Ask Mariah (15 page)

He'd been drawn to Angela's zest for life. She had always lived in the "now," not the past or the future but the very second at hand. She'd resisted his attempts to plan for the future, to draw up a will, to buy life insurance.

Sometimes late at night, when he was alone in the bed they had shared, he wondered what Angela had thought during those last few seconds of her life. Had she whispered "I love you" to him or the twins? Had she prayed to be rescued? Had she simply thought that this was just another adventure that she would live to tell about? Or had she known that the end had come?

Of course, he would never know the answers to those questions or to the other questions he had, such as why Angela had gone to the party when she'd promised to stay home, how she'd come to be on the boat in the first place, and who the dark-haired man with the thick mustache had been who wept uncontrollably at her funeral when the empty urn was lowered into the ground,

He had never tried to find out the man's identity. He hadn't wanted to know what their relationship had been. He wanted to remember Angela as a faithful, loving wife -- even if it wasn't true.

The intercom buzzed. "Iris Sandbury is on line one," Helen said. "I wouldn't have disturbed you, but she said it was important."

"Thanks." Michael picked up the phone. "Iris? How are you?"

"I'm wonderful. Michael, I think I've discovered a gold mine."

He smiled at the enthusiasm in her voice. Iris Sandbury was in her mid-fifties, the wife of Michael's former boss, Greg Sandbury. Greg had brought Michael into the firm, mentored him through the early years, and taught him more about structure and design than anyone he had ever met.

Since Greg's death, Iris, who came from money, amused herself by buying and selling houses. Although Michael had explained to her on numerous occasions that he didn't design houses, she loved to ask his advice, swearing that Greg always told her Michael was the best.

"What have you discovered this time?" he asked.

"The house where Ruby Mae Whitcomb, San Francisco's most infamous madam, lived out the last fifty years of her life. And it's going to be listed next Tuesday."

"Ruby Mae Whitcomb?" He tried to place the name.

"Yes. Surely you've heard the legends. She made a living running a very profitable whorehouse in the twenties. She supposedly died in a fire. At least that's what everyone thought, but I just found out that she has been living in seclusion in an isolated house in the Seacliff area."

"Seacliff," Michael echoed. The neighborhood of Seacliff, located on the northwestern edge of San Francisco, overlooked China Beach, aptly named for the Chinese smugglers who had landed there in the mid-1800's. The homes were large and expensive, many isolated by thick trees as they perched on the edge of the cliffs.

"Apparently Ruby Mae died a few weeks ago, and a very distant relative inherited the property," Iris continued.

"And that distant relative now wants to sell?"

"Yes. And I want to buy it."

"You haven't even seen it," he said, amused by her impulsiveness.

"I saw a bit of it from the street. The house and the property look terribly neglected, but the land is valuable and the location absolutely superb. I want to jump on it as soon as I can."

"But --" Michael prodded, knowing she hadn't just called to share her good news.

"But I'm leaving for Mexico in thirty minutes. I'm at the airport now. Could you look at it for me, tell me if you think I would be able to preserve the house or if I need to raze it and build something from scratch?"

"Sure, I can get out there in the next day or two."

"You have to go in an hour," Iris said. "The relative is leaving on a business trip. He's willing to give you a key if you can get out there before he leaves."

"Iris, I'm busy." He looked at his plans for the Connaught office building, which were going nowhere fast.

"Oh, please, Michael. Gregory always valued your opinion. I know you won't steer me wrong."

He sighed as she pushed his guilt buttons. He'd always been a sucker for hard luck stories and lonesome voices. "All right, I'll go. Tell me how to get there." He jotted down the directions.

"Thanks, Michael. I really appreciate this."

"Have a good trip." He hung up the phone and reached for his coat. The intercom buzzed again. "Yes?"

"Michael, there's someone here to see you," Helen said, her voice somewhat hushed.

"Do you want me to guess?"

"She says her name is Joanna Wingate. For a moment there I thought I was seeing a ghost. What's going on?"

Joanna
. His stomach muscles clenched. His heart sped up. He took a deep breath. "Send her in."

"Aren't you going to tell me what's going on?"

