The President's Daughter (20 page)

“That was the plan.”

“I’ll do my best.” Simon seriously doubted there would be a book by the end of the year but didn’t feel it was his place to discuss that with the congressman. If Norton had led him to believe the book would be available by then, he’d let Norton break the news.

“You’ll let me know if you need anything else, of course. From anyone.” Graham Hayward stood in the doorway and nearly filled it. “I’ll work on those questions you left for me and I’ll fax my responses to you as soon as I can.”

“That’s great. Thank you. Thanks for your time.”

Simon stood on the porch, adjusting his collar against the breeze. He’d been touched by the obvious pride and love that Gray Hayward had for his father and couldn’t help but wonder how those feelings might change once the congressman discovered that he had a half sister.

Pausing as he reached the bottom step, Simon stopped to consider, for the first time, whether perhaps Graham already knew.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Betsy Pierce had parked her wheelchair at the front window and hadn’t moved in over an hour. There was little traffic at this time of the day, and any car approaching from the east would have to crest that hill off to the right. Her eyes never left that point, despite the fact that it was only nine-thirty in the morning and Jude had said to expect them around eleven.

After having waited so long to see her niece again, Betsy would just have to wait a little longer.

She had barely been able to contain her joy when the call had come from Jude the night before. She’d finally told Dina everything, Jude had said, though it hadn’t gone particularly well.

Well, of course it didn’t go well!
Betsy had wanted to shout.
You wait for thirty years to tell someone that she is
not who she thinks she is, and chances are things aren’t
going to go well.

But Betsy had shared none of her inner thoughts with Jude, choosing instead to offer sympathy for the situation and assure her that yes, of course she’d love to see Dina.

Simon Keller’s name had not been mentioned.

It would appear, Betsy thought somewhat smugly as she focused on the black pickup truck that came over the hill, that her little gamble on Simon Keller had paid off quite nicely. He’d found Dina, and Dina was coming to Wild Springs, where she belonged. She was a Pierce and, as such, needed to know what would someday be hers. Betsy had no heir other than Dina and had long since made her will. She’d been hoping that Dina would discover her roots before such time as that will would be read. It would have been a hell of a way to find out who her real mother had been.

Betsy wondered if Simon had had as much success in figuring out what had really happened on that dark stretch of Connecticut Avenue so long ago.

But all in all, she’d realized a very large return for so small an investment.

“Miss Pierce?” Mrs. Brady stood in the doorway. “Can I bring you some breakfast now?”

“No, thank you.”

“Some coffee, then, or tea?”

“Coffee, yes, that would be fine.” Betsy turned and glanced back at the housekeeper, who had worked for the Pierce family for the past twenty years. These days Betsy had someone else come in to do most of the cleaning, leaving Mrs. Brady to act more as cook and personal assistant than housekeeper. Mrs. Brady, like Betsy, was no longer young.

“Did you find my note about lunch?”

“Yes. Lunch for three at half past twelve. On the back terrace.”

“Do we have strawberries?” Betsy asked.

“No, but I can make a run out to the Wayne Farmers Market and see what’s available, if you like.”

“Thank you. I
would
like that.” Betsy turned to her and said, “We’ll be having company for another day or so. With any luck, they’ll stay for more than one night. Mrs. Brady, did I tell you that my niece is coming?”

“Your niece . . . ?” Mrs. Brady frowned. As far as she knew, Miss Pierce had no niece. . . .

“Yes, my niece.” Betsy turned back to the window. “So we really have to have strawberries for dessert.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Mrs. Brady assured her as she left the room, wondering about this sudden mention of a niece. She went straight to the kitchen and the nearest phone, where she intended on calling her husband and asking him what he knew about a niece. . . .

“Please do.” Betsy smiled and leaned closer to the window, resting her elbows on the wide sill. “Blythe always loved strawberries. . . .”

The coffee sat untouched in the cup, and the chair had not moved from the window. It was ten minutes before eleven when the white Explorer came over the hill and slowed just before the next rise. Her heart pounding, Betsy wheeled herself to the front door and opened it, not bothering to wait to see if this was the car. She knew with all certainty that it was.

