Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

Emma woke the next morning at sunrise. Sitting up on the couch, she could see the table in the foyer. Jake was already gone, and so was her letter. A quick search of the trash cans failed to turn up the tossed letter. The little spark of hope made her feel marginally better. If he’d taken her letter with him, he would at least want to hear what she had to say. The direct opposite of what he wanted last night. Yesterday she’d been so incredibly happy, but today all of it was eclipsed by the memory of his anger and outright dismissal.

Fire-breathing mini dragons—dread and doubt—were battling in her belly, so breakfast was not a particularly pleasant option. Her tote with her riding clothes was in the kitchen where she’d left it last night. She didn’t feel right changing in Jake’s gorgeous bathroom, so she put on her jeans, thick blue sweater, boots and red jacket in the laundry room.

When she stepped outside with her tote in hand, the rush of cold air gave her a punch of adrenalin. She had work to do this morning, so thoughts of her relationship status needed to be pushed into a far corner of her mind. First, she would exercise Ghost, Radio, then Elizabet while the skies were clear and the temperature hovered around thirty. Despite her uncertainty about Jake, she managed to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine on horseback.

By lunchtime, she had finished exercising Radio, who, as usual, was a pleasure to ride. Elizabet, the Hanoverian mare, was high-spirited and shied from blowing snow and the rustle of dry cornstalks. Riding her was more work than play. Ghost, at sixteen hands, was the tallest horse in the stable and had the best disposition of the bunch. He was happy to plod along, taking in the occasional flock of Canadian Geese flying overhead—an easy ride, to be sure.

After doing a walk-through in the barn, she headed out to her Jeep. It had been sitting next to the barn since the day of her accident. Jake had charged her battery two days ago. She put the key into the ignition, holding her breath, and was relieved when it started right up. By the time she returned to the inn, Faith and her date had already departed for the antique auction. The inn was unusually quiet and empty of guests.

Emma stepped out of her riding boots and left them in the back hall. A few weeks ago, Faith put a stair basket on the bottom step of the back staircase for Emma’s mail. She noticed a letter sticking out of the basket, scooped it up, then sat at the kitchen table.

The Paris, France postmark surprised her, as did the handwritten address on the vellum envelope. Tilting her head to the side, she wondered who would send her something from France. Her least favorite, evil twin stepbrother went to university in Paris, but Darius had never written her a letter, text, or email in his life. She dropped it on the table.

For heaven’s sake, it was only a letter. Who was it from? She turned the envelope over, slid her fingernail under the flap, then tore it open.

The inside address on the cover letter read:

 

Alliance DNA Lab Center

245 Colton Ave

New York, NY 10016

 

Paternity Test Subject: George A. Kimball

Mother: Not tested

Child: Emma Catherine Kimball

Based on our analysis, George Kimball is excluded as the biological father of the child.

 

I, the undersigned Laboratory Director, verify that the interpretation of the results

is correct as reported on October 20, 2000.

 

Hershel McDonnough

Hershel McDonnough, MD

 

What? Is this for real? A second page of columns filled with numbers was attached. Scrutinizing every detail, she leaned forward, reading the summary a second and third time. It was then she noticed the message scrawled across the top. “To my sister, with love, Darius.”

Emma recoiled from the punch to her gut. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought her chest would crack wide open. Calm down, girl. Did her evil brother actually think this swipe was going to hurt her? No way. She was carving George Kimball out of her life like a malignant tumor. She squeezed her fists until her knuckles turned white. Her anger multiplied by the second. Suppose she had the chance, she would knock his portly body flat on his ass for lying to her, for being a cruel, uncaring imposter.

Surely her mother must have known the truth and lied to her too. A different kind of pain invaded Emma—betrayal—and it hurt almost as much as losing her mother. What could Charlie tell her about this? She jammed on her boots, stuffed the letter into her coat pocket then set out for his place. When she arrived at the cottage and smacked the door knocker several times, she could hear Cody barking inside.

