What if he’s just stringing you along? Gina’s voice again. He’ll keep coming up with excuses, Lou—just wait and see. He wants the best of both worlds.
Another quarter of an hour went by. The waiter was looking at her. She saw him whisper something to the manager. Then a woman appeared, the hotel receptionist, heading for her table.
“Mrs. Brandon?”
Steel fingers squeezed Louisa’s heart.
“There’s someone on the telephone for you.”
The walk from the table to the hotel reception seemed to take forever.
“Louisa?” Relief swept over her when she heard Michael’s voice. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m not going to be able to make it.”
“What’s happened?” She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. Gina was right. He was standing her up. On her birthday.
“It’s Heather.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s in a terrible state.”
“Wha . . . what? Why?” Her voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
There was silence at the other end of the phone. Then she heard a door close. “You know she was taking her last exam today?”
“Er . . . yes,” she mumbled, “was she ill or something?” She held her breath. This was shaping up to be the most pathetic of excuses.
“No, no—she was fine. But when she got home, she found a note from her mother. Monica’s gone, Lou. She’s moved out.”
Chapter 40
Monica’s abrupt departure had initially struck Louisa as absolutely heartless. How could she have left that note, knowing Heather would be the first to find it? But as the weeks went by, she came to realize that in leaving when she did, Monica had ultimately done her daughter a favor. Although distraught that her mother had moved in with another man, Heather at least had the whole summer to come to terms with it.
She and Louisa had some long chats at the cottage during August. Louisa was grateful that Heather didn’t seem to hold her responsible for what had happened. On the contrary, she seemed appreciative of Louisa being there for her dad. She told her that her biggest worry had been that he would be all alone when she went off to university.
And so, on Midsummer’s Day 1977, the week after his divorce came through, Louisa and Michael were married. It was a quiet ceremony at Aberystwyth’s tiny registry office. Gina and Jeremy were witnesses, and the only others present were Heather, Tom, and Rhiannon—who was a bridesmaid.
Louisa and Michael had agonized over just who should be there. They couldn’t have asked her parents without having Cathy there too. But how would Eva react in that situation? In the end they had decided to keep things simple. They would save the explanations for after they were married and—hopefully—bring everyone together at some point in the future.
The beach was just yards from the entrance to the County Hall, and after posing for a few photos, Michael picked Louisa up and ran across to the water’s edge.
“No!” she squealed, clutching up the skirt of her cream silk dress as he pretended to throw her in.
“I wouldn’t dare!” He grinned. “Just thought I’d remind you of how it all started!” He gave her a long, lingering kiss. “Well, Mrs. Garner,” he whispered, “you’ve finally made an honest man of me.”
They celebrated with lunch at the hotel they always thought of as theirs, then drove back to the farm.
“Is Michael coming to live at our house now?” Rhiannon asked as they chugged up the track.
“Sort of, yes.” Louisa and Michael exchanged glances. “He’s got his own house just a little way away from the farm, and he’s going to take turns staying there and with us.”
“Why?” Rhiannon’s forehead wrinkled beneath the circlet of pink rosebuds in her hair. “I thought when people got married, they had to live together.”
“Well, it’s a bit different for us . . .” Louisa hesitated, not sure how to explain.
“It’s because of my new job, Rhiannon,” Michael said. “Did I tell you about it? It’s a really noisy job: lots of people singing and playing instruments very loudly—I couldn’t do that at your farm, could I? I might scare the sheep!”
Rhiannon giggled, apparently satisfied by this explanation. Louisa reached across and squeezed his hand. The reality was far too complicated for an eight-year-old to understand: the fact that the farm was really Tom’s, and that the barn down the valley that Michael had converted into a recording studio came with a house they would move into when Tom was old enough to run things by himself.
Later that afternoon there was more explaining to do. She went alone to find her parents because she wasn’t sure what her mother was going to say when she broke the news. If there was going to be a scene, she’d rather Michael wasn’t a witness to it.
She told her father first. He was outside chopping logs. “You look nice, love.” He straightened up, wiping his brow. “Going somewhere special?”
“Been somewhere, actually, Dad.” Now that the moment had come, she felt ashamed. She held out her left hand so that he could see the new gold wedding band. “Michael and I got married this morning.” She watched his face melt as tears blurred her eyes. “I wanted to tell you, but I was worried about what Mum would say.”
He gazed at her, speechless. “Why?” he said at last. “Why be worried? She’d have been happy for you—you know she would.”
“There’s something I didn’t tell you about him, Dad.” She glanced at the logs, then back at his face. “Michael’s Cathy Garner’s son. We met when I went looking for her.”
“Oh, I see.” He sank down on an ax-bitten tree stump, a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s been a long time, Lou. Couldn’t you have given her a chance?”
“What do you mean?”
“To put the past behind her. For your sake.”
“But Dad,” Louisa bit her lip. “You know what she was like when I told her about meeting Cathy: I thought she was going to have a heart attack or something! Can’t you see why I did it?”
