by Mary Marks
We stood like that in silence for several seconds, each lost in our own thoughts. Then he kissed the top of my head. “I bet it was Quincy. Ask her if she sent you the kit.”
After dinner, I called my daughter, who lived three thousand miles away in Boston.
“Hi, Mom. I’m glad you phoned. I wondered when it would arrive. I paid extra for expedited service, so the sooner you send them your sample, the sooner we’ll know.”
“Wait, honey. Slow down. What is it you’re looking for?”
“Okay. After you told me the real story about my mysterious grandfather, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I mean, who was he? Where did he come from? I figured you had to be curious, too. Right? Consider this an early Hanukkah present.”
“That’s very generous, Quincy. Thanks. But why can’t you just send in your own DNA? Won’t you get the same answers?”
“I have sent in a sample. But you’ve inherited fifty percent of your father’s DNA. I’ve only got a twenty-five percent share. Your sample will get a more complete picture of who he was and where he came from. Besides, don’t you deserve to know who you really are after all those years of deception? Be brave, Mom. Do it for yourself. Do it for me. And when you fill out the form, be sure to check the option to share information with other subscribers so I can see the results, too.”
I sighed. “Well, if it means that much to you, I’ll send off the sample tomorrow.”
“Awesome. Who knows? We could be related to English aristocracy.”
Oh my God. Didn’t Lucy say the same thing? “But what if we’re related to a Sardinian pig farmer, instead?”
She giggled. “In that case, those little piggies would have nothing to fear from you. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”
CHAPTER 2
Eight days after I dropped my DNA sample in the mail, a message from Deep Roots arrived in my in-box. My heart sped up a little and I stared at my computer screen. After such a long time, was I finally ready to learn the truth about my father?
Crusher wasn’t around to give me moral support, so I called my best friend. “Lucy, I just got a message saying my DNA results are ready. You may think I’m crazy, but I’m all by myself and I’m kind of scared to look.”
Fifteen minutes later, she strode through my door, wearing an Ann Taylor gray pantsuit and a rope of twisted yellow gold around her neck.
“You look great,” I said. “Why are you all dressed up?”
“Ray and I have a meeting with our lawyer in a half hour. I’ve only got a few minutes.”
We sat at my kitchen table, where I had parked my laptop. The cursor blinked beside the link on the e-mail.
“Okay, hon.” She leaned in so closely I could smell her Jungle Gardenia perfume. “Take a deep breath and click on the link.”
“Here goes nothing.” One tap on the keyboard and a green double helix logo filled the home page of Deep Roots. I followed the instructions to log in and got a welcome message, along with a menu of options. Ancestry sat at the top of the list. I glanced at Lucy.
“Go on,” she urged.
I tapped again and a pie chart filled the screen. Half was colored blue and the other half was divided into different-colored slices. “Look. Only half of my DNA is Ashkenazi Jewish. I now know for sure my father was Gentile.” The other pieces of the pie revealed I had Northwestern European ancestry, with a heavy dose of British and Irish genes, and just a smattering of German.
“Are you surprised?” Lucy asked.
“Not really. There weren’t many Jews in the small town in Iowa where my family lived, so I kind of expected as much. Besides, Quinn isn’t a Jewish name—it’s Irish. I looked it up once. It can be either a first or a last name.”
Lucy pursed her lips. “Irish. Is that where Quincy gets her red hair?”
My daughter had a head full of spectacular copper-colored curls, milky skin, and hazel eyes.
“I think so. When Quincy was a baby, my mother used to look at her funny. ‘She looks just like your father,’ she’d say. Then Uncle Isaac would rush in and change the subject. Now I know why. He was keeping me from asking too many questions.”
“Your uncle was only trying to protect you.”
“Still, I should have pressed my mother for more details. It’s too late now. Whatever else she knew about my father, she took to her grave.”
Lucy tapped the computer screen. “Let’s see what else you can find out.”
