"And me," she said quietly, reminding him that even without Jake he wasn't alone.
"And you," he echoed.
She leaned across the table and stole a quick kiss. "Why don't you go get me that breakfast? Some food might bring clarity."
"We've tried everything else."
As Catherine set down the envelope on the table, her gaze tripped over the return address. She'd seen those numbers before. "Dylan, wait," she said, grabbing his arm as he got up. She handed him the envelope. "Three-seven-four Falcon Way. Remember the vision I had at Erica's apartment? She was holding a key and a note with directions to get to an address. The word
Falcon
was there."
"Damn," he muttered, staring down at the address. He lifted his gaze to hers. "That key Erica had was to my mother's beach house on Orcas Island, and those were the directions: right off the bridge, left on Falcon, pink flowers in the window box. Why didn't I realize it before?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. And Erica flew to Seattle. From there she could have driven up to Anacortes and gotten the ferry to Orcas Island, where my mother used to take us every summer. That's the beach you keep seeing in your visions."
"But why would Erica go there?" Catherine questioned.
"To meet someone—my father, perhaps? To hide out? Who the hell knows? Maybe Blake went with her, and that's where the three of them concocted this plan.
This is the best clue we've had so far."
"We're not going to get breakfast, are we?"
"On the way," he said, packing up his computer. "Grab your stuff. We have a long drive ahead of us. At least we're narrowing down the list of enemies. The only person who knows about that house is my father."
"And your mother," she couldn't help adding. "Don't forget about her."
"You won't let me," he said heavily. "But I can't think about her right now. If she's dead, then she's dead. And if she's not . . . well, we'll have to see what happens."
Chapter 17
The trip to Seattle took fifteen long hours as they made their way over the northern California border, up through Oregon, and finally crossed into Washington State. They stopped to eat twice, filled up the gas tank three times, and learned the words to just about every song on the radio. Catherine drove for a couple of hours, but Dylan did most of the driving, his foot heavy on the gas, his eye on the mirror for any cops. They didn't talk about the past, agreeing to put a moratorium on any more personal revelations until they got off the road. Instead they discussed politics and vacation spots, art, books, movies, music. Dylan was well-read, with opinions on just about everything.
Catherine loved listening to him talk. She liked the enthusiasm he brought to topics he was interested in. He cared about a lot of things. He was involved in the world. He made her want to care, want to defend her positions. He pushed until she pushed back. And in the end she realized she'd shed the cocoon she'd hidden herself inside the past few years. Under Dylan's warm but often challenging gaze she'd blossomed.
She wouldn't be the same person when this was over. And she was glad to say good-bye to the girl who'd been very good at hiding and not so good at living. Life was short. She knew that better than anyone. She had to get on with it. Maybe telling Dylan about her father was the first step in freeing herself from the ties of the past.
She would have liked to have finished reading his grandmother's journals, but the sight of them always seemed to annoy Dylan, and reading in the car tended to make her nauseous, so she decided to save the diaries for later. They had enough to consider as it was.
They reached Seattle at two in the morning. Dylan checked them into another motel, where they promptly collapsed on the bed. Catherine hoped exhaustion would send her into a dreamless sleep, but as she drifted off, a voice came into her head.
"Don't come," the woman said. "Protect him. Save him. I couldn't. I tried, but I failed. It's not who you think. It's never who you think."
Catherine opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, wondering whom the warning had come from. The voice had sounded like Olivia's, Dylan's mother. Was she trying to send them a message? Or was Catherine hearing words from a lifetime ago?
She glanced over at Dylan. He was asleep on his side, his breathing deep and steady, his face turned away from her. She scooted up next to him and put her arm around his waist, snuggling into his back. She would protect him any way she could.
They woke up by eight o'clock the next morning and made the two-hour drive north to Anacortes, where they would catch the ferry to Orcas Island just before noon. The ferry landing was busy, and it took a while to get through the line and on board. After leaving the car on the lower deck, they made their way up to the top deck and looked out at the view.
Catherine had always been a water and beach kind of person, and the vista before her was stunning. She'd never before been to the San Juan Islands, a chain of over a hundred and fifty islands in Puget Sound. She knew that the island they were going to, Orcas Island, was one of the three larger islands, but beyond that she didn't know much, except that Dylan had spent every summer there until his mother had left.
