by Terri DuLong
Sue had been very chatty and I liked her immediately. Their sons were well mannered and friendly. By the time we left, with an invitation to be sure to come back, I felt like I’d made two new friends.
I rolled over in bed and saw it was going on seven. Today was my lunch with Elaine, and I was anxious to see how we might be connected through the paintings.
By the time I let Lotte out, had breakfast, showered, and dressed, I saw it was just after ten, and I decided to stop in at the yarn shop before driving to Daytona Beach.
“Good morning,” Chloe said when I walked in. “What are you up to today?”
“I have that lunch with Elaine Talbot.”
She looked up from putting price tags on skeins of Ella Rae yarn.
“Oh, that’s right. And you got the painting on Sunday? Is it the same one that Elaine has?”
“It’s almost identical except mine is smaller. I also found three others that belonged to my mother. I had never seen those before, and it’s clear to see that my mother is the subject of two of them. In one she’s knitting and another she’s holding me. There’s also one of me as a toddler with two dogs.”
“Yet you don’t know who the artist is?”
“Well, I’m now beginning to think it could have been Sebine, the woman she lived with in Jacksonville. Although my mother never mentioned she was an artist. That’s not a surprise, though, because she told me very little about living in Jacksonville.”
Chloe nodded. “This is turning into quite the mystery. I hope that Elaine will be able to provide some answers for you today.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said, as I fingered the soft lace yarn.
* * *
As I pulled into the parking area of Elaine Talbot’s condo my eyes were drawn to the ocean. At the last minute I had decided to slip the photo of my mother and the unidentified man on the beach into my handbag. I thought that possibly Elaine might know who he was.
I had Lotte on her leash and was carrying the paintings in my other arm as I stepped off the elevator on Elaine’s floor.
She was waiting for me outside her door, and all three dogs came scampering to greet Lotte. I let go of her leash to better handle the paintings and laughed.
“Hi,” I said. “I think our dogs like each other.”
Elaine laughed too and shook her head. “George, Philip, and Victoria are the official greeting committee here. My goodness, what do you have here?” she asked, reaching to take one of the paintings.
“Some paintings,” I said. “I thought maybe we could discuss them.”
“Come on in. Cordelia has some sweet tea waiting for us.”
I followed her into the family room and propped the paintings against a side table.
“So this is Lotte,” she said, bending over to pat her. “What a little cutie she is.”
“Thank you. She’s quite friendly and loves to visit.”
I watched as Victoria ran to a basket of toys and deposited a stuffed animal in front of Lotte, who looked at it for one second, grabbed it, and took off running down the long hallway to the opposite side of the condo with the other three dogs in pursuit.
“They’ll have a great time,” Elaine said. “Plenty of room around here for them to run and play. Come sit down.”
She filled a glass with sweet tea from a crystal pitcher and passed it to me.
“So what is it you wanted to discuss about the paintings?”
I took a sip of tea and tried to formulate my thoughts. “Well . . . when I saw your painting in the hallway last week . . . the gray brick house with the patio . . . I knew I had seen a painting just like it before.”
She sat up straighter in her chair, and a look of interest crossed her face. “Where did you see it?”
“My mother owned it. She had it hanging in our living room for a few years and then she put it away in her closet. She never explained where she got it or who painted it.”
Elaine nodded. “And have you now asked her about it?”
“My mother passed away three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. I think the artist who painted yours was the same one who painted my mother’s. And I’m now thinking the artist could be Sebine. My mother lived with a woman by this name in Jacksonville. She even gave me the middle name of Sebine. But my mother was a very private person. I don’t know the woman’s last name or even who she was.”
Elaine nodded again slowly before saying, “Her name was Sebine LeBlanc. She was the artist and the same one who did both paintings.”
I leaned forward. “You knew her?”
She shook her head. “No, I never met her. I only know of her. What are the other paintings that you have there?”
I got up to remove the padding and held up the first one of me with the dogs.
“This is me as a toddler.” I then held up the second one. “This is my mother knitting.” Unwrapping the next one, I said, “And one of her holding me as a baby.”
Elaine stood up and walked toward the painting. “It’s the same patio as my painting.”
“Yes, and here’s the one of the back of the house with the patio.”
“Come with me,” she said, and led the way to the long hallway leading to the other side of the condo.
More paintings filled the walls. Seascapes, mountains, some of European scenes. She stopped in front of one and pointed.
“I’m pretty sure this is also your mother,” she said softly.
I looked up to see a beautiful young woman sitting on a beach with the ocean behind her. Her knees were clasped to her chest and she was looking off into the distance, her long brown hair blowing in the wind.
“It’s absolutely my mother,” I whispered. “Where did you get this?”
“From my brother. Peter Maxwell.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go back and sit down.”
My head was spinning as we walked back to the living room. Peter Maxwell was her brother? How was all of this connected? I wondered. But somewhere, deep in my soul, I was pretty sure that I knew.
“Peter Maxwell is your brother?” I asked when we sat down.
“Yes. And your mother was Rhonda, wasn’t she?”
