I am so terribly sorry to bring you this news now, but I really don’t know what else to do. We talked about marriage in New York, and I know I was the one who was afraid of creating a scandal by marrying so soon after Russell, but now I realize just how foolish I was. Oh, if only we had married in November, and I could call you my husband and announce this news to the world and hold my head high.
Of course, I dare not tell Mother. Do you know, she still seems to be mourning Russell? So far, I think my secret is safe. I’ve barely gained any weight, and aside from a little bit of morning queasiness, I feel fine. I did confide again in Ruth, and she has been my rock. She suggests that if you can somehow get emergency leave to come home, we could have a quick wedding. Eyebrows might be raised, and tongues would be wagged, and months would be counted, but that is the least of my concerns right now. But we both agree Jo cannot hear about the baby until after we are married and you have made a “respectable woman” of me. You know your sister can be terribly old-fashioned.
Write to me soon, darling Gardiner, and tell me what to do. I love and miss you with all my heart, but the thought that I will soon hold our own sweet baby in my arms has me giddy with excitement. And terror. Do you know, I’ve never held a newborn or changed a diaper?
Your expectant M
Brooke read the letter a second time and again a third time. She heard the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the whir of the box fan in the window, and she felt the slow slide of sweat trickling down her back. Finally, she looked up at Lizzie, who was watching her with open curiosity.
“My God,” Brooke said finally. “Millie was pregnant with my mother. And Gardiner was my mom’s father. Not Pops. Gardiner.”
“That’s what it looks like to me,” Lizzie said. “Gardiner Bettendorf was your grandfather. Which means that Josephine was your great-aunt.”
Brooke’s hand trembled as she handed the letter back to Lizzie. “I’ve got to talk to my mother.”
“Agreed,” Lizzie said. “And then you’d better call Gabe too.”
“Gabe?”
“Uh, duh. If Gardiner was Marie’s father and your grandfather, unless I’m sadly mistaken, that makes the two of you Josephine’s closest family. Her heirs.”
Brooke let that sink in for a moment, especially in light of what they’d learned during their visit to the children’s home in Savannah.
“Don’t count out C. D. yet,” Brooke cautioned. “If he really is Josephine’s long-lost son, he’ll be calling all the shots around here.”
“And he’d be your mom’s cousin.”
“Eeeewww,” they said in unison.
Brooke flopped backward onto the carpet and stared up at the ceiling, whose plaster was water-stained and flaking. “This whole thing is too weird to be true.”
“I know. It’s gonna make a great story. And just think! You’ll have every right to tell Dorcas and Delphine to kiss your grits.”
“Kiss my grits?” Brooke said. “Now I know you really have gone native.”
62
Brooke and her mother sat in the small room her parents had added to the back of the 1920s-era Ardsley Park home. Marie had transformed the former den into a cozy sunroom, painting the dark pine paneling, ripping down the drapes, and installing a pair of flowered chintz love seats, wicker armchairs, and huge baskets of ferns and pots of pink geraniums.
“I fixed us an early supper,” Marie said. There was a large club salad with wedges of juicy red tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, sliced, poached chicken breasts, and bacon bits. She served Brooke a plate and handed her a linen napkin rolled around the flatware.
Marie had never flagged in keeping up the standards Millie had instilled in her. Bone china, linen napkins, and always the good silver. The only time Brooke could ever remember eating off paper plates was when the family went on beach picnics.
“Okay,” Marie said. “You’ve got me on pins and needles. What’s so important that you had to drop everything and drive up here today? Is it something about Josephine? Have the DNA results come back on C. D.?”
Brooke sipped her iced tea. “Yes, it’s definitely about Josephine. But this isn’t about C. D., Mom. It’s about you. And Millie. And Gardiner.”
“Oh yes,” Marie said. “The pilot. He was killed in the war, right?”
“That’s right.” Brooke handed her mother the packet of letters. She’d had Farrah make photocopies of everything before leaving the office, but she wanted Marie to read the originals.
“Before I forget, your dad wants you to call him.”
“Why? What does he want?”
“He’d like to speak to you. Could you just do me a favor and call him, please?”
“No.” Brooke abruptly set her glass down on the table. “I’m not calling him. He can call me if it’s that important.”
Marie handed the letters back. “I’m not looking at these until you call your father.”
“Mom! This is really important. It’s why I drove all the way up here today.”
Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “What your dad has to say to you is important too. So I’d say we’re at a stalemate.”
“Okay, fine. You read the letters while I call Dad.”
“Good idea.” Marie picked up the first letter and adjusted her reading glasses.
Brooke was too jittery to sit and watch her mother read Millie’s letters to Gardiner Bettendorf anyway. She walked slowly up the stairs and without really thinking about it pushed open the door to her old bedroom.
It was a small room, with a low, sloping ceiling and pink-and-green-striped wallpaper, last decorated when Brooke turned fourteen. Marie hadn’t gotten around to redecorating it yet, for which Brooke was thankful.
She sat on the white-painted canopy bed and scrolled through her contacts until she found Gordon Trappnell’s cell number. She checked the time. Not yet five. With luck, he’d still be at his office and out of earshot of Patricia, his second wife.
Gordon and Patricia had been married for five years now, but Brooke still refused to refer to her as her stepmother. Once, Patricia and her first husband had been close friends with Gordon and Marie. They’d been members of a neighborhood supper club, and Patricia had been part of Marie’s book club. But the divorces had shattered both those groups, not to mention Brooke’s own fondest notions about her parents’ “perfect marriage.”
She tapped his number, silently hoping he wouldn’t pick up. But he did, on the first ring.
“Brooke? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Dad. Mom said you wanted to talk to me. What’s up?”
“Oh. Well…” Her father seemed to be at a momentary loss for words. “How are you? How’s that boy of yours?”
Fifteen seconds. She was only fifteen seconds into a call with her father and already doing a slow burn.
“His name is Henry, Dad. H-E-N-R-Y. And he’s fine.”
“I know his name, Brooke. Your mom keeps me up to date on everything. Is his arm healing? Maybe next time you come up, we could get together. I’d really like to see him.”
An acid, sarcastic response was on the tip of her tongue, but she chose to let the moment pass. “That would be nice. His arm is totally healed. I’ll see what I can do about a get-together. In the meantime, what’s so important that you needed to talk to me about?”
“Marie tells me you’ve started seeing Gabe Wynant. Actually dating?”
“Don’t start on me about the age difference, Dad,” Brooke warned. “We’ve seen each other socially a couple of times. It’s no big deal, and besides, we’ve known each other for years.”
“Actually, you don’t really know him at all,” Gordon said. “This isn’t about that, although it’s ridiculous for a man his age—”
“Whoa! I’m thirty-four years old, you know. A little past the age when I want dating advice from my daddy.”
“Listen to me, damn it! Patricia says Gabe is a charlatan—”
“Okay, just stop right there. I’m not going to listen to your new wife’s character assassination of a man I’ve known and admired for the past decade.”
“If you’d just let me finish,” Gordon said.