Unveiling the Past

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Sometimes being middle aged leaning toward old stunk. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the full-length mirror next to the bathroom door—steel-gray hair, high brow, prominent jaw, lanky frame. Great Scott, he looked more like his father every day.

  What about Diane’s daughter? Did she look like her father?

  And where did that thought come from?

  With a grunt, he grabbed the television remote and aimed it at the big screen tucked inside the armoire in the sitting area of the suite. He didn’t turn it on, though. Curiosity held him captive. Who did Meghan D’Ann DeFord-Eagle resemble? Was there any hint of him in her at all? He tried to envision a child born to him and Diane. No picture formed. But he bet he could find out what she looked like. If she’d been involved in any noteworthy cold cases, there could be news reports online. There might even be photographs of the detectives if the cold-case unit had a website.

  He tapped the remote on his knee, debating with himself. Watch television, or do a little sleuthing?

  Someone knocked on the door, and a female voice called out, “Room service.”

  Dinner already? He strode to the door and swung it open. A blond-haired young woman and a skinny Hispanic man wearing matching blue uniforms and chef aprons crossed the threshold. The woman carried a tray containing a silver dome-covered plate, silverware rolled in a linen napkin, miniature canisters of salt and pepper, and a single wine glass turned on its rim. The man toted a bucket of ice. A wine bottle’s neck poked up like a buoy. She set the tray on the kitchenette counter, her long braid sliding forward, and gestured for the man to place the bucket next to it. Then she flipped her braid over her shoulder and aimed a smile at Kevin.

  “When you’re finished, please put the tray in the hallway, and someone will retrieve it. Is there anything else you need?”

  Kevin glanced at the wine bucket. “A corkscrew?”

  “You’ll find a corkscrew in the drawer next to the sink.”

  Kevin lifted the dome and peeked at his food. He quirked his brow. “Parmesan?”

  The young man pulled a small shaker bottle of grated parmesan from the pocket of his apron and handed it to Kevin.

  Kevin stifled a chortle. Maybe he should ask for a dining companion since they’d managed to provide everything else. “Looks like I have what I need.”

  The woman whipped a black leather check holder and pen from her pocket and held them out. “Sign, please, and we’ll leave you to enjoy your meal.”

  Kevin added a tip to the amount, signed the check with a flourish, and handed it back. He couldn’t resist winking—flirtation came far too naturally, his mother used to berate—even though the woman was probably a year or two younger than Tawny. She fluttered her eyelashes, proving she was practiced in the art of flirtation, before she ushered the man out the door.

  Alone again, Kevin made use of the corkscrew, smiling at the satisfying pop! as the cork slid free. A sweet essence accompanied the gentle glug-glug of pale liquid filling the glass, and he drew in a slow breath to absorb the slightly fruity aroma. He took a sip as he lifted the silver dome and set it aside. The savory-smelling steam rising from the food mingled with the sweetness of the wine, and his mouth watered.

  He slid onto the barstool, sprinkled parmesan over the pasta, tomatoes, and pink shrimp, then added a dash of pepper. He jerked open the napkin bundle and picked up his fork. Before he plunged it into the pasta, though, he glanced at his computer bag. Why not multitask?

  He clanked the fork on the counter, grabbed his laptop from the bag, and booted it up. Over the next twenty minutes, he alternately tapped keys with his left forefinger, sipped wine, and ate every bit of the well-seasoned pasta and toppings. By the time he finished eating, half the bottle of wine was gone and he’d saved three photographs of Meghan DeFord-Eagle to his computer.

  He pushed the plate aside, pulled the computer closer, and opened all three images. He leaned close, holding the wine glass near his jaw, and examined the photos side by side. None of them held even the slightest resemblance to him. But he sure saw Diane in the girl. She had her mother’s olive complexion, dark hair and eyes, and delicate profile. Pretty girl. Very pretty girl.

