by Robyn Grady
His head went back. So she’d had her memory back when they’d made love on the boat that last time. When they’d sped down that ocean road. Why the hell hadn’t she told him before now? Had she set out to make him feel like a fool?
“So most of the time you were faking.”
“Daniel, it wasn’t like that. Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m Mr. Laid-back, remember? I don’t do angry.” Not anymore. Not like when he was a law-breaking kid.
“It’s not as if I’m angry with you. I don’t regret this trip, the things we’ve done. What we’ve shared.”
“I know there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
Her eyes pleaded with his. “But it’s time to get back.”
“To mend your soiled reputation?”
“In your Waves posts, you never mentioned the name of the person you were traveling with. You never showed my face in any of the attachments.”
“Yeah, well, I’m thoughtful like that. The best friend of the president’s daughter can’t be too careful.”
Not that he or any member of the public knew that Ariella was Ted Morrow’s daughter for sure.
“This has been fun. Unbelievably romantic and wild.” She grazed a palm down his checked shirtfront. “But it’s not me. Not really.”
He remembered all the times they’d made love and cocked a wry brow. “Almost had me convinced.”
“I was happy. I am…happy. But I have to go home to D.C. Daniel, I’ve remembered more about the past than I did before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a memory. It’s always been there…. It’s clearer now. More real. But whenever it comes, I feel as if I’m somehow standing outside of myself. It’s hard to explain.”
He’d stopped breathing. Blood clot? Psychosis? Good Lord.
He held her shoulders. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
“What I need,” she said, “are answers. And I know just where to get them.”
Ten
“You were so brief on the phone,” her mother said, lowering into the recliner where she routinely read fat novels while her husband played chess on his iPad. “Is everything all right?”
“Depends on how you look at it.” Scarlet took a seat on the couch. “I have my memory back.”
Sitting in his favorite chair, her father looked relieved. “So, you remember everything before that tumble?”
“Yes.” Then she amended, “Up to a point.”
Moments ago, when Faith Anders had opened the door of her home to her daughter and Daniel McNeal, Scarlet had fallen into her mother’s outstretched arms, exhausted and relieved. Soon they were walking in here, to the same sitting room Scarlet now remembered so well. The big fireplace, that expensive artwork… When they passed the baby grand piano, she looked at it twice.
Her head hurt from going over fractured images and thoughts that kept on like a ticking clock in her brain. Either she was going mad or an event from her past was trying to tell her something she shouldn’t ignore. Something she felt sure her parents could help her with.
“I’m up to date with my school days,” Scarlet explained, “college, starting the business. I remember my friends and our relationships. I remember you both,” she grinned “―of course. But I also remember…others.”
Her mother’s enthralled look changed to one of teasing concern. “You’re sounding like a horror film. Are we about to hear that you can see ghosts?”
“In a way,” Scarlet said, “I do see ghosts. And hear them. Sometimes I even smell them.”
While her mother’s face drained of color, her father reached across to set a consoling hand on his wife’s arm.
“Scarlet, that’s not funny. You’re scaring your mother.”
“I’m scared, too,” she told him. “That’s why I need to hear what you know.”
Faith seemed to pale even more.
“When I was young,” Scarlet went on, “I remember I had a friend. A girl who looked a lot like me. We used to play on a tire swing. A woman would watch over us and bring out lemonade.”
Her father looked blindsided, as if someone had belted him over the back of his head with a rubber mallet.
His voice was a hoarse rasp. “How could you remember that far back?”
“You were only two years old,” her mother said.
Scarlet withered in her seat. Her head began to tingle. She was right. But why did the memory seem so vital? Why wouldn’t it leave her alone?
“That woman—she was real, wasn’t she? They were both real.” Scarlet tipped forward. “Who were they? Why were they so important that I need to remember them now?”
“All your life,” her mother began, sounding drained, “we’ve debated whether or not to tell you.”
Scarlet waited. And waited.
