Chapter 2 - THE NAME SHE NEVER KNEW
The guests were asked to leave the ballroom.
Margaret gave no explanation. She simply told the event manager that the
celebration was over and ordered the household staff to remain
available.
Richard protested until she turned on him.
“This is my home, Richard. I decide when the party ends.”
When the last guests had gone, Margaret led Emily into a private sitting
room. Richard followed without being invited.
Margaret placed the photograph on the table.
“Eleanor was my youngest daughter,” she said.
Emily stared at her.
“My mother?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Richard folded his arms. “Mother, Eleanor died twenty-four years ago.”
Margaret’s eyes flashed.
“That’s what you told me.”
“Because it was true.”
“You told me her car went off the coastal road. You told me the police
found the wreckage and identified her belongings.”
“They did.”
“Then why was there never a body?”
Richard’s expression hardened.
“The fire destroyed the vehicle.”
Emily felt her pulse racing.
“My mother never said she was called Eleanor.”
Margaret turned back to her.
“After she disappeared, I searched for years. Your grandfather had died
the year before. I was trying to hold the company together, and Richard
was helping me. He told me Eleanor had been reckless, that she had taken
money and run away.”
Richard interrupted. “She did.”
Margaret looked at him.
“Then why did you tell me she was dead?”
He did not answer.
Emily opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter written in Rose’s careful handwriting. It was
addressed simply: To the daughter I may never find.
Emily had never been able to bring herself to read it aloud. Now she
unfolded it.
“My darling Emily,” she began, “there are things I should have told you
before you were old enough to ask. I was not born Rose Carter. That was
the name given to me by the woman who raised me. My first name was
Eleanor. I was told my family had died, and I was too frightened to
search for people who might not want me.”
Margaret covered her mouth.
Emily continued.
“I had a mother once. I remember a perfume, a large house, and a woman
who wore a blue stone at her throat. I remember a boy shouting. I
remember being told to forget everything. I have never known whether
those memories were real.”
The letter trembled in Emily’s hands.
“If you ever meet a woman named Margaret Whitmore, ask her about the
necklace. Do not trust anyone who tells you I was a thief. I did not
leave because I wanted to. I left because I was afraid.”
Margaret began to cry.
Richard snatched the letter from Emily.
“That’s enough. This could have been written by anyone.”
Emily stood.
“Give it back.”
Richard held it away from her.
“Do you understand what you’re doing? You’re trying to force your way
into this family.”
Margaret rose slowly.
“Give her the letter.”
“Mother—”
“Now.”
Richard dropped it onto the table.
Margaret looked at him as though she were seeing him for the first time.
“Why did Eleanor leave?”
“She was unstable. She was always making accusations.”
“What accusations?”
Richard’s silence lasted too long.
Margaret turned to Emily.
“Did your mother ever mention a man named Richard?”
Emily thought carefully.
“Once. When I was about eight, I asked why we never visited family. She
said there was a man who wanted her to disappear. She told me never to
answer the door if he came.”
Richard gave a humorless laugh.
“A child could invent that.”
Emily looked at him.
“My mother was terrified of someone. I know that much.”
Margaret sat down heavily.
“Richard, leave us.”
He stared at her.
“This is a mistake.”
“Leave.”
He walked toward the door, but before stepping out, he looked at Emily.
“Be careful what you wish for. Some families are better left buried.”
The door closed.
Margaret looked at the necklace around her own neck.
“Eleanor had a matching one,” she said. “My husband had two made by a
jeweler in San Francisco. One for me, one for her. The little crescent
is the maker’s mark.”
Emily touched the photograph.
“So the one my mother wore was hers?”
Margaret nodded.
“I gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday.”
For the first time, Emily understood that the necklace was not merely
similar.
May you like
It was a piece of her mother’s childhood.
And Margaret Whitmore might be her grandmother.
