When Shadows Fall (20 page)

"It is. And I wondered if Molly wrote to me because she knew I was her granddaughter."

"She never said that to me, Olivia. Not one word. In fact, we haven't spoken of Francine's daughter in twenty years."

Eleanor's clear blue eyes were completely without guile, and Olivia had to accept that Eleanor was telling her the truth. "Okay," she said, not sure where to go next.

Eleanor frowned. "You're upset."

"I'm just confused. I'm trying to figure out if there's a connection between me and Molly or if my having the same birth date as Molly's granddaughter is just a coincidence."

"I can see how that would be upsetting. It is a bit odd. And…"

"And what?" she prodded.

"Your eyes do remind me of Molly," Eleanor mused, giving her a long look. "I suppose it's not completely impossible that Molly had her own reasons for contacting you. Do you have any information about your biological parents?"

"I don't. Do you think Peter Harper would know anything?"

Eleanor frowned for the first time since they'd arrived. "Peter would probably be unwilling to speak to you. He was a sullen boy who grew up to be an angry, bitter man. He's been terrible to his mother and barely civil to me, and I've known him since he was a toddler."

Eleanor's words certainly corroborated what Olivia had already seen in her brief meeting with Peter.

"However," Eleanor continued. "It's possible that Peter knew something about where her baby ended up."

"How did Molly end up with such screwed-up kids?" Colton asked. "Was it because their father died?"

Eleanor's lips tightened. "Their father was not a good person."

"What can you tell me about Stan, about his death?" Olivia asked, seeing dark shadows gather in Eleanor's eyes. "And when did he die? Was it before you started the theater group or after? I assume it was before Francine got pregnant."

"And how did the fire start?" Colton asked. "Where was Molly at the time?"

"I—I don't. I can't. I…" Eleanor's face paled and her eyes darted around the room.

Olivia didn't know if they'd confused her with the barrage of questions or what, but Eleanor seemed suddenly very agitated.

"Patrick? Where's Patrick?" Eleanor questioned, shifting nervously in her chair. "Patrick says not to talk. Bad to talk."

Olivia sat straighter in her seat, taken aback by Eleanor's now rambling and cryptic words.

"Secret. Must keep secret." Eleanor nodded her head up and down as her gaze flitted around the room.

"What secret?" Olivia asked.

"Can't tell. Can't tell. Can't tell."

"Grandma," Colton cut into her chant. "It's okay, you don't have to talk."

"Who—are you?" she asked in alarm, shrinking from Colton as he tried to put a hand on her shoulder.

"Olivia, get the nurse," Colton said sharply.

She nodded, jumping to her feet. It was the first time she'd seen evidence of Eleanor's illness, and it shocked her at how quickly it had come on. The happy, cheerful woman who had offered them tea had completely vanished.

Olivia found the nurse knitting in the living room. "Mrs. Callaway needs you."

"Oh, dear," Donna replied as she stood up. "She's been having such a good run lately, I was hoping it would continue."

Olivia followed Donna back into the kitchen. She stood just inside the room as Donna attended to Eleanor, talking slowly and quietly, trying to get her to focus on her. Eleanor seemed to be calming down, but her gaze was completely blank. It was as if her soul had left her body.

"You should go," the nurse told them.

Colton hesitated, but then gave a nod. They walked out of the kitchen and down the hall, not stopping until they were outside.

As they paused in front of Eleanor's house, Olivia could feel the anger and frustration building inside Colton.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I shouldn’t have let you go in there. I should have done what my grandfather asked me to do—keep the two of you apart. But I didn't listen. And I didn't just sit there, either. I asked her questions, too. I upset her. Damn." He waved a hand in the air. "What the hell was I thinking?"

She didn't know how to answer that. She supposed she should be glad he wasn't putting all the blame on her. On the other hand, she felt bad for him. He was kicking himself hard, and what had happened was in fact more her fault than his. "I talked you into it," she said. "You were trying to help me."

