Arden sat in Jenny’s chair. She considered turning on the computer and trying to access Jenny’s e-mail. No, Arden couldn’t risk leaving any electronic fingerprints.
Her eyes scoured the room.
She went to the one dresser, an old walnut Empire thing Arden remembered from her childhood. She pulled open the drawers. Extreme neatness.
First drawer: socks. Winter socks on one side, little white sneaker socks on the other.
Next: underwear arrayed as if in a magazine ad, bras lying cupped together in shades mostly of black, white, and beige. Camisoles.
Next: tee shirts, pressed, folded, and layered in wrinkle-free hues of black, white, gray, brown, and blue.
Finally: sweaters. One thick Irish cream cardigan. A couple of
cashmere pullovers. A couple of cotton cardigans and a few crew-necks.
Wow. Here was a woman with a rich sensual life. Finally, the closet.
Jenny’s pants were clipped to pants hangers, her shirts hung next to them, dresses farther down the closet rack. On the floor, her shoes stood side by side in neat rows. At the back of the closet, a box. Arden squatted, reached in, removed the lid. Love letters hidden inside? No—old headbands, barrettes, and other hair accessories from the days Jenny wore her hair long.
Irrationally miffed, Arden dragged the desk chair over to stand on while she checked out the shelf at the top of the closet. Purses, evening bags, neatly folded pashmina shawls—well, at last, thank heavens, a sign of some bit of luxury!—a couple of saucy hats, flannel pajamas.
What a disappointment. Jenny was a beauty. She had to keep some sentimental old notes and photos of former boyfriends somewhere. Perhaps she had a trunk in the attic.
With a sigh, Arden left Jenny’s room and headed to the back of the house to the small room she’d once used, the room Meg had now. Her excitement had dissipated. The long summer evening spread before her in all its steamy languor. And here she was, alone.
Listlessly, she pawed through Meg’s dresser, finding nothing unusual. Meg’s new sundresses hung from the rack in a rainbow of fabric. She smiled, happy to think of Meg appearing before Liam in her new guise.
Still bored, Arden went back down the hall, wondering what to do now. At the top of the stairs, she stopped.
The door to the master bedroom was shut, just as if someone were in there. It was a little bit creepy, really. On impulse, Arden opened the door.
She stepped inside. She’d seldom been in this room. Her father didn’t own the house when he was married to her mother, Nora, his first wife. It was only three years later, when he’d left Nora to marry Cyndi, that his real estate business soared and he was able to afford the Nantucket house. Arden hadn’t come in this room during the summers she visited her father, Cyndi, and Meg. She’d been a child, and the room was off-limits.
Only one summer had she been in the room when her father was married to Justine. She’d peeked inside, of course. It had been fragrant with Justine’s perfume, the armchairs draped with her discarded lingerie, all lacy and, to an adolescent’s impressionable mind, tantalizingly sexy. Mysteries shimmered in the air, and the enchantments of the woman who had stolen her father’s loyalty.
Arden walked around the room now, touching the posters of the canopy bed, the back of the armchair, the bureau. It all still gleamed with secrets, sensuality, choices made long ago and forgotten.
Justine’s red velvet jewelry box stood on the dressing table. Arden slid onto the bench and lifted the lid. Inside—nothing. Of course not. Justine must have taken all her jewelry with her to her Boston home after Rory’s death.
Because it wasn’t Justine’s house any longer. It belonged to Arden, Meg, and Jenny.
Arden rose and slid open the doors of the closet. Extending deep into the walls, it was crammed with clothing: Justine’s colorful summer wardrobe and Rory’s equally vibrant attire. At one end of the closet, a shoe organizer held sparkling sandals and well-worn deck shoes along with knee-high rubber waders.
At the other end of the closet was a row of shelves where Justine kept extra sheets, towels, and blankets. Arden ran her hand over the linens, feeling only the smooth softness, enjoying a sense
of illicit possession, wondering who would keep these sheets if Justine didn’t take them. Certainly Arden and Meg wouldn’t want the sheets their father had slept on with Justine.
Turning, Arden caught her heel on something. She clutched at the inner wall to keep herself from falling.
