"I know Margaret was pregnant," Jackson said, "and that's not all know."
He wanted her to ask, to beg for the information. There was a part of Claire that wanted to do just that. But she hadn't lived with Stanton pride for fifty years without picking up a thing or two.
"You're a con artist, Mr. Tyler. Why would I believe anything you have to say?"
"Because I know the truth."
"I sincerely doubt that. What do you really want?"
"A chance to help you. You've taken my son under your wing. I owe you something for that."
"Zach is none of your concern. You left him to forage for himself when he was just a boy. Don't pretend to care about him now."
"We're not talking about me and my son. We're discussing you and your daughter."
"I'm done talking to you.”
"Why don't you ask Miss Whitfield about her mother, what she looked like, the way she sounded when she laughed, the color of her hair, her eyes?" Jackson challenged. "I'll you why you don't, because you're afraid."
"Miss Whitfield's mother died when she was twelve years old," Claire said, gaining new confidence as she remembered their conversation in the garden. "She's in her twenties now, so that would mean that her mother died fourteen or fifteen years ago, not twenty, which is when Margaret passed on."
"Now, that's an interesting point. And I probably would have agreed with you if I hadn't stopped by Miss Whitfield's room last night. I thought I'd take a little peek around. You'll never guess what I found."
God help her. She wanted to walk away, but she couldn't.
"You're not going to ask me, are you?" Jackson said. "Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Stanton. You're very stubborn. You're just dying to know. Admit it."
She lifted her chin in the air. "Miss Whitfield's belongings are private. She could have you arrested for trespassing."
"I wonder if you'd feel the same way if you saw your daughter's quilt draped over Katherine Whitfield's bed. All those beautiful lilies of the valley. I remember when Margaret showed me the quilt. She said it was the only good thing she'd ever done."
She felt the blood drain out of her face. Margaret's quilt? The one they'd worked on together from the first day Claire had taught her daughter how to thread a needle? "Katherine couldn't possibly have Margaret's quilt."
"Why don't you go see? Room 326." Jackson started to walk away, then paused. "Oh, and by the way, that information was free, but if you want to know who Margaret's lover was all those years ago, I'll expect some compensation." He tipped his head once again. "You have a nice day now, Mrs. Stanton."
Nice day? Claire felt like the bottom had just dropped out of her world. Why on earth would Katherine Whitfield have Margaret's quilt? And did she have the guts to find out?
* * *
Katherine flopped down on her bed. As she stared at the ceiling she was reminded of the night before when the view had not been a dusty fan but the whole starry universe. Making love with Zach was probably a mistake but one she couldn't regret. She'd loved being with him. She liked him -- far too much. Because as much as he'd wanted her last night, he didn't want her now or tomorrow or the next day. He was afraid of love, and in truth she was a little scared of it, too.
With a sigh, she tried to refocus her thoughts on more immediate, tangible goals like finding her father. She'd walked around town earlier in the day, and tried to chat up the locals, but as soon as she mentioned she was looking for her father, everyone seemed in a hurry to get away from her.
The knock at her door brought her to her feet. A zing of anticipation ran down her spine as she moved to open it. Maybe Zach had come looking for her. But it wasn't Zach; it was Claire Stanton.
Claire was dressed in a beautiful black suit, but there was no smile on her face today. She was pale, her lips were drawn in a tense light, and she held her purse in front of her chest as if it were a bulletproof jacket.
"Mrs. Stanton. Are you all right?"
Claire looked at her searchingly, as if she were trying to find some answers in the shape of Katherine's face. "You do look familiar," she murmured.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck began to tingle. "What did you say?"
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
Katherine stepped aside and Claire walked into the room, her gaze immediately darting to the bed, then to the dresser, finally coming to rest on the hope chest in the corner. Claire put a hand to her heart and began to sway. "It's true. Oh, my God, it's true."