"No."

"Fine," Helen said with a sigh.

Michael slipped on his coat as Joanna entered the office.

She looked beautiful; soft curves in a rose-colored short sweater worn over a floral skirt. Her curly dark hair drifted past her shoulders, framing her big, dark eyes. Her lips glistened with a soft hue of pink. No bright red lipstick for her, no long painted fingernails, no black leather or tight jeans.

With a shake of his head, he told himself to stop comparing Joanna to Angela.

"Michael," Joanna said tentatively, "I hope I'm not interrupting, but I need to talk to you."

"The girls -- "

"They're fine. Their grandmother picked them up."

That was a relief. "So you met Sophia?"

"No, I didn't. I was on the phone when she came. One of the other teachers told me that Mrs. De Luca wanted to speak to me about something. Do you know what she wanted to talk about?"

"I suspect she wanted to see what you look like. I told her about the resemblance."

Her gaze filled with concern. "Something's wrong, Michael. I don't know what it is, but I can feel it in my heart. My resemblance to Angela is not a coincidence. I need to find out more about the De Lucas.  Maybe one of Sophia's sisters or a cousin or somebody gave away a baby or something.  Whatever happened in the past, I need to know."

He watched the emotions play across her face, the uncertainty in her eyes, the fear, the determination. There was a certain strength in the graceful tilt of her chin, the set of her shoulders. He had never met a woman who could look so feminine and so tough at the same time.

"I made some calls earlier today to some old neighbors," she continued. "My parents lived in San Rafael before they moved to the city.  But what's odd is that no one ever saw my mother pregnant.  And I went through the photo albums last night because I couldn't sleep, and there were no pictures of my mother pregnant either.  My parents took photos of everything, Michael. Every breath I took. They were almost fanatical about recording each moment of my life. But the earliest photo they have of me is one taken in my bassinet at home, the day after my birth."

"Maybe your mother didn't want any pictures taken of her while she was pregnant," he  suggested, although his stomach clenched in uneasiness.

"That's possible. The neighbor said she assumed I had been born several months after they moved to the city, but my mother always told me I was born just a few weeks after they moved. Surely she couldn't have hidden nine months of pregnancy."

"What are you saying, Joanna?"

"That maybe my parents weren't really my parents," she said. 

He met her worried gaze. "Do you think you were adopted?"

"Or taken." She slapped a hand to her mouth. "I can't believe I just said that out loud."

"It's a big leap," he said slowly.

"Yes.  Maybe too big.  But my gut tells me there's some mystery surrounding my birth and my resemblance to Angela is tied up in it."

He drew in a deep breath as Joanna paced restlessly in front of him. Could she be right? Could she be related to the De Lucas? That could mean trouble for his family, for his in-laws, for the girls, for Tony and Frank, and God knows who else. How could he be part of anything that might hurt them?

If there was a De Luca secret to be kept, shouldn't he be keeping it? Hadn't Sophia and Vincent adopted him to all intents and purposes, showering him with the love and affection he had never gotten from his own parents? He owed them his unquestioning loyalty, his love, his trust. He didn't owe Joanna anything. She was a stranger to him.

An irresistibly attractive stranger, he silently amended as she turned and looked into his eyes. She was Angela, and yet she was more, a woman instead of a girl, strong instead of weak, thoughtful instead of impetuous. And he wanted her.  He wanted to kiss her, drag his hands through her hair, watch the natural flush of her cheeks turn red with passion. He took another deep breath and let it out.

This was ridiculous. He needed to find a blonde or a redhead, someone with green eyes or blue eyes or red-rimmed eyes, he thought frantically. Someone who wouldn't confuse him, who wouldn't torture him like this.

"Michael?" Joanna asked.  "Is something wrong?"

"You.  You're wrong.  And I'm wrong.  And everything is wrong," he said with a frustrated wave of his hand. "What are you doing here? Last night you said you wanted to go back to basics, keep things simple, be teacher/parent and nothing else."

"You're right. I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have dumped this on you. I just didn't know who else to talk to. I'll go."

"No, don't," he said abruptly. "Don't leave."