Looking down, she saw she’d nearly tripped on a loose board. Squatting, she started to wedge the board back into place.
Then she stopped.
She lifted the board. Beneath the closet floor lay a black velvet jewelry pouch.
Arden’s heart thudded so fast and hard she thought she might faint.
She lifted out the pouch and dumped the contents into her hand. Even in the darkness she could spot the glimmer and gleam of real gold and a large diamond-circled emerald.
Justine’s necklace. Oh. My. God.
She left the closet, sat on the bed, and inspected it in the light. Yes, this was it, the necklace, the necklace Justine had accused Arden and Meg of stealing, the reason she’d exiled them from the house and island.
Jaw clenched, Arden returned the jewelry to the pouch and stomped down to her own room and her cell phone.
Jenny couldn’t take her eyes off Dr. William Chivers. He appeared to be as stunned as she was. People had told her she looked like her mother, but never before with such immediacy.
She forced her numb lips to move. “I’m Jenny. Justine’s daughter.”
A flush of warmth moved over the physician’s face, and a smile broke out like the sun from behind clouds. “Of course you
are. Please come in.” He shut the door behind her, gestured her to a sofa in a small consultation area, and punched the phone on his desk.
“Barbara. No calls.”
He seated himself in an armchair across from Jenny, taking care to pinch the crease of his trousers as he sat. He waited, an amiable expression on his face.
Jenny’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t speak. She was trembling.
Williams Chivers noticed. Patiently, as if she were someone from another country, he said, “My goodness. You look just like her. How is she?”
“She’s fine. Well, not so great just now. Her husband died.” Jenny’s words were slow to arrive and felt shapeless in her mouth.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His eyes were gentle, his face full of compassion.
“You’re my father,” Jenny blurted. Now the words rushed out. “This is weird, I know, and I apologize, but I’m thirty-one now, and my—friends—have convinced me I need to know about my biological father because so many characteristics are passed along through the genes. Mother—Justine—never told me until today who my biological father was. For years she was married to a wonderful man, Rory Randall; he adopted me, he was my real father, I thought of him as my real father, but of course, I don’t have his genes. I don’t mean to upset you or embarrass you or cause you any problems at all, and I won’t tell your wife or kids or anyone, but I really think I need to have some idea of your medical history.”
She sat back in her chair, exhausted.
His hands had been clasped together, but now he put one hand over his heart, as if to still it. He seemed to sink into a private reverie. “Give me a moment.”
Jenny waited.
Dr. Chivers spoke slowly, remembering. “The last time I saw her, we fought. I don’t recall the reason. Something inconsequential. We fought, we parted in anger. I was busy, I didn’t phone her for a few days.… When I did call, she wasn’t there. She’d just vanished, without a word. I tried to find out where she’d gone. I didn’t have much free time, I was at Mass General then, but I did everything I could and came up with nothing. I thought … I thought she’d stopped loving me.” Suddenly he bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.
Jenny sat silently, respecting his mood.
After a moment, he lifted his head. “Could you tell me your birth date?”
“March 18, 1982.”
He nodded. His eyes searched her face. “It’s as if she cloned you. I don’t see much of me in your features at all, which is lucky for you.”
She smiled and lifted her dark hair off her ears. “What about these?”
The tops of her ears were slightly tipped, peaked like an elf’s. Like William Chivers’s. Justine’s were perfectly rounded.
“Oh dear.” He chuckled. “Poor you.”
“You’re being so kind.”
“My dear child,” William Chivers said, “why wouldn’t I be kind?”
At his words, emotions unclenched in Jenny’s heart like a flower opening to the sun, unfurling petals she’d never even known existed, delicate silken shades of hope, regret, and a profound, stirring, powerful need.
This man was her father.
This man was her father, and he accepted her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, for tears were streaming down her
face and her shoulders were shaking. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure whether you’d be glad to see me or if you’d turn me away or tell me I was wrong—”
William Chivers rose and crossed his office to a table with a pitcher of water and glasses on a tray. He poured the water and brought it to Jenny.
“Take your time,” he advised her. “No hurry. Of course you are upset.” He sat back down in his chair and waited, hands folded in his lap.
