He smiled. “Let me know if you need something. Bookcases are my least favorite thing to make because they’re so boring, but everyone needs them.”
“I don’t have any books. Yet, I mean.”
“Now I know what to get you for a housewarming present.”
It occurred to her that she could have a housewarming party. That she actually knew enough people in this town who would actually come. Like Ellie and Maggie. And Joy. Harry. Arlene and Matteo. Victoria and Victor. The Cutlasses. Marianne. And, of course, Theo.
As another guy with a toolbox came into the yard, Rebecca said, “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Come on, Charlie. Let’s go clean our new house from top to bottom.” She’d never been so excited to vacuum and spray lemon-scented Windex in her entire life.
When she returned to Finch’s, exhausted and wishing she’d thought to buy rubber gloves on her shopping spree, there was a FedEx package waiting for her. She was about to drop it on the bureau to read later when she saw it wasn’t from Martin Fischer, Esquire, but from Whitman, Goldberg & Whitman. Perhaps she was being officially fired. Or sued for abandoning her job. Or her boyfriend.
Inside was a letter attached to two sealed plastic packets each containing what looked like a Q-tip swab and another smaller plastic packet. On one of the many labels Rebecca saw the letters DNA.
What the hell was this? Rebecca sat down on the chair by the window and read the letter.
Dear Rebecca,
I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me before, perhaps because it’s not Joy who’s claiming to be your half sister or who’s making any kind of claim at all, particularly to your father’s estate. Regardless, who’s to say she is, in fact, the child of Daniel Strand? A woman named Pia Jayhawk, with whom your father had an affair, told him he was the father. Who knows if she was involved with someone else at the time? Who knows who the father really was? She clearly didn’t press the issue, did she? And considering the father was a successful New York City attorney, she likely would have—if he were Joy’s father.
I highly recommend you and Joy provide a DNA sample herewith and return it to the laboratory (the return address label is on the packet). At least you’ll know once and for all if you’re throwing your life away (not to mention a great deal of money) to forge a relationship with someone who’s not related to you.
Please note that I have enclosed a personal check made out to the testing company in the amount of $495. Enclose it with the samples and use the enclosed address label on the envelope. It’s that simple.
Love, Michael
Good Lord. Could he be a bigger blowhard?
Rebecca had always known it was possible that Joy wasn’t her half sister, that Daniel Strand hadn’t fathered Pia Jayhawk’s child. Of course it was possible. Highly unlikely, though. Rebecca had immediately discounted the idea that Joy wasn’t his daughter. First of all, her father said he was the father. Second, Joy looked like Daniel Strand—had his eyes and his chin and that certain something in his expression. She was Rebecca’s half sister.
But, it was possible that she wasn’t. And years of working in the field of law did make some things black and white, either/or. Paternity was one of those black and white things. Fatherhood, sisterhood, what constituted family—that was something else, that was shades of gray. But DNA and blood were absolutes.
Rebecca’s stomach flip-flopped at the thought that she could possibly be chasing after a relationship with someone who wasn’t her sister at all. There was that slight chance—and the slight was enough. Perhaps her father had been able to turn his back on Joy and Pia because he wasn’t 100 percent sure he was the father. No—that was stupid. He could have easily taken a paternity test if he’d really wanted to know for sure. He believed he was Joy’s father. Or … he didn’t want to know for sure.
Rebecca let out a deep sigh and shoved the letter and packet back inside the envelope and put it on her bureau.
The only person who knew whether Joy was Daniel Strand’s daughter was Pia Jayhawk. And if she wasn’t so certain, well, maybe Joy would take the DNA test. Just to know. For sure.
And then what? What if Joy wasn’t her sister? Did she pack up and go home? Back to her old life? Did this all just not happen?
How could she pack up and go home when she was home now? She’d rented a house. She had a thousand dollars’ worth of stuff and her shiny new mattresses had already been delivered. And she wanted Joy to be her sister. Joy was her sister in her heart, mind, and soul. Period.