When he opened the door, the welcoming smile on Charlie’s face evaporated into concern when she brushed by him without a word. “What is it? What has happened?”

She slapped the letter into his hand. His blue eyes narrowed as he read the contents without surprise or any visible reaction. He dropped onto the couch and remained quiet for several seconds, then reached out his hand, palm up. “Emma.”

His hand was ignored. She had a dreadful feeling the other shoe was about to drop. Charlie must be aware of the truth, and it almost leveled her. He knew all along she was his daughter. Now it made bizarre sense. The photographs of her on the wall in his workroom, his lifelong love for her mom, even the gold locket from her tenth birthday.

Emma kicked the ottoman and sat down. “Why didn’t Mother tell me the truth?” Her chin trembled. “Why didn’t you?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Before your tenth birthday—when their marriage was breaking apart—Margaret told me the truth and swore me to secrecy. George blackmailed her into agreeing she would never reveal your parentage to you or anyone else. To this day, I don’t know what leverage he used to extract such a promise or even why he would do it. But your mother kept the secret.”

A dark place deep within Emma opened, spinning with questions and no answers. No possible reason or logic for the information her mother withheld from her. Why wouldn’t she have told her the truth? Didn’t every human being have the right to know who they were?

Her mother loved her; Emma had no doubt. Yet, even in her final days, why wouldn’t she have told Emma that Charlie was her father? Why would she leave her only child shackled to a coldhearted, indifferent man who had neither love nor respect for her?

Charlie sighed, wiping his hand across his forehead. “Even though George was ecstatic about marrying his French mistress and having twin sons, he didn’t wish the same joy for you or your mother. Instead, her continued rise to fame in the art world fueled his need to control and complicate her life.”

A wave of compassion for him swept over her. In a way, he was also an innocent victim in this. “Was it hard for you to know I was your daughter and not be able to acknowledge it?”

As soon as the question left her mouth, she knew the answer. Acknowledged or not, Charlie always treated her with more love and caring than George had in his little finger. Even now, in the throes of her anger and hurt, the reality of kind, patient Charlie being her dad gave Emma something positive and rock-solid to hold onto. What would it have been like to have her mother and Charlie as her family? Would they have been as happy as the people in his photographs?

“Tell me about you and my mother.” She put her elbows on the table and propped her chin in one hand. “Why didn’t you marry?”

“I’m not sure where to begin.” Charlie sagged against the couch. “Maggie never forgave me for taking my first job and leaving for India the day after we graduated from college.”

“Why?” Emma’s unblinking gaze locked on his. “Was it a rash decision?” Trying to tamp down on her rising stress, she pressed her fingers against her throbbing temple.

“No. I’d accepted a month before, and she knew it. Maggie was convinced I would change my mind. Emma, the entire time we dated, in high school and college, I never hid the fact I wanted to photograph people and places around the world. Maggie thought my dream to be a photographer was ‘nothing but big talk.’ The day before I left for India, she broke things off. Said she was going to Paris to study art.”

“I never knew she lived in Paris.” Emma’s words were stilted and didn’t sound like they’d come from her mouth.

“She didn’t go to Paris,” he said. “She went to New York, got a job at an art gallery to support herself, and continued to paint. The gallery owner took an interest in her and, after a few years, gave Maggie her own show.”

He repeatedly stroked the Lab’s broad head. His shaking hand indicated the uncomfortable revelation was taking a toll on him too.

“Enter George Kimball,” he continued, “a nine to five, suit and tie guy whose idea of adventure was a week in Boca Raton in the winter. A year after they met, Maggie got herself engaged to her banker. A fancy wedding was planned for the spring in the city. But before the wedding, there was a falling out. She ran home to her mother, your gran. As fate would have it, I was back in the States, visiting my parents. Maggie and I…reconnected.

“After she’d been holed up at her mother’s for a week, and we’d been together day and night, George swoops into town, sweet talks her into going back to the city with him, dangling a honeymoon in Paris in front of her like bait. So the wedding is back on, and I left town in a huff for a work trip to the African rainforest.”