“Yes, I do understand.” He reached for her hand. “I’m sorry: I suppose I just feel a bit cheated. Come on—let’s go and find your mum.”
To Louisa’s surprise, her mother reacted in almost exactly the same way. She blinked when she saw the ring, then shaded her eyes against the sun to take a long look at her daughter’s wedding dress.
“I would have liked to see you marry.” She gave Louisa a reproachful look. “I don’t know why you thought I wouldn’t want to see Cathy.” She tilted her head, as if weighing something up. “I always liked Michael. Such a nice, polite little boy. Where have you hidden him?”
Louisa marched back up the track to fetch him, dust flying as her dress swished against her legs. “I give up with her!” She burst through the farmhouse door. Michael and the children looked up from their game of Monopoly. “She’s like the flipping Sphinx!” Louisa shook her head. “Whatever I say, I never seem to get it right!”
Later that evening, when the awkwardness of the introductions was over and they were alone together, she finally felt able to relax. It seemed strange, snuggling up to Michael in the big iron bed she had slept in on her own for so long.
“I’m so happy,” she whispered.
“Me too.” He nuzzled her ear.
“Shall I let you in on a secret?”
“What?”
“I dreamed I’d marry you the first day we met.” She told him of the strange image that had come to her while she slept at his mother’s hotel—of Bill walking her down the aisle of the church in Aberystwyth, and him standing at the altar rail waiting for her. “It’s so weird,” she said, “because he did lead me to you, didn’t he? If I hadn’t been searching for him, we’d never have met.”
He kissed her softly. “What a shame we haven’t been able to find him.”
“I know. Bet he’d be delighted about playing Cupid!”
If he’s alive.
The words popped unbidden into her head. Lately she’d become despondent about the letter writ
ing. She hadn’t sent any for several weeks. In her heart she was beginning to believe he was dead. The melancholy mood that crept over her every time she thought of him began to descend once again. But she willed it away. Nothing was going to spoil their wedding night. Not even a ghost.
In the months that followed Louisa led a schizophrenic but happy existence as part-time farmer and part-time rock band hostess. Michael’s studio began to attract big-name bands that found the remote Welsh hills the perfect place to put an album together. While they spent the day in the barn, she would prepare nightly feasts in the main house. For the first time she’d felt truly comfortable in her skin.
At first she had stayed in the kitchen, shy about mixing in such stellar company. With Michael she felt comfortable, but with strangers—especially men—her old phobia about her appearance sometimes threatened to overtake her again. But an unexpected request from the lead singer of one of the bands brought her well and truly out of her shell. He told Michael she had the perfect look for the cover of the album they were putting together. Would Louisa consider it? They didn’t want her in makeup or fancy clothes—just a natural pose with the Welsh countryside in the background. The photographer was already there, taking shots of the band, so she didn’t have long to think about it.
“Are they crazy?” She stared at Michael, flabbergasted, when he relayed the request. “Why on earth would they want me?”
“Because you’re gorgeous, sexy, beautiful . . . Do I have to go on?” He grinned.
“Well, they must all need their eyes tested.” She gave him a crooked smile. “They’re not going to make me look stupid, are they? They’re not going to superimpose a cow flying over my head or something like that?”
“No, you daft woman!” He pulled her to him and kissed her slowly. “It’ll be stunning—trust me.”
And he was right. “My God,” she gasped, as she unwrapped the framed cover the band had sent.
“You’re a star, Lou,” Michael whispered, nuzzling her ear. “How does it feel?”
“Very weird.” She smiled. “But good.”
Just before Christmas she arrived back home after a stint at Michael’s place to find a letter waiting for her. The sight of the American stamps set her heart pounding. It was postmarked New Orleans. She stared at it. It had been nearly three years since she’d sent a letter there. She ripped it open. A compliment slip from the TV station that had featured her story was stapled to a handwritten letter.
To the lady searching for her father:
My name is Cora-Mae Parker. I should have written you a long time ago, but the truth is I didn’t want to. You see, I was married to the man you’re looking for . . .
Louisa clutched the letter to her chest. Married to him? She sat down, resting her hands on the table in a vain attempt to stop them shaking.
The marriage didn’t last. Things were very bitter between us. I married again and had children, but when I saw his face on the television, it stirred up all the bad memories. I guess I held back out of spite.
Then, last month, my eldest girl gave birth to a little boy. My first grandchild. When I held that baby in my arms, I got to thinking about the picture of you and your children they showed on TV. I thought how terrible it would be if my little grandson grew up not knowing who I was. I told myself—Bill has a right to know that he has grandchildren.
So what can I tell you about him? We met in the late thirties when we both worked in a drugstore downtown. He went back in the army when the war ended, but in the fifties he came back home to New Orleans. We were married in April 1956, but it didn’t last much past our first anniversary. He never said, but I think he was still in love with your mama. He told me her name was Eva, and that he had a little girl whose name he never knew. You might not believe this, but I was jealous of you. He talked about you all the time.
