"Step inside and I'll be right back." She pulls open the door and moves to the side.
I don't hesitate at all as I step over the threshold into the elegant space.
"I'm going to go down that hallway." She rests one of her hands on my shoulder as she points down a narrow hallway with her other hand. "I won't be more than a minute."
I nod, knowing that my voice won't serve any useful purpose right now. I pull my gaze around the foyer, noticing all of the small details. There is a tall, slender vase filled with flowers sitting atop an antique table. A pair of high chairs offers a respite for anyone who first enters the space. The walls are lined with paintings in ornate frames.
I reach into the front pocket of my jeans, seeking the comfort that the rope bracelet offers me. I've held onto it without thinking when I've felt overwhelmed the past few weeks. I'm never without it now and even though I couldn’t have understood its significance before today, I'd known instinctively that it held importance in my life. I knew it when I saw it in my mother's safety deposit box.
My head pops up as I hear the sound of heels moving across the floor. I sigh when I see a woman, not much older than me round the corner and walk towards me. She's not Francesca.
"Vanessa?" She holds out her hand as she nears me. "How can I help you?"
I reach for her delicate hand and shake it briskly before I pull mine back. "I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Tomlin."
"May I ask how you know her?"
I can't exactly launch into the twisted tale of my journey of self-discovery these past few weeks. My hand twitches next to me and I suddenly wish I'd have taken Zoe up on her offer to come with me. I feel isolated and shut off from everything I know and now I'm staring at the face of an unfamiliar woman who wants details I'm not sure I can share with anyone yet.
"My mother actually knew her many years ago," I lie with ease. "They used to meet in the park sometimes."
"Really?" Her hands leap to her chest in excitement. Her shoulder length brown hair bounces with the movement. "Was your mom one of the ladies she had tea with on Thursdays?"
I nod without thinking. "Yes. It was a long time ago."
"You wouldn't happen to have any pictures of them together, would you?" Her brow jumps up. "I'm trying to find more pictures for the memorial."
I feel all of the air rush from my lungs. "The memorial?"
"Yes." She nods with the assurance that I have every understanding of what she's talking about. "We've scheduled it for next week. If you have any pictures I'd love to see them."
"She's gone?" I feel the crack in my voice before I hear it. "Is Francesca gone?"
Her hand moves to my forearm. "I thought that's why you were here. I assumed you came to share your condolences."
"When did she die?" I can't control the rush of tears. I don't even try to.
"I'm sorry." She motions towards the high back chairs. "Do you want to sit?"
"No." I swallow hard. "When was it?"
"My mother died two weeks ago." Her voice trembles slightly. "She passed in her sleep."
I almost sob aloud not just for the loss that I feel but also for the realization that I have a sister. I stare at her face, seeing my own blue eyes reflected back in hers. "What's your name?"
"My name?" Her hand moves to her chin. "Who are you?"
"I'm Vanessa," I say because it's the only name I've ever carried. It's who I am regardless of where my life began.
I watch her lips quiver as her head darts behind her quickly. "My name is Connie."
"Connie," I repeat holding my hand out towards her. "I'm really happy to meet you."
Her eyes lower slowly and before her hand can touch mine she stumbles back on her feet. "No. It can't be. You can't be."
I look down to where her eyes are focused and I see my open hand with the small rope bracelet resting in my palm.
"You're not her." Her finger waves in the air at me. "You can't be her. What kind of sick game do you think you're playing?"
I reach behind me looking for any leverage I can find. "I don't know who I am."
"What's that supposed to mean?" She points at me with the precision of a dagger. "Why are you here? You tell me why you're here."
I glance back at the door, wondering if I should pull it open and run down the steps to the car. I can leave now. I can take the promise of what could have been and keep that close to me.
"Tell me why you're here." Her tone is insistent. "I need to know why you came here now."
"I wanted to talk to her." I look down at the bracelet. "I just wanted to talk to her."
"You waited until she was dead." She tucks her face into her hands. "You actually waited until she was dead before you came here."
"No," I say quietly. "I came to talk to her."
"Do you know that she never stopped looking for you?" She pushes her hands onto her hips. "She searched for you everywhere. She died crying because she never got to hold you again."
The gravity of the words hits me full force and I pull my hands to my stomach. "I would have come sooner. I didn't know."
"You waited until she was dead to get your hands on her money." She pushes against my shoulder. "That's why you're here, isn't it? You think you're entitled to our things?"
I brush my hand over my cheek, pushing aside all the tears. "I don’t want anything. I just wanted to see her."
"You won't get away with this." She raises her hands in the air. "I won't let you get away with this."
I reach behind me to grab hold of the doorknob, wanting the reprieve that the world outside these walls will give me. I shouldn't have come. I should have read all the news stories that popped up in the search results instead of just gazing at the pictures of her face. I would have known she had died. I would have known that my birth mother was gone.
"I need to go." I fumble with the doorknob, "I can't stay here."
"You're not going anywhere." She yanks hard on my hand. "You're not leaving until we settle this."
"There's nothing to settle." I hold tight to the bracelet. "I shouldn't have come."
"You're right." She stares down at my hand. "You never should have come here. You don’t belong here anymore. You're too late."
She's right. I am too late. I'm too late to hear my mother's voice and I'm too late to see any love that she may have had for me in her eyes. I'm too late to hold her hand when I tell her that I missed her every day and would have fought my way back to her if I'd have known. I'm too late for it all.
"My husband will make sure you don't get your hands on any of our things." She waves her hand down the hallway. "He won't let you near our family."
"I don't want your things," I sob. "I just wanted to see her."
"Darling," she calls into the quiet apartment. "You won't believe who finally decided to show her face after all these years."
I listen to the spite in her words. I stare at the eyes that look like mine and I see nothing but an angry, bitter stranger looking back at me.
"What's going on?" A man's voice calls from the hallway.
"Charlotte finally decided to come home." She waves her hand over my head.
"What?" His voice is husky as his footsteps near. "Charlotte is here?"
"She's right here." She steps to the left and I look towards the voice.
He stops in his tracks.
I stare into his face.
It's him.
Garrett Ryan is standing next to my sister.
Thank You!
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About the Author
Deborah Bladon has never read a romance hero she didn't like. Her love for romance novels began when she was old enough to board the bus, library card in hand to check out the newest Harlequin paperbacks. She's a Canadian by heart, and by passport, but you can often spot her in New York City sipping a latte and looking for inspiration for her next story. Manhattan is definitely her second home.
She cherishes her family and believes that each day is a gift for writing, for reading, and for loving.
TRACE (The TRACE Series, #1) Page 7