  For several seconds he stared at the center image. Even while draining his glass, he kept his gaze locked on the face of his daughter. Shouldn’t he feel something? Stirrings of pride? Curiosity? Regret? He waited, but nothing within him changed. Maybe because this girl wasn’t his daughter after all. Diane said she was, but she could be wrong. After all, he wasn’t so hard hearted that he wouldn’t experience the tiniest niggle of some kind of emotion when looking at the face of his one and only biological child for the first time. Or was he?

  Uncomfortable with the direction his thoughts had taken, he turned the chair away from the bar. He grabbed the bottle and glass and trudged to the long green-and-brown-checked sofa stretching along the wall. He flopped onto the center cushion, poured another glass, then sat and sipped, the bottle still gripped in his hand. He stared at the wall, seeing in his mind’s eye the images of the seemingly successful, satisfied-with-her-life young woman Diane had raised.

  Curiosity rose. But not about the girl. About the girl’s mother. How’d Diane done it? How had she raised Meghan by herself and managed to produce a well-rounded, competent adult? He’d had help raising his adopted son. Mostly from the boy’s mother, Julie, of course. But Wife Number Two, Sherry, had been good with Kip—probably because she hoped it would convince Kevin to let her have a baby. By the time he married Wife Number Three, Kip was a cocky high school junior who rebelled against every authority figure, but Veronica had at least tried to form a relationship with him.

  Experts said it took a village to raise a child, and he’d had a whole village involved in Kip’s upbringing. A mother, two stepmothers—well, three, but Tawny didn’t count because she was too close in age to Kip to even pretend to mother him—and a host of nannies. Oh, and for a year or two, a child psychologist. Even with all those people lending a hand, Kip was now a twenty-three-year-old college dropout living in his mother’s basement and holding an on-again, off-again job as a deliveryman for an itty-bitty pizza joint in one of the less glitzy parts of town. Not exactly what a father proudly proclaimed in the annual Christmas letter.

  So what was Diane’s secret? There was only one way to find out. Ask. Assuming she’d be open enough to answer. Back when they’d dated, her chattiness sometimes drove him to distraction. He hadn’t been interested in conversation then. Sometimes he wasn’t now. But if Diane was willing to talk, he’d be willing to listen.

  She hadn’t included a telephone number in her email. If school were in session, he could reach her there, but this was summer break. No sense searching online for a telephone number. She probably used a cell, and she was savvy enough to keep her personal number off internet informational sites. He’d contact her the only way he could—via email—and hope she’d answer.

  Twelve

  Kendrickson, Nevada

  Diane

  “Margaret Diane, your phone is making noises.”

  Diane took another bite of her garlicky steamed string beans. “I know. I heard it. It’s telling me I have a new email.”

  Mother stabbed a button mushroom with her fork tines. The trio of dachshunds lined up at the slider door to the patio watched the mushroom lift from the plate toward Mother’s mouth. “Email on your phone?” She shook her head and made a tsk-tsk sound. “Picture taking, text messaging, shopping…and even email. A person can do just about anything on a phone these days.”

  Diane grinned. “Like living in The Jetsons cartoon, isn’t it?”

  Mother chuckled. “Beyond anything I could have imagined. Having access to others so easily is an advantage. One needn’t search for a phone booth in case of an emergency.” The phone dinged again. She shrugged and popped the mushroom into her mouth. “But you also have a c
onstant intrusion. I suppose there’s a positive and negative for every new piece of technology.”

  “That’s true enough.” Too many people Diane knew kept their cell phones locked in their palms like an extension of themselves. She especially disliked seeing phones used during what should be social times—meals or gatherings. The gadget that connected people to family and friends, services, information, and media was a good thing. But finding a balance—even with good things—was important, she preached to her students, and she practiced what she preached. Which was why the phone wasn’t at the table.

  Ding!

  Mother frowned in the direction of the sound. “My, someone is persistent. You don’t suppose it’s from Meghan…”

  Meghan would call or text if she really needed something, but the sound was distracting them from enjoying their dinner. Diane should turn off the volume until they were finished eating. “I’ll go check.”

