by Julie Hyzy
“Do you know your blood type?” Valerie asked me.
“B-positive,” I said.
Bennett smiled. “Same as mine.”
“We will, of course, confirm that information,” Dr. Lucatorto said.
They did. We matched.
Bennett said, “We’re off to a good start.”
Maggie pulled out a small camera and snapped several pictures. “Documentation.”
There was no music in this part of the building and the entire audience of attorneys remained breathlessly quiet. Except for the humming of equipment, and the occasional directive from our phlebotomists, the place was awkwardly silent. I wished for privacy. Getting my blood drawn didn’t bother me; the scrutiny of our wide-eyed onlookers did.
I watched as the deep red liquid from my veins streamed into the first vacuum tube.
“You aren’t squeamish?” Bennett asked.
My nerves were so taut that the absurdity of his question hit me hard. I began to giggle. “After all we’ve been through these past few years?”
His mouth twitched. “Good point, Gracie.” He raced his gaze along his extended left arm and the needle protruding from it. “This really is nothing, isn’t it?”
Nervousness, being in the spotlight, and the awkwardness of it all, built a bundle of hilarity in my chest that jounced around my insides, desperate to escape. I giggled again.
The vials filled quickly. Bennett and I were required to sign identification labels for the samples before the two techs switched positions to repeat the process. The attorneys murmured among themselves and Maggie continued to take pictures.
Wanda and Valerie had us sign the second set of samples before Valerie said, “That’s it. We’re done taking blood.”
Dr. Lucatorto explained the next procedure for obtaining DNA, which involved collecting samples from the insides of our cheeks. He also reminded us that this step was redundant. His detailed description took longer than the swabbing itself. Like the techs had, Drs. Rabbat and Lyon administered the test to us one at a time, then switched positions to test the other.
“All done,” Dr. Lyon said when she and Rabbat completed their sampling. “Sarear Labs should have results to you within about a week or so.”
“That long?” Bennett asked.
Dr. Lucatorto gave him an indulgent smile and knuckled his glasses again. “If you recall, Mr. Marshfield, you opted for the more comprehensive analysis, involving a greater number of genetic markers. Such excessive measures require more time.”
Bennett knew this. I knew this. Bennett’s impatience was getting the better of him.
Dr. Lucatorto addressed the entire group. “I admonish you all to remember that the tests we have administered today may either prove the likelihood of kinship between Mr. Marshfield and Ms. Wheaton with a high degree of statistical probability, or they will ascertain that they share no family ties whatsoever.”
It wasn’t until after I’d finally agreed to Bennett’s request to be tested that I’d realized how much I was anticipating a positive result. How much I wanted it to be true. I’d considered going through my mother’s belongings—most of which remained packed away in the attic and garage—to find something of hers that could have been used to lift her DNA. We had plenty of paperwork, photos, and circumstantial evidence to presume the truth. I had no doubt that my mother and Bennett were half-siblings. Yet I’d chosen to forgo searching for my mom’s DNA. Once I’d made the decision to move forward, I knew I wanted the test results in my name, wanted confirmation that Bennett and I were, truly, uncle and niece.
We’d been in the utilitarian section of the lab for less than twenty minutes—and if we hadn’t had to sign so many documents, it could have been fewer than five—but the room’s chill began to make me shiver. I got to my feet and inspected the bandages on the insides of both my elbows before pulling my sleeves back down to my wrists.
Their responsibilities complete, the doctors released us. The lawyers crowded close, conferring among themselves and taking turns to shake our hands and express hope for positive results.
In the midst of this, Bennett turned to me, taking my hands. His were warm and steady. His eyes were, too.
“Whatever the outcome, Grace,” he began, effectively silencing the cheerful chatter, “whatever these tests confirm or dispute, you are my family and you always will be.”
It was as though we were the only two people in the room. He continued to stare down at me and I got the impression he was trying to convey more than he had words for.
“I know,” I said softly. Heat gathered behind my eyes and in the back of my throat.
“No matter what,” Bennett said very quietly.
I nodded. “No matter what.”
Lifting his gaze to encompass those surrounding us, he let go of my hands and said, “Did you all hear that?”
Maggie answered. “We did.”
“Bennett,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you know I didn’t agree to the test for any reason other than to keep you happy.”
He continued to speak loud enough for everyone to hear. “And what will make me happiest of all is to make you my heir.”
“No, Bennett, no,” I said, tugging at his arm. “You know that’s not what this is about.”
“I know that, Gracie. This is about family.”
One of the men in back wagged a finger. “It will be so much more straightforward, so much easier for us to rewrite your will if DNA tests prove kinship. Who knows what sort of challenges we may encounter if you bequeath your estate to a young woman who is not related by blood.”
Bennett offered the man a cool smile. “I certainly hope for proof,” he said. “But I don’t pay you for easy.”
Chapter 4
Bennett’s driver had dropped him off at the lab, leaving Tooney responsible to return us both to our respective homes. “You see how little blood they took?” I asked, when we were all bundled up and tucked into the Enclave. “I would have been perfectly fine driving myself.”
