The Color of Secrets (37 page)

The next few months were a roller coaster of highs and lows. The day after she sent off the first batch of letters, she had a call from a TV reporter in New Orleans. He wanted to know if she had any photos of herself and the children to show alongside the one of her father. He explained that his station was doing a feature on war babies to coincide with the next anniversary of Pearl Harbor.

“We’ll have to be careful how we put your story across,” he said. “Don’t want to ruffle any feathers—if he’s got a wife and family, I mean.”

“Oh.” Louisa frowned at the phone. “I hadn’t thought of that. How will you do it?”

“I think we’ll take the line that the men we’re featuring may not have known their wartime sweethearts were pregnant. That lets them off the hook with their current families, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” she said, considering the implications. “I suppose that would be the best thing—even though it’s not strictly true.”

“You know what they say.” He chuckled. “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story!”

During the weeks after the program aired, Louisa was in a state of permanent tension, waiting for a letter, perhaps even a phone call from New Orleans. But there was nothing. In the end she phoned the TV station herself. The journalist said he was sorry, but the appeal had brought no response. The following week the photos she had sent with such optimism returned in the mail.

She clung to the hope that the letters she was writing to all the W. Willises in Louisiana would bear fruit. But by the summer of the following year she had sent nearly three hundred, and all she’d had back were a few polite nos and a hoax letter from a man who said he was sure he was her father, despite being unable to recall her mother’s name, and asking her to send return tickets to the UK as soon as possible.

When Michael came down to the cottage with Heather in August, she felt the strain beginning to tell. They had to pretend nothing was going on between them, so apart from visiting for the day with Tom and Rhiannon, she hardly saw him.

Christmas had been awful too. She had spent the whole day thinking about him sitting down to lunch with Monica, opening presents with Monica, when he should have been with her. They had managed to spend New Year’s Eve together, but only because Heather had been invited to a party and wouldn’t be around.

Louisa liked Heather, but she found it increasingly difficult not to feel jealous of the hold she had on Michael. He had become very defensive when she’d tried to explain. His words echoed in her memory:
You know I love you, Lou! Do you think I like living like this?

He had begged her to be patient, reminding her that this time next year everything would be different. As if she needed reminding. She was counting the days.

A few weeks after Michael’s visit, Gina announced she was moving in with Jeremy. They had been seeing each other off and on ever since the party at the commune. Jeremy had ditched the hippie lifestyle to set up his own sawmill business at a farm farther down the valley.

“I’m really happy for you,” Louisa said, as she watched Gina pack the last of her things. There were tears in her eyes, but no twinge of envy this time. No wishing she had what Gina had. Because she already had it. Well, almost.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Gina took her hand. “I worry about you, you know.”

“I’ve got Michael, haven’t I?” Louisa smiled through her tears.

Gina looked away. “Are you sure about him, Lou? I know I’m a cynic, but do you really think he’s going to leave her when the time comes?”

“Yes!”

Gina didn’t smile back. “Have you told your parents about him?”

“Well, not exactly: Dad knows.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I was seeing someone who’s separated but not divorced yet. He doesn’t know it’s Cathy’s son.”

“And you didn’t mention Heather? Or the fact that he’s still living with his wife?”

Louisa shook her head. “I told him Michael has a grown-up daughter.” She looked up, a frown creasing her forehead. “I didn’t want to worry him, Gina.”

“Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“What?”

“You’re lying for him already.” Gina pressed her lips together. “You shouldn’t have to do that, Lou—you deserve better!”

Louisa stared at the sun-faded pattern on the rug by Gina’s bed. “I know it’s not ideal,” she murmured, “but in a few months things are going to be different. I love him, Gina. And he loves me. He’s just trying to do what’s right.”

