The Secret Daughter

by Catherine Spencer

  Apparently she did. How else to account for the wave of disappointment that washed over her when she saw that what used to be Donnelly’s Garage was now a slick, twelve-pump, self-serve gas station owned by a major oil company? She ought to have rejoiced that nothing remained to remind her.

  “Oh, grow up, Imogen!” she muttered, annoyed by what could only be described as blatant self-indulgence. “Instead of wasting time dwelling on a man who, except for one memorable occasion, never spared you a second glance, think about what you’re going to say when you see your mother again because, whatever else might happen, at least she can’t deny you ever existed!”

  Swinging the car in an illegal U-turn and consigning Joe Donnelly to that part of her past she had determined not to revisit, she headed to her hotel. It was almost six o’clock. By the time she’d showered and changed, it would be dinnertime.

  Imogen’s room on the second floor of the Briarwood was handsomely furnished and looked out on the lake. Preferring the flower-scented breeze to the sterile discomfort of the air conditioner, she opened the French windows and stepped out on the small balcony overhanging the gardens. Immediately below, a wedding reception was in progress, with tables set out on the lawn and a wasp-waisted bride, lovely in white organza and orange blossom, holding court beneath an arbor of roses.

  Imogen was unprepared for the envy that stabbed through her at the sight of that young woman. Not because she had a husband and Imogen had not—remaining single was, after all, her choice—but because the bride wore an air of innocence Imogen had lost when she was a teenager.

  Though only just twenty-seven, she felt suddenly old. And bitter. By most standards, she had all those things that mattered in today’s world. She was successful, she had money, and men seemed to find her attractive enough that they asked her out often. One or two had even proposed marriage.

  But inside, where it counted, she was empty. Had been empty for the better part of nine years. And it would take a lot more than a shower and a good dinner to restore her to the kind of optimism that left the bride so luminous with joy.

  If only...

  No! Grief softened with time, the sharp edge of heartbreak melted into kindly nostalgia, and only a fool dwelled on horror. She might have been born and raised in Rosemont, but her future lay half a continent away in Vancouver, and she’d do well to keep reminding herself of that.

  The courthouse clock struck seven. Too keyed up to face dinner, Imogen changed out of the smart linen suit she’d worn for the meeting with her mother and slipped into a thin cotton dress and sandals. A brisk walk would go a lot further toward relaxing her and insuring a good night’s rest than beef Wellington or lobster thermidor in the formal elegance of the hotel dining room.

  Although the air was warm, a slight breeze blew across the lake, stirring the surface of the water to dazzling ripples. Slipping on a pair of sunglasses, Imogen turned right at the foot of the hotel steps and headed west on the shoreline boardwalk, past the pier, the public beach and the band shell, then through the park, to end up some forty minutes later at what used to be the Rosemont Tea Garden.

  Like so many other places, though, this, too, had undergone change. A smart awning covered the fenced patio where faded sun umbrellas had once given shade to patrons. Wicker furniture and woven place mats had replaced the old plastic tables and chairs. And instead of scones, homemade strawberry jam and tea served in mismatched china cups, a chalkboard menu propped by the patio gate offered a selection of chilled soups, salads and trendy pasta dishes.

  Tempted by the thought of langostino salad, Imogen passed through the gate and waited to be seated. It was as she was being shown to a table that a voice exclaimed, “Imogen Palmer, is that you hiding behind those dark glasses?”

  Startled, she looked around to see Patsy Donnelly, of all people, rising from a table just inside the patio’s wrought-iron railing, her dark blue eyes and black hair so much like her brother’s that, without warning, all Imogen’s fine resolutions to stay in charge of herself and the events surrounding her wilted like roses left too long without water.

  Mistaking her stunned silence for nonrecognition, Patsy said, “It’s me, Imogen. Patsy Donnelly. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

  “Of course not,” Imogen said weakly. “I’m just surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

  But if her response was less than enthusiastic, Patsy didn’t seem to notice. Inviting Imogen to join her by pulling out one of the chairs at her table, she laughed and said, “I don’t see why. It is Rosemont’s centennial celebration, after all, not to mention Miss Duncliffe’s big retirement bash. Just about everyone we went to school with is in town, even Joe. I’m just the first of a long line of familiar faces you’ll be running into. How long are you staying?”

