“I see you two are as good at communicating as ever.” Margo rolled her eyes and observed the space. “It’s strange being here without your father.”
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Jack said, resolute to give Lola space to deal with her problems from now on. The thought released a rush of adrenaline through him. A lot would change, and he couldn’t be happier.
“I must sayI never thought you could really do this. Country living,” Margosaid.
“It’s only been a few months, mother. And there’s WiFi and premium cable. It’s not like a redneck version of GuantanamoBay.”
Her mother laughed. An infectious sound, one she hadn’t heard much of during her childhood. Lola’s heart squeezed, and she folded her arms over her chest. Margo continued to walk around, treading carefully. “What I’m trying to say, Lola Jean St. James, is I’m proud ofyou.”
Lola bit back a smile. “Thank you.” She walked to the desk, and grabbed the photograph she’d been keeping even though she found no answers. She gave it to Margo. “Who isthis?”
Margo’s eyes widened. She held the picture like it was some sort of weapon of mass destruction. Her fingers trembled, making the photograph shake and it almost fell from her hands.
A knot of confusion tightened in Lola’s throat. “Who isshe?”
“How did you get this picture?” Margo asked, eyes still glued to the picture of the woman.
“I found it when I was going through Daddy’s old boxes in the cottage.”
Margo’s eyes watered, and she blinked. At last, she let go of the picture and placed it on a book shelf. With her index finger, she wiped the tear forming on the corner of her glossy eyes. “Of course. All these years I thought I’d find a trace of her somewhere, and your father hid it well. Damnhim.”
“So you knowher.”
Margo massaged her forehead. “Yes. Her name is Cristina Calberon. She’s your birth mother.”
A weight crushed Lola. She’d always thought she’d find relief when she discovered whom her birth mother was, but Margo’s answer brought more apprehension than anything. Her knees wobbled, and she plopped down on one of the over sized chairs. A chill spread through her, first zapping down her spine, then claiming her stomach. If Margo knew who Cristina was… so did Daddy. Why else would he keep a picture? “Did you know this all along? Did… did Daddy know?” She choked out the words.
Margo sat down on one of the other chairs, glanced down at the floor and fiddled with her pearl necklace. Was she buying time? Her mother rarely showed discomfort or uneasiness; even during the most stressful situations. She excelled at passive-aggressiveness, no doubt, but Margo always had a neutral smile on her face. A smile that hid any betraying emotion. And now, looking at her mother, at the unsure expression on her face, was heart wrenching.
Margo raised her gaze and clasped the necklace. “We bothdid.”
Margo palmed the arms of the chair as if some windstorm would swing open the colonial windows, and yank her away. Leaving her without ground to step on—which, in many ways, was exactly how Lola felt. Powerless. Drained of energy.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” It’s not like she had never asked. Sure, she’d tried not to insist, but off the top of her head, a few times she had questioned if they knew more about her biological parents or her heritage. And the answer had always been the same… due to the closed adoption, and how things were back in the day, no. They didn’t know much except her parents couldn’t keep her. A conclusion she could have gathered herself.
“Your father wanted to. I didn’t let him.” Margo let go of the necklace, and her hands fell to her sides as if admitting defeat. “If you want to blame someone for this, blameme.”
“Tell me. Do you know who my father istoo?”
“Yes.” Margo braced herself, her voice wavering. “Milton was your biological father.”
Couldn’t be. Is she joking?Lola bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood. The rest of her body stilled for a second. Then her heart thumped hard like a jackhammer, and the blood thrumming through her veins burned like a matchstick tossed into a puddle of gas. “What? Are you forreal?”
Margo stood and walked to the console and opened the scotch bottle. She poured a generous amount into a tumbler, and took a swig without any finesse, the amber liquid splashing out of the glass.
Lola closed her eyes, hoping this was some sort of a nightmare. But when she opened them, there was Margo, sitting on the windowsill, with tears smearing her makeup, and her hand still holding the drink.
“I suppose I have to tell you everything now,” Margo said. “Your father and Cristina dated. Her family came from a traditional Mexican background, and they never really accepted him as one of them. So Cristina broke up with him, under pressure. He and I started to date, and we got engaged. I wanted to go to Los Angeles after school, and he… I think he just wanted to be away fromher.”
Lola drew in a breath, her palms clammy.
“When she got pregnant, she told your father. Her family didn’t want her to have the baby. She was only seventeen. So they decided they’d send the baby off for adoption. Your father said he’d keep and raise the baby. They said he could do it as long as he didn’t bother Cristina again, otherwise they could accuse him of statutory rape since he was two years older than her. He could never give you up. He came to me, and asked me if I’d stand by his side and build a life with him. I… I said I’d marry him only if we didn’t tell you that you were his daughter.”
“Why?”
“I wanted us to be equals. Blood shouldn’t matter. Yet I worried you would see me as the third wheel if you knew the truth.”
Really? Her own mother kept the information from her because of self-preservation and insecurity? Nausea brewed at the base of her throat. “Your vanity knows no bounds.”
