“All right.” She forced her tone to be light and her smile to be bright. “As long as it’s double pepperoni.”
“Pepperoni was on the forbidden list?” Jacob shook his head in disgust. “That’s downright cruel.”
“Tell me about it.”
They crossed the street to a two-story brick building—Earl’s Family Pizza and Pool Hall. Make that Pearl’s Family Pizza and Pool Hall, Jacob corrected himself when he noticed that the P had blanked out in the blue neon sign in the front window.
The aromatic scent of baking pizza dough and spicy herbs assaulted them when they stepped through the front door. The sound of Italian accordion music blasted from every corner speaker.
Pearl’s was packed. Nearly every red-and-white-checked table was full. There was a line for takeout, a line for eat-in and a line for drinks. Servers shouted orders and filled beer and soda pitchers, the phones were ringing, and two men behind a glass counter flipped circles of pizza dough high up in the air, then caught it again.
“You go ahead and order,” Clair said over the din. “I’ll get us a table.”
Several minutes later, Jacob joined Clair at a table beside the Family Fun Center, a room filled with video games and pinball machines. He nearly spilled the icy mug of beer and soda he carried when two young boys burst out of the room and exploded past him.
“Hoodlums,” he muttered. He handed Clair her soda and a paper wrapped straw, then set a red plastic number card on the table that read 17.
“They’re just little boys.” Clair ripped an end off her straw’s wrapper, then blew the paper sleeve at Jacob and hit him on the nose. “Don’t you like children?”
Frowning, he crinkled the paper into a little ball and threw it back at her. “Sure. I used to be one. I was a hoodlum, too.”
“I don’t believe you.” She took a sip of her soda, then set her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her fisted hands. “Hoodlums don’t read Hemmingway or know the square root of twenty-five thousand.”
“They might if they had a parole officer who believed in education.”
“You were in jail?”
The shock in her eyes reminded him how little she knew about life outside her own secluded world. And how little she knew about him.
What would she think of him if she really did know him? Jacob wondered. Living in the slums of New Jersey was as far from South Carolina high society as a guy could get. Survival was all that mattered in the neighborhood where he’d grown up. When he’d been a kid, he’d seen things, even done some things, that would make Clair’s skin crawl.
Hell, it made his skin crawl.
“Juvenile hall, actually.” He could still remember the sound of the metal bars they’d slammed closed behind him. Could still feel the panic of being locked inside a cage. “I was fourteen.”
“You were only a child.”
“Where I grew up, fourteen is definitely not a child.” He watched the two boys who’d nearly bumped into him run to a table across the restaurant where a man and woman were sharing a pizza. The quest for quarters, he thought with a smile. “And the man whose car I stole didn’t much care how old I was.”
“You made a mistake.” Clair pressed her lips firmly together and lifted her chin. “You said yourself that your mother had abandoned you and your brother, and that your father was an alcoholic. Surely the judge took that into account.”
“Sure, he did.” Jacob stretched his long legs out under the table. “He sent my brother to a foster home, and me to a Newark boys’ home.”
“He separated you and your brother?” Indignation squared her shoulders. “That’s terrible!”
“Turned out to be the best thing that could have happened.” Evan had only been eleven at the time. Jacob remembered how hard those first few weeks had been for both of them. “It gave Evan a stable home with a decent family for four years and me a goal.”
“What goal?”
“Not to end up like the rest of the kids I was hanging with, and definitely not to end up like my father. After I finished high school, I went to work for a bail bondsman and discovered I had a knack for finding people who didn’t want to be found. Two years later I got my private investigator’s license, then opened an office in Jersey.”
“What about your brother?”
“He finished high school, then got a four-year scholarship to University of Texas.” Jacob stared at the condensation on the mug in his hands. “Neither one of us has looked back.”
Is that why Jacob had set no roots? Clair wondered. Why he’d chosen a job that kept him moving? Because if he was still for even a moment, he might look back and be reminded of what he’d left behind? Or of what he’d never had?