  “Not long at all,” Imogen said, suppressing the urge to bolt to the hotel, pack her bags, race to the airport and climb aboard the first flight headed west. Why was Joe Donnelly here when, from everything she’d ever heard, the only time he’d shown the slightest interest in school had been during basketball season?

  Patsy flagged down a waiter, asked him to bring an extra wineglass, then sat regarding Imogen expectantly. “So, tell me about yourself. Are you married? Do you have any children?”

  “No.” Her answer was brief to the point of rude, but not for the life of her could Imogen get past the fact that Joe Donnelly was in town. She couldn’t face him. It was as simple as that! Bad enough that he was resurrecting himself in her memory without her having to confront him in the flesh.

  Patsy leaned forward, her pretty, vivid face creased with concern. “Did I ask the wrong question, Imogen?”

  Realizing she was committing the kind of social gaffe that would have put her mother under the table with shame, Imogen struggled to rally her composure. “No, no. I’m just...surprised you remember me.”

  It wasn’t an entirely moronic observation. She’d been tutored by a governess until she was thirteen and would have been sent to boarding school after that if Suzanne had had her way. But Imogen, desperate to be “ordinary” like the teenagers she saw around town, had prevailed on her father to allow her to attend Rosemont High.

  But she’d never really belonged. Her circle of friends had been limited to those few girls her mother had decided were sufficiently gently reared to associate with a Palmer. In fact, she could count on one hand the number who’d been allowed to set foot inside Deepdene’s gates to enjoy a game of tennis or dabble their well-bred toes in the swimming pool.

  Although Patsy had been universally popular with her schoolmates, she had not met Suzanne’s rigid standards, and the best Imogen had been able to establish with her was an association that, though friendly, had rarely extended beyond the school grounds.

  “Not remember you?” Patsy hooted, gesturing to the waiter to fill both glasses from the open wine bottle on the table. “Imogen, you were the most unforgettable girl ever to pass through the school doors. When we weren’t all terrified of you, we wanted to be just like you. You were—” she stopped and waved both hands as if invoking divine intervention “—a princess in our midst. Mysterious, regal. The Grace Kelly of Rosemont High, which is why—”

  “Why what?” Surprised by Patsy’s sudden awkward silence, Imogen leaned forward, intrigued. “What were you going to say?”

  Patsy shrugged and made a big production of wrapping her paper napkin around the base of her wineglass. “Oh, just that, well, I thought you might be...with someone.”

  “No one special, no.”

  “I see.” Still noticeably ill at ease, Patsy continued to find her napkin fascinating. “So, um, where do you live and what do you do?”

  Imogen continued to regard her curiously. The girl she’d known in school was never at a loss for words, yet Patsy was foundering. “I work for an interior design company in Vancouver.”

  “Interior design!” Her vivacity resurfacing, Patsy grinned delightedly. “My, that has a real Imogen ring to it!”
>
  “Simply put, it means I help rich women decide what color they should paint their bathrooms.”

  “I suspect it involves a lot more than that. You always had a real eye for style. You’re the only girl I ever knew who could make blue jeans and a T-shirt look like high fashion.”

  “Probably because the only way I could persuade my mother to let me wear them in the first place was if they had designer labels sewn on them. But what about you, Patsy? Any husband or children in your life?”

  “No husband, but there are children. I’m an aunt twice over. Dennis is seven and a half, and Jack will be six in October. And they’re adorable, as you’ll see for yourself.” She raised her wineglass, said, “Cheers! Lovely to see you again,” then went on without a pause. “Joe took the boys fishing for minnows in Flanagan’s Slough, and I met some of the old gang from school for dinner here earlier, but I don’t have a car to get home, so he’s stopping by to give me a lift.”