She didn’t need to know for sure. Her father had told her Joy was his child and that was good enough for her.
But what if Michael was right? What if Pia had a few lovers that summer? What if she thought Daniel Strand was the father but he wasn’t? What if she chose him because he was the best of the bunch?
Who the hell knew?
She thought of the Maury Povich show, which often showcased a question of paternity, a man and a woman on stage, waiting anxiously the return from commercial break when Maury would finally reveal the results of the DNA test. With the documentation in his hands, Maury would announce, “You are not the father,” and the guy often strutted around the stage triumphantly, rubbing the mother’s face in her lie—or her mistake. Or sometimes the guy dropped his head in his hands and cried.
Like Joy would take a DNA test.
Actually, she probably would. Joy liked facts, absolutes. She would know with certainty that she was Daniel Strand’s child, and perhaps that would break down that wall Harry complained about. Perhaps she would finally be interested in reading the letters. In forgiveness. Or not. But at least Joy would know on the DNA level she insisted was all they had between them.
But if she asked Joy to take the test, that would mean something about Joy’s mother. Rebecca wasn’t so sure Joy would go there.
She had no idea what to do. If she should drop it. Pursue it.
She needed to find a berry-bearing tree and fast.
That night, Rebecca knocked on Theo’s door. She’d walked the stretch of beach with Charlie, hoping to find answers from the night sky or the quiet, but she still didn’t know what to do. And she wasn’t calling Michael—who’d called three times to make sure she’d received his package—so that he could scream his opinions in her ear.
Theo opened the door and smiled.
“You said I should knock if I needed anything. And I need something.” But instead of explaining about Michael’s letter and the DNA packet and the questions running up and down her brain, she burst into tears.
“Hey,” he said, taking her hand and leading her inside. “What’s wrong?”
She sat down beside him on his sofa, Charlie and Spock sniffing each other at her feet. She wiped under her eyes and took a deep breath, the story of the letter rushing out of her mouth.
“You could go to Pia outright and just ask her,” Theo said, handing her another tissue.
“But Joy asked me not to tell Pia who I am. I gave her my word.”
“Then the answer to your problem is closer than you realize: Marianne. She’s the keeper of all secrets around here. She’s lived here all her life and has never left. I’m sure she knows Pia from twenty-five years ago. I think they’re around the same age, too.”
Marianne. Of course.
“I could kiss you, Theo. Thanks.”
He leaned closer, and for a moment she was tempted to do exactly that, just kiss him already, but he got up. “Let me get Spock’s leash and I’ll walk you back. Marianne might still be up if you want to catch her tonight.”
She leaned her head back and stared up at the wood-beamed ceiling. “I’m just so tired and talked out.”
“I know. You’re welcome to sit here and not talk as long as you want.”
God, she wanted to hug him. His kindness, the ease of it, was becoming indispensable to her. She could sit on this sofa with him all night, content to be aware of him, to smell his Ivory soap, to feel his thigh just brush against her own.
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“I’d better go, though,” she said. “Marianne’s an early bird.”
“Like my grandmother. Bed by nine every night. C’mon,” he said with a gentle tap on her thigh.
And as the two dogs scampered ahead, sniffing at leaves and each other, Theo tucked her arm under his, old-fashioned style, and walked her home without a word. As they arrived at Finch’s, Rebecca sat down on the porch steps. “What if she’s not my sister?”
He sat down beside her. “That’s a tricky one. I’d say something corny about whether or not she’s your sister in your heart, but based on what you’ve told me, you guys are at the starting point. If she’s not your father’s child, and you just met her a couple of weeks ago, you really can’t just hand her a heap of money. You could ask her to take the test. Maybe she’d like it settled, too.”
“I thought that, but now I’m not really sure. I’m not sure she cares. She didn’t seem to want to know until I came up and threw her history at her.”
“Everyone wants to know their history, the secrets of where they came from. They might not know they want to know or that they need to know. But they do.”