Strange, she thought. She couldn’t remember her past, and he couldn’t forget his.
“And Evan,” she asked, “where is he now?”
“He owns a construction company about twenty miles outside of Fort Worth, a small town called Kettle Creek.” Jacob shook his head. “A masters in science and he ends up swinging a hammer. Go figure.”
There was pride in Jacob’s voice, not criticism, Clair noted. “Why didn’t you go to college, too?”
“Degrees are for nine-to-five people who like ladders and schmoozing with the boss.” He crossed one boot over the other. “My life is simple. No time clock to punch, no yard to mow, no quarts of milk to pick up for the little woman on my way home from work.”
Clair wasn’t certain how the conversation had moved from getting an education to yard work, then to marriage, nor was she certain whether Jacob was trying to convince her or himself that he had no intentions of ever settling down.
She knew this was his way of letting her know he wouldn’t be sticking around after he got her to Wolf River. His job would be over, mission accomplished. As hard as it was for her to hear it, she at least appreciated his honesty. There’d been far too many lies in her life.
More than anything, she needed the truth right now. She needed to know what happened twenty-three years ago. And most especially, why.
She knew the answers to her questions were waiting for her in Wolf River. That there were people waiting to give her those answers.
And she knew it was time to go there.
The call for order number 17 interrupted Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore” and while Jacob went to get their order, Clair sat back and watched the families enjoying a night out. A blue-eyed baby girl two tables over rubbed spaghetti sauce into her blond curls while her older brother picked the cheese off his pizza, then—despite his mother’s warning—crammed a huge bite of crust into his mouth. In the far corner, an extremely loud Little League baseball team was clearly celebrating a victory and at another table beside them, a little redheaded girl was having a birthday party with balloons and paper hats. A big pink candle on the cake in the center of the table declared that she was eight.
When she was a child, Clair’s birthday parties had either been at the Van Sheever Yacht Club, the Four Seasons Hotel or Emily Bridge Rose Gardens. Never a pizza parlor. Josephine Beauchamp would have been appalled at the very thought.
Clair glanced around the restaurant again, felt an ache settle in her chest. Desperately she wanted to be a part of this. She wanted children and birthday parties and Little League games. A minivan or SUV. A white picket fence. Rosebushes. A dog.
And—she watched Jacob come toward her, holding the pizza high as he dodged children running under-foot—she wanted a man who would bring home a quart of milk on his way home from work.
They ate pizza, played video games and Skee-Ball, and that night, as the rain pounded the roof and thunder shook the motel walls, they made love with the same intensity as the storm overhead, both of them knowing their time together was growing shorter by the hour. By the minute. By the second…
Ten
“Welcome to Wolf River, Miss Beauchamp.” Grinning broadly, Henry Barnes enclosed Clair’s hand between both of his own. “You have no idea what a pleasu
re it is to finally meet you.”
The silver-haired man, dressed in jeans, a white button-up shirt and cowboy boots, looked more like a rancher than a lawyer, Clair thought. His handsome face was tan, his years evident in the deep lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes and the brackets alongside his smile. The warmth in that smile took the edge off the icy fear in her blood and the tight knot in her stomach.
For the last twenty minutes, since she and Jacob had driven past the Welcome To Wolf River County sign, then parked in front of Beddingham, Barnes and Stephens Law Offices, Clair had not been able to put a coherent thought, let alone a sentence, together. Gratefully years of etiquette now took over. “Thank you, Mr. Barnes. The pleasure is all mine.”
“Just call me Henry. And you—” he released her hand and turned to Jacob “—are Mr. Carver, I presume. I’m not sure whether to label you a magician or a miracle worker, but as spokesperson for the Blackhawk family, I thank you for bringing Elizabeth—” Henry shook his head “—Clair, that is, safely to us.”
