“She still thinks you should be at the factory?”
Luc nodded. “If it was good enough for Papa, then it should be good enough for me. She does not believe people should try to, how do you say, elevate yourself? Rise above your station.”
“Did you see her when you were in Paris?”
“No.” He pressed the gas pedal again, and we accelerated. “She refused to receive me. She says I have brought shame upon our family. She does not like to see my name in the newspapers. She told me it embarrasses her and our family.”
“Is that why you avoid publicity?”
This time, he did not answer as he looked out at the sea of humanity on 42nd Street. But he didn’t need to answer me.
I had misjudged him. He was not seeking fame for the sake of fame. He was trying to be the best, to convince his mother that he was worthy of her love and approval—and he was trying to do it without being noticed by anyone but her.
“My youngest sister died shortly after I left the factory,” he continued, his countenance heavy. “It seemed no medicine in the world would save her, but somehow Maman blamed me for her death.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again, though it didn’t seem like enough.
His gaze was filled with emotions so deep, I could mine them for decades and not reach the bottom.
I looked out at 42nd Street, at the people walking into stores, the vendors hawking their wares, and the carriages rolling past, trying to understand what I was feeling—about Luc, about family, and about expectations.
We stopped at several of the addresses on my paper, but no one knew Tacy Barclay. Somehow, it didn’t matter. My thoughts were consumed with the story Luc had told me. This was a new side of him, and it conflicted with the image I had created in my mind.
As the morning turned to afternoon, we stopped for lunch, and I shared bits and pieces of my own past growing up in Washington, DC. He asked questions about Hope, but they were for my benefit and not for his. Nothing he said indicated that his feelings ran deeper for my sister than friendly affection—and that, too, changed things.
We arrived at the last address on the Upper East Side late that afternoon. I was determined that if this was not the right one, I’d ask Luc to take me home and I’d try again tomorrow.
“Here we are,” Luc said as he pulled up to a brownstone mansion.
I glanced at it, impressed with its size, though there were so many in New York that they all looked alike.
“I hope you find whoever you are looking for this time,” he said as he came around to open the door for me.
I took a deep breath and stepped out of the automobile. I had to climb several stairs to get to the massive front door, where I rang the doorbell.
A few moments later, a butler answered. “How may I help you?”
“Is Mr. or Mrs. Barclay receiving callers?”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“My name is Grace Cooper. I’m looking for someone by the name of Tacy Barclay.”
The name caused a flicker of recognition in the butler’s eyes, and he nodded. “Please come in.”
I stepped into the massive foyer and waited as the butler disappeared into the dark interior of the home.
There was an eerie silence and unusual stillness in the corridors of this house, almost as if no one resided there. A chill ran up my spine as I stood, rooted to one spot, my bag clutched in my trembling hands.
Was this Tacy’s home? Did she live here now? Would I come face to face with a mother I had never met?
The sound of heels upon marble met my ears before I saw anyone appear. But then an older woman materialized from the dark hallway. She wore a long black gown, old-fashioned but expensive. Her white hair was piled into a bun upon her head, and she wore a long onyx necklace. She was regal in her bearing yet very cool as she looked me up and down.
“I am Mrs. Barclay. Parker said you’ve come asking after my daughter, Tacy.”
I blinked in surprise. I could hardly believe it.Thiswas Tacy’s mother? “Yes. Is she here?”
Mrs. Barclay clasped her hands and pursed her lips. “We do not speak of Tacy in this home. She has not resided here in over twenty-four years.”
