“That was different.” I feel an immense loyalty on my mother’s behalf. “I can wonder all I want—it’s my life, my identity—buttheyhave no right to do it. She was a beautiful person who was stuck in a lousy marriage.”
He grunts. “Yeah, well, seems like everyone is lately.”
“That’s not true. My best friend in New York has a great marriage, in part because her parents had a bad one. She consciously decided that history would not repeat itself.” The thought of Chrissie usually makes me stronger, but I can’t get past a certain vulnerability. In a small voice, I ask, “Roberto Aiello?”
“He was a good-looking guy. Tall, dark hair, tanned.”
“I don’t tan well.” But I do remember his hands. Large and knobby, they were showing my mother how to deadhead the rhododendron. I wince, look at Jack, and whisper, “Do you think it was him?”
A wave thunders in as I say the words, and as soon as they’re out, the breeze whips them off. Which is good. I don’t want them here.
But I do want an opinion, and Jack always has that.
So once the waves quiet, I prompt. “Jack?”
“I don’t know. But it would explain Lina staring at you—you know, if she was looking for something of him in your face.”
Needing to move, I splash my way down the water line.
“But hey,” he calls after me, “she could just be wondering. She could have heard the talk, too.”
Having a different father has always been my greatest fear. It’s the only thing that explains Tom Aldiss’s manner toward me. I’m not the first child of a troubled marriage who has wondered this. But seeing an actual face? Doing the math and realizing the timing works?
Jack splashes alongside. “It wouldn’t be a terrible thing.”
“Itwould.All those times he was at our house? Did he know? Did he look at me funny? Did he teachmehow to deadhead the rhodies?” I look up at Jack. “Am I related to Danny? Did I even know his sister?”
“She was younger.”
“I don’t remember a thing. Did I deliberately not? Like, a defense mechanism?” I had an awful thought. “And what about the roofer? Did my mother adore him, too?”
“Mal—”
“Or the pharmacist? Mr.Hennessey? Omigod!”
Jack takes my arms in a soothing way. “Don’t believe gossip. Idle tongues wag.”
“But you know I’ve always wondered. You know I had doubts. Did you bring this up out of spite?”
His hands tighten. “No. Trust me. No.”
“So is the pharmacist still around? Or the roofer? Do I look like either of them?”
“You look like your mother, and Hennessey is around, but the roofer’s long gone.”
“And Lina Aiello is a widow, meaning Robert is dead. What do I do now?”
“You could ask your father.”
Shrugging off his hold, I raise both arms and cross them over my ball cap. It’s sheer self-protection, followed immediately by the idea that I should return to New York and forget I’d ever come. But there’s no comfort in that option. I won’t be able to forget. There’s no going back. The cat’s out of the bag.
“Ask your father,” Jack says.
I look at him then. And oh, yes, his eyes are seal gray, which means kingly, which means imperative. I take one breath, then another, and fold my arms, putting my hands where his had been moments before. When I feel sufficiently calmed, I say, “I suggested that to him. Not about whether he’s my father. But whether I could write things down for him so he doesn’t forget. I figured I could slip in personal questions and he wouldn’t notice the difference. He looked like he was considering it, then he just walked away. I didn’t want to push.”
“Maybe you should.”
“And if that makes him shut down completely? Then I’ll be nowhere.” I see the look on his face and know exactly what he’s thinking. “Okay. Yup. You’re right. We’re nowhere now. But there’s a way to do this, and there’s awayto do this—and do not,” I warn softly,“tell me I need to take a stand. This isn’t indecision, Jack. It’s diplomacy. It’s a strategic plan. If I push too hard, my father will know exactly why I’m pushing. Believe me, I’ll keep at him, especially now that I know he knows and he knows I know, or he did for a few minutes there—and especially since I now have three names permanently embedded in my mind, thank you, John Sabathian.” In my distress, I stumble on a different thought. “He said he hasn’t told Anne what he has. Should I?”