Obviously uncomfortable with the compliment, Jacob shifted awkwardly, then accepted Henry’s hand. “Jacob.”
“I’ll get us some coffee.” Henry gestured toward two chairs opposite his large oak desk. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back.”
“I can wait outside.” Jacob turned to Clair after Henry left the room. “This is private and I’m sure—”
“Would you stay?” She touched his arm. “I’m not sure I can do this alone.”
I need you, she almost said, and would have meant it in every way. But that, she figured, was the last thing Jacob needed to hear. She would not cling, nor would she beg. It would only embarrass them both.
Hands folded in her lap and shoulders straight, Clair sat in the chair Henry had offered while Jacob studied a miniature train setup in the corner of the office. The detail in the old-time railroad display, right down to the shiny brass bell on the engine and an entire 1800s coal mining town was amazing. She watched Jacob glance at the switch that would turn the train on, couldn’t help but smile when she saw the brief glimpse of childlike anticipation in his eyes before he shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
They’d both been unusually quiet since they’d left the town of Lucky early this morning. She’d asked for no side trips today, not even to take pictures. They’d driven seven hours straight on the Interstate, had stopped briefly for gas and fast food in Lampasas, a small Texas town known for its mineral springs, then were back on the road again.
She understood that the drive today—what might very well be their last day together—was a transition time for both of them. Though she had no idea how her life was about to change, she knew without a doubt it would.
And Jacob’s would not.
“Here we go.” Henry came back into the room carrying a tray loaded with three mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of cookies. “Judy, my secretary, has the afternoon off for a PTA bake sale. We need books for a new library at the elementary school.” He set the tray on his desk. “I made my donation early and lucked out with a dozen of Angie Smith’s chocolate chip cookies.”
“Angie Smith?” Clair glanced up sharply. “You mean Angela Smith, married to Boyd?”
Lifting a brow, Henry sat in a brown leather chair behind his desk. “You know Angie and Boyd?”
“No. I—she—” Suddenly she couldn’t speak. She felt as if her life had turned into a connect the dots puzzle and with each new line drawn, she was closer to a completed picture.
“We met her cousin Dorothy in Lucky, Louisiana,” Jacob answered for Clair. “She told us to say hello if we saw them.”
Henry smiled warmly at Clair. “I’m sure you’ll have a chance to do that, especially since Lucas’s wife, Julianna, is best friends with Angie’s daughter, Maggie.”
Lucas, Julianna, Maggie. Clair knew she’d have to ask again later, but she was too dazed right now. Clasping her hands tightly together, she swallowed and leaned forward. “My family,” she said quietly. “I need to know what happened.”
With a nod, the lawyer leaned back. “We only sent the barest information for Jacob to give to you. Your brothers decided they would rather you heard the details in person, as they already have.”
Your brothers.
Clair’s heart started to pound furiously. A lifetime of learned patience flew out the window at the lawyer’s words. “Please, Mr. Barnes—Henry.”
“Twenty-five years ago,” Henry began, “on September 23, you were born Elizabeth Marie Blackhawk to Jonathan and Norah Blackhawk. You had two brothers, Rand Zacharius, age nine, and Seth Ezekiel, age seven. Your parents owned a small horse ranch outside of town.”
Henry pulled a document from a file sitting on his desk and handed it to her. Clair’s hand shook as she stared at the birth certificate. She’d been born at 3:47 p.m., weighed seven pounds, three ounces. Twenty-two inches long, eyes blue.
“We always celebrated my birthday on August 29,” she whispered, realizing the birth certificate she’d used her entire life was a phony. “I thought I’d been born in France.”
“I already sent you a copy of the newspaper article about the accident.” Henry slipped the original out of the folder. “Your parents’ car went over a canyon ravine in a lightning storm and they were killed instantly.”
“But the article said we were all killed.” Clair looked at the article, but couldn’t bear to touch it. “How is that possible?”
