Page 87 of Riches and Romance

“Well, you rest now, my dear. Want me to pick you up something from Ousie’s?”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I love you. I’ll see you later.”

“Tell Noah hi for me,” she calls.

I wait until I hear the door close before I walk back out. She’s out of bed drawing the curtains open, and light floods the room. It’s decorated in a sea of white and gold. But I don’t look around at the details. I watch the woman who might have had my father killed for any sign of recognition. She’s olive-skinned and dark-haired. Even dressed in her loose-fitting pajamas, I can see that she’s as slight as a bird.

“Sit,” she orders, pointing to one of the chairs by the window.

“Did you have my father killed?” I ask the only thing I care to know.

“What?” She gasps and sits down in one of the chairs herself, crossing her legs and leaning back as if she’d been pushed. “I thought you killed him. What in the world are you talking about?”

“You…you were sending him money and then he wrote, threatening you for more, and then he was dead.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Is that what you think? That’s why you’re here?” She could be lying, but the shock in her voice sounds genuine. And she knows who I am. “Why else would I be here? I don’t know you from Adam.”

“Sit down, please, Jewel. Please,” she adds in a softly pleading voice when I hesitate. I’m too devastated to argue. I can’t believe this isn’t the smoking gun I hoped for.

“What was going on between you and my father?”

“We had an affair. A long time ago. And when it was over, I came back to my husband and never saw him or set foot in England again.”

“What were you paying him for?” I shake my head in despair. “Who are you?”

She watches me with her eyes narrowed and her chest heaving. “I’m sorry you found me. You weren’t meant to. But he wasn’t supposed to die, either.”

“What do you mean? Who are you?”

“I loved your father, Jewel. And I’m so sorry for what happened to him. It broke my heart when he died and even more so because it was at your hand.”

“I didn’t do it. And if you loved him, why have I never heard of you?”

“Because I paid him not to tell you.”

“Why?”

She stares down at her hands for a full minute, and I have to restrain myself from grabbing her by the collar and shaking her until she tells me.

She lifts her head and looks me dead in the eye. “Because I am your mother.”

My slack jaw falls down to my chest, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. “My mother died giving birth to me.”

“That’s what he told you.”

“He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“He did, but only because I asked him to. And provided for you. And my husband and children don’t know you exist. And I never want them to.”

The words are a punch to my gut. “Why?” I hear myself ask.

And she answers me. By the time she’s done, I’m sorry I asked.

My ears are ringing, my pulse is out of control, and I’m lightheaded.

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” I mutter, and without looking at her, I stand.

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