  Imogen sat there like stone, unable to drum up anything resembling a coherent response to the stream of information Patsy directed her way. Whatever else she’d thought herself prepared for, the possibility that Joe had settled down to family life had never once occurred to her. If she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning, the shock couldn’t have been more acute. But that’s not fair, she wanted to howl. If he was going to fall in love anyway, why couldn’t it have been with me?

  “Did you go into nursing as you planned?” she managed to ask with a semblance of normality when Patsy stopped speaking.

  “Oh, yes. Got my degree, took some post-grad training in neonatal care and have worked at Toronto General on the maternity floor ever since, looking after the premature babies. I love it, although it’s heartbreaking at times. But the miracle of birth never ceases to thrill me, especially when a baby survives despite the odds.”

  The sun still sparkled on the lake, but Imogen was lost in a sudden darkness. How was it possible for old pain to rise up and consume a person so thoroughly that her vision was clouded by it and a giant fist seemed to be squeezing the life out of her heart? “I have to go,” she said, rising up from her chair almost violently.

  “But you only just got here!”

  “I know. But I just remembered—”

  Too much. Far, far too much!

  In her haste, she stumbled against the table and sent the contents of her handbag flying. Her wallet fell out and hit the patio with such a thump that the change purse opened, scattering loose coins under the adjoining table.

  As if they’d been waiting for just such a windfall, two small boys appeared out of the lengthening shadows and, like beggars foraging for scraps, scooped up the shiny nickels and dimes with shrieks of glee.

  Imogen didn’t need the chill of premonition creeping up her spine to tell her she’d waited too long to make her escape. Who but offshoots of the Donnelly clan could have been blessed with such unruly cowlicks, such thick black hair, such startlingly blue eyes? The boys scrabbling at her feet were miniature replicas of Joe, devils in the making. And if they were here, could he be far behind?

  CHAPTER TWO

  “GIVE the lady her money, kids.” Smooth and seductive as black satin, his voice practically stroked the back of her neck.

  The boys could have robbed her of her last dollar for all Imogen cared. At that precise moment her only concern was that she not make a spectacle of herself. The last time she’d seen Joe Donnelly, she’d been an emotional mess. She would not appear the same way again. If anyone was to be caught at a disadvantage, it would be he.

  Exercising an hauteur not even her mother could have matched, Imogen turned her head ever so casually and spared him a brief over-the-shoulder glance. “Oh, hello. It’s Joe, isn’t it?”

  The effort was worth what it cost her, if only to witness the way his jaw dropped and his sultry black lashes spiked upward as the famous Donnelly eyes widened in shocked recognition.

  “Imogen?” His voice changed, losing its baritone resonance and emerging rusty as a chunk of old metal fished from the depths of the lake.

  “That’s right.” Even though her insides were churning, she flashed a cool, impersonal smile and tucked a few retrieved articles inside her bag. “Imogen Palmer. Patsy and I went to school together and were just reminiscing over old times.”

  “The hell you say!”

  He sounded as if he were being strangled. If she hadn’t been in such pain, she might have enjoyed his discomfiture. Instead, since there was no other way for her to escape unless she chose to vault over the iron railing separating the patio from the park, she steeled herself to turn and face him.

  Oh, he was beautiful! Contrary to all she’d told herself, he was as trim and fit a specimen of manhood as any woman could wish for. Despite the intensified gloom under the awning, she could see that his face was more chiseled than it had been when he was twenty-three, defining more fully the character of the man he’d become. He stood tall and proud, the rebel in him controlled but not tamed.

  “Well,” she said, turning away before he read the desolation she knew must show in her eyes, “it’s been nice seeing you again, Patsy. Sorry we didn’t have more time to chat.”

  Patsy looked from her to Joe, her expressive face betraying utter confusion. “But—”

  One of the boys held out a grimy paw. “Here’s your money, lady.”