I nodded. “Rhonda Bradley. You knew her?”
Elaine let out a sigh. “Not nearly as well as I wish I had.”
I reached in my handbag and passed the photo to her. “Is this your brother?”
She reached for reading glasses on the side table, put them on, and brought the photo closer. She then turned the photo over and saw my mother’s handwriting spelling out the name Peter Maxwell.
“No. This is not Peter. But it’s my brother’s name on the back. She told you this was my brother?”
I shook my head. “No. Basically, my mother told me very little. She told me my father was Jim Garfield and that he died before we left Jacksonville. I never saw this photo until my mother passed away. It was hidden among some of her belongings. That’s when I got really confused. I had never heard the name of Peter Maxwell growing up, so I wondered who this man in the photo was.”
Elaine blew out a breath of air and nodded. “I have no idea who the man in the photo is, but I have every reason to believe my brother is your biological father.”
A million different emotions ran through me. Anger, joy, relief, but most of all, a sense of loss. What Elaine said next confirmed the loss.
“I’m very sorry to say that my brother also passed away three years ago.”
I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach. “So he’s gone?”
She nodded again. “Yes. I’m afraid so. It was sudden. Peter had a massive coronary and was gone at age seventy.”
I found myself mourning for a man I’d never met. A man who had given me life and passed on his genes to me. I felt tears stinging my eyes and reached for a tissue in my bag.
Elaine reached over and squeezed my hand. “I’m so very sorry. Peter would have adored you. Just like he adored your mother.”
&
nbsp; I swiped at my eyes and my head shot up. “So you knew about them?”
“Not until many years later.” She let out a sigh as Cordelia entered the room. “Let’s have lunch and I’ll tell you what I know.”
We sat down to a lunch of crab bisque and quiche, but I knew I’d have to force every bite down my throat. I had a million questions and didn’t even know where to begin.
“Cordelia, I do believe this occasion calls for a nice glass of white wine,” Elaine said.
Cordelia nodded, shot me a smile, and walked to the wine cooler. I watched her uncork the bottle, fill two flutes, and place them on the table before walking away.
Elaine lifted her glass. “Here’s to family secrets,” she said. “To the turmoil that they have a way of creating.”
I nodded and took a sip of the dry wine.
Elaine and I both took a spoonful of bisque before she said, “I’ve been wondering why your mother would write Peter’s name on the back of a photo that obviously wasn’t him.”
I shook my head. “It makes no sense to me.”
“But it does. There’s no doubt she knew you would find that photo someday when she was gone. She left you a clue—a clue to pursue if you wanted to.”
I immediately thought of Emmalyn and my last dream. She had told me to pay attention and look for the clues.
“So you’re saying she wanted me to look for him and find him? If that’s the case, then why didn’t she tell me about him years ago? When there was still time. When he was still alive.” I felt a surge of anger go through me.
Elaine nodded. “Yes. I certainly wish that she had. But she had reasons, I’m sure. Let me start at the beginning and maybe it will make more sense to you.”
I sat and listened as she told me how my mother had been the waitress for their table in the dining room of Broadglen’s every weekend.
“To be honest,” she said, “I knew the first night we met her that Peter had fallen for her. And fallen hard.”
She went on to tell me that she knew Peter was dating my mother over those months of spring.
“I liked her. A lot. I could see how happy Peter was, and we were very close.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“My father. I have no way of knowing for sure and Peter didn’t either. But my father was an elitist snob. We came from money, Petra. Generations of it.”
I felt another surge of anger but this time it was directed toward a grandfather I had never known. “So you’re saying my mother wasn’t good enough for Peter?”
She reached over to pat my hand. “Please understand . . . Peter certainly did not feel that way. I know that for certain. But my father? I won’t lie. Had they continued their relationship, yes, my father would have made it extremely difficult.”
“So Peter . . . my father . . . caved to family pressure?”
Elaine shook her head emphatically. “No. Don’t ever think that. Because it’s not true. Peter wanted to marry your mother. He loved her deeply.”
“But she got pregnant and it was too much of an embarrassment?”
“Petra, my brother never knew about you.”
“What? She didn’t tell him she was pregnant? Why would she keep that from him?”
Elaine sighed and then took a sip of wine before saying, “I’m only now coming to understand why. It was because of the deep love she had for him.”
Thoughts were swirling in my head. “Did he ever find out?” I whispered.
I saw an expression of sadness cross her face. “No. I’m afraid not. Peter died never knowing that he had a daughter.”
I let out a sarcastic chuckle. “What a waste of two lives. What a waste of possible happiness. All because my mother fell in love with somebody . . . out of her league. And she wasn’t willing to take a chance and risk it.”
Elaine nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“What happened to my father? Did he marry somebody else? Have children?”
She paused a moment before saying, “He did marry. But not for many years. Peter was close to forty when he married Marion. They had no children. She passed away about fifteen years ago.”
Fifteen years ago. My mother would have been only fifty-two—certainly still young enough to reignite that love and be with Peter. But with all the secrets and lies in her life, she probably didn’t want to risk being rejected. Which was exactly what she did to him.
