The Secret Sister (18 page)

“That's what he claims. He says he never really loved her. And now...you get off the hook once again.”

“Off the hook?”

She indicated the house. “We're here and I have to go in, but you still haven't told me anything about yourself.”

“There's always the ride home.”

“I'm going to hold you to that.”

He parked behind her mother's Mercedes. “I have to admit you seem sort of...philosophical about Jack.”

She grabbed her purse, prepared to get out. “And what conclusions are you drawing from that?”

“It's easier to be philosophical once you get past something.”

Did the change in the way she was looking at Jack and her divorce—the softening, the forgiving—really signify what Rafe was suggesting? She certainly hadn't been so emotionally detached in New York. “You don't think I'm still in love with him.”

“No. But that doesn't mean you won't go back to him.” He reached across her lap to unlatch the door. “Have fun at your mom's.”

“You're leaving already?” Laney said, her voice filled with disappointment.

She'd been so quiet since the beginning of the drive that Maisey had almost forgotten she was there. “Yes. I'm having dinner with my mom, remember?”

“Can I come with you?” she asked.

“Laney, you're going to Grandma's with me.” Rafe spoke quickly, before Maisey could respond.

Maisey hesitated. “You have a really good dad,” she told Laney. “That makes you a lucky girl.” She threw Rafe a parting glance. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. Call me when you're ready to go home.”

* * *

During dinner, Maisey had gotten her mother's permission to sort through the boxes she'd sent to Coldiron House so she could bring home a few things she needed—like the Molly Brimble books she'd promised Laney. She also planned to search for any sign of another Lazarow sibling, which, of course, she hadn't mentioned. But that wasn't the reason it required all her nerve to enter the attic. She'd never liked it here, not since the day she'd gotten locked in as a child. She was only about six—close to Laney's age—when Keith lured her up there to play. They'd immediately gotten lost in their explorations. But then, just as they were really having fun, he'd hurried her back downstairs because he had to leave for baseball practice. He'd told her to stay out of the attic while he was gone, and if she hadn't been so excited about what they were finding—old clothes, including a wedding dress, and old toys—she probably would've listened.

Instead, she went back and continued to play with a trunk full of fancy clothes and costume jewelry until she heard a creak in the hall. Afraid she'd be caught and punished, she hid, which was why, to this day, she wasn't sure if it was her mother or someone else who'd come and locked the door. She sat there alone, shivering in the dark since the light switch was on the
outside
of the room. Surrounded by terrifying shapes and sounds, she was too scared to call out in case she got her brother in trouble. She had no doubt Keith would get most of the blame; he was older and generally the instigator. So she huddled there, trembling and crying for a very long time.

It was her father who finally came for her. Maisey still had no idea how he'd figured out where she was. He hadn't been calling for her. He'd simply opened the door and said her name—and she'd run to him.

“You need to stay out of here,” he'd murmured as he'd gathered her to him and carried her out.

Maisey had learned her lesson. But she remembered being surprised that it wasn't Keith who, once he got back from practice, had noticed that she was missing. Not until after her father brought her down to dinner had she understood. Her brother was in yet another state of emotional upheaval, having learned that his baseball coach wouldn't be putting him on the starting roster.

When her father had let her stay in his lap instead of making her take her own seat, her mother had stared daggers at them across the dining table. Josephine had always accused Malcolm of spoiling her. But the memory of that cold look gave Maisey chills, even now. Since then, she'd decided that Josephine had known where she was all along and had been trying to put the fear of God into her—if not by locking her in, then by warning her with that malevolent expression to stay out of where she didn't belong.

Propping something against the door so it couldn't swing shut on its own—and couldn't be shut without some noise to serve as warning—she tried to shake off that unsettling incident. The knowledge that someone, either a member of her own family or one of the household staff, had locked her in the attic on purpose wasn't something she'd ever forget. She glanced over every time she heard the slightest sound...

“Stop it,” she mumbled as she turned her back on the door. Not only did she have a good excuse to be in here, her mother had no idea she intended to do anything more than what she'd indicated.

Her eyes skimmed the covered furniture, old lamps, dusty heavy-framed pictures stacked along the wall and the bevy of boxes and old steamer trunks that crowded the confined space. If she and Keith had once had an older sister, there'd have to be some evidence of it. She figured she'd check with the state's vital records department. Maybe she could discover a birth or death certificate. According to the internet, which she'd checked on her phone, there were states that allowed access to
un
certified records—South Carolina being one—which would work for her purposes. She didn't need a certified record to learn what she wanted to know. She would, however, need a name and a birth date to get even that far, and she had neither.

Hopefully, she'd be able to find something here. The problem was figuring out where to look. The attic contained castoffs from three-quarters of a century, going clear back to when her young, widowed grandfather lost his wife to a congenital heart defect and immigrated to America. That made her task a daunting one, and she didn't have a lot of time. Her mother would probably wonder what she was doing if she spent the next three hours digging around. She didn't want to make Rafe wait too long, either.

She'd focus on her father's stuff first. The day after Malcolm's funeral, Josephine had said she couldn't remain in the house and jetted off to France to visit her aunt, where she stayed for a month. And when she returned? Except for the urn on the mantel, that single token, she'd demanded the household help get every reminder of her late husband out of her sight, as if he'd abandoned her on purpose and she was angry instead of sad.

