It wasn’t until the middle of the following week that Mark John and Jude picked out an engagement ring. They went during their lunch hour and when they returned to work Jude was sporting a huge emerald-cut diamond nestled sturdily in a white gold setting.
Jude showed it to the receptionist and secretaries, then made a beeline for Daisy’s office to show her the bauble.
“It’s just beautiful, Jude,” Daisy said. And she was being truthful—it was one of the most beautiful rings she had ever seen.
“Mark John said I could have any ring I wanted, and this is the kind I’ve always dreamed of,” Jude gushed, turning her hand to and fro under the lights to see the sparkle from different angles.
“It’s like something from a fairy tale,” Daisy agreed.
“This weekend we’re going to start planning the wedding and I might even start moving some of my stuff into his house. Mark John says he wants to have a hand in the preparations and it’ll be so much easier if I’m living there. Isn’t that wonderful? So many men just let the women take care of everything.”
Jude’s moving in already? Things are definitely speeding up around here.
“That’s very nice of him,” Daisy said, her voice a little bland.
“What’s wrong, Daisy?” Jude asked.
Daisy couldn’t tell Jude that there was something that just didn’t make sense about her engagement. It seemed too soon after Mark John had suggested taking a break, and there had been that look he gave her at the jazz festival when she wasn’t looking…
She glanced up at Jude. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m happy for you, Jude.”
But am I? Is it possible that I’m actually jealous of her?
Jude seemed to accept Daisy’s assurance. Smiling, she left, heading in the direction of Mark John’s office.
Daisy tried to get back to work, but couldn’t concentrate on her computer screen. She tried jotting notes in a notebook with a pencil to get herself to focus, but even that didn’t help. Finally she picked up the phone and dialed Helena.
It was the wrong thing to do. Helena could only gush about her upcoming trip to Aruba with Bennett. Daisy was getting sick of hearing about everyone’s successful relationships.
She listened to talk of Bennett’s wonderfulness until she couldn’t stand it another minute, then feigned a headache and told Helena she’d catch up with her later.
She sat at her desk looking out the window at the office building across the street. So many strangers over there, so many stories. Her mind began wandering, back to New York City and Dean.
Her world had stopped temporarily after Dean died and it had taken every bit of strength she could muster to get through the days, weeks, and months following his death. It had been horrible enough when he was killed. And then to become a suspect...it had nearly pushed Daisy over the edge. But now some time had passed and she was able to focus on the happy times.
But both his loss and the public suspicion of her still hurt. She was thankful to be away from Brooklyn, where there were still people who harbored doubts about her innocence, where there were still difficult memories.
And as for dating? She kept telling herself she wasn’t ready. But was she scared to date, or was she haunted by memories? Or was it a bit of both?
One thing she knew for sure: she would never forget Dean. She had loved him with all her heart.
But hearts are capable of amazing things, and maybe the thought of sharing that love with another person was what really scared Daisy. Perhaps, she thought, she was worried about being disloyal to Dean.
Did she really want to be single forever?
This is ridiculous, she told herself sternly. Get outside, go for a walk, then come back and get some work done.
She followed her own advice and strode around the block twice before feeling calm enough to return to the office. When she entered the Global Human Rights suite the receptionist handed her a message scrawled on a small piece of paper.
“You just missed this call, Daisy,” she said.
“Thanks,” Daisy said, and she looked at the slip of paper. The message was from Mary Browning. I wonder why she called.
She closed the door and sat down at her desk before returning Mary’s call. Mary answered on the first ring.
“Hi, Mary. It’s Daisy Carruthers. I heard I just missed your call. How can I help you?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a really big deal,” Mary replied. “I so enjoyed talking to you recently about A.S. Hightower that I went back into my files to see if there was anything I missed. I got thinking about Ms. Hightower and her writing again, and I was reminded of how fascinating I found her.”
“And did you find anything interesting?” Daisy asked. She wasn’t sure where this conversation was heading.
“Just a little tidbit, nothing more than a footnote, really. I found out that the letters ‘A.S.’ stood for Adelaide Sweeney. It’s been a long time since I read Hightower’s stories, but I seem to remember the name Sweeney from one of them. I thought you might be interested in having that information.”
Adelaide. Lady! Trudy’s stepdaughter.
Daisy was speechless for a moment. Finally Mary spoke up. “Daisy, are you there?”
“Yes. Yes, sorry. Mary, you have no idea of the importance of that name to me. Thank you so much for letting me know!”
“Well, I’m glad I could help, even though I don’t understand it,” Mary said with a chuckle.
“Someday I hope to be able to tell you the whole story, but right now I’m not totally sure I understand it, either. I’ve got to run, Mary, but I’ll be in touch. And thank you again!”
So Adelaide, the child who had hated school and had a difficult time learning to read and write, had become an author. And a popular one, apparently.
Daisy couldn’t think of anything except the dime novel Brian had lent her. Was Adelaide’s story fiction or nonfiction? Had it, perhaps, been her way of telling the world about her father’s crimes against the women he married and even his children? Had it been a cathartic exercise, trying to rid herself of memories too painful to keep to herself?
She picked up the phone again and called Grover.
“You’ll never guess,” she began.
“What? Guess what?” he asked.
“You know the diary I’ve talked about for hours and hours? Remember there was a little girl in the diary who was Trudy’s stepdaughter? And remember the dime novel I told you about that had a story that sounded just like the diary? Well, the little girl grew up to be the author of that story!” Daisy stopped speaking, breathless.
“You’re kidding. What does that mean?” Grover asked.
“I’m not sure yet. It could mean that she was confessing to a murder on behalf of her father, or it could be a fictional account of what could have happened following the events in a child’s memory.”
“That’s incredible. How are you going to figure out which it was?”
“I’m not sure I can. But it’s so fascinating. I can’t believe we figured out how the diary and the dime novel are tied together.”
“We should celebrate,” Grover suggested. “I have a small party to run tonight, but tomorrow I’m free until late afternoon. How about taking a drive somewhere?”
“Sounds good. Call me in the morning and I’ll be ready. And thanks!”
Daisy hung up. She could feel the flush in her cheeks, her heart beating a little faster.
Were the flush and heartbeat the result of Mary’s information about Adelaide? Or were they the result of Grover’s invitation? Maybe both.