On Louisa’s birthday the following year, Gina’s words were ringing in her ears. During the intervening months, she had kept herself frantically busy, sending off hundreds more letters to America. She had written to every single W. Willis in the state of Louisiana, and now she had moved on to addresses in Illinois. She told herself that Chicago was the place. With its more liberal laws, he would have been bound to head there, especially if he was as close to his aunt as Cathy had suggested. Michael had been worried when she’d said this. She knew he thought she was becoming obsessed. That perhaps the time had come to admit defeat.

Now she was sitting in the restaurant of the Aberystwyth hotel where they’d spent their first night together. She was watching the sunset, waiting for him to arrive. It was going to be the last birthday they would have to celebrate in this cloak-and-dagger way. This time next year they would be together. Maybe even married.

She looked at her watch. He was twenty minutes late. Perhaps his car had broken down.
Please God
, she thought,
not an accident
.

What if he’s stood you up?

The voice in her head was Gina’s.
No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he?
She tried to recall the last conversation they had had. He had been uptight when she phoned because Heather was in the middle of her exams. He was worried for her. Louisa told herself that was only natural, that it wasn’t surprising he didn’t want to talk about the future when he had so much on his mind.

What if he’s just stringing you along?
Gina’s voice again.
He’ll keep coming up with excuses, Lou—just wait and see. He wants the best of both worlds.

Another quarter of an hour went by. The waiter was looking at her. She saw him whisper something to the manager. Then a woman appeared, the hotel receptionist, heading for her table.

“Mrs. Brandon?”

Steel fingers squeezed Louisa’s heart.

“There’s someone on the telephone for you.”

The walk from the table to the hotel reception seemed to take forever.

“Louisa?” Relief swept over her when she heard Michael’s voice. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m not going to be able to make it.”

“What’s happened?” She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. Gina was right. He was standing her up. On her
birthday
.

“It’s Heather.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s in a terrible state.”

“Wha
. . .
what? Why?” Her voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

There was silence at the other end of the phone. Then she heard a door close. “You know she was taking her last exam today?”

“Er
. . .
yes,” she mumbled, “was she ill or something?” She held her breath. This was shaping up to be the most pathetic of excuses.

“No, no—she was fine. But when she got home, she found a note from her mother. Monica’s gone, Lou. She’s moved out.”

Chapter 40

Monica’s abrupt departure had initially struck Louisa as absolutely heartless. How could she have left that note, knowing Heather would be the first to find it? But as the weeks went by, she came to realize that in leaving when she did, Monica had ultimately done her daughter a favor. Although distraught that her mother had moved in with another man, Heather at least had the whole summer to come to terms with it.

She and Louisa had some long chats at the cottage during August. Louisa was grateful that Heather didn’t seem to hold her responsible for what had happened. On the contrary, she seemed appreciative of Louisa being there for her dad. She told her that her biggest worry had been that he would be all alone when she went off to university.

And so, on Midsummer’s Day 1977, the week after his divorce came through, Louisa and Michael were married. It was a quiet ceremony at Aberystwyth’s tiny registry office. Gina and Jeremy were witnesses, and the only others present were Heather, Tom, and Rhiannon—who was a bridesmaid.

Louisa and Michael had agonized over just who should be there. They couldn’t have asked her parents without having Cathy there too. But how would Eva react in that situation? In the end they had decided to keep things simple. They would save the explanations for after they were married and—hopefully—bring everyone together at some point in the future.

The beach was just yards from the entrance to the County Hall, and after posing for a few photos, Michael picked Louisa up and ran across to the water’s edge.

“No!” she squealed, clutching up the skirt of her cream silk dress as he pretended to throw her in.

“I wouldn’t dare!” He grinned. “Just thought I’d remind you of how it all started!” He gave her a long, lingering kiss. “Well, Mrs. Garner,” he whispered, “you’ve finally made an honest man of me.”

They celebrated with lunch at the hotel they always thought of as theirs, then drove back to the farm.

“Is Michael coming to live at our house now?” Rhiannon asked as they chugged up the track.