She watched as it drove slowly up the lane, watched as the driver parked on the circle in front of the house, watched as the trim young woman alighted and looked around as if trying to take it all in.

Betsy stared numbly.

My God, she looks just like Blythe. . . .

Jude got out from the passenger side of the car, but Betsy barely noticed her until the two women started up the walk. They both stopped, suddenly and in unison, when they saw Betsy in the doorway.

“Dina.” Betsy forced herself to speak, forced down emotions that had been held in check for years.

“Hello,” Dina said, not smiling.

“I wondered if you’d ever come,” Betsy said, unable to take her eyes off Dina. The resemblance to Blythe was chilling. “All these years, I’ve prayed you would. . . .”

Dina froze where she stood, not knowing how to respond to the raw emotion in the woman’s face and in her voice.

Finally, Betsy turned to Jude and said gently, “The years have been kind to you.”

“Betsy, I had no idea,” Jude stammered.

“Oh, the wheelchair?” Betsy glanced down at her still legs. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“What . . . ?”

“Riding accident.” Betsy turned to Dina and asked, “Do you ride?”

“Not really, no.”

“Best not to take a jump before your mount does.” Betsy smiled weakly, then wheeled herself back into the foyer. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please come in.”

“Betsy, I’m sorry for giving such short notice,” Jude was saying.

Dina stepped gingerly inside, as if she was almost afraid of what she’d find there. The foyer was wide and cool, the floors covered with vintage Oriental carpets and the walls covered with photographs. Oh so vague memories stirred within and swirled around her.

“Short notice?” Betsy paused in the doorway. “I’ve been waiting for twenty-five years, Jude.”

“I’ve been here before,” Dina whispered, as if not certain that it was true.

“Oh, a long time ago.” Betsy nodded. “I can’t believe you’d remember. I don’t think you were more than four or five.”

“I remember
her.
” Dina pointed to a painted portrait that hung over a handsome Eastlake-style table, a portrait of a young woman with a gentle face wearing a low-cut gown and a pearl choker trimmed in red stones.

“That’s your . . .” Betsy paused, then looked at Jude for but a second before continuing. “Your great-great-great-grandmother. Eliza Donaldson Pierce. She was an outspoken critic of slavery before it was fashionable and a proponent of women’s rights. It’s said she gave her husband quite a proper run for his money.”

And something else tugged at Dina’s memory.

“Dogs barking . . .”

“We have always had a large kennel of hounds.”

“. . . and white birds in a cage.”

“My mother raised doves. Her birds lived long after she did.”

Emotions threatening to overcome her, Betsy turned the wheels in the direction of the sitting room. “Please, come in and sit.”

Dina and Jude followed Betsy into the small room off the hall and sat side by side on a floral love seat.

“Dina, I have to say that I’m amazed that you remember so very much. You were only here a few times.”

“I’m surprised myself. I’ve never consciously thought about being here.”

“Has Jude told you how like your mother you are?” Betsy shook her head as if not quite believing the resemblance. She reached out to touch Dina’s face, and as she leaned slightly forward, Dina said, “You came to see us, when I was little.”

“Several times.” Betsy nodded.

“I thought you were my fairy godmother.”

“Ahhh, that’s right,” Betsy chuckled. “That’s what you called me, then.”

“Why did you stop coming?”

“Because we—Jude and I, that is—felt that as you got older, things would become much too confusing for you. How to explain to you who I was?” Betsy appeared to choose her words carefully. “We just didn’t feel we could tell you the truth.”

“Oh, I’ve already told her that you wanted to tell her everything years ago”—Jude turned to Betsy—“but I appreciate the attempt to cover for me. She already knows that keeping you from her was entirely my idea.”

“Does she know that it was Graham’s wish that in the event of his death or Blythe’s, she not know who her parents were?”

“Yes.” Dina nodded. “He shouldn’t have made you promise. It was wrong to keep this from me.”

“I agree, yes, but who’s to say there wasn’t some justification? After my sister died—the way she died— well, who knows what might have happened to you?” Betsy wheeled closer to the window, seeking the small patch of sun like a cat. “Your father became positively paranoid about you, saw danger behind every rock when it came to you. He trusted no one.”

