His smile broadened, making the hair on the back of Imogen’s neck stand up. “You’re in danger of dying even sooner than that, because I’m going to wring your scrawny neck if you don’t tell me where my daughter is.”
For long seconds, the two adversaries engaged in a standoff. Eyeball to eyeball, they faced each other, but Suzanne’s indignation was no match for Joe’s implacable anger. For the second time that day, she crumpled, sagging onto the sofa as if her legs had been knocked out from under her. “That won’t be necessary.”
The seconds spun out, measured by the uneven splash of the fountain outside, by the heavy thud of Imogen’s heart, by the rhythmic clenching and relaxing of Joe’s fists. “We’re waiting,” he said in that same soft, deadly tone. “And I’m running out of patience. Where is she, old woman?”
Suzanne raised her hand, then lowered it in a feeble gesture of defeat. “She is a day student at a very good school in Norbury, which, as you might know, lies just west of Niagara Falls.”
The name triggered a memory in Imogen’s mind. Of course! The canceled check to St. Martha’s, which she’d stumbled on in her mother’s desk—when? Mere days ago. Or was it in another lifetime, one that revolved around work and friends, around dinner dates, the theater, long ski weekends and all those other components that form the structure of a successful single woman’s social calendar?
What did it matter? She was no longer that person. She was a mother again and, within a very few hours, might well lay eyes on her child for the first time! Where would she find the patience to wait so long?
Unaware of Imogen’s agitation, Suzanne smoothed the thumb of one hand over the knuckles of the other, then lifted her gaze to Joe. “We do not like each other, Mr. Donnelly, and I doubt that we ever will, but I am not the ogress you paint me to be. In trying to protect my daughter, I did not abandon yours. I have cared for her the best way I knew how without compromising Imogen’s chance to put a most unhappy and unfortunate incident behind her and go forward to make a fresh start elsewhere. Perhaps I was wrong. I might even have misjudged you, and if that is so, then I am deeply sorry.”
He made no secret of his disgust. “The apology comes too late, Mrs. Palmer. Nothing you’ve done makes up for the fact that Imogen and I have lost eight years of our child’s life.”
“No. But at least you can pick up the thread now.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” he snapped. “Your coming clean at this stage hardly entitles either of us to bang on some couple’s door and demand to have our daughter turned over to us. How in God’s name do we wrench her away from the only family she’s ever known? How do we justify having left it this long to announce ourselves? And how do we prove to complete strangers that we are who we claim to be? Answer me those questions, and I might feel more disposed to accept your apology.”
A spark of Suzanne’s normal fire reasserted itself. “If I thought it would help, I’d let you have your pound of flesh, Mr. Donnelly, but I think a more useful alternative might be if I were to tell you that the problems you foresee are not as insurmountable as you might expect. The woman I entrusted with my granddaughter’s care is no stranger to Imogen. She is the same woman who looked after her when she was a child.”
Imogen stared at her mother openmouthed.
“Yes, Imogen.” Suzanne nodded. “I’m talking about Mona Wyborn, your old nanny. She’s the one who took your baby and gave her a home.”
Finally, Imogen found her voice. “I thought she was dead, too,” she said, and then, to her dismay, she began laughing and couldn’t stop. Cackle upon cackle rolled out and echoed around the high-ceilinged solarium. She sounded, she thought, clamping a hand over mouth, as shrill as an old hen trying feebly to lay one last egg.
“Shut up, Imogen,” Joe said.
“I can’t,” she spluttered, collapsing onto the nearest sofa. “I mailed her Christmas cards for years, you see, and they always came back unopened and marked return to sender, just like in the song.” The laughter choked her again, and tears gushed from her eyes. “Isn’t that funny, Joe?”
“No,” he said, and hauled her into his arms. “Hush, now, sweetheart. You’ll scare the pants off her if we go looking for our daughter with you in this state.”
“Well, I don’t see why. At least she’ll know I’m happy to see her.” Except that wasn’t true because the laughter had died, and to her dismay, she realized she was sobbing against his shoulder as if her heart would break.
