Rotating his chair so that he gazed out his window at Lake Union and the Fremont Bridge, presently open to let a tall-masted sailboat through, Mark dialed. “I have news,” he said without preamble. “Ready to hear their names?”
“You have them?” Suzanne sounded awed. “Already?”
“Once we had the name of the agency and your aunt and uncle’s waiver, there wasn’t anything to it.”
“We’d never have had that if it weren’t for you.” She was quiet for a moment. “Were they adopted together?” When he told her they hadn’t been, she let out a soft, “Oh.” Then, “Please. Tell me the names?”
“Lucien was adopted by a family named Lindstrom. I haven’t found his first name yet. Your sister has grown up as Carrie St. John.” He let her take that in, then said gently, “Suzanne, she lived right here in Seattle. I looked up her adoptive parents. They have a place on Magnolia. Her adoptive father is a doctor. A cardiac surgeon.”
Magnolia was a hill that was virtually an island in the Sound connected to the city only by two bridges. It was also one of Seattle’s wealthiest neighborhoods, made up principally of gracious old brick homes with spectacular views of the Puget Sound, the Seattle waterfront and Vashon Island.
His client didn’t care about the wealthy part. All that mattered to her was her sister. “You…you found her?” she whispered.
“I don’t have an address or phone number for her yet. I can contact the adoptive parents, but I wanted your permission to do that.”
“She was that close?” Suzanne was openly crying. He could hear the tears thickening her voice. “If I’d known, I could have just driven to Seattle?”
“She’s been that close all along. Her parents still live at the same address they were at twenty-five years ago.”
“Oh, dear. Can I call you back?”
She did, fifteen minutes later, still sounding watery but more composed. “I had to take it all in. I’d begun to think I would never find her. Carrie. Is that what you said her name is?”
“Carrie St. John,” he repeated.
“And her adoptive father really is a doctor? That was true?”
He rocked back in his chair. “Yep. A surgeon. So she grew up with money.”
“What…what do we do now?”
“We need to plan our next step. I can try to track Carrie down without speaking to her adoptive parents. I can approach them. Or you can approach them.”
“You mean, just call them out of the blue? And say, ‘I’m Carrie’s real sister?’”
“Yep.”
“Wow.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Isn’t it funny? I wanted this so badly, and now I’m terrified!”
They talked about how she felt, with him reassuring her that it was natural. She’d dreamed all her life about finding her sister and brother, but dreams weren’t the same thing as being only a phone call or two from actually meeting her sibling.
“Will you do it?” she finally asked.
“Talk to the adoptive parents?”
“If you think that’s the best thing.”
“I do. They may not be pleased, but there’s always the chance they’ll think this is a good thing for her, and they’re certainly the best go-betweens. Besides, if we bypass them, they’re more likely to be hostile to your appearance in Carrie’s life.”
He heard her take a deep breath.
“Okay. Do it.”
MARK CALLED TWICE that afternoon, getting only voice mail and choosing not to leave a message. At five-thirty, he left for home.
Michael was in half day kindergarten this year. He attended the morning session and was home by twelve-thirty. Mark considered himself amazingly, miraculously lucky to have found and been able to keep a young woman who stayed for the afternoon with Michael, put dinner on and cleaned house besides. Heidi was often willing to watch Michael evenings, as well. She was working gradually on a degree from the University of Washington.
When he walked in the door of his house in the Wallingford neighborhood, only ten minutes from his office, his son and their dog both raced to meet him.
Daisy skidded to a stop, her tail whacking Mark’s legs, her butt swinging in delight.
“Dad! Dad!” Michael shouted, leaping into his father’s arms with the full trust that he’d be caught. “I can read! I read ‘cat’ today. And ‘bat’!”
“Hey, that’s fantastic.” Mark gave him a huge hug, kissed the top of his head and swung him back to his feet. He scratched the top of Daisy’s head and got slopped with her long, wet tongue in reward.
