Her breath hitched.Napoleon Herald:News from the Napoleon Society.Bordering the cover were Egyptian hieroglyphs, perfect translations of the title and subtitle. The masthead was written in a scrolly font with a classic French flair, followed by the names of the board members. Lawrence Westlake’s name came before the others: Daniel DeVries, Evan Aldrich, and Luke Reston. Somehow, it gave her comfort to see Dad’s name with three others. Clearly, they didn’t mind working with him, despite the problems with Clarke.
Her attention caught on a teaser for her article listed on the cover. Lauren flipped the newsletter open to locate it.
Reading between the Lines: Mistakes in Hieroglyphs Prove Artifact a Fake. That wasn’t the headline she’d submitted with the article, but she knew editors changed things like that. Then, in smaller italicized text below the headline,First in a series of articles written by expert archaeologist and Egyptologist Lawrence A. Westlake.
No.
Could he have written his own article and sent it in before she had? She skimmed the body of the text for her answer. This was her work, line for line. Her pulse picked up. Had it been a mistake? Her name and her father’s were so similar, a copyeditor or proofreader might have changed it without realizing the error. After all, Lawrence Westlake was already a known name in the Napoleon Society. Lauren Westlake was not.
She might have been willing to believe this were it not for the boxed text at the end of the article.Mr. Lawrence A. Westlake is a founding board member of the Napoleon Society with thirty years of excavation field work to his credit. A few more lines finished a miniature version of his biography. There was his picture beside it.
This was no typographical error. This was her father stealing her article and claiming the credit for his own before he passed it on to the editor.
How could he?
Had this been his plan all along?
Suddenly everything Theodore Clarke believed about her father felt like it could be true.
Anger ripping through her, Lauren covered her face and groaned. Her thoughts were too hateful to entertain, but she couldn’t silence them. What he wanted all along was to make himself look better. Maybe he hadn’t recovered from the incident Dr. Breasted wrote about. Maybe that was why he was so desperate for the Napoleon Society to succeed. Was he truly only interested in her knowledge of Egyptology? And if so, was he only interested in it because of what it could do for him?
If she was honest with herself, she’d already known the answers to both questions could be yes. She’d tried to make her peace with that. But never had it occurred to her that her father would steal her work and pass it off as his own.
Cleo leapt onto the fireplace mantel and picked her way between evergreen branches, candlesticks, and picture frames until she came to the bright blue shabti figures her father had given Lauren for her birthday.
With one dainty paw, Cleo knocked over the two pieces, then delicately nudged the male figure closer and closer to the edge. Part of Lauren wanted to watch it fall, this symbol of her father. This symbol of their restored relationship. If it fell and broke to pieces, it wouldn’t be her doing but his.
But she wasn’t willing to sacrifice these beautiful antiquities just because her feelings were hurt. Rising, she crossed to the fireplace and picked Cleopatra up off the mantel. “Go on,” she said, setting her on the floor again. “You’re not supposed to be up there.” Lauren scooped up the two shabti figures and deposited them on top of a bookcase she doubted Cleo could reach.
Turning back to the mantel, Lauren neared the black-and-white photograph Ivy had framed of her and her father, the one taken when she was five years old. Was she as naïve now as she had been in that picture? Was her longing for her father’s approval as naked? Had it made her blind?
Embarrassed, she flipped the frame onto its face and walked to the telephone. She stared at it, searching for words that could possibly contain what she felt.
Though Mother had forgiven Dad at the end, she’d had problems with him for years. Aunt Beryl couldn’t stand him. Neither could Mr. Clarke. Even Dr. Breasted had seen that he didn’t work well with people.
They were on to something.
Lauren locked her arms over her waist. She was too agitated to sit but too stunned, it seemed, to move. In the end, it was the Christmas tree in the corner of the room that deflated her. She had taken more care than usual decorating it this year, knowing that she’d be hosting the holiday here with her father. She hadn’t even minded Elsa’s precise method of evenly spaced and color-coordinated ornaments because Lauren wanted it to be perfect. Magical.
The sparkle had gone.
Lauren slumped into the armchair. The only thing magical about this Christmas was the way the spell she’d been under had broken. However her father had enchanted her, it wouldn’t happen again.
Her fingers were cold as she picked up the telephone and asked for her father’s exchange.
“It’s Lauren,” she announced when he answered, her tone as flat as she felt. This wasn’t like her. It had taken every ounce of starch she had to talk to him about her brothers. Burying hurts was what she did best. After all, she’d been practicing since she was a child.
But she was full to overflowing, at last.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked. “Has something happened?”
“You gave the byline for my article to yourself. That’s what happened.” She curled her fingers into a fist to warm them, then rubbed them on her skirt.
“What?”
“You know what I’m talking about. TheNapoleon Heraldhit mailboxes today.”
“Wait a minute.” The sound of shuffling papers suggested he was riffling through his mail. “Oh!” He dared to laugh. “That’s what you’re upset about?”
