I could almost understand that. Marginally calmer, I ask, “But why now? Why risk coming back here and being recognized?”
“Your Dad died.”
“And that made it worth the risk?” I ask, skeptical. She and I are on the same wavelength so often it’s scary, but I’m not there with her now.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your dad died,” she repeats, suddenly disciplined, suddenly the woman who coaches lost souls, the woman who understands love and grief and regret. “Whether or not he’s your biological, he was your dad. I knew you’d be feeling lost, and conflicted, maybe even guilty that you haven’t seen him more. I knew this whole—” she gestures widely back at the cemetery, “businesswas going to be difficult for you, and I knew your sisters would be here. I wanted to be here for you, too.”
It’s the proper response, but I know Chrissie too well. There’s more. Her look right now is… frightened, pleading,pregnant.
Facing the sea, for all the good it’s doing, I brace my hands on the top of the bench. Its roughness gives me traction as I consider how to proceed. But bluntness is the only way. Diplomacy is beyond me. “What aren’t you saying?”
She doesn’t answer.
My eyes fly to hers then, because suddenly, Isee.She’s from Bay Bluff. She’s Roberto Aiello’s daughter. She’s heard the rumors. “You think we’re sisters!”
She hesitates for several seconds more. Maybe she’s waiting for me to elaborate. Maybe she’s hoping I’ll deny it and offer evidence to the contrary. Maybe she’s praying I’ll confirm it, saying I suspected it all along. But how could I have ever suspected it, when she’s kept me in the dark all this time?
She must have realized that, because her words burst out, like horses breaking from the Derby gate. “It makes sense, Mal—us looking alike and thinking alike. I don’t believe in chance, and I don’t believe in cosmic voodoo, but what are the odds that we’d end up beside each other in the gym? So maybe it was meant to be, and maybe I was afraid to let you know who I was, because I suffered through talking about Bay Bluff with my own therapist, and it was too painful to repeat. Maybe I wanted it so badly that I was afraid to give you a chance to say it was not.” She takes a breath, as reality slows her down. “Then your dad got sick. I couldn’t say anything, because it was inappropriate. And once you were back here, you were with him and Anne, and then Margo came, and there was everything you were learning about your mom. When was I supposed to tell you, Mal?” she pleads. “Would it have helped in the middle of all that if I’d told you we were sisters?”
“You’re not,” Paul says in a voice that is kind but firm.
I don’t know when he and Jack approached, but here they are. I’ve been so lost in Chrissie that after years without Jack, I’m actually startled to see him again. In that surprise, he is a momentary distraction. He has taken off his blazer and tie, rolled the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow and pushed a hand through his hair—stunning in all regards.
He has been a rock these last two days.
My rock.
But so has Paul. And since he’s the one who has just spoken, my attention slides there. “You sound sure.”
“I am, Mallory. I told you that Monday.” He eyes Chrissie. I’m not sure if she knows who he is, but between his dark suit, the lines on his face, and his manner, he exudes quiet authority. “The rumors were unfounded. Eleanor Aldiss was never with your father that way.”
Chrissie frowns at Lina, who has come to us right along with the men. “He told me he was,” the older woman says in self-defense.That explains the scrutiny she gave me Saturday morning. She was looking for Roberto in me.
Paul’s voice is gentle, but all the more weighty for its reluctance. “If he said that, then he lied. I know,” he returns to me, just me now, “because your mother denied it. I believe her, because she never lied to me.” Quietly, he adds, “And because I know who is.”
I press a fist to the center of my chest. “Who is?”
Chapter 25
The world recedes. Oh, I’m sure that the ocean continues to roll and its breeze stirs the trees. Birds still call, squirrels still rustle, insects still buzz as they did during the pastor’s words. All I hear now, though, is the pulse of my own blood.
Paul is silent as well. Not so his hazel eyes.This isn’t the time,they say.We’re burying your father today. If it’s waited this long, will just a little longer hurt?
The words are familiar. Haven’t I just heard them from Chrissie? She has fallen into the periphery, but I answer Paul with the same insistence I did her.
Yes,my eyes shout back.Now.
Releasing a breath, he looks skyward in apology, then at the waves in frustration. But the expression that finally meets mine holds wry amusement. My insistence has surprised him—and not in a bad way, says the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Appreciation is not what I need right now.
Sensing that, he sobers and tics his head toward the paved path that skirts the ocean. A low sea wall rises at its edge, two feet of artfully-placed stone packed with mortar to block sea surge. Its flat-brim mosaic of slate and rust is wide enough for mourners to sit. But Paul doesn’t have sitting in mind, not before an audience.
“Walk with me?” he asks, though it isn’t really a question. He is already moving past the bench toward the path.