Just after our divorce, his mama died. Bill and Martha, his sister, decided to start a new life in Detroit. It was 1958, as I recall. Martha wrote me for a couple years after that. Said Bill was doing pretty well, but we lost touch when they moved apartments.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more than that. Please don’t write me back or try to call me on the phone—my husband doesn’t know I’ve done this and I don’t think he’d be too pleased if he found out.
It took Louisa less than a week to write to the fifty-two W. Willises in Detroit. Ten days later her heart flipped when the postman delivered a thick envelope with the familiar Stars and Stripes stamps. Inside was a Christmas card. Beneath the verse in careful, copperplate writing were the words: I’m the one.
She dropped to the floor, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. Beside her on the hall rug was a tightly folded letter that had dropped out when she opened the envelope.
My dear daughter,
Words can’t express how thrilled I was to receive your letter . . .
The spidery script blurred as her eyes welled up. Holding the letter in one hand and a sodden tissue in the other, she managed to read the words she had longed to hear. He had never given up hope of finding her, even when his letters to her mother were returned unopened. He had been posted to a base in the south of England in 1955 and had come to Wolverhampton, driving around the streets in the hope of catching sight of her. And now that she had found him, he couldn’t wait to hear her voice.
That night, with Michael by her side, she dialed the number Bill had scribbled beside his signature. As the phone rang, she reached for the tumbler of vodka and orange juice she had beside her to calm her nerves. She took a big swallow. The ringing stopped.
“Bill Willis.”
His voice was deep and gravelly. The American accent threw her. She stared at the phone for a second, unable to speak. Of course he was going to have an American accent. She took a deep breath. But it wasn’t the accent. Suddenly, after all these years of searching, he was real. And she wasn’t sure she could handle it. She shot Michael a desperate glance, and he took the receiver from her. After a few sentences of explanation he passed the phone back.
Louisa’s hand shook as she put it to her ear. “Hello . . . yes, it’s Louisa. I . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s just that I can’t quite believe it!”
“You’d better believe it,” the voice replied. “It’s your dad!”
Chapter 41
APRIL 1978
On the way to the airport Louisa studied the photograph that had arrived in the mail just two days ago. In the three decades since his romance with her mum, Bill’s face had filled out and the short, slicked hair had become a gray-tinged mane drawn back into a ponytail. It had been a shock to see how he looked now after carrying the image of the youthful GI in her head for so long.
Time had not been kind to Bill or her mother, she thought. His smile was the same, though. And the dark-brown eyes shone with an intensity the old black-and-white snap hadn’t picked up.
“Do you think you’re going to recognize him?” Michael glanced at her as they turned off the road.
“I hope so. He said he’d be wearing a black leather jacket with a yellow rose in the buttonhole.” Just describing him made her heart skip a beat. She looked at her watch. His plane was due to land in half an hour. Half an hour! She had been speaking to him once a week for the past two months, but until she could touch him, put her arms around him, part of her would not believe he was real.
She pulled a packet of mints from her handbag, her mouth dry. Despite their long conversations, she felt she still knew very little about him. He had told her that he lived alone and had not remarried after splitting up with Cora-Mae. That had surprised her. She’d expected him to have at least one other child—but apparently there were none. The only blood relatives he had spoken of were his sister, Martha, and her two teenage boys. Louisa wasn’t sure whether she felt disappointed or relieved. To have discovered a half sister or half brother would have been thrilling—but what if they had resented her?
She had to admit she was glad there was no stepmother on the s
cene. That could have made things very awkward. A wife would have probably wanted to come with him. Louisa smiled. She was going to have him all to herself.
Michael dropped her outside “Arrivals” and went to park the car. She hurried to the big black information boards, frowning as letters and numbers jumbled before her eyes, reassembling into places and times. With a gasp she registered the fact that his plane had landed, that he was already somewhere in the building. She dodged past knots of tourists to where a cluster of people stood craning their necks. Some were holding boards with names on them. She should have thought of that. A trickle of weary-looking people came through the gates pushing trolleys. British tourists, she decided, looking at their sunburned faces. Definitely not from the Detroit flight. She jumped as she felt someone touch her arm. It was Michael.
“Hey, calm down!” He took her hand and squeezed it tight. “Any sign of him?”
She shook her head. Then something caught her eye. A ponytail, thin and curly, resting on the collar of a black leather jacket. The man was bending over his luggage.
“Michael!” she hissed. “Is that him?”
They watched the man straighten up. He turned slightly. There was something yellow on his lapel.
“Bill!” Louisa called out his name, waving frantically. His head whipped around. And suddenly she was running toward him, oblivious of the wall of people on either side, running into his outstretched arms.
They clung to each other, her face pressed against his shoulder, her eyes closed, the scent of warm leather mingling with the perfume of the rose in his buttonhole. She felt his chest rise and fall. They were both fighting back tears. She drew away, suddenly aware that she was crushing the rose, realizing even as she did so that it didn’t matter. She felt embarrassed, awkward. He was a stranger, but he was her father.
The Color of Secrets Page 33