"Are you sure?"

"I want to help you."

"I would appreciate it," she said. "But maybe it's not fair to you."

"Life isn't fair, but we'll figure it out, Joanna."

"If there's something to figure out and this isn't all just a coincidence."

"It may come to that, but we're not there yet. However, if you want to keep talking, you have to come with me," he said. 

"Where are you going?" she asked warily.

"To check out a house for a friend. She's thinking of buying it, and wants to know if the house should be torn down or remodeled."

"You didn't just tell her to tear it down?"

"Not sight unseen, no, but that may be my recommendation in the end." He picked up his keys. "By the way, the owner of the house was supposedly an infamous madam of the twenties. Ruby Mae Whitcomb."

Excitement flared in her eyes.  "Ruby Mae Whitcomb? That's impossible. She died in a fire at her whorehouse decades ago."

"Maybe not," he said.

"If Ruby Mae didn't die, there could be all kinds of stories in that house."

"Does that mean you're coming with me?"

"Just try and stop me."

He'd like to stop her, he thought as he followed her out of his office. He'd like to stop her from driving him crazy, from invading his thoughts, from being so damn sexy and appealing. Instead of stopping her, he was pushing her forward. At this rate she'd probably end up in his arms before the day was through.

I wish you could have met Joanna, Grandma," Lily said as she climbed onto the swing at the playground. "She's so pretty, and so nice."

"That's because she's Mama." Rose took the swing next to her sister.

Sophia gave each swing a push. She didn't know quite what to say to the girls about Joanna's resemblance to their mother. Maybe for the moment it was best just to distract them. She gave Lily's swing another push.

Lily liked to go as high as she could, pointing her tiny feet toward the tips of the trees in the distance.

"Are you ready to touch the stars, Lily?" Sophia asked.

"Yes. I want you to push me so high I can grab a star and bring it back down to you."

Sophia smiled at the familiar game. "Oh, good. I could use a few more stars."

"Where do you put them all, Grandma?" Rose asked, content to swing at a slower, more conservative pace.

"I put them back in the sky every night just before I go to bed, and I make a wish."

"What do you wish for?"

Sophia gave each swing another push as she considered the question. "Different things. Sometimes I wish for a bright sunny day or a big hug and a kiss from one of my grandchildren. Sometimes I just wish for another day as good as the last."

"Do you ever wish that Mama would come back?" Rose asked.

"Yes, I wish that all the time." Sophia felt a tug on her heart as she remembered the little girl she had once pushed on these very swings. Angela had liked to swing high like Lily, but she'd never swung for very long, always impatient to move on to the next activity.

At first she had been against Angela's marriage to Michael. Then she'd realized that Michael was good for her daughter. He was stable and loving and responsible. She'd relied on Michael to bring Tony home in good shape from whatever party they went to, and it was easy to let Michael take care of Angela, too.

Easy but probably not fair. She and Vincent should have talked Michael and Angela into waiting. Although she doubted they could have changed Angela's mind. Her daughter's stubborn streak surpassed her father's. For all her flaws, Angela had been her baby girl, and what a girl -- full of joy, with a zest for life that kept them going. Angela loved everyone, and everyone loved her -- especially her children.

Angela had treated Lily and Rose like her little sisters instead of her daughters, spoiling them with treats, dressing them up in fancy clothes, helping them paint their bedroom wall with watercolors. It had been left to Michael to do the dirty work, to discipline the girls, to make sure they ate the right food and went to bed at a decent hour.

"Grandma," Lily said, interrupting her thoughts. "You got your wish, because I think Joanna is Mama. She's just a little different."

"I think so, too," Rose agreed. "Mariah told us we would find Mama at school, and we did."

"Mariah is magic," Lily said. "You believe in her, don't you, Grandma?"

Believe in Mariah, a wizard in a crystal ball that she'd found in an antiques shop? She should say no, but magic had always been a part of her soul.  Still, she shouldn't be encouraging the girls to think that Mariah could bring their mother back. Not even magic could do that.  Thankfully, she was saved from answering as she opened the kitchen door to De Luca's restaurant, and the sound of Italian opera surrounded them. 

