“What about the people around you? Members of your company? They must know the truth.”
“They do. Many of them helped raise me, especially after my grandmother died. I was still an infant when she passed, and by everyone’s account, she had as little interest in raising me as Fiona. To her I was an inconvenience. To Fiona I was a doll.”
“People told you that?”
“No, not to my face. No one was that heartless. I learned it just the same. A conversation overheard here and there, and as I got older, I saw things that confirmed it.” She shrugged carelessly. “But to your question... yes, they knew, and they went along. It was practical. Fiona was younger than I am now the first time she told someone I was her sister, and she was already a lead performer, much admired and sought after. The troupe supported her story by remaining quiet, and in return, she showed her generous appreciation.”
“But you always knew you were her daughter?”
“Yes. It was more difficult to understand what that meant. When I look back on the years before she began introducing me as her sister, I think I was not as much a daughter to her as an afterthought.”
“What about your grandfather? Was he still alive when you were born?”
“Yes, but I never met him, at least not that I remember. Fiona says he was there when she buried her mother, but he had moved on, found work elsewhere. He left when he learned Fiona was pregnant. She says he was deeply ashamed.” Phoebe’s slim smile was both ironic and rueful. “I know, given that he was hardly a father to her, it seems hypocritical, but I suppose everyone draws a line for themselves somewhere. That was my grandfather’s.”
Remington glanced Phoebe’s way again. She was gripping the reins too tightly. Her knuckles were white. He did not comment or correct her. Mrs. McCauley would eventually do that. “There’s no way to ask this, Phoebe, except straight out. May I do that?”
“He’s not my father, Remington.”
He was caught off guard when she answered the question he hadn’t asked. “What?”
“That was what you wanted to know, wasn’t it? Is my grandfather my father? He’s not. I asked Fiona once.” She touched the left side of her face. “She slapped me. Right here. I swear to you I can still feel the imprint of her palmon my cheek.” She lowered her hand and took up the reins, holding them more loosely this time. “Fiona won’t tell me my father’s name. I think that’s because he still works in the theater district. A director perhaps. Possibly a producer.”
“It was rape?”
“I think so, but she’s never said. You might expect that when it happened to me, she would have confided, but she never did. She was only thirteen, so even if she was an outrageous flirt, or an ingénue with her eye out for a better chance, someone took advantage. Amantook advantage.”
“Jesus,” he said under his breath. “Fiona.”
“Don’t pity her, Remington. She’ll sniff it out and dislike you the more for it.”
“Compassion. Not pity.”
“I know. It’s hard to spend time in the shoes she lives in. She was tired, Remington. I know that now. Fiona wanted out. She wanted away. She may not have realized it until she met Thaddeus, but once met, he became her whole world. I’m sure of it. I was there. I watched it happen. She loves him, Remington, but she’s lost here, and if a few days and nights in Liberty Junction aren’t enough to help her find her place, she’ll go back to what is familiar. It will be without me. She doesn’t need me to do what’s best for her. She never has.”
“Pity, Phoebe?”
She laughed a little unevenly. “Self-pity.”
“Good to know you’re not above it.”
This time when she laughed, it was with genuine amusement. “This is why you’re good for me, Remington Frost. You have a gift for not allowing me to take myself too seriously.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But it doesn’t mean that I don’t take you seriously. You have a way of getting me to see things differently, and I appreciate the view even if I don’t always agree with it. I’d say we’re good for each other, but to be honest, I’d feel a mite better if you’d seriously nail down that wedding date.”
• • •
Jackson Brewer carried his coffee to the parlor’s wide armchair and made himself comfortable. Remington closed the pocket doors and then sat beside Phoebe on the sofa and took the cup she offered him.
“It’s disappointing that Thaddeus and Fiona aren’t here, not for them, I’m sure, but for me. And they missed an excellent meal. Ellie sets as fine a table as my wife, and that’s saying something.” He waved away the comment he saw Remington was about to make. “Enough of that. We’re here for business. Miss Apple? Are you certain you want to be here?”
“Phoebe, please. And yes, I am. Remington asked me, but I would be here without an invitation.”
The edges of Brewer’s mouth turned up. “Very well. Remington’s told you everything?”
“I believe he has.”
“I have,” said Remington. “And Phoebe’s given me something to think about.” He related the conversation and Phoebe’s glib, but insightful, remark that the no chin feature was like a brand. “She’s right, you know. So I was considering her idea of rounding up the clan and cutting out the no chins from the rest of them, and it occurred to me that some kind of family reunion might give us an opportunity to muster the herd.”