“Sort of, yes.” Louisa and Michael exchanged glances. “He’s got his own house just a little way away from the farm, and he’s going to take turns staying there and with us.”

“Why?” Rhiannon’s forehead wrinkled beneath the circlet of pink rosebuds in her hair. “I thought when people got married, they had to live together.”

“Well, it’s a bit different for us
. . .
” Louisa hesitated, not sure how to explain.

“It’s because of my new job, Rhiannon,” Michael said. “Did I tell you about it? It’s a really noisy job: lots of people singing and playing instruments very loudly—I couldn’t do that at your farm, could I? I might scare the sheep!”

Rhiannon giggled, apparently satisfied by this explanation. Louisa reached across and squeezed his hand. The reality was far too complicated for an eight-year-old to understand: the fact that the farm was really Tom’s, and that the barn down the valley that Michael had converted into a recording studio came with a house they would move into when Tom was old enough to run things by himself.

Later that afternoon there was more explaining to do. She went alone to find her parents because she wasn’t sure what her mother was going to say when she broke the news. If there was going to be a scene, she’d rather Michael wasn’t a witness to it.

She told her father first. He was outside chopping logs. “You look nice, love.” He straightened up, wiping his brow. “Going somewhere special?”

“Been somewhere, actually, Dad.” Now that the moment had come, she felt ashamed. She held out her left hand so that he could see the new gold wedding band. “Michael and I got married this morning.” She watched his face melt as tears blurred her eyes. “I wanted to tell you, but I was worried about what Mum would say.”

He gazed at her, speechless. “Why?” he said at last. “Why be worried? She’d have been happy for you—you know she would.”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you about him, Dad.” She glanced at the logs, then back at his face. “Michael’s Cathy Garner’s son. We met when I went looking for her.”

“Oh, I see.” He sank down on an ax-bitten tree stump, a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s been a long time, Lou. Couldn’t you have given her a chance?”

“What do you mean?”

“To put the past behind her. For your sake.”

“But Dad,” Louisa bit her lip. “You know what she was like when I told her about meeting Cathy: I thought she was going to have a heart attack or something! Can’t you see why I did it?”

“Yes, I do understand.” He reached for her hand. “I’m sorry: I suppose I just feel a bit cheated. Come on—let’s go and find your mum.”

To Louisa’s surprise, her mother reacted in almost exactly the same way. She blinked when she saw the ring, then shaded her eyes against the sun to take a long look at her daughter’s wedding dress.

“I would have liked to see you marry.” She gave Louisa a reproachful look. “I don’t know why you thought I wouldn’t want to see Cathy.” She tilted her head, as if weighing something up. “I always liked Michael. Such a nice, polite little boy. Where have you hidden him?”

Louisa marched back up the track to fetch him, dust flying as her dress swished against her legs. “I give up with her!” She burst through the farmhouse door. Michael and the children looked up from their game of Monopoly. “She’s like the flipping Sphinx!” Louisa shook her head. “Whatever I say, I never seem to get it right!”

Later that evening, when the awkwardness of the introductions was over and they were alone together, she finally felt able to relax. It seemed strange, snuggling up to Michael in the big iron bed she had slept in on her own for so long.

“I’m so happy,” she whispered.

“Me too.” He nuzzled her ear.

“Shall I let you in on a secret?”

“What?”

“I dreamed I’d marry you the first day we met.” She told him of the strange image that had come to her while she slept at his mother’s hotel—of Bill walking her down the aisle of the church in Aberystwyth, and him standing at the altar rail waiting for her. “It’s so weird,” she said, “because he
did
lead me to you, didn’t he? If I hadn’t been searching for him, we’d never have met.”

He kissed her softly. “What a shame we haven’t been able to find him.”

“I know. Bet he’d be delighted about playing Cupid!”

If he’s alive.