I returned to the home page and looked at the other options. “This one says DNA Relatives. Quincy has already signed up, so she should be listed.” I clicked on the link and gasped.
Of the hundreds of thousands of people who had registered with Deep Roots, I had fifteen hundred relatives, mostly distant cousins with names I’d never heard of. The list was sorted in descending order of shared DNA, with the closest relatives at the top.
“Dang!” Lucy turned to look at me. “Did you know?”
I covered my mouth with my hands, trying to overcome the shock. As expected, Quincy’s name topped the list with her relationship listed as daughter and shared DNA as 50 percent. It was the next name that emptied my head and filled my stomach with butterflies.
Giselle Cole. Half sister. 25% shared DNA.
“I, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” I stammered. “A man like Quinn probably left a dozen offspring spread across the country.”
“Do you think your daughter knew about her?”
I stared at my friend. “You’re right! Quincy submitted her own DNA to Deep Roots. She must’ve known. Giselle Cole would’ve shown up on her list as an aunt. Why didn’t she just come right out and tell me?”
Lucy cocked her head to the side and raised her well-drawn eyebrows. “Maybe she didn’t know how. Or maybe she wanted more information before saying anything. After all, she is a news reporter. She probably wanted to get her facts straight. The real question is, what are you going to do now that you know you have a sister somewhere?”
“I should contact her.” I followed the link that led me to Giselle’s page, with a space to type in a message. I swallowed the panic rising in my throat. “What should I say?”
“I don’t think there’s a rule book for this.”
The keyboard clacked as I typed, Hi. My name is Martha, and, as you can see, we’re sisters. I’d really like to talk. Please contact me or let me know how I can contact you. I entered my e-mail and phone number.
“Looks good to me.” Lucy pushed her chair away from the table and stood to leave.
“Right.” I sent off the message. “Now we just wait.”
After Lucy left, I tried searching for Giselle on Facebook but ran into a dead end. I called Quincy. With the three-hour time difference, I figured she’d be back from lunch. But I only got her voice mail. “Hi, honey. I got my DNA results today. Obviously, I don’t have to tell you what I found out. Call me back ASAP.”
I thought about calling Uncle Isaac with the news but decided to wait until I had a chance to get some answers about my half sister, Giselle. My head felt like a pinball machine, with questions bouncing around in random patterns. How old was she? Where did she live? How much could she tell me about our father? Did she even know him, or did he abandon her mother the way he did mine?
Finally, I turned to the one thing that always helped me order my thoughts. I retrieved my newest quilt from the sewing room. This was an election year, and I was sick to death of all the political ads on television. Besides, daytime TV never appealed to me. I tuned my radio to the classical music station. I settled on my sofa and let Beethoven and Telemann calm me down. I soon became lost in the rhythm of laying down small, even stitches through the three layers of my Prairie Braid quilt. The rectangular pieces of cloth were joined at an angle to form a herringbone pattern. As I sewed up and down the middle of each piece, a secondary design emerged in the stitching: chevrons marching across the top.
The insistent shrill of the phone jolted me out of my reverie.
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br /> “Hi, Mom. I’m so glad you found out about your sister, because we can finally talk about it. I knew once you saw the DNA evidence, you’d probably want to know more. Are you mad at me for not telling you sooner?”
“No. Discovering I have a sister was shocking. I’m still reeling. But what else can you expect from a man who seduces a naïve eighteen-year-old and then abandons her when she becomes pregnant?”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I’ve already sent Giselle Cole a message on the Deep Roots website. I’m hoping she’ll respond.” A new thought hit me. “Did you try to contact her?”
“No. I decided that was your decision to make. And I’m glad you did. Um, there’s another reason I called. I’ve booked a flight from Boston to LA on Sunday to see Noah again.”
Crap! Crap! Crap! Three months ago, Quincy began dating LAPD Detective Noah Kaplan. I could see why young women would be attracted to his dark eyes, olive skin, and thick head of black curls. Kaplan was tall, fit, and presented the perfect package, at least on the outside.