Dylan drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "It's strange to be on this boat again. It's been so long. I shouldn't remember anything, but there's a familiarity to the sounds, the smells, the roll of the waves. I feel a sense of excitement, as if I'm going home. That's stupid. The island wasn't home."
"But you were happy there."
"Yes," he admitted. "Summers were awesome— boating, swimming, hiking, picnicking, just running free, wasting hours collecting pebbles on the beach and trying to make them skip across the water."
"It sounds like a lot of fun." In fact, it sounded like more fun than she'd ever had in her childhood. Then again, the good times hadn't lasted that long for Dylan. And the rest of his childhood had been rough.
Dylan put his arm around her shoulders. "The one thing that's different about this trip is you. You weren't with me before."
"I'm with you now," she murmured.
"I'm glad."
His simple words warmed her heart. She never really thought she was helping him much, but maybe in a small way she was. Dylan sneaked a quick kiss and said, "You didn't dream last night. Or if you did I didn't hear you."
"No," she said after a moment. "I didn't dream." She knew he wouldn't want to hear about his mother again, and there was no purpose in telling him. They would find out soon enough whether the island held any answers.
For a few minutes they gazed out at the view. "We might see some whales," Dylan said. "I think this is the season."
"I've never seen a whale up close."
"Then keep your eyes open. Do you want anything to drink?" Dylan asked. "I'm getting some coffee."
"I'm fine, thanks." After he walked away she sat down on a nearby bench. She had a few moments of privacy, and she was itching to read the rest of Dylan's grandmother's journal. Pulling the book out of her purse she skimmed the pages, feeling an intense need to get to the moment when Dylan's mother had left. Perhaps there would be some clue to the breakup of the marriage and where Olivia had gone.
Catherine's heart sped up as she read Ruth's words . . .
I feared it would come to this. I tried to keep Richard away from the hospital, but like a bloodhound he sensed a secret, and he was determined to sniff it out. He didn't understand why Olivia was having private conversations with the doctor, why she was acting so guilty, making calls from a pay phone in the lobby to someone she wouldn't identify, why no one was asking him to donate blood when it appeared that Dylan would need a transfusion. He hadn't wanted Dylan to get blood from a stranger, but in the end Olivia had to tell the truth for Dylan's sake. Richard's blood couldn't save Dylan's life, because Richard was not Dylan's father. Dylan shared a rare blood type with his true biological father. I can't believe I've just written that down. It feels more real now.
Anyway, it seems that Olivia had an affair with another man. And she's lived a lie these past seven years. Now Richard knows the truth, and he's livid. I don't know how he'll ever get past it. He hasn't been home in two days. He can't stand to look at his wife or his child.
My heart breaks for both of them. I am furious that Olivia could do this to my son, could give him such pain, could bring him dishonor. Richard is a man to whom honor is everything. But I also see him for what he is: cold, heartless, a man who can't love anyone as much as he loves himself.
How can I say that about my son? I am racked with guilt. Did I make him this way? Was I responsible for how he turned out?
I knew Olivia was unhappy right after Jake's birth. Richard withdrew from her. He'd wanted a son, and he had one, but he didn't really care to raise a child. He left it all to her, and he couldn't seem to bring himself to want her anymore the way a husband wants a wife. Olivia confided in me after several glasses of wine one night. It was very awkward. I know she must have been desperate, to have told me such a personal thing. I told her to give him time, to pretend all was well and it would be well. It was advice my mother had given me, and it had always gotten me through the difficult times in my own marriage.
But Olivia found happiness only in the summers, when she ran to the beach house her parents had left her in their will. There on the island she was happy.
I suspect it was also there that she met him, the man who fathered her second child. She wouldn't tell me who he was. I'm not sure Richard knows either. But he's too angry to listen. He wants her to go, but she can't leave now. Dylan is just getting better. He needs care, rest, the love of his mother. I pray that Richard will be able to bring his family back together, to forgive even if he can't forget.
I forgive you, Olivia. I just wish I could tell you to your face, but there are some things a mother can't say aloud to the woman who betrayed her son. Richard must have all my loyalty.
Catherine didn't realize she was crying until a teardrop hit the page, smearing the blue ink. She closed the book and lifted her head, staring into Dylan's wary eyes. He handed her a cup.
"Tea," he said shortly.
She took the cup from his hand, wondering what to say, how to tell him what she'd learned. Did she even have the right to tell him? It wasn't her secret. It wasn't her story. But he needed to know. So much now was clear.
"I don't want to hear what you have to say, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?" he asked.