Chapter Sixteen
"Mrs. Stanton? Are you all right?" she asked, watching Claire put a shaky hand to her lips.
"That chest," Claire said haltingly. "It belonged to my daughter, Margaret. It was mine and before me my grandmother's. Where did you get it?"
"It my mother's," she said. "But my mother's name was Evelyn, not Margaret. Evelyn Jones Whitfield."
"Evelyn Jones?" Claire echoed.
"Yes," she said, feeling uneasy. Like Claire, she couldn't comprehend how her mother could have ended up with the chest if she wasn't a relation. Still, maybe she'd acquired it somewhere along the way. There had to be an explanation.
"You look like her," Claire said. "I saw the familiarity before, but it didn't make any sense to me. Your hair is different, lighter. Margaret's was more brown than blond. And her face was longer, narrower at the chin." Claire's voice faded away as she turned her attention back to the chest. "Is there a quilt in that chest?"
Her heart skipped a beat. For a split second she wanted to lie, to say no, but the anguish in Claire's blue eyes compelled her to tell the truth. "Yes."
"May I see it?"
After a momentary hesitation, Katherine knelt in front of the chest and lifted the lid. She pulled out the quilt inch by inch, foot by foot, until the floor was covered with lilies of the valley and patchwork squares of memories.
Claire dropped to her knees as she looked at the quilt and began to cry, tears running down her cheeks, sobs breaking past her lips, shoulders shaking with overwhelming grief.
"Oh, my God. I never thought to see this again." She picked up an edge of the quilt and held it against her cheek, soaking it with her tears.
She knew in that moment that the quilt belonged to Claire, and the knowledge tore Katherine apart. Since she'd discovered the quilt, she'd felt like it belonged to her. But now it was obvious that she was wrong. The quilt didn't belong to her or to her mother. It belonged to Claire's daughter, to Margaret Stanton.
She reached for the Kleenex box on the table behind her and handed it to Claire.
Finally Claire composed herself enough to speak. "It's Margaret's quilt," she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue. "We started it when she was born. I told you about the tradition here in Paradise. Well, this quilt was Margaret's. We used lilies of the valley for the border because you can find them all over our property. And this square here..." She fingered a tiny piece of white satin. "It came from the underskirt of Margaret's baptismal gown." She pointed to another square, one covered with red gingham. "This came from her first kindergarten dress. She looked so pretty in it, with her hair in pigtails and her face scrubbed clean. I have a picture of her in this dress, holding an enormous lunch box in her hands." Claire's eyes brimmed over with tears once again. "Harry didn't want her to be hungry that first long day away from us." She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, God, it hurts so much."
She didn't know what to say or do in the face of Claire's raging pain. She knew what it felt like to lose someone. There were no words that could take away the sorrow, and nowhere near enough time to get over the loss.
Claire took a deep breath. "Where did you find this chest?"
"In my mother's attic. I thought it belonged to her, but it must not have. Not if it's yours, your daughter's. They're two different women.”
"Are they?" Claire asked, meeting her gaze. "Margaret's middle name was Lynn. Margaret Lynn Stanton. She left Paradise on the day of our Derby party. She was about three months pregnant at the time. I expe
ct her baby would have been born in November or December. When were you born, Katherine?"
"It doesn't matter when I was born. My mother was Evelyn Jones Whitfield. She was born in Minnesota, and her parents and all other relatives are dead. She told me so, lots of times," she added somewhat desperately.
"What did your mother look like?" Claire asked.
"She had brown hair. She wore it short around her ears."
"Did she wear glasses?"
"Contacts."
"Was there a tiny space between her two front teeth?"
"Very tiny."
"Did she have a laugh that sounded like someone had just run a hand down the piano keys?"
She blinked back a wave of emotion. "I can't do this. Don't make me do this. It's impossible."
"I thought so, too. Until Jackson--”
"Jackson?" Katherine latched on to his name as if she were reaching for a life preserver. "Jackson Tyler told you something?"