Tooney had started the car, but was waiting for the frosty windshield to clear. “I didn’t mind,” he said.
Bennett leaned forward from the backseat. “Then how could I have possibly convinced you both to join me for lunch afterward?”
Tooney half turned to face him. “Both? You mean me, too?”
“Yes, Mr. Tooney, I feel like celebrating. What do you say, Gracie?” He winked at me. “I promise to have you back before your FBI friend returns at five. You promise to call Maggie when he shows up, won’t you?”
“I will,” I said.
Bennett tapped the back of Tooney’s seat. “Let’s have lunch at Octave. You know how to get there?”
Tooney’s face went slack. “I’m wearing blue jeans,” he said. “They’re not even new ones.”
Settling against the backseat, Bennett waved him off. “You’ll be fine.”
* * *
Bennett was right. Octave’s maître d’ welcomed us warmly, making no comment about Tooney’s faded jeans, nor his high-top black gym shoes. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the host’s ever-so-brief glance at our private eye friend, I might have believed he hadn’t noticed Tooney’s casual attire at all.
About half the restaurant’s tables were occupied and the maître d’ chose a winding path through the sea of white linen, crystal, and subdued conversation. An older man glanced up as we passed, did a double take, then shot to his feet. He tossed his napkin aside and made his way toward us. “Bennett Marshfield.” He spoke with a Southern drawl. Texas, I thought. “How you been keeping yourself, old man?”
Bennett blinked, then glanced to me before smiling and greeting the interloper. Though he projected warmth, I sensed wariness on Bennett’s part. “I’m doing very well, thank you, Neal. How are you?”
Neal’s “Couldn’t be better” reply came across
as perfunctory, almost absentminded. With a quick glance, he appraised Tooney and me. His curiosity was unmistakable as he waited for Bennett to make introductions.
“Are you in town for the convention?” Bennett asked.
“Of course. What else?” Neal studied Bennett. “Heard some rumors. Thought I’d get here early to see what’s what.”
“I hope you enjoy your stay in Emberstowne.” Bennett started to move away. “Good to see you again.”
The dismissal clearly stung. Neal’s bushy brows came together. “Thought I’d stop by your estate one of these days. You wouldn’t have a problem with an old friend coming to call?”
Bennett seemed uncomfortable for a moment but regained his composure as politeness won the day. “I would be delighted to have you visit Marshfield. I’ll instruct the staff to roll out the red carpet.”
Neal tipped an imaginary hat brim. “I’m hoping to steal a little bit of your time, Bennett.” He winked. “Satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”
Bennett worked his mouth as though searching for the right words. “You are always welcome at Marshfield.”
When we moved off again, trailing the maître d’, who had waited patiently to seat us, I whispered to Bennett, “Who was that?”
He waved away my question as though it was of no importance. “Neal Coddington. If you wouldn’t mind, please let the front desk know not to charge him an entrance fee. I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Do you want them to alert you when Mr. Coddington arrives so you can greet him personally?”
Bennett slid a glance sideways as he leaned down to whisper, “Absolutely not.”
Within moments we were seated at a quiet table overlooking snow-covered Emberstowne. “This is beautiful, Bennett,” I said.
Octave took up the eighth floor of one of the city’s office buildings and was known for its outstanding French cuisine as well as its impeccable service. Paneled walls, cozy antiques, fresh baguettes, and Edith Piaf’s softly warbling voice surrounded us with tranquil bliss.
“You’ve dined here before?” he asked.
“First time.”
Tooney opened the large leather-bound menu and made eye contact with us both over its edge. “Same here,” he said. Leaning my way, he asked, “How do I know what I’m ordering?”
“Gracie can help you there,” Bennett said. “She was masterful at translating when we were in Europe last year.”
“Hardly masterful,” I gently corrected him. “But I think I can decode the menu. What do you like?”
Bennett ordered Champagne and when the waiter asked if we were celebrating anything special, said, “Yes, we are, indeed. Life is good and it’s made even better when surrounded by family and friends.”
“The best reason of all to celebrate,” the waiter said.
He returned with a vintage that probably cost more than my salary for a week, offering the label to Bennett for approval before popping the bottle open and pouring.
Tooney placed a meaty hand over the top of his flute. “None for me, thanks. I’m driving.”
“Commendable, Mr. Tooney. But won’t you take enough in your glass for a toast?”
He agreed, and the moment the waiter was gone, Bennett lifted his glass. “I owe you both for my well-being and my happiness. Until the two of you entered my life, I was a lonely old man who had nothing better to do than manage my wealth and plan for my demise. Thanks to the two of you, I am invigorated, I am stronger, and I am happy.” He touched his glass to mine. “You are my family.” He touched his glass to Tooney’s. “You are my friend. May good fortune keep company with us all.”
* * *
After dining, as we enjoyed café au lait and macarons, our conversation eventually turned to the upcoming Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention.