Rebecca stared up at the stars. “If my father hadn’t told me about Joy, I wouldn’t be here right now. Wouldn’t know you or any of the people I’ve met here. Wouldn’t have Charlie. It’s crazy. But if Joy’s not my sister, then this whole life I’m living here is not really mine.” She shook her head. “Forget it, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes total sense. And this is your life, regardless of what happens with a DNA test, Rebecca.”
“But I rented a house. I adopted a dog. This is big stuff, Theo. This isn’t just some vacation. If Joy’s not my sister, I don’t really belong here, do I?”
“That’s up to you. After a point, it’s not only about Joy.”
“This is so confusing! I don’t even want to know if she’s really my half sister or not.”
“Yeah, you do. Because knowing and what happens next is everything.”
“But what will happen next?”
He smiled and took her hand, and she stared at their entwined fingers. “You’ll find out, won’t you?”
• • •
Marianne was in the room she called her reading parlor, where she liked to serve afternoon tea. She sat on one of the overstuffed chairs reading a novel, the glow of the lamp on the table beside her practically the only illumination in the room.
“Marianne? Got a minute?”
“Sure,” she said, and put down the book. She patted the chair next to her, and Rebecca sat down.
“Do you know Pia Jayhawk?” Rebecca asked.
“Joy’s mother. Sure. I’ve known her forever—well, till she moved away some years ago. She was my younger sister’s best friend, as a matter of fact.”
Rebecca took a deep breath. “Marianne, just before my father died a few weeks ago, he told me he had an affair with a woman named Pia Jayhawk and that Pia told him she was pregnant and gave birth to a girl she named Joy.”
Marianne gasped. “Is that why you came to Wiscasset? To meet your half sister?”
Rebecca nodded. “My boyfriend back in New York thinks I should make sure that Joy is my half sister before I get any more emotionally involved. And before I hand over half of my inheritance.”
“My goodness,” Marianne said. “I could understand that. I assume he wants her to take a DNA test?”
Rebecca nodded. “Which seems very intrusive on my part. Joy isn’t asking for anything. She’s the not one who came looking for me. She’s not laying claim to anything. She’s never even asked about what he left behind or if there was a will. I can’t even imagine going up to her and saying, ‘Oh, and if you want half our father’s money, I need you to prove that you are his daughter.”
“Well, if it helps, I’ll tell you what I remember from that time when Pia was pregnant. She was very broken up about the man she’d gotten involved with. I can’t remember his name. It was, what, over twenty-five years ago?”
She nodded. “And his name was Daniel. Daniel Strand.”
“Yes, Daniel. Now I remember. Oh, goodness, I just remembered something Pia said. She was starting to show, and Patty—that’s my sister—asked her if she’d heard from him at all, and Pia said so sadly, ‘He already has a little girl and a life.’ And then she just stopped talking about him. I guess she was focusing on the baby and how to raise her without a father. She was madly in love with him. Patty and I got a glimpse of him once, and I was so surprised. Not that your father wasn’t handsome, but he was just so … little. Pia was such a big personality, so full of big plans of taking over the art world and moving to New York to have her own shows. But she changed after he left and went back to his life. She just got quieter. She kept up with her painting, though, and has had quite a nice career up here. She shows in local galleries all the time. She even had a show in a Boston gallery.”
Rebecca’s heart squeezed at the thought of Pia and her broken heart, her dashed dreams. Of raising a child all alone.
“So it’s highly unlikely that anyone else could be Joy’s father, other than this man?” Rebecca asked.
“That I don’t know. I think so, though. Pia was very beautiful when she was a young woman. She had men after her all the time. I do know she was dating someone when she fell for her summer love. But she broke up with that guy.”
“So Joy could be that man’s child?”
Marianne grimaced. “I feel uncomfortable talking about this, to tell you the truth, Rebecca. I’m not close with Joy, but I have had nice chats with her, and her husband designed the work Theo is doing out back, did you know that? They’re a lovely family. And Pia doesn’t live in Wiscasset anymore—she’s down in Portsmouth now, I think—but I feel wrong talking about their personal business. I’ve told you too much as it is.”