“So, you…quit…gave up?” Emma couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“Maggie made her choice. She married the banker. By the time I saw her again, you were four years old—some things you have to accept. I never questioned paternity. Maggie never gave me any reason to think I should.”

“After Mother and George’s divorce? Why didn’t you get together then?” Even as she asked the question, she realized she was coming out as the clear winner regardless. Charlie had been doing some of the things a loving father would do for most of her life.

“I tried for several years. I wanted to marry her and adopt you. Maggie liked things the way they were. I was still traveling quite a lot which she still resented. After the divorce, when it became apparent George’s only parental interest was in being a father to his twin boys in Switzerland, Faith and I did our best to fill in the gaps. We looked forward to our summers with you.” He smiled.

“And Christmases.” Emma’s eyes burned. “You were always there.”

“Planned my schedule around two holidays,” he said. “Your birthday in July and Christmas.”

“My birthday wasn’t a holiday.”

“It was to me.” He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “I fell in love with a precocious little four-year-old angel. Brilliant blue eyes, a cloud of golden curls, and the most beautiful smile this side of heaven. You were part of my sweet Maggie, and that’s all that mattered.”

Charlie was everything she’d ever hoped for in a father. Blinking back her tears, she was too overcome to speak. Now, when she needed a father more than anything, there he was, sitting right across from her. Warm tears spilled down her cheeks. They were tears of joy because she knew in her heart he would love her no matter what. She would never have to prove herself to him. He would love her simply as she was, not for what she could become or for what she accomplished. George always required her to call him Father—never Daddy or Dad.

Charlie would be her dad. “I’d like to call you Dad if it’s all right with you?”

His cheeks pinked. “I’d be honored if you would.”

A wild notion popped into her head. Since she was not related to the Kimball family, she wanted to end all connections to them. She couldn’t bear to have any further attachment to the man who had made her life so miserable.

Besides, her only living relatives were Charlie and Faith. She, too, was a Wentworth by blood.

It made perfect sense. “I’d like to be Emma Wentworth.”

His bright blue eyes—so much like her own—shone with unshed tears. “My goodness. Becoming an official father at my age.” He grinned. “If you’re sure that’s what you really want, I’ll find out what needs to be done.”

“I am sure.” She scooted her chair closer to the table. “I have one more thing to tell you,” she said, breathless with excitement. Suddenly today seemed like her birthday, Christmas, and New Year all rolled into one; getting Charlie for a father, a job she knew she would love, and Jake. Was it possible to be too happy? “I’m going to be a social worker at Mercy Hospital.”

“That’s wonderful news.” Charlie’s eyes sparkled. “Faith will be so pleased too. I take it the camp idea is on the back burner now?”

“Yes, it is. Maybe to be revisited someday, down the road. I have some other news.” Staying still in her chair took supreme effort since her entire being radiated with high-velocity nervous electricity—mother’s old trunk. There were two paintings inside. I’ll show them to you.”

“Well, this has been a day for revelations.” He bobbed his head. “You have a new dad, a new job, and some of your mother’s treasured paintings. Anything else?” he teased, petting Cody on his broad head.

A new day was dawning, and she almost felt guilty for the joy that had come into her life. She hadn’t felt gratitude for a long time. With all of the good that she’d been blessed with lately, that was about to change.

“I have a favor to ask,” Charlie said. “My publisher has me scheduled for four straight days of book signings in New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and Boston. Cody is doing so well here. I don’t want him to have to go to another foster home while I’m gone.” The Lab’s tail thump-thumped against the coffee table. “Would you be willing to dog sit? Faith can’t keep him at the inn.”

“I would love to.” As soon as she leaned over, Cody flipped to his back and shamelessly exposed his stomach, begging for a good belly rub.

“Excellent,” Charlie said. “I leave tomorrow.”

After kissing her dad on the cheek and Cody on the head, she left the little cottage in much better spirits than when she arrived.