“That starts a week from today, doesn’t it?” Tooney asked. Before I could confirm that it did, he went on. “I’m surprised the organizers didn’t want to host it at Marshfield.”
The Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention, or FAAC, drew an upscale crowd of collectors and antique dealers from around the globe. The convention’s location changed from year to year, keeping its wealthy clientele traveling from Amsterdam to Zephyrhills in their pursuit of rare treasures.
The FAAC produced documentaries that were broadcast on travel channels and advertised on public broadcasting stations. The format was similar to that of the popular Antiques Roadshow, except that most attendees were experts themselves, and items reviewed on camera were generally valued in the millions rather than the thousands.
“They approached us,” I said, “but they have very specific space requirements because of the lighting equipment, cameras, and security. While Marshfield Manor has plenty of room, we would have had to close the house to tourists for the duration of their stay.”
“That’s why they’re taking over the two biggest hotels in town?” Tooney asked.
“Three, from last I heard.”
Bennett had been silent through all of this, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.
Tooney gave a half smile. “January isn’t exactly the most tourist-friendly time of year for Emberstowne. Guess we got lucky that the FAAC decided to host it here this time.”
“We did,” I said. “The Marshfield Hotel is booked up, too, and that rarely happens in the winter.” Turning to Bennett, I said, “You’re very quiet. I would have expected you to have plenty to say. What days do you plan to be there?”
His eyes held an alertness I didn’t understand. As though he wanted to join in our conversation but was holding himself back. I couldn’t imagine why.
“I . . .” He drew the word out. “I will not be attending this year.”
Tooney seemed as surprised as I was. “You always make time for the FAAC convention,” I reminded Bennett, “and the last two were out of the country. This one is, literally, in your backyard. Why wouldn’t you go?”
Shaking his head, Bennett pulled his napkin up to pat his lips. “No desire this time. Too many people, and you know how much I dislike crowds.”
In the world of fine art events, the word crowd was less like the press of humanity attempting to exit after a Disney extravaganza, and more like a fancy cocktail party where everyone smelled good, wore thousand-dollar ensembles, and chitchatted about one-of-a-kind finds.
“You love that sort of thing.” I took a sip of coffee. “I can’t believe you’d want to miss it.”
His napkin on the table before him now, he worried it with the fingers of both hands. “I’ll not be missing it entirely.” He cleared his throat. “I’m hosting a small reception on the last night of the FAAC.”
I lowered my china cup into its saucer so quickly it clattered. “Reception?” I repeated. “I don’t know anything about that. Where are you hosting it?”
Bennett’s cheeks grew a faint shade of pink. “Marshfield. A week from Tuesday.”
“At Marshfield?” I asked, continuing to repeat Bennett’s words as though doing so would help them sink in better. None of this was making sense. “Who organized this? Why don’t I know about it?”
Bennett patted my arm. “No need for you to worry. It’s a small affair, probably no more than a hundred people or so.”
“That’s not small.” Thinking quickly, I asked, “Did Frances help you put this together?” My assistant was usually the first to know everything that was going on. I’d be furious if she’d kept this from me, but relieved to know that Bennett’s plans were in good hands.
“We’re keeping it quiet,” Bennett said. “So, no. She does not.”
I jumped on the word. “We? Who’s we?”
That seemed to unnerve him. “Allow me to rephrase.” Sitting up straighter, he met my eyes. “I didn’t tell you about this because it has nothing to do with regular Marshfield business. This is simp
ly a whim. I’m hosting a few of the . . . shall we say . . . higher-rollers at Marshfield for an intimate get-together at the conclusion of the FAAC event. When I use the term we, I mean that I’ve been in contact with the organizers.”
As curator and manager of the estate, I was in charge of all events, big or small, that took place in the house. “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t have brought me in on this, Bennett. You had to have had a reason.”
He pulled his lips in, stopping himself from answering.
I was hurt to have been excluded. “You obviously don’t want me there,” I said. “I guess I’d like to know why.”
Leaning forward, he placed a hand on my forearm. “No, no, Gracie. I’ve made a mess of this. I simply didn’t want to bother you with organizing another big event.”
Now it was a big event. A moment ago it was an intimate get-together. “What aren’t you telling me, Bennett?”
Tooney piped in. “Is there a particular antique you were hoping to pick up from one of these people?” he asked. “Is that why you’re inviting some of them to your home? So you can negotiate with them privately?”
The sudden shift in Bennett’s expression told me that Tooney had hit a nerve.
Flustered, he waved his hands. “It’s nothing.” He again picked up his napkin and ran it between his fingers. “Like I told you. A whim.”
“Bennett,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you know that you can tell me anything. I’ll keep your confidence. We both will. Why all the secrecy?”
He regained his composure and said, “Today is our day for celebrating.” Taking a final sip of his Champagne, he signaled for the check. “Let’s drop the FAAC topic for now. All will be explained, though probably not for a while. You’ll have to trust me on this one, Gracie.”
Chapter 5
In what had of late become a Sunday morning ritual, my roommates and I sat around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