“I’ll order some tea,” her mother said.
“Do that,” Joe replied, as if he was the master of the house.
It was enough to start the hen trying to lay all over again. But he put a stop to that by stroking her spine over and over until, at last, the hiccupping sobs subsided and she could draw breath again.
Limp and unaccountably exhausted, she leaned into his embrace. She could have stayed like that forever; soaking up the comfort she found in his touch and the wonderful sense of belonging that came from being held in his arms. But he put a stop to that, too, and held her away from him.
“Feeling better?”
“Actually—” she sniffled “—I feel rather ridiculous. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out, Imogen. You’ve been on an emotional roller coaster practically from the minute you set foot in town, and you’re exhausted.”
She looked up and saw the concern in his eyes. “Don’t look so worried, Joe. I’ll be fine. The worst is over.”
“Do you think so?” he asked. “My guess is, it’s only just begun.”
“How can you say that? Our little girl is alive.” Her smile started at the corners of her mouth and spread until every part of her body felt bathed by its warmth. “Think about it! In a few hours we’ll meet her. See her, speak to her, touch her.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think any further ahead than that.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, princess, but—”
“Then don’t.” She shook her head and pressed her hand against his mouth. “Right now, today is all I can deal with. Please don’t ask me to worry about tomorrow.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, then let out a sigh and kissed her fingertips. “Okay, Imogen, have it your way. But don’t delude yourself this is going to be any sort of picnic. We’re about to turn at least two lives upside-down. Make sure you save enough strength to deal with the consequences.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE house sat in the curve of a quiet crescent, with a neat patch of lawn behind a white picket fence and green shutters framing the windows. The roof was steeply gabled, the walls whitewashed brick. A stone-paved path meandered from the gate to where tall red hollyhocks stood sentinel beside the front door. The only thing missing from the postcard-perfect picture was a fat tabby cat snoozing in the afternoon sun.
“Well, here goes.” Joe glanced at the house, then at her. “Are you ready for this?”
Was she? She didn’t know. Her hands were wet, the palms imprinted with the dents made by her nails. Her stomach felt hollow with expectation at the same time that fear left a metallic aftertaste on her tongue.
Joe peered at her suspiciously. “You’re not going to go strange on me again, are you?”
She didn’t answer. Her attention was drawn to the woman who’d appeared from around the side of the house. Wiping her palms on the apron tied around her middle, she approached the visitors. Her hair was grayer than Imogen remembered, her face more lined, her hands more worn, but her smile hadn’t changed. She even smelled the same, of old English lavender laced with starch, and although Imogen had to stoop to kiss her cheek, she still gave the warmest hugs in the world.
“Well, bless my soul, darling child, you’re here at last!” Mona Wyborn crooned, enfolding Imogen to her. “I’ve been watching and waiting ever since your mother phoned to let me know you were coming.”
“Mother called and told you?”
“Yes. She thought it best that I be prepared.” Mona stepped back and mopped unashamedly with her apron at the tears trickling down her face. “Well, just look at you, my baby! All grown-up and as beautiful now as the day you were born. Oh, many’s the time I’ve wanted to get in touch, Imogen. I promised your mother I’d keep her secret, though, and I couldn’t go back on my word. But I’m glad you’re here now and that you know about Cassie. It’s time the truth came out.”
Imogen hung onto the gate, her emotions so hopelessly tangled that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Is that what you call her? Cassie?”
“Well, her real name’s Cassandra, but it’s a big mouthful for a little girl, so everyone calls her Cassie. Except her gran, of course.” Eyes twinkling, Mona transferred her attention to Joe, who waited patiently on the sidelines. “I don’t imagine I have to tell you that Mrs. P.’s a stickler for having things done right.”
“No, ma’am, you don’t.” His smile, so open and warm, left Imogen’s heart aching. He’d never shown her such courtly charm. She hadn’t known he had it in him. “I got that message loud and clear a long time ago. I’m Joe Donnelly, by the way. Cassie’s father.”