“So how did he come to acquire the paintings? Is that why you acted like you had seen me before when I came here last week? You knew I was his daughter?”
“I didn’t know. Not for sure. But as soon as I opened the door and saw you . . . I saw a very strong resemblance to my brother. And your name. It’s the female version of Peter. I was pretty sure you had been named for him. When I began to question you, the pieces began to fall in place. The location and the time frame fit the period when Rhonda was in his life. I couldn’t prove it then, but yes, the paintings provided the final answer.” She took a sip of wine before continuing. “Peter had shared his love for Rhonda with me from the beginning. He was absolutely devastated when she simply left Amelia Island with no word of where she was going. He tried inquiring at the hotel but got nowhere. We owned a manufacturing company in Jacksonville and Peter was there tending to business. There was an art gallery showing about ten years ago and he attended. He walked in and saw the painting of your mother on the beach. He recognized Rhonda immediately and sought out the artist. That was when he met Sebine LeBlanc. It was obvious that she was protecting Rhonda and gave him very little information. But she did tell him that in 1969 Rhonda had to come to stay with her to work and attend secretarial school. She never mentioned you and she wouldn’t say where Rhonda was then living. Only that she had left Jacksonville many years before.”
I shook my head. “So he wasn’t able to find her.” I felt an ache in my heart. “That’s so very sad.”
“Indeed it is,” Elaine said, standing up and reaching for my hand. “Come with me.”
She led me back down the hallway to a room filled with bookshelves from ceiling to floor. Walking to a wall covered with photographs, she removed two of them and passed them to me.
“Petra,” she said, “Meet your father. Peter Maxwell.”
I glanced down at an extremely handsome young man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties, standing at the helm of a boat, a huge smile on his face. His eyes jumped out at me. Dark brown eyes that were identical to mine. The shape of his face and his smile were also very similar. Tears blurred my vision as I looked at the second photograph. He was dressed in a suit, probably in his early sixties, very distinguished and handsome with salt-and-pepper hair.
I shook my head. “All my life . . . all my life I wondered about my father. A man I thought to be named Jim Garfield. And my mother’s story was nothing close to what she told me. I’m very happy to now know the truth . . .” I began to say when something occurred to me. “So if Peter was your brother, that would make you . . .”
“Your aunt,” she said, and pulled me into an embrace.
I felt the tears sliding down my face as I hugged her back. I had longed for family ever since I was a child, and now I had found a family member.
I pulled away and wiped my eyes to see that Elaine had also been crying. We walked back to the living room with our arms around each other.
She passed me a box of tissues and I blew my nose.
“I’m very grateful to finally have the truth,” I told her. “But now I can’t help wondering what happened when my mother went to live with Sebine. And who Jim Garfield is. There’s probably no way of ever finding that out.”
I saw a smile cover Elaine’s face. “Oh, but there is. I think your aunt just might be able to help you with the final pieces.”
She walked to the rolltop desk, opened a drawer, and removed a business card, which she passed me.
“Sebine LeBlanc is now ninety years old, but alive and well. She still lives in Jacksonville and she still paints. Not as m
uch, from what I gathered from her website, but she keeps active. I have no doubt she would love to see you again.”
I glanced down at her phone number and knew I’d be returning to Jacksonville again very soon.
Chapter 19
I had a lot to process over the following week, and I found myself wanting to be alone. I had briefly stopped into the yarn shop the next day and was grateful only Chloe had been there. I explained to her about my lunch with Elaine Talbot, that she was my aunt, and that I still had more information to uncover, but I needed time to be alone. She understood.
Ben called and also understood my need to be alone right now. He told me whenever I was ready to talk to give him a call.
I had spent the past three days in T-shirt and yoga pants. Although I showered in the morning, I saw no reason for makeup or fooling with my hair. Lotte seemed to love the extra attention and having me constantly around. I could have done some work for my clients but since nothing was pressing, I chose instead to curl up on the sofa watching reruns of Gilmore Girls, knitting and snacking. And the entire time I was thinking about what I had learned from Elaine Talbot.
When I left her condo, she had asked if she could call me just to talk and I said of course. My newly found aunt was my last remaining family member, and I wanted a chance to build a relationship with her. She had called each day since Wednesday, and I had to admit I loved learning more about my father. I had found out that he had known Marion since they were children and their families had been friends. Elaine said she had no doubt it was a marriage of convenience. I found out that my father loved to read, was excellent at chess, enjoyed sailing on his boat, and could keep a crowd of people laughing. Although I had never met him, I knew that I loved him. So I came to realize over the past few days that I was grieving. Grieving for what could have been. For what I had never known but had lost.
The doorbell interrupted my thoughts. I jumped up to find Maddie standing there holding a huge arrangement of flowers from her florist shop.
She balanced the vase in one hand and reached out to squeeze my hand with the other.
“How’re you doing, honey? Chloe told us about your meeting with Elaine Talbot.”