"He said you had Margaret's quilt. And you do.”
"He also said I was his daughter."
Claire shook her head. "Margaret would have never been with him.”
"He's a con artist. You can't believe a word Jackson says. And if he knows I have the quilt, then he must have snuck in here and taken a look. He's a trespasser, too."
"Yes." Claire gave a small, uncertain shake of her head. "And I don't understand, because Margaret died about six years after she left here. I know because Harry sent someone to look for her. And you said your mother died--”
"When I was twelve. My mother is buried in Beverly Hills.”
"And my daughter is buried in Paradise. Unless..." Claire let the word hang in the air; growing in importance the longer it remained there. "Someone is lying."
"I was at my mother's funeral," she said.
"I was at my daughter's, but I never saw her body, only the casket." She shook her head. "But Harry wouldn't have lied to me. Not about that."
"I have a photograph of Margaret," Claire said abruptly. She reached for her purse and pulled out her wallet. She pulled out a photo. "This is Margaret. The picture was taken just a few weeks before she left Paradise. Do you recognize her Katherine? Is she your mother?"
She hesitated, suddenly very afraid to look. "I don't want to do this."
"You have to look," Claire said. "We have to know.”
She shook her head. "If my mother was your daughter, then everything I know about her is a lie."
"Please," Claire said.
Finally she looked down, tears blurring her vision so that she had to blink three times before she could focus on the photograph, before she could truly see the woman's face. What she saw ripped her heart in two.
"It's her," she whispered. "It's my mother." She took the photo from Claire, sinking down on the floor, on top of her mother's quilt. The young woman in the photo stood in the secret garden, laughing at the camera, waving her finger at whoever was taking the picture. There was no mistaking her mother's smile or her teeth or the shape of her face. The woman in the photograph -- the woman Claire called Margaret Stanton -- was also Evelyn Jones Whitfield. "Why didn't she tell me?" she asked in confusion. "Why all the lies? I was her child. How could it have hurt for me to know the truth?" She looked over at Claire. "You -- you're my grandmother.”
"I can't believe it," Claire said, more tears dripping down her cheeks. "And yet I can -- because I can see Margaret in your eyes. Your beautiful eyes." She drew in a breath. "Harry sent a private investigator to look for Margaret a few years after she left. We kept hoping she'd come home on her own, but she never did. I was beside myself with worry, imagining her alone in the world, trying to raise a baby all on her own. The investigator came back with the news that Margaret had died a few weeks earlier and had been buried in a cemetery in Oregon."
"Oregon? My mother never lived in Oregon."
"According to the report I read, Margaret's landlady had paid for the burial and told the investigator that Margaret had lived alone and had given her baby up years ago. Harry had the casket dug up and flown home, so we could bury her here in Paradise."
"My mother died in a car crash and we weren't living in Oregon," she said. "I was twelve years old. If this is a photograph of Margaret, then there's no way she's buried here in Paradise."
Claire stood up and paced restlessly around the room. "Harry did this. I can't believe he did it, but there's no other explanation."
Katherine looked back at the photograph, still confused and amazed that her mother was Margaret Stanton. Unbelievable. She'd come to Paradise to find her father, only to find her mother instead. She glanced over at Claire, who stood by the window now, gazing out at the streets of Paradise.
"Do you know who my father is, Mrs. Stanton?"
Claire glanced over her shoulder. "No. Margaret refused to say. She thought her daddy might bring out his shotgun and force a wedding."
"Is that why she left town?"
"Yes. She had confided in me that she was pregnant. Actually, I'd begun to suspect because she was so pale, and she never felt like eating. When I caught her throwing up her breakfast one morning, she broke down and cried right there on the bathroom floor, her hair matted down with sweat, her eyes huge and filled with fear. I took her in my arms and I promised her it would be all right."