Louis De Luca, her brother-in-law, was rolling out dough for pizza at one end of the kitchen, while Vincent chopped up onions and other vegetables for the salads and pasta toppings. Louis sang along with Pavarotti, his voice blessed with enthusiasm but not talent.

Before she could say hello, Vincent slammed the pizza dough down on the table and turned toward his brother. "Mio Dio! Have we not heard enough of your voice?"

Rose and Lily giggled as the two men argued, half in Italian, half in English. Sophia smiled to herself. Louis and Vincent had spent forty years together in this kitchen, cooking and arguing, arguing and cooking. They had prepared each dish with passion and a sense of tradition, but their time was passing. Louis' son, Rico, had just graduated from the San Francisco Culinary Institute and was beginning to take over more of the cooking responsibilities. Frank now handled the accounting and ordered the food. In the next year Vincent and Louis would both retire. She couldn't imagine this kitchen without them. She also couldn't imagine Vincent in her house twenty-four hours a day.

Time was moving on. So many things were changing. People coming in and out of her life, children growing up, children dying. As she glanced down at Lily and Rose, she thanked God for their presence. They kept Angela's memory alive with their crazy schemes and loving ways.

Vincent finally saw them.  He opened his arms wide and smiled at the girls as he said, "Come to Grandpapa."

The girls ran into his embrace and took turns kissing him on each cheek. Sophia loved watching Vincent with the children. He was gentle and soft with them, loving, tender. Emotions that she rarely saw in him anymore.

With her he had always been somewhat stern, reserved, taking his role as husband and provider seriously. Too seriously, she had often thought. She had wanted a teasing, playful lover, an equal companion, but they had never been equal, and rarely playful. But how could she complain of a husband who worked hard, who was generous with his money, who took care of his children and his family? She should be counting her blessings instead of wishing on stars.

"You have been good, yes?" Vincent said to the girls, raising one eyebrow.

Rose giggled. "Yes. We only had one time-out today, and it wasn't our fault."

"Not your fault?"

"No, it wasn't," Lily said. "Billy Dutton pushed me, and I had to push him back."

"Why did you not just walk away?"

"Because he was bad. He pushed me."

"How hard?"

"Very hard."

Vincent nodded with understanding. "Then perhaps it is good. You showed this boy he cannot mess around with a De Luca."

"Oh, Vincent. Lily shouldn't be pushing other children, and her last name is Ashton," she interrupted. 

"She is a De Luca, aren't you?" He tickled Lily until she said yes. Vincent laughed. "You are hungry, no?"

"I'm starving," Lily said. "Can I have some garlic bread?"

"With your spaghetti, mia cara. Here, this will keep your stomachs busy for the next few minutes." He handed them each a slice of pepperoni.

"Can we fold napkins again?" Rose asked.

"Of course. Your cousin Marlena is in the dining room. She'll help you."

As the girls ran out of the room, Vincent turned to her. "Where is Michael?"

"At work." She set her purse down on the counter and picked up the sponge to wipe off the remnants of a head of lettuce. "He works too hard, you know. What with taking care of the girls and all, I worry about him. Remember how much he used to love to sail with Tony or read those mystery novels? And basketball, he was so talented, I don't think he does anything for himself any more. He just works and tries to keep up with the girls."

"Sophia."

She heard the censure in his voice. "What?"

"You picked up the girls?" he asked, a hard note in his voice.

"Yes." She waited for the flood of angry words, the recriminations, the scolding, but none came. When she turned her head she saw that Vincent had a knife in his hand and was chopping fast and furiously, taking out his anger on a pile of freshly washed mushrooms that scattered across the cutting board with each slice of the knife.

She set down her sponge and walked over to him. "Stop it. You'll hurt yourself."

"Hurt myself?" He paused, turning the knife in his hand until the blade pointed toward his heart. "Why don't you just stab me now and be done with it, instead of killing me slowly?"

"Don't be so dramatic," she said, although she was disturbed by the intensity of his words. "I'm not doing anything to hurt you." She glanced over her shoulder at Louis. He stared back at them with blatant curiosity. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?" she asked.