  Miney and Molly stayed behind and kept guard over Mother, but Duchess trotted after Diane. She picked up the phone and held it toward the dog. “Be glad you don’t have to mess with these things. Nothing but a nuisance.” Duchess nosed the phone and whined, and Diane laughed. “All right, all right, I’ll see who’s pestering us.”

  She tapped the email icon. Kevin@HarrisonInc.net showed as the sender. Her mouth went dry. Had he changed his mind about coming to Vegas? She considered turning off the phone and waiting until after she’d eaten to look at it, but she didn’t think she’d be able to take another bite until she knew what he wanted.

  Her hand trembled, but her finger connected with the address, and a message popped onto her screen.

  Diane, I’m in Vegas. I have appointments set up for the weekdays, but tomorrow is open. I wondered if we could meet. Talk. I’d like to catch up and learn a little more about your daughter. You can reply to this email or give me a call at—

  “Margaret Diane, is everything okay?”

  Diane jammed the phone into her pocket and returned to the kitchen. Duchess settled under her chair instead of joining the other two dachshunds. Diane offered her mother what she hoped was a convincing smile. “Yes. Everything’s fine.”

  Mother’s brows came together. “Try again.”

  So much for being convincing. Diane pulled the phone out and held it up. “The email was from Kevin. He wants to meet tomorrow.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To catch up and talk about Meghan.” She frowned. “Or so he says.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  Should she? When she was young and foolish, she’d bought into his proclamation that she was special to him, that their relationship would be permanent. And look what it had gotten her—unwed motherhood. She stared at the email. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well…” Mother pushed the last mushroom around on her plate, a slow grin forming on her wrinkled cheek. “You could invite him to tomorrow’s church service and then to brunch afterward.”

  Diane laughed. “That’d be a good way to get rid of him. He was adamantly opposed to ‘organized religion.’ ” She cringed. “At the time of our acquaintanceship, it was one of the things I liked about him.”

  Mother patted Diane’s hand. “Leave the past in the past, where it belongs.”

  Diane waved the phone. “Kinda hard to do when the past is knocking on your door.”

  “The past can knock on the door all it wants to. You don’t have to answer.”

  Diane stared at the phone screen. Mother was right. She didn’t have to answer. If he really wanted to get to know Meghan, he could ask for her contact information. Diane had done her part—removed the element of surprise. She didn’t need to be involved any further.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Diane shifted her attention to Mother. Her mother’s eyes twinkled, as if she already knew the answer. Diane huffed a laugh. Then she hit Reply and tapped out her response.

  * * *

  The world must be coming to an end. Brunch with her mother and her daughter’s biological father? Diane wouldn’t have imagined it happening in a thousand years. But here she was, sharing a high button-tufted booth seat with Mother and staring across the polished table at Kevin.

  As she’d expected, he declined the invitation to church, but he was waiting at their favorite Kendrickson eatery, Viva la Quiche, when she and Mother arrived after the early service. Even if he hadn’t sent a JPEG of his business card, which included his photo, she would have recognized him. Time had changed his sandy-blond hair to the color of a dirty nickel, but it was still thick, and he wore it combed away from his high forehead. Black horn-rimmed glasses now framed his blue eyes, but those eyes held the same intensity that had once captured her girlish heart. She found it difficult to focus on the menu with him peering at her through the glasses’ lenses, elbows on the table and steepled hands against his fashionably stubbled chin. He watched her, and Mother watched him, and Diane wished she hadn’t answered the knock on the door.

  A waitress approached with three coffee mugs and a carafe. She poured steaming brew into cups for each of them, then set the carafe in the middle of the table. Her smile drifted across their faces. “Have you decided what you want?”

  Kevin held his hand toward Mother. “You order first, Mrs. DeFord.” He settled his penetrating gaze on the waitress. “One check, please—give it to me.”