"I just hope she can bounce back."

"Does she usually recover quickly? Or does it take a while?"

"It depends. I don't know." He blew out a breath. "My mom is coming here this morning. I'll stick around until she gets here. You can go."

"Okay." She didn't really want to leave, but she didn't think her presence was going to help anything. "I hope your grandmother will be all right. Will you call me later and let me know?

"Sure."

They exchanged numbers and then she returned to her car.

Sliding behind the wheel, a dozen emotions ran through her. She felt guilty for her part in upsetting Eleanor. But she was also intensely curious about the secret Eleanor had mentioned and still unsure of whether or not she was Molly's granddaughter. Eleanor hadn't been able to confirm their relationship, so she would have to try someone else, and the only person left was Peter Harper.

Chapter Sixteen

After returning to her hotel, Olivia got on her computer and searched for information on Peter Harper. It wasn't difficult to find since Peter was vice president of the Cormellon Financial Group, a group of apparently incredibly profitable venture capitalists who were building a new hotel in downtown San Francisco.

She found a picture of Peter and the mayor wearing hardhats at a construction site with a headline reading:
Winthrop Building Gets A New Life.

She scanned the article to discover that Peter's financial investment group was razing the remains of a badly destroyed building in order to build a new hotel. The building had been in disrepair for almost a decade, having been destroyed by a tragic fire that took the lives of two firefighters. Apparently the construction of the original building had not been up to code and subsequent lawsuits had bankrupted that company. The site had been left untouched until the Cormellon Group decided to get involved. The city of San Francisco was thrilled to have the blight on its skyline removed.

Peter Harper looked happy in the photograph, and why wouldn't he? He was doing something wonderful for the city.

Maybe he was a good man. Eleanor hadn't really led her to that conclusion, and her own first impression had not been a good one, but perhaps she'd judged him too hastily. Peter's mother was dying. It was only normal for him to be angry and upset. She grabbed her phone and punched in the telephone number before she could change her mind.

A woman answered, "Cormellon Group".

"Is Peter Harper available?"

"No, I'm sorry, he's out of the office. Would you like to leave a voicemail?"

"No, thanks, I'll call back." She ended the call and set her phone on the bed. She wondered if Peter Harper was at the hospital visiting Molly. It might be worth making another trip down there. She'd probably get further with him in person than on the phone anyway.

Jumping off the bed, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She needed to refresh, change her clothes, and then attack the day.

* * *

Olivia got to the hospital just before noon on Tuesday. She'd changed into dark jeans and a tank top under a bright pink sweater and had pulled her long hair into a thick ponytail. She was ready to face whatever came next.

When she saw Peter Harper sitting in a chair beside his mother's bed, she felt both relieved and nervous. Peter was reading something on his cell phone, and Molly appeared to be in the same condition she'd been the day before.

Olivia hesitated in the doorway, quite sure she would not get a warm welcome, but she was here, and the man she needed to speak to was also here so she was going in.

She'd never been a coward when it came to research and asking tough questions of reluctant people, but this story had taken a turn when she'd found herself quite possibly in the middle of it.

Peter looked up and saw her, taking the decision out of her hands. He got to his feet, and walked over to her as she stepped into the room.

"I thought I made it clear that my mother is in no condition to have visitors, especially people she's never met before."

"She wanted to meet me, Mr. Harper. She asked me to come here."

"Well, that was before she had her stroke."

"I know, and I really wish I'd been able to come sooner, but your mother left me her journals to read, and—"

"What?" he interrupted, anger flashing in his eyes. "What did you say?"

"Your mother wanted me to write a story about her life. She left me her journals, some photographs and a few other items to go through." She decided not to explain that some of those items had been acquired during her visit to Molly's home.

"You'll return them immediately," Peter said, obviously infuriated at the idea that she had anything belonging to his mother. "Those belong with the family."