A box of tissues sat on the coffee table between them. He held them out to her. Jenny took a few, blew her nose, wiped her cheeks. She took a sip of water and made an effort to still her shaky breathing.
Lifting her eyes, she studied his face. She saw her own emotions reflected in his eyes and in the sudden blotchy patches on his skin.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“I was. My wife died two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. We have two children. My son, Roger, is in medical school at Harvard. My daughter, Penny, is studying to be a veterinarian.”
Her arms broke out in goose bumps. She had a brother and a sister! A half brother and sister, but still!
“Do you have siblings?” he asked.
She paused, then said softly, “Two sisters.”
“I’m so glad. I wouldn’t want you to be an only child. I was an only child, and it’s lonely.”
She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted him to know that she
had
been lonely, for ten years, until Rory brought Meg and Arden into her life, and then she’d only really had them for two years, until Justine sent them away.
He was speaking now. “Where do you live?”
“On Nantucket. I’m here visiting my mother. She lives in Belmont. She’s widowed, too.”
William Chivers took a deep breath. “I didn’t realize she lived in the Boston area.” He studied the floor for a moment, seemingly fascinated by the pattern in the carpet. “I have some phone calls to make, and paperwork to finish,” he told her. “But I wonder, do you think you could have dinner with me tonight?”
Her throat was choked with tears. She could only nod.
When the doorbell rang, Arden swore under her breath. She’d been pacing the house, cell phone in one hand, jewelry pouch in the other, and completely forgotten that she’d invited Palmer White to dinner.
She stuck the pouch in the drawer of the hall table, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.
Palmer stood there with a bottle of wine in his hands. He was casually but expensively dressed in chinos and a red rugby shirt that gave a glow to his cheeks and made his dark eyes glitter.
Seeing her face, Palmer said, “You forgot?”
Arden shook her head. “Of course not. Come in. Sorry, I’m kind of rattled. I—it’s complicated—never mind.”
“Want help hiding the body?”
“No, no.” She smiled. “But I’m afraid I didn’t manage to get dinner started yet. It’s been that kind of day.”
Palmer held up the bottle of wine. “We could start with this while we recon a new plan.”
“Brilliant idea.” She led Palmer to the kitchen, found glasses, handed him the corkscrew. “Do you like Szechuan? We could order some in.”
“Doubt it. I don’t think there’s a Szechuan place on the island.”
“Well, we are not having pizza.” Arden opened the refrigerator and peered in at the steaks she’d planned to marinate and grill. “I can cook,” she said over her shoulder. “Well enough, anyway.”
“I’m sure you can,” Palmer said. Gently he pulled her away from the refrigerator, shut the door with one hand, and wrapped her against him with the other.
She felt his heart beating steadily against her, and his breath was warm on her face. With a sigh, she laid her head on his shoulder and sagged into his supporting arms. To her surprise and relief, she realized she was crying, not in great agonizing sobs, but in silent acceptance. Crying on Palmer White’s shoulder seemed like receiving an unexpected mercy.
“Sorry,” she apologized after a while. She walked over to take a tissue and blew her nose. “How do you like our dinner so far?”
“Best I’ve ever had.” Palmer’s voice was low and kind.
They sat inside, on the sofa, because it felt so good to kick off her sandals and curl up on the welcoming cushions. What could she tell him? she wondered. That she’d discovered the pouch of jewelry Justine had accused her of stealing?
That she’d found proof that Justine had purposely lied in order to exile her and Meg from the island? That it was an unbelievable relief it hadn’t been Jenny who had taken the necklace to make her mother get rid of them? That as much as she had adored her charming father, she wished he were alive for just one minute—no,
make that five—so she could shout at him, rail at him, tell him how much misery he’d caused in his lifetime, how much chaos!
Simplify this
.
All of this was private knowledge that should be shared only with Meg and Jenny. Arden didn’t know Palmer well enough. She didn’t know if she could trust him not to spill out the Randall family gossip after too many glasses of wine beneath a hot summer sun to twenty or forty of his best friends.
“I played tennis today,” Palmer told her.
She gawked at him as if he’d said he’d visited the moon. She was so absorbed in her own melodrama she’d forgotten other people had lives.