  Diane anticipated an argument, but to her surprise, Mother only thanked him and then requested the crustless, egg-whites-only spinach and mushroom quiche with a side of fresh fruit. Kevin nodded at Diane, and she blurted, “I’ll have the same, but with the vegan egg substitute.”

  “Make mine the gruyère, bacon, and asparagus quiche—good ol’ chicken eggs, please, yolks and all—with a side of country potatoes.” Kevin gathered their menus and handed them to the waitress with a wink. A far-too-easily-offered wink. Apparently his penchant for flirting hadn’t changed, either.

  The waitress nodded and scurried off. Kevin shifted his attention to Mother. “I didn’t realize Diane would bring you, Mrs. DeFord, but it’s nice to have a chance to meet you.”

  “Instead of the stuffy title Mrs. DeFord, which makes me feel as ancient as Methuselah, why don’t you call me Hazel?”

  He grinned. “Hazel. Now I know where Diane gets her natural beauty and spunk.”

  Mother took a sip of her coffee, her bright eyes snapping. “There’s no need to flatter me, young man. I’m beyond the age of flirtatious chitchat.”

  Diane sucked in her lips to hold back a laugh. Mother wasn’t ordinarily crusty, but she was straightforward. Kevin wouldn’t be able to draw her in with smooth talk and overconfident charm.

  Kevin chuckled and held up his coffee mug as if making a toast. “ ‘No legacy is so rich as honesty.’ ”

  Mother raised one eyebrow. “Shakespeare?”

  He nodded. “From All’s Well That Ends Well.”

  “You’re a fan of the poet bard?”

  “Not a fan necessarily, but I admire him. I mean, he lived…what? More than four hundred years ago? And we still remember him. Still see his works performed on stages. He left his indelible mark on the world. I find that impressive and even enviable.”

  Mother sipped her coffee and fell silent.

  Kevin took a drink of his coffee, then set the cup aside. “Teachers leave a mark, too. Worthwhile profession. So tell me, Diane, how many years have you taught in Vegas?”

  Diane preferred to talk about Meghan, but at least the topic wasn’t too personal. And he’d set his flirtatiousness aside. “Three full years now. The school had an opening in subjects I am qualified to teach, and Mother graciously offered me half of her house, so I moved here.” She didn’t bother explaining how the move had mended her broken relationship with her mother. That was too personal.

  “Like I said, teaching’s an honorable ca
reer. My mother planned to teach, but Dad talked her out of it. He wanted her home, more available to him.” An odd edge colored his tone even while an easy smile remained on his face. “She always volunteered at school. Was even PTA president a year or two.”

  Like her mother. The similarity made Diane squirm, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it made him seem too…average. Like any other man. She’d tried so hard to demonize him in her thoughts. Putting the majority of the blame on him made it easier for her to bear her burden of guilt. But he’d once been an only child with a PTA-president mother, the same as her. Even-steven, as they would have said in childhood.

  He plied her with questions about teaching, which she answered, carefully planning her responses before uttering them, until their food arrived. She’d never been so relieved to see a plate of quiche. The worry about saying too much had created a dull throb in the base of her skull.

  “This all looks great.” He picked up his fork and aimed it for the pile of crispy, browned chunks of potato, but when Mother bowed her head, he laid the utensil on the table and folded his hands.

  The respectful gesture made something roll over in Diane’s chest, and at the same time, his voice roared from the past. “People who talk to God are fools. Might as well talk to a pile of dirty laundry.” Was he pretending to respect Mother while inwardly scoffing? She slammed her eyelids closed and sent up a silent thank-you for the food and a request for God to guard her mouth and mind until she and Kevin could part ways.

  While they ate, he turned his question asking on Mother—mostly about the advantages and disadvantages of living in Las Vegas. Mother answered openly, even injecting a few anecdotes Diane hadn’t heard before about living in such a flamboyant area.