Mona gave him a hug, too, something he didn’t appear to mind one bit. “You don’t have to tell me that, young man! The child’s the living image of her daddy.”
Glancing toward the house, Imogen said, “Is she here, Mona? May we see her?”
“Well, darling, I sent her over to play with a friend.” As she spoke, Mona led them to the front door. “I thought it might be easier on everyone not to have her here when you first arrived. But she’s not far away, no more than a few houses, and she can be home in five minutes, once you feel ready to face her.”
The front door led into a tiny hall, which opened directly into a large cozy living room filled with chintzcovered sofas and chairs and dark cherry furniture. A spindled staircase hugged one wall, and there was a cat, after all, not a tabby but a snooty Siamese who reclined elegantly on the back of a wing chair beside the fireplace and watched from impassive blue eyes as strangers invaded his territory.
“It isn’t much, compared to what you’re used to, Imogen,” Mona said, looking around with pride, “but it’s warm and comfortable in the winter, I have just enough garden to keep me happy in the summer, and I love it. Cassie has her own big room upstairs with a spare bed for a friend, and the school bus picks her up and drops her off at the gate every day. She’s been happy here, darling, and I’ve done my best to bring her up the way you’d want.”
Overcome, Imogen flung her arms around her old nanny a second time. “Oh, I’m so glad you were the one who looked after her and that you kept her safe for me! As for your house, it’s lovely, Mona. Exactly the kind of place I always imagined you’d choose and perfect for a little girl.”
“Well, your mother and I had quite a go-round about that at the time. She was all for moving me into something more ‘suitable,’ but I dug my heels in. Bad enough, I told her, that I was deceiving you and forbidden to so much as send you a birthday card, and you as dear to me as if you were my own child all those years. Worse, I had to remove all the photos I’d kept of you since you were a baby and hide them away on the top shelf of the closet in my bedroom, so that Cassie wouldn’t ask questions. As if that would put a stop to a child’s natural curiosity about where she came from!”
“Are you saying she’s asked about us?” Joe asked sharply.
Indicating a door, Mona said, “Why don’t we talk in the kitchen while I make us some tea?”
Painted sunny yellow, the kitchen ran the width of the house, with deep-silled windows looking out on a fenced back garden. Bird feeders hung from the branches of an ancient oak, below which was a stone birdbath.
Mona filled a copper kettle, set it to heat on the stove and lifted a japanned tea caddy from a shelf. “The thing is,” she said, “Cassie’s been asking questions for a while now. She’s a smart little girl and she sees that the life she has here with me isn’t the same as what her friends have.”
Imogen exchanged an anxious glance with Joe. “What have you told her, Mona?”
“Well, she calls me Nanny, and she knows that the lady who comes to visit once a month is her grandmother who lives in another town. For a long time, that was enough. But lately, she’s started asking where her real mommy and daddy are. I’ve said that sometimes things don’t work out the way they’re supposed to, but...” She sighed and flung a sheepish look over her shoulder. “But that if a person wishes and prays, some day she might get the things she wants.”
“And now some day is here, and we don’t have the first idea how to explain why it’s taken us so long to show up.” Too overwrought to remain seated, at the table, Imogen paced nervously to the window.
Joe, on the other hand, seemed completely selfassured. “Calm down, princess. All we can do is play it by ear. The right words’ll come, you’ll see.”
“Easy for you to say,” she said scornfully. He thought he had the answers to everything, as, in a way, he had. Because he’d been as much sinned against as his daughter and was in no way to blame for the fact that she’d been denied access to her parents.
Mona watched the robins splashing in the birdbath, turning away only when the kettle let out a shrill whistle. She waited until she’d poured the tea before she said, “Well, I think we all know it’s not going to be easy, lovey, but in my opinion, Joe’s right. Maybe the best thing we can do is let Cassie come home and meet you, and just leave the rest up to her. She’s not a shy child. If she wants to know something, she’ll ask. And if you want my advice, the best thing you can do is answer her as honestly as you know how.” She paused inquiringly. “Well? Shall I phone and have her come home?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “Let’s get on with it.”