“Tell me what?”
“You had a sister…a twin.” Closing his eyes, her father held the bridge of his nose. “Scarlet, she died.”
Beside her, Daniel held her hand as the memories from long ago sharpened. But none of that made sense. A sister? Who’d died? But then, like a damaged movie reel with lines and glitches playing out in her mind, she remembered more.
That girl…
“She fell off the swing,” Scarlet said, half to herself. “Hit her head.” Just like me.
“She did fall,” her father said. “And when she developed a fever, it was blamed on the accident. But she died of meningitis. We were devastated. Particularly your mother.”
Scarlet brought herself back to the present. “Now that really doesn’t make sense. This girl was my sister. My twin.” She studied her mother’s ashen face. “But in my mind you’re not that girl’s mother. That other woman…”
“That other woman you remember, Scarlet…” Her father took a deep breath. “She’s your biological mother. We were married a year before you were born. After the accident, she was overcome with grief….”
When he lowered his head, unable to go on, Scarlet looked to Faith and forced herself to ask the question that was stuck high in her throat.
“You’re not my mother?”
Faith’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I always tried to be the best mother I could be.”
“Imogene…your mother…she blamed herself for not keeping a better eye on you both,” her father said.
“But she did watch over us.” Scarlet closed her eyes, and the memory came back, sharper than ever. “In my mind, she’s smiling, happy, always there.”
“The day before the funeral,” her father said, “we sent you away to stay with friends. The day after the ceremony, Imogene was gone. Just…vanished. I tried tracking her down. I succeeded a couple of times, but she refused to come home. Your mother…that is, Faith, was a good friend to the both of us. When I needed help, she was there. Before long, you started calling her Mommy. It might have been wrong, but we were grateful you didn’t seem to be affected by any of it.”
“So you let me forget,” Scarlet said, feeling spacey. Feeling empty and betrayed.
“You were so innocent.” Faith didn’t wipe away the tear running down her face, leaving a line on her rouged cheek. “We’d planned to tell you when you got older, but we didn’t want to upset your senior year, or disturb how well you were doing in college. Then you began building a career for yourself…” A defeated look came over her face. “I suppose we all wanted to forget.”
Daniel spoke up. Though he was holding her hand, she’d almost forgotten he was there.
“Where’s Imogene now?”
“I have no idea,” her father said. “After she signed the divorce papers so that Faith and I could marry, I’m afraid we lost track.”
Daniel had another question. “Where was she the last time you were in contact?”
Her father groaned. “Mexico.”
When Scarlet’s head drooped and her shoulders sagged, Daniel squeezed her hand tight.
“I promise you,” he said, “we’ll find her. We’ll start loo
king right away.”
Scarlet felt so deflated, so empty, she could barely muster the energy to speak.
“It’s been twenty-five years,” she said. “She’s never once tried to find me. How does a mother do that to her child?”
Daniel brought his forehead to rest against hers. “I’m afraid you need to ask her that.”
Eleven
Remarkable what some serious money could do.
After her parents’ full disclosure two days ago, when Scarlet had learned the extraordinary truth behind her past, Daniel had promised to leave no rock unturned. They would find her mother, he’d vowed, and find her fast. Now, alighting from a chauffeur-driven limousine on this warm South Carolina day, Scarlet was only grateful that Daniel had access to the resources he did and that he was so willing to help.
After leaving her parents’ home, they’d taken a beeline back to Daniel’s penthouse where he’d made some well-placed calls. Within an hour, one of the East Coast’s most successful private detectives was on the case, digging up records, searching for clues. The next twenty-four hours they’d played out an agonizing waiting game.
Food didn’t interest her. Sleep wasn’t happening. Waiting for news—any news—had reduced her to a bag of jangled nerves. All those years ago, she’d lost a mother and a sister…a twin. How had her parents kept that dark, deluded secret all that time? She felt like the world’s biggest fool. As if every moment she’d lived before now had been masked by a lie.
