"I'm surprised you would ask, Alex. You've never shown any interest in my personal well-being."
"That's not an answer. But it's your business." He got to his feet. "Where do you have the negatives?"
"They're in a box in the hall closet. I want them back, though, Alex. I may need them for the book."
"Fine."
"Wait. Don't go like this," she said, holding up her hand in a plea for him to stay. "I don't want to fight with you."
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