  “Thank you,” Imogen said, avoiding his clear-eyed gaze. She could not bear to look at him or his brother. Stepping past them and the man at their side, she said, “Sorry to rush off like this, Patsy, but we’ll probably see each other again in the next day or so. Goodbye, Joe. You have lovely children.”

  She hoped she made a dignified exit. Spine straight, she tried to move with the unhurried grace of a fashion model through the maze of tables which wove an obstacle course between her and the gate. Only when she’d covered a hundred yards or so of her return journey along the shoreline boardwalk and was a safe distance from the restaurant did she allow herself to slump against the promenade wall and draw a shaking hand over her face.

  Surprised, she found she was crying. Not with the great, harrowing, painful sobs she’d endured when Joe Donnelly had left her nine summers before. Not with the mourning hopelessness she’d known when she’d walked out of Colthorpe Clinic the following spring, her arms as empty as her heart. But silently, with tears flowing warm and unchecked down her cheeks.

  Footsteps intruded on the silence, and again premonition shivered over her, warning her that escape was not to be so easily bought. A second later his voice, in control, bore out the fact. “Not so fast, Imogen.”

  Appalled, she fished a tissue out of her bag, swabbed at her tears and tried to blow her nose discreetly. “What is it?” she asked, grateful for the blessed camouflage of twilight. “Did I forget something?”

  He touched her, placing his hand on her shoulder as if he were about to arrest her for loitering. “Apparently you did.”

  “Really?” Trying to shrug him off, she peered into her bag as intently as if she expected to find a snake hidden there. Anything was preferable to looking him in the eye. “What?”

  “Us,” he said, spinning her to face him. “Or did you hope I’d forgotten that Patsy wasn’t the only Donnelly you were familiar with at one time?”

  “He is immoral, insolent and socially unacceptable,” her mother had raged when she’d learned Joe had brought Imogen home from her high school graduation dance. “Should he dare to set foot on this property again, I will have him arrested for trespassing.”

  But while he undoubtedly possessed more than his share of faults, unflinching honesty had been but one of Joe Donnelly’s strengths, and he’d lost nothing of his penchant for confrontation. Where other men might have gone along with Imogen’s pretense that they were nothing but the most casual of acquaintances, he was determined to challenge her on it.

  “I hoped you’d be gentleman enough not to remind me,” she said.

  His voice hardened. “But I’m
not a gentleman, Imogen. I never was. Surely you hadn’t forgotten that?”

  How did she answer? By confessing that simply seeing him again was enough to make her long for the feel of his mouth on hers? That it was suddenly too easy to look at the star-sprinkled sky and remember how, the night he’d loved her, the wash of the summer moon had turned his skin to pale gold? Or that, if she matched his truth with one of her own, she’d have to admit he was the most exciting man she’d ever met and he’d spoiled her for anyone else?

  “How could I have forgotten?” she asked, overwhelmed by the vicious ache of memory. “A gentleman would have...”

  He heard the unguarded desolation in her tone. “What?” he asked, his gaze scouring her face. “What would a gentleman have done that I didn’t do?”

  Found a way to stay in touch, she wanted to reply. He’d have called or written or shown up at the door and refused to go away. He’d have been beside me when I needed him, and to hell with whether or not my mother approved He’d have shared my grief. But you did none of those things because you didn’t care. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Our...what happened between us that night...”

  “Yes, Imogen? Exactly what did happen?”

  He was taunting her, daring her to speak as bluntly as he did. Well, why not? Why should she step delicately, afraid to trample on his feelings, while he stomped roughshod over hers?

  “We had sex, Joe. A one-night stand. The ice princess needed to learn what ‘it’ was really all about, and who better to teach her than the guy who’d already had every other willing girl in town? Is that what you want to hear?”

  “No,” he said, his hands falling from her as if he’d found he was touching slime. “I was hoping you’d tell the truth, for a change.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  He swung his gaze from her and stared across the darkening lake. “I never deluded myself about why you turned to me that night, Imogen. But even allowing for that, I still believed you came away from our—” he curled his lip scornfully “—encounter feeling better about yourself. So I hope to hell you are lying now.”