Until There Was You
Page 39

“She’s thirteen months old,” Jon said damply, “and her name is Elisabeta Rosa Josephina Juarez, soon to be Elisabeta Rosa Josephina Juarez-Osterhagen-White.”
“Rolls right off the tongue,” Brianna said, buttering another piece of bread.
“We’re going to call her Betty,” Jon continued.
“Betty White?” Brie said, grinning.
“Who better to be a role model? Anyway, she’s at Our Lady of Angels Orphanage right now, and we have a picture and everything. And of course, Posey, you’ll be godmother.”
“I can’t believe it. I’ve waited so long for grandchildren,” Stacia said, sinking back into her chair in a happy daze.
Henry handed Posey a picture, and her eyes filled with fresh tears. The baby had dark hair, long enough for the barrettes and ribbons Jon was sure to employ, and huge dark eyes. She was chubby, her expression solemn, and Posey’s heart swelled with love. “She’s so beautiful. Hi, Betty.” She grinned up at the boys, then looked at Brianna. “Pretty cool, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah. So cool.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t ditch you.”
Brie cut her a glance. “Feel free.”
“Sulk all you want, you’re stuck with me. You can help change poopy diapers and everything.”
“I’m counting the hours.” But she gave Posey a grateful look and didn’t make gagging noises when Jon described the mural of unicorns he was going to paint in the baby’s room.
Only Gretchen didn’t seem terribly interested. She duly admired the photo, then passed it on. Nor did she say boo during the entire dinner, or even sing “Happy Birthday.” Something was definitely up, and a warning wriggled down Posey’s spine like a cold fish.
Brianna’s mother picked her up right after coffee and kuchen were served, and Posey was happy to see Tina give her daughter a kiss. Home life had taken a turn for the better, according to Brie.
The family slumped around the living room in the usual high-carb, high-fat coma that Osterhagen meals induced. Stacia was still clutching the photo of Betty, murmuring about getting some baby things down from the attic.
“So,” Max asked, patting Gretchen’s hand, “you’re awfully quiet. Everything okay, sweetheart?”
She took a deep, measured breath, as if about to give a speech. “It’s nice that someone finally noticed, Papa.” She looked at Posey.
Ruh-roh, Posey thought. Something was about to hit the fan.
“I had a little surprise last night,” Gretchen said, ice dripping from her voice. “Dante happened to mention that he and Posey had been lovers. Isn’t that funny?”
Posey’s stomach contracted, the three helpings of potatoes threatening to revisit her. “Um…Gret, maybe we should talk privately,” she murmured. She glanced at her mother, whose face had frozen in horror.
“No! I think we should talk now, Posey!” Gretchen slammed her hand down on the armrest. “You were sleeping with my boyfriend and you never said a word!”
“More coffee, anyone?” Max said, bolting from his chair into the kitchen. No one else moved.
“She wasn’t sleeping with Dante!” Stacia protested. “She would never do such a thing!”
“Really?” Gretchen demanded. “Tell them, Posey.”
Posey glanced at her mother, then at the boys. Jon grimaced, Henry shrugged. “Okay, yes,” she said. “Dante and I had a very brief, uh, relationship. Which was over before he even met you, Gretchen.”
“And you never thought to mention it?”
“No!” Stacia gasped. “Posey! Dante Bellini? How could you?”
“Do you think I would’ve taken your leavings if I’d known?” Gretchen’s face was mottled with fury.
“Time for us to go, don’t you think?” Henry said. “Happy birthday, sis.”
“Want us to stay?” Jon murmured.
Gretchen turned on him. “No! She doesn’t get her little fan club to cheer her on, Jon! Go home! You’re not wanted here.”
“Watch yourself, young lady,” Max said sternly from the kitchen. His head popped into the living room. “But she has a point. No reason for you to stay, fellas.”
“Exactly, Pop. See you soon.” Henry took Jon’s arm and towed him out of the dining room.
“We’re thrilled about the baby,” Stacia said automatically.
“Congratulations,” Posey called.
Jon pulled a face—dismay and sympathy—and slipped out after Henry.
Silence fell over the living room. Stacia shredded a napkin, staring at the photo of Posey as Turnip as if wondering where that sweet child had gone. Max lingered in the doorway, his gaze bouncing between the three women.
“I can’t believe you lied to my face,” Gretchen said, her lips tight.
“I didn’t lie,” Posey said, glancing at the picture of Pope Benedict. Lies of omission are still lies, she could hear him whispering in his creepy bad-guy voice. “I mean, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think it mattered, Gret. That’s all.”
“How could it not matter?” she hissed.
“I’m so disappointed, Posey,” Stacia announced. “I’m stunned. Shocked. Horrified.”
“Okay, Ma, I get that. Look, Gret. It wasn’t— It didn’t have anything to do with the present.”
“Well, I think it’s disgusting,” her cousin said. “Dante crawls from your bed into mine, and you crawl from his into Liam’s, and I’m sorry, Posey, I guess I’m not like you, but I think that’s vile.”
“It wasn’t like that!” Posey protested.
“Liam? Now you’re sleeping with Liam? Oh, Posey, are you a sex addict?” Stacia asked. Max flinched and retreated once again, running the water to drown out the conversation.