Louis hesitated, then nodded. "Five minutes only. We have food to prepare."

When they were alone she said, "I wanted to see her, but she wasn't there."

The muscles in his face relaxed. "Good. I told you to forget her. Did you talk to your sister?"

"Yes. Elena said the same thing, that we should leave the past in the past."

"Then let it be."

"I can't. Since the girls told me about her, I haven't been able to think of anything else."

"Why?"

"You know why," she said gazing into his eyes.

"You made me a promise, Sophia."

She felt a rush of guilt at his words. Yes, she had made promises. Many promises. She had promised her dying mother to watch out for her little sisters, Elena and Carlotta, to take care of them, to protect them. She had promised her husband to love and to cherish him, to honor and to obey. But what had seemed so easy at twenty and thirty had become so difficult in the later years of her life.

Carlotta had been no problem, marrying a lawyer when she was nineteen. Her three children were all grown now, with children of their own. Elena had been a different story. Elena had grown up with a mind of her own, with no thought to the worries of her older sister, constantly making a mockery of Sophia's attempt to keep her promise.

And Vincent -- she had spent forty years with the man. She had lived with him longer than she had lived with her parents. She had slept in his bed longer than she had slept alone. She had cared for him when he was sick, as he had cared for her.

She had loved him, and she had hated him, too.  She suspected he felt much the same way, but they didn't speak of such things -- not of the love or of the hate. Together they had taught each other to lie.

"We can't replace Angela with this woman." Vincent stared down at the scattered slices of mushrooms. "She was our daughter. This other woman is not part of our family."

"Maybe she is.  We need to meet her."

"No, it would be a disloyalty to Angela." Vincent set the knife down. He walked over to her and took her hands in his. There was still anger in his eyes, but also love and worry, "This isn't good for you. You must leave it alone."

"How do you know what's good for me?"

He looked at her in amazement. "Because I love you, Sophia. I've always loved you."

"Oh, Vincent, I can't forget what we did. You and me and Elena -- "

He put a finger to her lips. "Sh-sh."

She closed her eyes, wishing she had the courage to speak out. Vincent drew her into his arms and stroked her hair. For a moment she let him comfort her.

"It will be all right, Sophia."

They were the same words he had spoken before. But it would never be all right. Never.

* * *

Joanna had never imagined that she would be sitting in Michael Ashton's car, driving across town to look at a house. She had told herself the night before that she would not get involved with him. But here she sat, letting the breeze blow through her hair as Michael punched the buttons on the radio. He was probably a killer with the television remote control, too, she thought with a smile. His fingers moved faster than her mind. She could barely ascertain whether the station was rock, country, or pop before Michael moved on to the next, finally settling for a sports update.

It was early summer, and baseball was the talk of the town. The San Francisco Giants were primed for a good season, and as Joanna listened to the announcer talk about the team's chances for the upcoming year, she realized how much she had missed while her father was ill, the whimsical things of life such as baseball in the summer, ice cream cones, and sitting on a blanket at the beach watching the fireworks go off on the Fourth of July. As a perpetual student and a teacher, summer had always been summer, vacation time, big books to read on sandy beaches, the smell of sunscreen, cold lemonade sliding down a parched throat.

Last summer her father had just been diagnosed with cancer. In the weeks that followed she'd spent her days in hospital corridors and doctors' waiting rooms, looking at X rays and trying to make sense of medical reports with words that boasted more letters than the entire alphabet.

There hadn't been time for the lazy days of summer last year, or for the falling leaves of autumn, or the chill of winter, and definitely not for the bounty of spring. It would have seemed more fitting for her father to die in the cold, rainy days of a dark winter than to simply slip away on what might have been the prettiest day of the year,

She had cried against the beauty of that day, appalled that flowers could still bloom, that kids could graduate from school, that her friends could make plans to travel, that they could talk about what they were doing over the summer.

How could the rest of the world care so little?

Because he had been just one man.

A special man. As the memories filled her mind, she questioned how she could even doubt that her father had been her father. He had loved her. He had taken care of her. He had been her adviser, her court jester, her tennis partner -- her friend.