He paid me for my silence, and to silence your life. But I just couldn’t do it. Something told me you needed to be born. So I fled to a place after hearing someone say Rochester is a town where a person could hide out and never be found.
It meant leaving my family behind and starting over with you—a decision I don’t regret to this day. The last time I saw him, I swore he would never see or hear from me again. It would be like I disappeared off the face of the earth.
I lived up to my promises as far as he is concerned. For your own safety, I had to. But now you need to know who your other family is. I don’t want you on your own.
I grew up in Park Ridge, Illinois. It’s a quiet place with quiet streets. I have no idea what my mother, Margaret McMasters (I dropped the Mc from my last name and no one ever questioned it) will say about me leaving her all those years ago. Please tell her I’m sorry and explain to her what happened. I pray she forgives me.
No matter what she thinks of me, she will open her heart and arms to you. In so many ways, you are like my mother. She always had a book open, too. My father passed away when I was in high school. He was a good man. I have a sister named Sara. We fought horribly. Just ask our mother. I hope you find them in good health.
Here’s the address I have for them.
I stop reading, because I can’t see through my damn tears. The papers drop from my hands and I collapse into someone’s arms. They are big and strong, and holding me so very tightly. I smell leather and wood as I press against a firm, solid chest.
Sin’s here for me, and I didn’t even hear him come into the room. I nuzzle in closer to him and he pulls me tighter.
A waterfall flows down my cheeks as I tilt my head to look up at him.
“I have a family, Sin,” I whisper through a big lump in my throat. He smiles back at me through his own tears.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sin
Staying up until three in the morning last night has finally caught up with Harlow. I’m hanging in there, but she’s leaning against my shoulder, fast asleep, as we fly from Rochester to Chicago. We are still holding hands like we were during takeoff. I am becoming addicted to the feel of her soft, small hands in mine. I try to recall a time when I just sat and held a woman’s hand in complete satisfaction, wanting nothing more. Nothing comes to my mind. Harlow is a first.
I am surprised she is sleeping, since this is her first plane ride. She was a bundle of nerves asking me question after question, and dutifully reading over the safety card tucked in the seat pocket. Maybe it was the hum of the engines that helped her drift off.
I shake my head and grin as I think about her wide blue eyes when the wheels left the runway. She would have jumped out of the cabin if the door had been open. I’ll have to wake her up soon, since the flight is only an hour and twenty minutes tops, but she needs her rest to face God only knows what once we land.
Who really knows how her grandmother will react. It’s been years since she’s heard from her daughter and she might even believe she is dead.
Harlow decided the first contact she makes with her grandmother should be face-to-face. She feels a phone call, out of the blue, might be considered a prank and could do more damage than good. But having her own flesh and blood standing before her, with photos in hand of Harlow’s mother, should wipe any doubt out of her grandmother’s mind.
Me? I’m torn, but will follow her lead and support her plan. I am proud that she’s making her own decisions and taking a big first step in a new course for her life. I would bet money she never returns to Rochester.
After she read the letter from her mother yesterday and her tears subsided, she was literally bouncing off the walls. It was a new, almost comical, side of her. It was like she drank a couple pots of coffee loaded with sugar, and it was a damn beautiful thing to watch. I smile at the thought of how she was talking fast and pacing the room. I sat back in a chair and watched while she morphed into a woman full of hope and excitement.
She buzzed around the room muttering to herself, mostly about her clothes. She didn’t want to meet her grandmother, and possibly other family members, for the first time in her old “duds,” so we walked across the street to a cluster of shops, ate a quick dinner, and found a clothing store.
She picked out a few things. My favorite was the light blue dress that matched her eyes and ended above her knees. She is wearing it now. I suggested some new jeans and she tried on a pair that did dangerous things to her curves. She asked me how they looked on her and I only nodded with a smile. I was afraid to say anything out loud, but I did let out a quiet wolf whistle as she sashayed back into the fitting room.
Harlow walked up to the counter with an armful of clothes, but refused to let me buy one damn thing. Not even the pair of dangly earrings I loved. I understand the need to feel independent after leaving such a controlling man, but hell, what’s wrong with me buying her one simple thing?