Maisey remembered being baffled by her reaction. She'd been devastated by her father's death and yet her beautiful mother had simply picked up and moved on as if she'd never been married. Even after she returned from France, she'd left again almost immediately, this time to California for a shopping expedition on Rodeo Drive. And she'd brought home a lot more than clothes. That was when Maisey had met the first of her three stepfathers, although the last one had come into Josephine's life while Maisey was in New York, so she'd had little or no contact with him. She was glad of that. Vince, the first one, had been much younger than Josephine and was far more interested in money and cars than in being a parent. The second had tried to touch Maisey in an inappropriate way one night while he was drunk. She'd never dared to say anything about that incident, but her mother must've suspected because he was gone within three months and they never saw him again. The last one, a retired tennis pro, had been Josephine's “traveling companion.” According to Keith, they'd gone everywhere together—Africa, New Zealand, Europe, Japan. Until her mother had kicked him out.

Considering the circumstances right after Malcolm's death, one of the servants could easily have shoved some small proof of a third Lazarow child into a box without realizing what it signified. Maybe a picture that had a name or a date written on the back, since none of the ones recovered by Rafe had that information. Josephine hadn't been paying attention when Malcolm's things were being stored; she'd been too busy ignoring the whole process.

It took Maisey several minutes to find her father's belongings, but she was relieved to discover that they were all organized in one corner. That seemed respectful. She figured it would also be helpful from a practical standpoint.

After pulling over an old piano bench that was stored in the attic, along with the baby grand that went with it, she opened the flaps of the first box.

The sight of her father's sweater, folded neatly on top, made Maisey's stomach tense. She wasn't sure she was in any condition for the emotional journey this search would require. Malcolm had been gone a long time, but somehow that loss tied into more recent losses. It was only the pictures of that mysterious sibling (if it was a sibling) that kept her going.

She sorted through what had been saved of her father's clothes, his model airplanes, which he'd loved to build, his flag for having served in the Vietnam War and the jewelry and trinkets he'd kept in a small leather box. She found no pictures—but she did come across a packet of letters, all addressed to her father at his office. She'd just noticed that they had no return address, but were all postmarked here on the island, when she heard her mother at the door.

“Are you finding everything?”

Maisey jerked her head up, probably a little too fast to look as innocent as she wanted. She tried to cover that with a smile. “Not yet. I thought I'd go through a few of Dad's things first. I miss him so much.”

Her mother's eyes narrowed. “How did you even know where his stuff was?”

“I didn't. I—I stumbled across it.” Not sure what else to say, she added, “Want to go through it with me?” She couldn't think of anything that would disarm her mother more quickly than thinking this was a sentimental project.

“God, no. Why would I want to do that? He loved you more than he did me, anyway,” she said, and left.

Maisey let her breath go. She was convinced that her mother believed her about the trip down memory lane. But Josephine was now on alert and would probably be listening for her until she came down. Maisey couldn't stay up here much longer.

She could take a closer look at what she'd found later.

She called Rafe to say she was ready to go home, then repackaged her father's possessions and went through her own storage to reclaim the books for Laney, along with some warmer clothing.

After hiding the letters at the bottom of the box she was taking with her, she hurried out of the attic.

Her mother was in the drawing room, watching television while petting her little Yorkie, who was far more indulged than they'd ever been.

“I'm taking off,” Maisey said, stopping at the entrance to say goodbye.

The front door was only about ten feet away. She wished she was already through it when her mother gestured toward the window at the storm outside.

“The weather hasn't cleared. How are you getting home? Do you need Pippa to give you a ride?”

Lightning flashed as if to punctuate that question. “No, not tonight. Rafe's coming back to get me.”

“Rafe?”

“Raphael.” Her mother knew his nickname. Most recently, Maisey had used it when she explained how she'd arrived at Coldiron House. Almost as soon as she'd walked through the door, Josephine had commented on the fact that she wasn't wet, despite the rain, and she'd been forced to tell her she'd had a ride.

“You mean he's been waiting for you this whole time? When you told me he had to come to town, anyway, I assumed it was just to run some errand.”

“He had to fix a few things for his mother.”

“And now he's done?”

“I guess so. When I called him, he said he'd be right over.”

“That's convenient,” she said.

“He's a good neighbor,” Maisey said. A much better neighbor than she'd been to him...

“Is that
all
he is?” Her mother's eyes narrowed. “You're not getting mixed up with him, are you?”

“Mixed up?” Maisey knew what Josephine meant. But she thought forcing her to be specific might show her how ridiculous she was being.

“He'd love to marry you. Then he'd own all of Smuggler's Cove.”

“
I
don't own Smuggler's Cove. You do.”

“You will one day. I'm sure he's aware of what you stand to inherit.”

“He's not a treasure-hunter, Mother.”

“You don't know that. Don't be fooled by his handsome face. I've been with plenty of men who are attractive. Trust me, they need to bring more to the table than that. Good looks alone don't make a marriage work.”

Maisey didn't think her mother had the first clue about how to make a marriage work. Josephine had been through four husbands—not to mention the other men—and she probably wasn't finished yet. Only her marriage to Malcolm hadn't ended in divorce. Even then, Maisey was positive it would have, if Malcolm hadn't been determined to hang on for the sake of her and Keith. “Rafe's a nice guy, that's all. I'm impressed with the way he cares for his daughter.”

“His
blind
daughter.
That
wouldn't be an easy job,” her mother said.

Her emphasis on certain words told Maisey what she really meant. She wasn't sympathizing with Rafe or praising him. She was pointing out how difficult it would be to take on the responsibility of a special-needs child—if Maisey were to become his love interest. “I'm sure that's true,” she said. “Fortunately, he seems to understand that there couldn't be anything better to devote his life to.”

Recognizing the small rebellion in her reply, Josephine pursed her lips and shook her head. “You're bound and determined to learn the hard way, aren't you? When you could just as easily find someone who doesn't have children and who has plenty of money?”