"And I thought I was the only one who could see the future," she said lightly.
He sat down on the bench next to her, stretching out his legs in front of him. He took a sip of his coffee, then set it down on the bench. "Is she dead?"
For a moment she didn't understand the question. "Your mother?"
"Yes. Did my grandmother write that she died—that my father killed her?" His gaze sought hers. "Tell me if it's true."
She shook her head. "No, at least, I didn't get to that part, if it's there. I don't know what happened to her after she left, but I know a little more about why she had to . . . uh . . . go." She stumbled over her words, not sure how to reveal something that would shock Dylan down to his soul.
"Well, something has you rattled. Just say it, Catherine. Whatever it is. Nothing could surprise me anymore."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that."
He frowned, his lips tightening. "Now you're scaring me. It's probably not as bad as I'm starting to imagine."
"It is bad. Okay. Here goes." She drew in a quick breath. "When you were really sick, apparently you needed a blood transfusion, and your father wanted to donate because he didn't want you to have a stranger's blood, but in the end your mother told him that he wasn't a match." She let the words sink in. "That he couldn't give you his blood."
Dylan swallowed hard, his pupils dilating. "Are you saying . . ." He couldn't get out the words.
"He wasn't your real father, Dylan. Richard Sanders is not your biological father." She blew out a breath.
Dylan stared at her in shock. "Are you sure?"
"Your grandmother wrote about when your father found out. It was at the hospital. Your mother confessed that she'd had an affair. I guess she'd been unhappy for a long time, since right after Jake was born. Your father had turned away from her. Your grandmother actually felt sorry for your mother, but she couldn't be disloyal to her son, so she didn't say anything."
"Who is he? Who's my real father?"
"Your grandmother wrote that she didn't know, but I didn't finish the book. It might come out later."
"Then you should keep reading," he said tersely. "I'm going for a walk."
She watched him leave with a heavy heart, wishing she could ease his pain, but he needed time to come to grips with what she'd just told him, if that was even possible. For thirty years he'd known exactly who he was, and now it turned out he was someone completely different.
* * *
His father was not his father! He couldn't believe it, but Catherine's words kept
going around in his head. If it was true, why hadn't Richard ever told him? Or had he?
All their fights, all their yelling matches had ended in the same way, his father screaming,
"You're a worthless piece of shit. You're no son of mine."
Dylan had never taken the words literally, but now he realized that his father's hate came from a place that was real. His mother had had an affair with another man. His father couldn't live with that. He had to kick her out.
Had he also killed her?
Dylan wouldn't put it past him. He'd seen firsthand the depth of his father's rage, the explosive violence of his temper. His mother had seen it, too. Had his father been abusing her all along? Was that why she had turned to someone else?
And she'd kept it a secret for seven long years.
He stood at the rail, staring out at the water, at the island calling him home. Was that where it had happened? It was the only place his mother had ever gone without her husband. It had to have been there. That was why she'd looked forward to the summers. The island was her safe harbor. Maybe where she'd found love. Although he was cynical enough to believe that it might not have been love; it might have just been sex to cover up the loneliness.
Taking a deep breath, he waited for the anger to come, the pain, the hurt, but all he really felt was confusion and, oddly, relief.
He wasn't related to Richard Sanders. He didn't share his blood. He wasn't his son. Thank God for that.
As the reality sank in he saw everything more clearly, including what was happening now. His father had finally found a way to get rid of him. He'd probably been thinking about it for years, but he couldn't just come out and kill the boy he'd raised and claimed to be his son. He had to find a clever way to make his life miserable. Perhaps seeing his friend the senator go to jail had given Richard an idea. He could make his son suffer the same fate. And to take him down, Richard could use the very woman who had given Dylan his biggest story to date.
Dylan wished that he could turn the ferry around. He wanted to go home. He wanted to face the old man and speak the truth. He wanted to forever break the ties between them. His father would probably tell him he should be grateful that he'd raised him, put a roof over his head, food in his belly, clothes on his back. But Dylan knew that Richard Sanders hadn't done any of those things for him; he'd done them to save his reputation. He'd made sure that no one would ever know that his wife had slept with another man. He'd sent her away to punish her, and he'd tortured Dylan to punish him for the very fact of his birth.
So the question remained—why hadn't his mother tried to save him? She must have known what fate awaited him. Had she simply hoped that his father would do the right thing and raise another man's child? She couldn't have been that big a fool.