The words popped unbidden into her head. Lately she’d become despondent about the letter writing. She hadn’t sent any for several weeks. In her heart she was beginning to believe he was dead. The melancholy mood that crept over her every time she thought of him began to descend once again. But she willed it away. Nothing was going to spoil their wedding night. Not even a ghost.

In the months that followed Louisa led a schizophrenic but happy existence as part-time farmer and part-time rock band hostess. Michael’s studio began to attract big-name bands that found the remote Welsh hills the perfect place to put an album together. While they spent the day in the barn, she would prepare nightly feasts in the main house. For the first time she’d felt truly comfortable in her skin.

At first she had stayed in the kitchen, shy about mixing in such stellar company. With Michael she felt comfortable, but with strangers—especially men—her old phobia about her appearance sometimes threatened to overtake her again. But an unexpected request from the lead singer of one of the bands brought her well and truly out of her shell. He told Michael she had the perfect look for the cover of the album they were putting together. Would Louisa consider it? They didn’t want her in makeup or fancy clothes—just a natural pose with the Welsh countryside in the background. The photographer was already there, taking shots of the band, so she didn’t have long to think about it.

“Are they crazy?” She stared at Michael, flabbergasted, when he relayed the request. “Why on earth would they want
me
?”

“
Because you’re gorgeous, sexy, beautiful
. . .
Do I have to go on?” He grinned.

“Well, they must all need their eyes tested.” She gave him a crooked smile. “They’re not going to make me look stupid, are they? They’re not going to superimpose a cow flying over my head or something like that?”

“No, you daft woman!” He pulled her to him and kissed her slowly. “It’ll be stunning—trust me.”

And he was right. “My God,” she gasped, as she unwrapped the framed cover the band had sent.

“You’re a star, Lou,” Michael whispered, nuzzling her ear. “How does it feel?”

“Very weird.” She smiled. “But good.”

Just before Christmas she arrived back home after a stint at Michael’s place to find a letter waiting for her. The sight of the American stamps set her heart pounding. It was postmarked New Orleans. She stared at it. It had been nearly three years since she’d sent a letter there. She ripped it open. A compliment slip from the TV station that had featured her story was stapled to a handwritten letter.

To the lady searching for her father:

My name is Cora-Mae Parker. I should have written you a long time ago, but the truth is I didn’t want to. You see, I was married to the man you’re looking for
. . .

Louisa clutched the letter to her chest.
Married to him?
She sat down, resting her hands on the table in a vain attempt to stop them shaking.

The marriage didn’t last. Things were very bitter between us. I married again and had children, but when I saw his face on the television, it stirred up all the bad memories. I guess I held back out of spite.

Then, last month, my eldest girl gave birth to a little boy. My first grandchild. When I held that baby in my arms, I got to thinking about the picture of you and your children they showed on TV. I thought how terrible it would be if my little grandson grew up not knowing who I was. I told myself—Bill has a right to know that he has grandchildren.

So what can I tell you about him? We met in the late thirties when we both worked in a drugstore downtown. He went back in the army when the war ended, but in the fifties he came back home to New Orleans. We were married in April 1956, but it didn’t last much past our first anniversary. He never said, but I think he was still in love with your mama. He told me her name was Eva, and that he had a little girl whose name he never knew. You might not believe this, but I was jealous of you. He talked about you all the time.

Just after our divorce, his mama died. Bill and Martha, his sister, decided to start a new life in Detroit. It was 1958, as I recall. Martha wrote me for a couple years after that. Said Bill was doing pretty well, but we lost touch when they moved apartments.

I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more than that. Please don’t write me back or try to call me on the phone—my husband doesn’t know I’ve done this and I don’t think he’d be too pleased if he found out.

It took Louisa less than a week to write to the fifty-two W. Willises in Detroit. Ten days later her heart flipped when the postman delivered a thick envelope with the familiar Stars and Stripes stamps. Inside was a Christmas card. Beneath the verse in careful, copperplate writing were the words:
I’m the one.