“I didn’t mean to put you in this position. I’m sorry.”
Marianne squeezed her hand. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just the story is a sad one, and it has big consequences, consequences of now, I mean. I’m not just telling a twenty-five-year-old story, I’m saying something that will affect what you do now.”
“I won’t breathe a word of this,” Rebecca said. “And I know what I need to do. I just need to tell Joy about Michael’s letter, show her the stupid DNA packet, and see what she says.”
Marianne nodded, then said, “I will say one more thing. Joy is a petite little thing, like you, isn’t she. And Pia was taller than me and Patty, and we’re both five feet six. I mean, that’s why we were so tickled when we finally got a glimpse of her big summer love. He was so … short.”
Short. Joy was short like Rebecca and her father, despite having an almost tall mother.
A burst of relief flooded through Rebecca. She wanted Joy to be her sister more than she’d ever wanted anything. She’d been her sister since the day before her father died. Weeks now. And corny or not, Joy was her sister in her heart. She didn’t want DNA to say otherwise.
As Marianne headed into the kitchen to make them each a cup of tea, Rebecca kept her mind on how petite Joy was. Joy wore heels (she recalled now the clickety-clack of those red suede clogs), which was why Rebecca hadn’t really focused on her height before. She didn’t look tiny. But Rebecca was very glad she was.
fourteen
At the crack of dawn, Rebecca and Charlie drove over to the new house with her suitcases and the potted African violet that Marianne had given her the night before as a porch-warming present. When she opened the front door, she felt a burst of happiness. The sunshine lit the little foyer, and the living room gleamed with light. The colorful throw pillows brightened up the sofa, and the bowl of cinnamon-scented pinecones she’d placed on the coffee table made the whole house smell welcoming and delicious.
Charlie went off to explore, and Rebecca took her time putting away her clothes in her bedroom, the yellow room with the queen bed. Her new mattress had been delivered yesterday—they’d come withi
n the first half hour of their delivery window—and was as comfortable as the 1-800-MATTRES lady had said it would be. Her cuddly flower-covered down comforter looked so inviting that Rebecca flopped onto the bed.
And she must have passed out, because when she opened her eyes, it was almost nine o’clock and Charlie was nudging her arm with his nose.
She let him into the backyard and made a pot of coffee, the simple, everyday act so thrilling it reminded her of that scene in St. Elmo’s Fire when Mare Winningham tried to explain to Rob Lowe how amazing it felt to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in her own place, her first apartment.
This wasn’t Rebecca’s first home away from her parents’, of course, but there was something different about this one. She’d chosen this house. She’d fallen in love with it and chosen it. She wanted to be here. Whereas everywhere else she’d lived—from dingy walk-ups she couldn’t afford with roommates she didn’t want to the very nice nine-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom she shared with Michael, in a building with a friendly doorman and thirty-two floors—never felt like home. It was Michael’s home, and she’d moved in. Just like she’d moved into her other apartments because of this or that. She’d never chosen a home simply because she loved it.
And she loved this little house.
After two cups of coffee, she finally picked up the phone and pressed in Joy’s number.
“Hi, Joy, it’s Rebecca. Do you have some free time today to stop by my new place? I have something really important to talk to you about.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the kind of thing we need to talk about in person.”
Silence. Then: “Well, I can come over now, actually. I just dropped Rex off at preschool and am heading to my car right now.”
“Great. See you in a few, then. 44 Elm Street.”
Rebecca poured herself another cup of coffee and realized her hand was trembling slightly. To busy herself until Joy showed up, she made a fresh pot of coffee and took one of her pretty new mugs from the cabinet and set it next to the coffeemaker.
And when Joy arrived, the first thing Rebecca noticed was how petite Joy really was. She glanced down at Joy’s feet. She was wearing Pumas.
The Secret of Joy Page 20
