And then her father had died.
She hadn’t realized how much his quiet presence had bolstered her, how much just knowing he was there had mattered to her, until he was gone. After the funeral, the barber had brought back his shaving mug, caked with the remnants of the soap that smelled like her father’s chin, his name in gold on white porcelain.
Lucy, who had remained straight-backed through the funeral, found herself brought low by the smell of that soap. She had managed to murmur the right words to the barber, her fingers clutched tight around the mug, the paint with her father’s name already chipping and flaking, faded in parts. She had clung to that mug like a child with a doll, smelling that smell, wanting her father badly, so very badly. She could close her eyes, and smell the soap, and imagine him there, her quiet, loving father, the blond hair grizzled with gray, the blue eyes a little dimmer since her mother’s death, but still, always, her father, her port in a storm.
And that was when her grandmother had uttered those hateful words. Did you think he was really your father?
She had spoken in German, as she always did at home, partly, Lucy always suspected, as a means of excluding Lucy’s mother.
Did you think he was really your father?
And with that one spiteful phrase, her world had collapsed in on itself. She had lost her father. She had lost herself.
“I—” Lucy spoke hesitantly. “I’ve been chasing the past. When my father died”—she licked her dry lips—“well, he might not have been my father. I’ve been trying to find out what I can about the man who might have been my father.”
It sounded so garbled put like that, so silly. She couldn’t believe she was blurting it out to a virtual stranger, the fact of her illegitimacy, her confusion.
But John Ravenel didn’t recoil or look at her with disgust. Instead, he took her gloved hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “You poor kid,” he said softly.
Lucy managed a crooked smile. “I’m twenty-six. I’ll be twenty-seven in November.”
“Even so. When it comes to our parents we’re all still children, aren’t we?” His voice was so warm, so understanding, his hand on hers so comforting. Lucy let herself lean into him, into the support he offered. His hand tightened on hers. “It knocked me sideways when I found out that my father had a life before Cuba. I’d always heard the stories about Cuba and I’d never thought to ask about what came before. Then he died, and a friend of his gave me—”
Lucy tilted her head up at him. “Gave you what?”
“A picture of a woman. Not my mother. It was just a miniature, but the fact that he’d kept it secret—well, that said something.”
“My mother was in love with someone before my father.” The words came out before Lucy thought about them. She felt the color rising in her cheeks and gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Obviously. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Whoever he was”—John Ravenel squeezed both her hands in his—“he was a very lucky man to have you as a daughter.”
“If I can ever find him.” Harry Pratt had disappeared off the map so many years ago. Dead? Missing. “And if I do find him . . . what if he doesn’t want me?”
John Ravenel didn’t make light of her fears. “People make new lives for themselves. Look at my father, with a new name. If he doesn’t want a daughter appearing out of nowhere—then it’s to do with him, not you. Never you.”
Lucy looked up at him through a haze of tears that made the lights in the chandelier jump and dance. “Would you claim me?”
“If you were mine, I would never have let you go.”
His hands were on her shoulders now, her head tilted toward his. Dimly, Lucy realized that they weren’t talking about fathers and daughters anymore. And that they were smack in the middle of the billiards room of the Whitney Studio.
With a jerky movement, she stepped away, lifting her gloved hands to her damp cheeks. “If you succeed in finding your father’s people,” she said in a muffled voice, “what will you do?”
“I—” John Ravenel shook his head, as if to clear it. “I don’t know. I thought once that I wanted to wave my father’s achievements in their face, show them what they’d lost. Now? I’m not sure I even need to see them. I just want to know who they are, who my father was. Just to know.”
It sounded so wise, but there was something about it that rang false to Lucy. “You can tell yourself that, but it’s never just knowing, is it? Everything you know changes you. And you can’t go back.”
His face clouded. “No, you can’t. I’d thought, after the war—but when I came back . . .” With an attempt at levity, he said, “Who made you so wise, Miss Young?”
“The school of hard knocks.” The moment of intimacy was over. Lucy rubbed her gloved knuckles beneath her eyes, striving to match his tone. “You must think I’m very silly. Talk about baring your soul!”