But I couldn’t stand the guy. He’d arrested me once and I had to spend the night in jail. After that, our paths crossed during a couple of murder investigations. Each time they did, he was arrogant and rude and totally disrespectful. To make the situation much worse, his senior partner was Arlo Beavers, my ex-boyfriend.
When Kaplan met my beautiful daughter, Quincy, his attitude toward me abruptly changed. He became overly polite. Almost smarmy. And Quincy seemed blind to his posturing.
I missed my daughter and didn’t want to spoil my chances and alienate her by challenging her judgment in men. I swallowed my objections. “Fabulous. We always look forward to your visits. Especially Uncle Isaac. You know how much he adores you.”
“Yeah. He’s really pushing me to find a nice Jewish boy and settle down.” She chuckled. “I think he wants it to be Noah.”
I gritted my teeth when I remembered how my uncle had invited Kaplan to Passover earlier this year. Ever since then, Kaplan and Quincy had plunged into a bicoastal romance. I kept hoping the long separations might dump ice on the fire, but so far, it seemed to have the opposite effect.
“And you know what, Mom? I think Uncle Isaac is right. I think Noah is the one.”
Just shoot me.
“There’s another thing,” she continued. “Don’t bother to get my old room ready. I’ll be staying with him.”
“Who? Uncle Isaac?”
“No, silly. With Noah.”
My stomach felt like I was in an elevator plunging ten stories down. Could I think of some way to stop this love affair before it was too late? I shuddered at the possibility of Kaplan calling me Mom one day.
“Quincy, honey, do you think that’s such a good idea? After all, you don’t really know much about him.” Like what an arrogant little weasel he is.
“That’s the whole point. How can I find out if we don’t spend more time together?”
Dear God, please let Kaplan screw up this visit. Amen. “Well, you can always stay here if—you know—things don’t work out.”
“Come on, Mom. I’m thirty-two, not some dumb little teenager. I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
Except in this situation. I realized there was nothing I could do but bite my tongue and hope she discovered the real Kaplan on her own.
“I’ve gotta run. Call me the moment you hear from your sister.”
I stared at the silent phone. Uncle Isaac had encouraged me to settle down with Crusher, and he’d been right. Now he was encouraging Quincy to settle down with Kaplan. I wished I could trust his wisdom on this one, but I couldn’t ignore my past experiences. Hopefully, the attraction between the two lovers would run its course and fizzle out before it was too late.
Crusher returned home at six, just as I took the chicken out of the oven.
He greeted me with a kiss and plopped in a chair at the kitchen table. “How was your day, babe?”
I transferred the succulent bird to a serving platter, being careful not to break the crispy skin I had carefully basted. “Like no other.” I turned to look at him. “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”
He frowned. “Let’s get the bad news out of the way first.”
“I spoke to Quincy and she told me she’s coming for a visit on Sunday.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“She’ll be staying with Noah Kaplan.”
“Oh.” I could tell he wanted to say more, but he didn’t comment. “So, what’s the good news?”
“My DNA results came back and I now know my father was definitely Gentile. Mostly Irish, which explains my daughter’s red hair.”
“How do you feel? Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah. But that’s not the only news.” I took a deep breath. “I have a half sister somewhere.”
He slowly combed his fingertips through his beard. “A sister? Wow! What’s her name? How old is she? Where does she live? Are you going to contact her?”
“Her name is Giselle Cole. I tried looking for her on Facebook. I even tried G. Cole. But there were forty-two of them. I gave up after scrolling through the list. Since I didn’t have more information to go on, they all could’ve been her. I did, however, send her an e-mail on the Deep Roots website. Hopefully she’ll get in touch.”
We enjoyed a dinner of baked chicken, roasted asparagus, rosemary potatoes, and my favorite Ruffino Classico Chianti. Since I cooked, Crusher cleared the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. I headed for the living room to turn on Jeopardy!