Daisy had joined their household two years ago, after Emily died. The house and Michael both had become painfully quiet. Grasping at straws, one day Mark had thought, a dog. Every boy needed a dog. And right now, some unconditional love and companionship would be invaluable.
So they’d gone to the shelter with the intention of picking out a puppy. Daisy, a middle-aged Spaniel and God knew what mix, had entranced Mark’s three-year-old son more than the heaps of fat, sleepy puppies. Instead of being scared when her tongue swiped his face, he’d giggled. The first giggle Mark had heard in months.
“We want her,” he’d told the attendant.
Some idiot had surrendered her because they were moving to a no-pet apartment. He couldn’t imagine how you could have a dog as loving, eager to please and well-behaved as Daisy and be willing to discard her like a couch that didn’t fit into a new living room.
Their loss, his and Michael’s gain. She was part of their family now.
So was Heidi, as far as he was concerned.
As usual, dinner was in the oven and smelled damned good. Sometimes she stayed to eat with them, but tonight she appeared right on Michael’s heels, her bookbag already swung over her shoulder.
“Um, Mark? Can I talk to you for a minute before I go?”
Surprised, he disentangled his son and gave him a gentle push. “Go find a book. You can read to me before dinner.”
“Okay!” the five-year-old declared, and raced for his bedroom.
“What’s up?”
Heidi was short and a little plump. She had mousy brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses and ears that stuck out, making him think of an elf. She also had a laugh as carefree as Michael’s and the willingness to play with him by the hour as if no demand on her time was great enough to keep her from wanting to built a Lego spacecraft.
“Well, you know Peter?” She held out a hand at him. “He asked me to marry him!”
Good Lord. A diamond winked on her finger. Mark looked up to see the glow on her face and, despite his own dismay, he grinned and hugged her. “Congratulations! When’s the big day?”
Not too soon. Please, not too soon.
“Peter wanted to get married in June. But I talked him into waiting until September. So Michael’s in first grade. I want to keep working for you, but…but maybe not as many hours. You know? Once he’s in school all day, maybe he could go to after-school care sometimes, when I’m busy.” Her voice faltered and her glow dimmed. “Unless, um, unless you want to find someone else to be full-time.”
“Someone else? We could never replace you. You’re a saint. If you can stay on days through the summer, we’ll figure it out from there. Tell Peter thank you for being patient.”
She chuckled and, looking pleased with herself, opened the door. “See you in the morning!”
He had one hell of a mixed bag of emotions after she left. He’d grown fond of Heidi and was genuinely happy for her, but she’d also scared him. He didn’t like realizing quite how dependent he and Michael were on her; it made him feel a little resentful.
He thought he’d buried most of his anger at Emily, but surprised himself now with a burst of stomach-clenching rage. She’d done this to them. Left them alone. Some inner need had been way more important to her than her husband and son were, and he couldn’t get past that.
Shoving the mess of emotions out of sight, as he’d had to do for Michael’s sake since the funeral, Mark went to the kitchen and p
eered in the oven to see what was cooking. Then he listened to Michael sound out not just “cat” and “bat” but also “fat” and “rat.”
Feeling like every other overanxious parent, he asked, “Is everyone in your class starting to learn to read?”
“Annie already reads,” his son said. “And Kayla, too. They think they’re better than everyone else.” He added grudgingly, “I guess they are better readers. But lots of the kids can’t remember letter sounds. I sounded out b-a-t all by myself. Miss Hooper got really excited.”
Embarrassed at himself, Mark relaxed. Okay, so his kid wasn’t the most advanced in the class. But apparently he was doing better than most. And didn’t researchers say that girls usually started to read sooner than boys? Michael would be kicking Kayla’s butt by the time they took their SATs.
Over dinner, they talked about Heidi getting married, which worried Michael a little bit. “Will she have her own kids?” he asked.
“She probably will, eventually. She’ll be a great mom, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” The boy was silent, his head bent over his plate. Finally, in a small voice, he said, “Sometimes I wish she was my mom.”