They waited as she dialed a number. Waited as she spoke to someone at the other end. Waited as she hung up.
“She’s on her way,” Mona said.
They waited some more. A minute? Two? A hundred?
The tea sat cooling in the cups.
Then the front gate clanged. Footsteps raced up the path. The front door slammed shut. And the waiting was over.
“I’m afraid,” Imogen cried, clutching the edge of the table in a death grip.
Joe nudged her sharply with his elbow. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re about to meet our child. What is there to be afraid of?”
How could he be so sure of himself, she wondered, sagging against him. How be so brave?
She was the most beautiful child he’d ever seen. Dark and vivacious, with a gap-toothed smile to steal a man’s heart away, and bright blue eyes that looked squarely into his, she fairly danced into the kitchen, a sprite of a girl with her mother’s delicate bones and his coloring, both stamped with an individuality that was all her own.
He didn’t know when he’d found his chair again, whether he’d fallen into it by accident or chosen to sit on purpose. He didn’t remember reaching over to hang on to Imogen’s hand like a drowning man clinging to a life ring, or if he managed to stretch his mouth into some sort of smile when his daughter beamed at him delightedly and said hello. But he knew at once that he’d move heaven and earth before he’d let anyone try to cut him out of her life again.
Numbly, he watched Imogen reach over and shake her hand. How the hell did she do it? The kid was her daughter, for crying out loud! How did she stop herself from sweeping her into her arms and smothering her with kisses? How did she keep her smile pinned in place?
They were talking, the three of them. He saw their mouths move, although what came out might as well have been Swahili for all it meant to him. Women’s gabble, that’s all it was. The kid—no, not kid! Cassie. His daughter. Cassie leaned against her nanny and twined a skinny arm around her waist. He’d have given ten years of his life to have her smile at him like that, as if he’d hung the moon.
Mona Wyborn was a good woman, he had no doubt of that. Her old face wa
s wreathed in love for the girl. But damn it, she was neither mother nor father, though she’d had to fill the role of both for the last eight years. And why? Because of that interfering old cow, Suzanne Palmer. If she’d been a man, he’d have flattened her.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
The question, he realized, had been aimed at him. By his daughter. The one he’d been denied all these years. She had a voice like music, like a creek cascading down a hillside. Like the wind in April. Sweet, reviving.
“Duh?” he replied, sounding more like a congenital idiot than a man in control of the situation.
Mona, good woman that she was, leaped to his rescue. “Well, of course they are, darling,” she chuckled. “We’re going to barbecue hamburgers, and I baked a rhubarb pie this afternoon. In a little while, when we’ve finished our tea, you can help me pick lettuce out of the garden, and we’ll make a salad.”
The gappy, winsome smile came into play again. “Can we eat outside at the picnic table and toast marshmallows, as well?”
“If our guests don’t mind roughing it a bit.”
Imogen picked up the conversational ball, tossing it smoothly back and forth. Just as well. About the only things he felt up to tossing were his cookies.
They were at it again, the women. Yammering on as they cleared the cups away and started hauling stuff out of the refrigerator. Meanwhile, his daughter unscrewed the top of a jar and chirped something about feeding the goldfish in the backyard pond.
Passing behind her, Imogen stroked a hand over Cassie’s hair and said she wished her hair was curly like that. Cassie looked at her, the beginnings of hero worship lighting her eyes. He guessed it made sense. Imogen was pretty and young and stylish, exactly the kind of woman a little girl would look up to and admire, whereas he—what the hell had he to offer?
“What I’d really like is a horse,” he heard his daughter say with an enchanting giggle. “But goldfish don’t eat as much or take up as much room.”
I could give you a horse, he wanted to tell her. If things were as they ought to be, I could teach you to ride and buy you everything you need to become a firstrate equestrienne.
The Secret Daughter Page 12
