Evelyn’s heart started pounding.
“Mom.”
Margaret looked at her.
“Who is that child?”
Evelyn studied her face.
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea.”
Rachel handed Evelyn the photograph.
Evelyn crossed the room.
“Who is Nora Bell?”
Margaret stared at the picture.
For one second, her entire body seemed to stop functioning.
Then she looked away.
“I don’t know.”
Evelyn felt something inside her split.
Her mother was lying.
She knew it immediately.
Evelyn had seen Margaret lie about birthday surprises, family arguments, bills, and the exact price of dresses she insisted were “practically free.”
This was different.
Margaret’s right hand had begun rubbing the side of her wedding ring.
She did that only when frightened.
Evelyn remembered it from the hospital when her father was sick.
“Look at me.”
Margaret did not.
“Mom.”
James straightened but remained silent.
Evelyn held up the photograph.
“This woman has my face.”
“People resemble each other.”
“This child ran into my wedding calling me Mommy.”
Margaret looked toward Maisie.
The girl was staring at her.
Something changed in Margaret’s expression.
Recognition.
Sadness.
Maybe guilt.
Evelyn stepped closer.
“Who is she?”
Margaret whispered, “We shouldn’t do this here.”
Evelyn’s voice hardened.
“There is no wedding until you answer me.”
Margaret looked sharply at James.
He shook his head.
“Don’t look at me. She’s right.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
Rachel quietly took Maisie’s hand.
“Want to come help me find some cookies?”
Maisie looked toward Evelyn.
“Go with Rachel.”
“You stay?”
“I’m staying.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Maisie allowed Rachel to lead her into the adjoining room.
When the door closed, Evelyn faced her mother.
“Tell me.”
Margaret sat.
For the first time that day, she looked sixty-one.
Perhaps older.
“My father was a difficult man.”
Evelyn stared.
“What does Grandpa have to do with this?”
Margaret rubbed her hands together.
“Everything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know I was nineteen when I met your father.”
“Yes.”
“You know my parents didn’t approve.”
“Yes.”
That story was family mythology.
Margaret Caldwell had grown up wealthy in Lake Forest, daughter of industrialist Arthur Caldwell. Daniel Hart was the son of a public-school teacher and worked summers repairing boats.
They fell in love.
Arthur Caldwell hated him.
Margaret married Daniel anyway.
At least, that was the version Evelyn had always heard.
“There was more,” Margaret said.
Evelyn waited.