“The conspiracy was an elaborate one.” Henry’s expression was somber. “It was so unthinkable, no one suspected a thing.”
“A conspiracy?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“The night of the accident, the first person to arrive on the scene was Spencer Radick, the sheriff of Wolf River. At first, Radick believed your entire family had been killed in the accident, so he called your father’s brother, William. William arrived a few minutes later with his housekeeper, Rosemary Owens, and they discovered that you and your brothers were not only alive, but had suffered very few injuries.”
Spencer Radick, William, Rosemary Owens. Clair struggled to keep the names straight, knew that each one was another number to help her connect the dots. “My uncle,” she whispered. “He took us home?”
“I’m afraid not,” Henry said sadly. “William was an angry, disturbed man. He’d been estranged from both his brothers since they married outside their own race.”
Clair furrowed her brow in confusion. “But then what did he—”
The realization slammed into her like a two-by-four in the chest. She gripped the wooden arms of the chair she sat in, then said raggedly, “He sold us.”
“In a way,” Henry said, “though he saw no money himself. He split you all up that night, sent Rand with Rosemary, Seth with the sheriff, and you with Leon Waters—a crooked lawyer from Granite Springs—a man who specialized in illegal adoptions. You were all adopted out, Rand and Seth each told their entire family had died in the crash. You were too little to understand what had happened.”
“But the newspaper article.” Clair looked at Jacob, saw the rigid set of his jaw, then glanced back at Henry. “The death certificates, children missing. Why wouldn’t someone, a neighbor or another family member, have questioned or discovered the truth?”
“Your uncle Thomas and his wife were already dead. Their son, Lucas, was only a teenager. William’s wife, Mary, was a weak woman. It was easier for her to pretend she didn’t know what had happened. And their son, Dillon, was just a child himself.” Henry sighed. “Your uncle William was thorough and he had the money to pay off all the right people. Spencer Radick left town two months later and was never seen again, Rosemary Owens moved to Vermont shortly after that. Leon Waters closed his practice and disappeared.”
“Waters blackmailed my parents a few years ago.” Clair remembered her mother and father talking about the lawyer. “They paid him to keep my adoption secret.”
“Waters is the scum of t
he earth.” Disgust filled Henry’s voice. “But if it helps you, the Beauchamps didn’t know the truth when they adopted you. You were the perfect child, the right coloring and hair, healthy and young enough that you would forget your past.”
“They lied to me.” She closed her eyes against the growing ache in her chest. “Let me believe I was their daughter by birth. My mother even told a story about being in labor with me and how nervous my father was.”
“Sometimes the line between the truth and fiction becomes blurry,” Henry said gently. “What we’re doing here now is making that line distinct and clear.”
“Twenty-three years,” Clair whispered, then glanced up sharply at the lawyer. “But how, after all this time, did the truth finally come out?”
“Rebecca Owens, Rosemary’s daughter, found a journal after her mother died several months ago. I have copies of that journal in a file for you.” Henry slid a thick manila folder across the top of his desk. “Rosemary had written in detail everything that happened that night, plus the names of everyone involved. Most likely it was to protect herself in case William ever came after her and threatened her. Rebecca contacted Lucas, your cousin, who hired me to track you all down. Rand and Seth were easy. You were not. If not for Mr. Carver here, I’m not sure we would have ever found you. We all owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“Yes.” Clair looked at Jacob, met his dark, somber gaze. “We do.”
He’d saved her from a marriage she hadn’t truly wanted, given her the courage to make decisions for herself, to simply be herself. The past few days had been the most important, most special, most exciting of her life.
When he left, he’d take much more than her gratitude, she thought. He’d take her heart, as well.
She turned away from him, couldn’t think about him now, about his leaving. If she did, she was certain she’d fall apart completely. She’d come too far to allow herself to break down here.
Later, she told herself. After he was gone. Only then, would she allow herself to give in to the pain of losing him.
That Blackhawk Bride Page 12