That realization made her feel even worse about keeping the truth from Daniel. She’d convinced herself that withholding the fact that her memory had returned was for the best. She hadn’t wanted the adventure to end. When he’d confronted her at Owen’s place that night—when the truth had finally come out—he’d looked so hurt. Whether her reasons were well-intentioned or not, she’d lied to him, just as her father and stepmother Faith had lied to her all these years.
As Daniel took her hand now and they headed down the path of this suburban home, Scarlet’s thoughts went to Ariella and her predicament. Strange that within such a short amount of time, their situations should so closely echo each other. Both women wanted to find their birth mothers. Hopefully, today, Scarlet’s search, at least, would be over.
This morning, the P.I. had supplied an address. Scarlet’s mother, Imogene Anders, who now went by her maiden name of Barnes, lived inside this inconspicuous Myrtle Beach home. She’d neither remarried nor had more children. As she and Daniel reached a front door mottled with peeling green paint, Scarlet was gripped by excitement. Near crippled with anxiety. Happy but also still reeling with the knowledge of the awful set of events that had led to this point.
She had so many questions.
The P.I. had also provided the name and description of a woman who shared this house with Imogene. When the door opened, Scarlet guessed this must be Mrs. Rampling. Somewhere in her sixties, she was well-groomed, with salt-and-pepper hair and large gray-framed glasses that magnified small hazel eyes. Daniel introduced himself and Scarlet. The woman reciprocated by announcing, “I told that detective. This won’t work.”
Scarlet’s hackles shot up. While Mrs. Rampling had acknowledged that Imogene Barnes did, in fact, reside here, she’d refused to answer any more of the P.I.’s questions. Neither would Imogene come to the door. Was her birth mother being held captive, or was she simply too cowardly to face the daughter she’d abandoned so many years ago?
“You know the situation.” Scarlet pulled herself up tall. “Frankly, I’m not concerned about your opinion of whether this will work or whether it won’t.”
“What Scarlet means to say,” Daniel cut in on a diplomatic note, “is that learning about her birth mother has been a shock. If you could pass on to Ms. Barnes that her daughter would appreciate a few minutes of her time, we’d be most grateful.”
Mrs. Rampling played with the blue bandanna roped around her neck while she sized Scarlet up. “You don’t look very strong.”
Scarlet coughed. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Just saying. You look as if you’ve had an easy life. Maybe some of this harder stuff is better left behind.”
Scarlet’s stomach roiled. Was that how Imogene had spoken about her family? That it was too hard to deal with? Was that what she’d told this Mrs. Rampling to pass on today?
“If Imogene has something to say,” Scarlet said, steeling herself, “she ought to come out here and say it herself.”
Mrs. Rampling’s lips pursed more.
Scarlet wasn’t devoid of sympathy. Confronting mistakes, accepting responsibilities, wasn’t easy. Her recent time spent with Daniel had taught her that denying a situation’s negatives was not only tempting, it could be downright addictive. To lose a child, of course, was on another level completely. That was a tragedy you’d want to forget if only you could. But Imogene Barnes had another child—one who’d been silenced for twenty-five years and deserved an audience now.
“Kindly tell Imogene that I’m here,” Scarlet said. “Tell her I’m not leaving.”
When Mrs. Rampling gave a sympathetic smile and began to close the door, Scarlet’s threadbare patience snapped. She charged past the older woman and into the house. An instant later, she felt Daniel’s fingertips brush her arm, a fraction short of holding her back. She could barely believe she was breaking the law, entering a private address without permission. But tough times called for tough measures.
The house smelled of overcooked cabbage. Paint on the walls had yellowed and the ceiling felt too low. If her mother hadn’t left her behind, she might have grown up here. A far cry from the pomp of Georgetown.
“Imogene Barnes,” she called out, feeling suddenly chilled and hugging herself. “This is your daughter. Scarlet.” Hearing Daniel’s footfalls behind her, not knowing what lay ahead, she edged farther down the hall. “Please. I want to speak with you.”