“If the danger’s real, I suppose it’s not really paranoia, is it?” Jude noted. “We’re learning that the hard way, aren’t we, Dina?”

“What are you talking about?” Betsy turned her chair to directly face Jude.

Dina told Betsy about the mystery van that attempted to run her over.

“My God, just like Blythe . . .” Betsy’s face turned white, and her hands trembled.

“Yes. Just like Blythe. Dina, thank God, was quicker than she.” A touch of bitterness rose in Jude’s voice. “I believe we have you to thank for that, Betsy.”

“What are you implying?”

“That you led Simon Keller to my door. All those years, I managed to keep her safe. And then Simon Keller showed up.”

“Are you saying that you think Keller tried to run her over?”

“No. I’m saying that whoever was driving that van had followed him.” Jude paused. “Yesterday morning, Simon came to my house. I was on a phone call, upstairs, and did not answer the door. Simon was parked in the lot at the park across the street. I watched him drive away. There was a van parked toward the back of the lot. It was late-model, dark green, just like the one that Dina described.”

Jude’s face flushed with anger. “Why did you tell Simon Keller where to find us?”

“Because it was time, Jude. I couldn’t wait any longer for you to tell Dina on your own. I’m not going to live forever, and neither are you. She deserves to know who she is. She deserves to know who Blythe was. You weren’t coming to me, weren’t returning my phone calls, so I felt I had to take matters into my own hands. And I was weary of wondering about what really happened to my sister. Obviously, I never intended for a threat to be made on Dina, but it was
time.
”

“But a journalist? You picked a journalist to tell? Do you know how lucky we are that this hasn’t been all over the news?”

“Sooner or later, Jude, it would have come out. I’ve had reporters turn up on my doorstep every few years or so. They all ask about Blythe. About her relationship with Miles. About how many times she attended functions at the White House. It’s all a matter of public record, Jude. Simon Keller isn’t the only smart reporter out there. Sooner or later, someone would have put it together.”

“But why him?” Jude asked. “Why now?”

“Because he was the only one who cared about how Blythe died. And because if someone is going to be looking at this as a story, I’d rather they be looking for a murderer than a mistress.”

Betsy looked from Jude to Dina and back again. “It might as well be Simon Keller.”

“If you hadn’t told him where to find me”—Jude stood up, her hands on her hips—“if he’d stayed out of this altogether, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We wouldn’t even
be
here.”

“Exactly.” Betsy nodded coolly. “Don’t you think that twenty-five years was long enough to wait? She’s my only blood relative, Jude. I have a right to see her, to know her. And she has every right to know her mother’s family. To see what will belong to her someday . . .”

Betsy waved one hand in a sweeping gesture. “She’s all I have, Jude.”

“She’s all
I
have,” Jude snapped back.

“Stop it, both of you.” Dina threw up her hands. “Don’t blame this on Simon. You were the one who decided to keep everything a secret, Mom. Don’t blame him because he discovered it or Betsy for pointing the way. Look, I know that your biggest concern all these years was to keep me safe and protect me from scandal. But Betsy has a right to see what kind of a woman her sister’s child has grown up to be. And I can’t blame her for wanting some closure to her sister’s death. She has that right, Mom.” Dina looked from one woman to the other. “Once this is over, you two can bicker until you’re both hoarse. But right now, we have a problem. And since the sum total of our collective investigative skills is apparently zero, I think we should call Simon. Maybe he’s uncovered some information that he’d be willing to share. Frankly, I don’t think we have a choice.”

Dina held her hands up in a you-make-the-call gesture. “Unless you have a better idea?”

“We could try hiring a private investigator,” Jude suggested.

“My father did that as soon as he learned that the investigation had been locked down so quickly,” Betsy told her. “The official word was that Blythe was run over by an unknown driver. My father tried on several occasions to have the case reopened, but he was blocked at every turn. He’d pulled every string and called in every favor, but he never learned a thing.” Betsy’s mouth twitched slightly. “He died within a few years of Blythe’s death, very angry and very bitter that the government he’d served for so long had let him down. No, ladies, a private investigator isn’t likely to be of much use to us.”