"I will, of course, return them, but I need to ask you a few questions."

"I have no interest in your questions. My mother's life has always been private, and it will remain so. You need to leave."

She stared at him, seeing the determination in his eyes, but she didn't quite understand where it came from. Was he trying to protect his mother from her? Or was there something else he was trying to protect?

She'd have to figure that out later, because she was quickly running out of time. She had no doubt that Peter Harper was about two seconds away from calling security and having her thrown out.

"Miss—"

"I think I might be Francine's daughter," she blurted out.

His jaw dropped, his eyes widening from the shock of her words. "What—what did you say?"

"I found a birth certificate for a girl born to Francine Harper on June 7, 1988, which happens to be my birthday. I was adopted when I was two days old. The adoption was closed. I had no information on my biological parents, until possibly now."

She could see the pulse beating rapidly in his neck as he processed the information. His gaze raked her face with new interest, as if he were looking for similarities between her and his sister or someone else in the family.

"Do you know what happened to Francine's child? Do you know who adopted her?"

"I have no idea."

"And your mother never gave you any indication that she might be contacting me for another reason than just a desire to tell her story to a writer?"

"She didn't tell me anything about you until the day she had her stroke," Peter replied.

"What did she say then?"

"Not much. She was excited you were coming. I didn't really understand what she wanted you to write about. I started asking her questions, but before she could answer, she collapsed."

"She never suggested that I might be her granddaughter?"

"No." His lips tightened. "Look, I don't know what your game is, but my mother doesn't have any money, so if you're thinking you're in line for an inheritance, you can forget it. My money is completely separate from hers. And she's been living on a fixed income for a long time."

"I don't want money." She stiffened at his ugly suggestion. "And I'm not running a game. I came at Molly's request, and I'm trying to honor my promise to her."

"What promise?"

"That I would tell her story. Did your mother tell you about the underground railroad for abused women that she was involved in? It was tied to a community theater group she participated in back in the seventies."

"I know she sewed costumes for the theater, but my mother and her friends loved to make up stories. Most of them were not true."

"Your mother's friends were quite convincing."

"Well, they're good actresses. You need to stop the book project."

"Why?"

"Because you don't know what you're getting into."

"Then enlighten me," she challenged. "Because so far no one has been willing to tell me why I should leave all this alone."

"My mother is dying. She can't tell you her story. So that's it."

"Some of the other women are alive, Eleanor Callaway for one."

Anger flared in his eyes. "Eleanor Callaway is not anyone you should be talking to. She acts like she was my mother's friend, but she wasn't. She messed up my mother's life."

She was surprised at his intense dislike of Eleanor, a woman that everyone else she had met seemed to adore. "How did Eleanor screw up your mother's life?"

"It doesn't matter. I don’t want to talk about that woman."

"Then tell me about Francine. Did she tell you who the father of her baby was? Do you know why she gave her daughter up for adoption?"

"No. She told me nothing. My sister was a disaster. She suffered from depression and anxiety, and she self-medicated with drugs and alcohol. I have no idea who fathered her kid. As for why she gave it up—it was probably the smartest thing she ever did in her life, at least for her daughter. For herself it was another story. She couldn't get herself out of the darkness or over the loss of her child. A year later, she was dead. Is that the kind of mom you're looking for?" he asked.

"I'm not looking for a mother; I have a good one. The woman who raised me gave me everything. She was wonderful, and my dad was amazing, too. Unfortunately, he died when I was in high school. But the years we had together were all anyone could have asked for in a childhood."

"Then you were far luckier than Francine," he said tightly. "You have nothing to gain here, Miss Bennett. If you don't want money, then what's left? Even if by some remote chance you are my sister's child, what does it matter? Francine is dead. My mother is on her way to join her. And I'm not interested in acquiring any more family. I have had more than enough family problems in my life. I sure as hell don't need anymore. So go home. Go back to the people who raised you and count your blessings that my sister gave you away."