A strong arm lashed around her waist—holding her back or steadying her? Because as stoic as she’d felt standing on that porch a second ago, now she was trembling, inside and out.
“I want her to say to my face she doesn’t want to see me,” she told Daniel. “I don’t even need an explanation. But I deserve the courtesy of—”
Her words trailed off. Something shifting in an adjoining room had drawn her eye…a person sitting on a couch that faced an arched window. Only a rear view of the person’s head was visible. The hair was an unusual color…a duller shade of her own golden red.
Entranced, Scarlet inched into the room while Mrs. Rampling voiced her objection.
“Don’t stride right up,” she said. “You’ll frighten her.”
Mrs. Rampling had it the wrong way around. Scarlet was the one who’d been a child, who must have been frightened when her mother hadn’t come home. Not that Scarlet could recall much of that time other than living a normal life, having her father and Faith take care of her. Faith was the person who had brushed her hair in the mornings, who had listened to her enthusiastic attempts at playing the piano, who’d told her about boys and becoming a woman and if ever she had any questions—
Mrs. Rampling was clutching her arm. “Imogene doesn’t know you,” she said.
“And I don’t know her.” That’s what she’d come to fix. “Imogene,” Scarlet said clearly. “Mother.”
She skirted around one end of the couch. Then stopped at the same time the woman with the faded red hair dragged her focus from the view out the window. Her eyes were green and bright. Or was that glassy? On hearing her daughter’s voice—seeing her only living child in the flesh—her gaze didn’t light with recognition. Didn’t dim with shame. Her expression…
Well, it didn’t change at all.
Scarlet sank onto her haunches.
That face was unknown yet so incredibly familiar. Scarlet felt as if she were looking into a crystal ball that foretold a time when she, too, would be skin and bone. Body ravaged. Mind blank.
Growing giddy, Scarlet let out a br
eath as Imogene turned back to the window.
“What happened?” she whispered.
Mrs. Rampling folded down on the couch next to her old friend. “Doctors call it early-onset Alzheimer’s. Gets a handful of people as young as thirty. Their thoughts start to tangle. Little things at first…forgetting certain words, getting confused over everyday chores. As they get worse, they can feel like people are talking about them, accusing them….” Mrs. Ramping folded a set of arthritic fingers over one of Imogene’s bony hands. “Most days now she doesn’t remember me. Not a flicker.”
“Did she ever tell you about her old life? Did she ever—” Scarlet swallowed at the bubble of emotion blocking her throat “—ever speak about her daughters?”
“She told me you were better off without her,” Mrs. Rampling said. “At first I argued. She owed it to everyone, herself included, to get her tail back home and work the troubles out. But I think she knew way back, even then.”
Dealing with that horrible accident, her sense of guilt…that would have been demanding enough without her thoughts being “tangled.”
“And you’ve looked after her all these years?”
“She was a good friend,” Mrs. Rampling said. “Helped me no end when my turd of a husband closed our accounts and tossed me out. Genie and I…we’re like family.”
Family? Scarlet took that word on board, let it settle in, then almost smiled.
She’d always remembered having a family. Now Scarlet was glad her mother had in some way enjoyed that kind of closeness too.
“It’s hard,” Mrs. Rampling went on, “when she’s so confused that she starts to scream, then cry or even sob. She likes routine. Quiet. That’s how I like to keep things, too.” She sat back. “She did love you girls. If there’s such a thing, I think she loved you too much.”
Scarlet followed Imogene’s sight line. The garden was awash with tulips. They reminded Scarlet of a field of raised pink jelly beans. In the middle of all the flowers stood a giant oak and, although Scarlet knew it wasn’t really there—knew it wasn’t real—she imagined the creak of a thick rope on a branch, then saw a tire swing swaying in the breeze and two little girls playing. She wanted to believe that her mother imagined that, too.