Mark’s heart contracted. “Well, in a way she is, isn’t she? Except, it’s a little like we’re borrowing her,” he explained. “Like a library book. We know we can’t keep it forever but we can sure enjoy it while we have it.”
Forehead creased, Michael looked up. “You mean, she’ll go away sometime. Like Mommy did.”
“Hey. Come here.”
His son slid off his chair and came to Mark, who lifted him onto his lap.
“Heidi won’t go away like Mommy did. It’s just that she’ll get married, and someday she and Peter will have children of their own. By that time you’ll be such a big boy, you won’t need someone to take care of you after school. And you know what? I bet Heidi will always be a good friend.”
The worried face looked up at him. “She won’t die. Right?”
“I hope Heidi won’t die until she’s an old, old lady.”
The five-year-old pondered that. “Okay,” he finally agreed. “But…is it okay if I pretend sometimes that she’s my mom?”
Damn. Mark should have guessed that any kid Michael’s age would be thinking like this. Remarrying wasn’t something he’d given any thought to; hell, he’d hardly been on a date since Emily died. But clearly Michael would be delighted to have a new mother.
“Yeah,” Mark said softly. “It’s okay to pretend. And you know what? We’ll have to think of something really special to get her for a wedding present.”
“Yeah!” Michael squirmed to get down. “Can I have dessert?”
Mark let him watch a video while he ate his cookies. In the kitchen, the sound of the TV muted, he dialed Dr. Julian St. John’s phone number again. This time, a woman answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. St. John?”
Sounding wary, she said, “May I ask who is calling?”
“Mark Kincaid. I’m a private investigator, Mrs. St. John. I’m actually trying to find your daughter, Carrie. I know that she was adopted…”
“What business is that of yours?” she asked with unmistakable hostility. “Why are you looking for my daughter?”
“Her sister would like to meet her…”
“Carrie has no sister. Please don’t call again.” The line went dead.
O-kay.
He shook his head and hit End. Her daughter was twenty-six years old, not a small child. Why would she feel so threatened by the mere idea that a member of Carrie’s birth family wanted to contact her?
He understood all too well how adoptive parents felt when the child was younger. It was natural to be scared of losing your child, emotionally if not legally. Maybe blood did call to blood; maybe the child you’d raised would see immediately what a fraud you were, pretending to be a mother or father.
But the St. Johns had had Carrie for twenty-five years now. They’d comforted her when she was a baby, helped her with homework and science projects, met her first date, smiled through their tears when she appeared in her prom dress. Did they really fear they could still lose her?
Yeah, he thought with a sigh. They did. He’d run into this over and over. Adoptive parents rarely felt secure. They did often feel like frauds.
Face it, he often felt like a fraud.
It was as if the original failure—the infertility, the miscarriages, the lazy sperm—poked a sliver of doubt beneath the skin, where it couldn’t be seen or even felt most of the time, unless you turned your hand just so, putting pressure on it, and felt it stab your flesh.
Ironic, wasn’t it, that an adoptive father spent his life helping birth families reunite. Once in awhile, he gave himself nightmares.
Glancing at the clock, he called, “Bath time!”
Tomorrow, Mark decided, he’d call Dr. St. John at the hospital. He might feel differently from his wife. He might at least be willing to hear Suzanne Chauvin’s reasons for wanting to meet her sister.
“I DON’T KNOW who you are,” Dr. St. John said, “but we were promised a closed adoption. Carrie is our daughter. We’re her family. How much plainer can I be?”
“Carrie is an adult now. Surely she feels some curiosity about her birth parents. As you’re aware, they’re dead, but Carrie did have a sister and a brother…”
“She isn’t interested. She never has been. I won’t have you upsetting my wife and daughter this way. If I have to get a restraining order, I will.” His voice hardened. “Stay away from my family, Mr. Kincaid.”