Just then my phone rang. The number on caller ID was local, but I didn’t recognize it.
A woman’s voice said, “Is this Martha Rose?”
I rolled my eyes. I detested phone solicitors, especially when they called after five. “Do you always bother people at dinnertime? Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. Take me off your list!” I ended the call abruptly.
Almost immediately, the phone rang again, showing the same number on caller ID.
“Are you some kind of idiot? Did you not just hear me? I’m not interested!”
“Don’t be so tiresome.”
“What?”
“This is Giselle Cole, and you’re the idiot.”
CHAPTER 3
Nine hours ago I didn’t even know I had a half sister and now I’d just insulted her. “Sorry about that. I thought you were just another phone jockey making a cold call.”
“Obviously.” Her tone was unmistakably frosty.
“I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot, Giselle. I mean, I just found out about you this morning and I’m still in shock.”
“How do you think I feel? When I opened my e-mail this evening, I found a notice from Deep Roots saying a relative had contacted me. I almost didn’t bother going to the website because finding a third or fourth cousin is common. Everyone has hundreds of them. I’ve even been contacted by a few in the past, but the connections were too distant to be helpful. But discovering a half sister? That’s exactly the kind of thing I was hoping for when I sent in my DNA.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I want to know what happened to Daddy.”
Daddy? So, she knew him! Quinn had stuck around for Giselle, at least long enough for her to call him Daddy.
“We need to talk,” I said. “I see by your area code you’re calling from West LA. I live in Encino, not that far away. Let’s get together tomorrow. Maybe for coffee at my house?”
“Encino? Not likely. I avoid going to the Valley if I can. We’ll be more comfortable here. I live south of Sunset on Napoli Drive. It’s across from the greens of the Riviera Country Club in the Palisades. Do you know it?”
Sunset Boulevard ran through a string of wealthy communities, with thousands of multimillion-dollar homes beginning at the ocean in Malibu and cutting east through the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains into Hollywood. A house next to the greens of one of the country’s premier golf courses m
ust’ve been worth millions. When I was married to Aaron Rose, MD, we owned a modest home in the expensive zip code just east of the Palisades. “Yes. I know the area. I used to live in Brentwood.”
“Really? And you ended up in the Valley?” She clicked her tongue. “What happened?”
I couldn’t decide if she was being condescending or just insensitive. Either way, I tried not to growl. “Fine. Why don’t you give me your address and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Crusher finished in the kitchen, sat next to me on the sofa, and handed me a cup of mint tea. “You seem upset, babe. Who was that?”
I told him I’d just spoken to my half sister. “I’m not looking forward to meeting her in the morning.” I frowned and stared at the steam rising from the white mug. “She’s a bit of a snob.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
I looked over at the six-foot-six-inch bearded biker and shook my head. His looks could intimidate anyone into silence. “Thanks, Yossi, but I’ve got to do this alone. She might speak more freely if it’s just the two of us.”
* * *
The following morning, I agonized over what to wear. My usual stretch denim jeans, T-shirt, and Crocs would send the wrong message to a member of the country club set. I finally settled on a white linen pantsuit Jazz had forced me to buy “In case you actually go somewhere” and white espadrilles. For color I wore a turquoise silk tank top under the tailored jacket. And, of course, my three-carat diamond engagement ring. I’d show Giselle she wasn’t the only one with nice things.
I drove south on the 405 Freeway and exited at Sunset in Brentwood. I continued west for miles past a parade of luxurious homes flanking the boulevard on both sides. How did Giselle Cole end up living in such affluence? Did she marry into it? Did she earn it on her own? Did she inherit money?
My gut began to burn with a dawning anger that caught me off guard. If Giselle’s money came from my father—the one who abandoned me before I was even born, the one who dumped my mother to raise me on her own—I was prepared to be really pissed off.