Claire turned back to the window. "But I hadn't counted on Harry's reaction. He was horrified, ashamed, and angry. He screamed for three solid days that she could not have a bastard child. That she could not flaunt her sin in front of the town and God. Harry told her she either had to marry the father, give up her baby for adoption, or leave town. She was barely nineteen years old, but just as stubborn as her father."
"So she left."
Claire looked at her again, agony in her eyes. "I let her go, Katherine. I stood by my husband's side and watched my pregnant daughter load her suitcase and that chest into her car and drive away. I never saw her again. And my last image is of her crying; looking at me as if I'd betrayed her. And I guess I had done exactly that. She hated me when she left. I'm surprised she never told you any of it. I would have thought..."
"Thought what?"
"That she would have made sure you hated us, too.”
"My mother told me she was born in Minnesota, that her name was Evelyn Jones and that her parents were dead. She said she was alone in the world, save for me. Until she met Mitchell, of course."
"Mitchell?"
"My stepfather. She married him less than a year before she died. When she died, Mitchell agreed to raise me, since I didn't have any other relatives. Otherwise, I would have gone into foster care."
Claire shook her head. "If only we'd known about you. I don't understand why the private investigator didn't find you. Or why he said Margaret was dead."
"Maybe Harry wanted you to stop looking."
A light dawned in Claire's eyes. "Yes, of course. Harry was tired of my crying and moaning, so he decided to put me out of my misery like he'd shoot a sick horse. By telling me Margaret was dead, he forced me to let go of her, to grieve, but not to anticipate a reunion. My God! I can't believe he did that to me. If he hadn't done that, I would have kept looking, and I would have had five more years to find her. I might have seen her one more time. I might have met you when you were a child. I might have been able to help you when Margaret died. It's not fair. It's just not fair."
Katherine didn't know what to do. This was her grandmother, and she was in terrible pain. Part of Katherine wanted to comfort Claire. The other part was still angry about what she'd just heard, about how Claire and Harry had sent their supposedly beloved daughter out in the world pregnant and alone. Maybe Claire deserved this pain.
"I have to get out of here," she said abruptly, getting to her feet. "I can't do this right now. It's too much." She grabbed her purse and left the room before Claire could try to stop her. She needed some time to think, to consider how she felt without having to worry about Claire's feelings.
* * *
>
An hour later, Claire Stanton stormed up the walkway to her house, fury fueling every step that took her closer to Harry, closer to the truth. She'd treated her husband with respect for fifty years. She'd stood by him the way she'd promised on her wedding day. And twenty years ago she'd stood next to him when they'd buried their daughter. But what had they really buried? An empty box of dreams?
A tiny voice inside of her told her to slow down, to tread carefully. Harry's heart couldn't stand too much shock. But she couldn't listen to that voice, because it was overridden by the thundering roar of her anger.
"Harry," she cried. "Where are you?"
She looked in the study, but it was empty; so were the living room and dining room. She took the stairs two at a time and crossed the hall into the master bedroom. Harry came out of the bathroom as she entered the room, a comb in one hand, a wet towel in the other. A tall slim man with gray hair, piercing brown eyes, and an unforgiving chin, he suddenly seemed like a stranger to her. When he saw her face, he stopped in mid stride.
"Claire, what's wrong?"
"Everything is wrong. Every damn thing. Who did we bury in the Paradise Valley Cemetery twenty years ago?" she demanded.
The blood drained out of his face and he reached out a hand to the bedpost to steady himself. "Margaret. We buried Margaret."
"Did we?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He couldn't lie, not when he sensed she already knew the truth. "Why would you ask me such a thing?"
"Because I met someone today, someone who has Margaret's smile and Margaret's quilt."
"No," he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Oh, yes."
"That's impossible."
"Her name is Katherine Whitfield. When I showed her a photograph of Margaret, she told me that Margaret was her mother. Her mother, Harry." Claire paused, letting the words sink in. "Her mother, Margaret, who died when Katherine was twelve years old, fifteen years ago, not twenty."
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