More dead air. The St. Johns did like to hang up on people.
Mark called Suzanne to let her know he’d have to find Carrie another way. “They’re scared,” he said. “You should have heard the panic in the mom’s voice.”
“But I’m not Carrie’s birth mother! I’m no threat.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re a reminder that she had another family. A shadow life, if you will. One that could have been. Your very existence threatens their intense need for her to be their daughter, and their daughter alone. They made her. They hate to think about the other people that had a part in who Carrie is. They want to be like other parents.”
“You understand so well.”
Because she couldn’t see him, he let his mouth curl into an ironic smile. “I’ve talked to plenty of adoptive parents along the way.” He hesitated. “There’s another possibility to explain their panic.”
“What?”
“That your sister doesn’t know she was adopted.”
Silence. Finally, “But… I didn’t think people ever did that anymore!”
“Anymore? They adopted her twenty-five years ago. But yeah, you’re right. It was common in the fifties, say. Not so much by the eighties. No, you’re right. It’s not likely.” Particularly, he thought, since the St. Johns hadn’t moved around, the easiest way to hide gaps in your personal life—like, say, pregnancy. They’d brought home a little girl who was almost a year old. How could they have pretended to neighbors or family that she was theirs?
“Can you find her?” Suzanne asked.
“Now that we have her name, sure I can. I’ll be in touch,” he told her, turning his chair so that he could reach his keyboard.
Ten minutes later, he had an address and phone number.
MAD AT HERSELF because once again she’d failed to give notice, Carrie walked out to her little blue Mazda Miata, a twenty-fifth birthday gift from her parents. It replaced the sporty Nissan she’d driven since her sixteenth birthday.
Unlocking the car, her mood eased. She was so lucky to have them. They had never offered to support her financially one hundred percent, the way her friend Laura’s parents did, because they believed she should find something to do with her life that fulfilled her as a person. At the same time, they were incredibly generous. She’d never had to struggle. And they were amazingly patient with her restlessness, her seeming inability to find a meaningful life goal.
&nb
sp; During the drive home, she reverted to her earlier preoccupation. She should have quit today, the way she’d vowed to do. But…she wished she knew what she wanted to try next. Maybe something completely outside the medical field. Probably that had been her mistake in the first place. Her parents had never dictated what she should do with her life or what she should major in, but she’d wanted to follow in their footsteps and never even seriously considered anything different. It would have been smarter to go her own way. Maybe then she wouldn’t be twenty-six and as ignorant as your average college freshman about what she wanted to be when she grew up.
She stopped for a few groceries at Larry’s Market before going home. Her apartment was in Bellevue, only a couple of miles from work. She liked Seattle better, though, where so many neighborhoods had such character. Once she gave notice, she’d look for a new apartment, too.
Thinking about where she’d like to live—maybe Greenwood, which felt like a small town yet still had the energy and diversity of the city—Carrie didn’t notice the man who followed her in until she had her key in her door.
“Ms. St. John?” he asked, from uncomfortably close behind her.
Startled, she swung to face him, then thought, I should have gotten the door open first. But she could scream; there must be neighbors home.
“Yes? Who are you?” How did he know her name?
Tall and strongly built, with straight brown hair that needed a cut, dark slacks and a brown leather bomber jacket, he didn’t look like a mugger or rapist. He didn’t look like the doctors and researchers she knew, either. Or one of the businessmen or attorneys she saw downtown. Heart pounding, she waited for his answer.
“My name is Mark Kincaid. I’m a private investigator.”
Oh, she thought. How funny. That’s exactly what he did look like. An investigator or undercover cop from one of the mystery novels she read voraciously. She should have recognized him right away.
The wash of relief was immediately supplanted by new wariness. What did he want with her?
“Are you investigating one of my friends?”
He had a nice smile that softened a face that had been too cynical. “I’m afraid you’re the person I’ve been looking for, Ms. St. John. May I explain?”
Open Secret Page 4
