His nod was curt. “Glad to hear it.”
And with that, everything was back in its place.
“My family liked you,” Lucas said as they drove away from the wharf.
“I liked them, too, though you still should have told me they were at the concert.”
“Would you really have come if I had?”
She wanted to say yes, but it wasn’t true. She wouldn’t have run away from them, per se. She just never would have stepped into Westminster Abbey.
Sunlight broke through the gray, and Lucas slipped his sunglasses out of their holder. “I’m glad you stayed, for the concert and for dinner.”
“Me too. It’s a gift, you know, to have a family as normal as yours.”
He glanced over at her. “You think we’re normal?”
“Comparatively.”
“We’ve had plenty of angst over the years, but I guess we’ve sorted it out.”
“Do you still regret being sent away to school?” she asked as they drove south through the endless city, rows of brick houses and church steeples, glass skyscrapers and railway stations.
“Immensely. I didn’t feel particularly close to either of my parents until I was fourteen. That year I begged them to let me attend a public school near home, and they finally conceded. I missed so much in those earlier years, being away.”
“Will you send your children away to school?”
He flashed her a smile. “Assuming I have children?”
“I suppose I was assuming. Don’t you want to have kids?”
“Eventually, though I’m a bit concerned for my children.”
“I think you’ll be an excellent father, Lucas. And you’ll have great kids, like your niece and nephew.”
“Don’t let them fool you. All Houghs are unruly at heart.”
She laughed. “I doubt it.”
“Layla texted me this morning. She wants to know when you’re coming back for a visit.”
Her heart twinged with his words, happy-sad. But she knew she couldn’t get involved in these people’s lives, no more than she’d already done. She might have the gift of reinventing herself, but the reinventions didn’t last for long. They’d eventually see through the chinks in her armor, to the rough edges underneath.
She didn’t want to disappoint Layla. Or her uncle.
“I’m glad I went,” she said, her eyes falling to the safety of her phone. A barrier to mount between them. Something that she could control.
Instead of continuing the conversation, she checked her e-mail. Then she whistled.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Listen to this.”
Dear Miss Vaughn,
I’ve learned that you are trying to contact the Ricker family about a story. I’m glad to speak with you but this is not a conversation to have via phone or e-mail.
I’m available to meet tomorrow in Jacksonville, Florida. If this is acceptable, please reply so we can work out the details.
I’ll tell you all about my mother.
Alexander
She set down the phone. “Who is Alexander?”
“No idea.”
“Seriously, Lucas. If his name is somewhere in Mr. Knight’s files, I need to know about it.”
“I’ll ask.” He reached for his phone. “And I’ll arrange a flight for tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t go to Florida,” she said, speaking to herself.
“We have to—”
“We?”
“You can’t go alone. You don’t know who this man is.”
“He’s contacting me about the Ricker family, not Brigitte.”
“Brigitte’s story is so intertwined with the Rickers’, I’m not certain which is which anymore.”
Quenby stared out the window, at a colorful mural of children flying kites in a park. She couldn’t tell Lucas, but even on a corporate jet, even with the carrot of a story dangling in front of her, Florida was the last place she wanted to go.
Chapter 38
Mill House, March 1943
Rosalind and Brigitte laughed as they strolled up the rutted path from the river, their legs damp from a morning spent splashing in the water.
The day was warmer than usual for the end of March, and they’d been anxious to escape the house, away from Frau’s low mood. Somehow the woman had obtained rum, either as payment from Lady Ricker or a gift from the postman.
Brigitte had shown Rosalind all her secret places. The rooms she’d found in the old mill. The reeds along the water. The cemetery hidden in the trees. And she’d told her that her name was Brigitte—sworn to secrecy of course.
Rosalind told her about her family. Her father—a man named Oskar—was a high-ranking officer in the Wehrmacht, and her mother had been madly, hopelessly in love with him when she was nineteen. Lady Ricker was already married to her first husband when Rosalind was born in Boston, though she’d been traveling in Europe, alone, when Rosalind was conceived.