“Ma, I’m not a sex addict! Come on! This is me, remember?”
“That’s right,” Gretchen snapped. “Posey who can do no wrong. Well, guess what? This was wrong. How dare you? You get everything, don’t you, Posey? You always have to have everything—Henry, Jon, a niecey-poo on the way, that fat kid who follows you around like a dog.”
“Don’t you dare—” Posey began.
“And now I find out you had Dante first, and I can’t take any more.” With that, Gretchen stormed out of the house, slamming the door. A second later, they heard the sound of a car peeling out of the driveway.
“I can’t believe what I’ve heard,” Stacia said, wringing her hands. “I’m stunned. Max, I’m stunned. Get me a sherry.”
Well, this birthday would certainly be memorable.
Max came back into the room and handed his wife her little cordial glass, then sat next to her, a wall of Teutonic solidarity. “You’ve upset your mother,” he said, his voice gentle but still stern.
“I’ve upset my mother, Dad? How about Gretchen has upset my mother?” she said sharply.
“We’ll deal with her later,” Max said.
“How could you keep this a secret? How could you even be with that man in the first place?” Stacia asked, tossing back her drink in one gulp.
Ironic, that Stacia now had a problem with secrets. Posey took a deep breath, then another. “Okay, let me explain. First of all, I always thought it was kind of ridiculous that you had such a grudge against Dante.”
“Oh! Now you’re taking his side?”
Stacia cried.
“Ma, calm down. He has a very successful restaurant. And so do you, in your own way. There’s room in the world for both.”
Stacia harrumphed.
“And secondly…” Posey’s voice trailed off. “Okay, secondly, it’s not like men are beating a path to my door. When he…asked me out—” made a pass “—I was flattered, you know? He’s a good-looking, charming guy. So we saw each other—” slept together “—a few times, and it just petered out. That was it.”
Stacia lifted a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Gretchen was so excited about him that I didn’t want to ruin things for her. Dante and I had a little talk and just agreed that some things are better left unsaid. I don’t know why he told her, since it obviously didn’t…mean that much.”
Posey clutched a throw pillow against her stomach. In hindsight, it was clear that she’d felt almost nothing for Dante, other than some basic attraction and the hope that they’d see something in each other…something special. It had had little to do with reality. She knew that now—now that she’d felt the real thing.
“And yes, Liam and I have been dating,” she added quietly. “For about a month.”
“Another secret. And here I thought we were so close,” Stacia sniffed.
Posey gave her mother a long look. “Speaking of secrets,” she said, sitting up a little straighter, “I was wondering if you could tell me about that letter.”
“What letter?” Max asked.
“The letter from my birth mother.”
The blood drained out of both parents’ faces, answering the question of whether Max knew about it.
“How did you find out about that? Did you find her?” Stacia asked, her voice shrill.
“No, Mom. Gretchen mentioned the letter. She read it when it first came.”
“What do you mean, she read it? That was none of her business!”
“Ma, she thought it was something about her parents. Can we stick to the point here?”
“You said you never wanted to find them,” Max said.
“I might’ve felt differently if I’d known my birth mother wrote to me, Dad! I can’t believe you kept that secret! Didn’t it occur to you that I’d like to know?”
“The letter wasn’t to you,” Stacia boomed. “It was addressed to me.”
That stopped Posey in her tracks.
“It’s true, honey,” Max said gently. “It came through the lawyer who handled your adoption, and it was addressed to ‘the woman who adopted my baby.’ We would never have hidden a letter that came to you.”
Posey exhaled slowly. “Okay. But it was about me, obviously.”
Her parents exchanged a glance. “Yes, of course it was,” Stacia said. “And we always agreed that if you ever said anything about wanting to find your birth parents, the first thing we’d do was hand you that letter. But you never did. So we didn’t say anything.” Stacia folded her arms across her massive chest and dared Posey to find fault.
Max came over and sat next to Posey and put his arm around her shoulders. As always, the smell of her dad was comforting, his big arm heavy and solid. “It was a tough time,” he said. “Your aunt and uncle had just died, you were getting ready for college. We wanted it to be your choice to find her, not to have this letter just come out of nowhere. We figured if she wanted to write to you, she would have. So we kept it secret. Maybe it wasn’t right, but…well, we thought it was.”
Posey nodded. In her heart, she knew her parents would never do anything to hurt her. Not on purpose. “I’d like to see it now,” she whispered.
Max and Stacia exchanged a look. “I’m sorry, Posey,” her father said. “We lost it in the fire.”
THE LETTER, WHICH Stacia coolly recounted with the help of an index card on which she’d noted the pertinent information, was more of a recitation of facts than anything. Posey’s birth mother had updated the family medical history: Posey’s maternal grandfather had diabetes. Her paternal grandmother had had breast cancer. Posey’s birth mother’s name was Clarice. She had brown eyes and brown hair. Her father’s name was Paul. He had brown eyes and black hair. They’d been in college (English for her, art history for him) when she got pregnant. Clarice had not seen Paul since they graduated. She had felt compelled to write after eighteen years because the baby she’d given away was now the same age she was when she’d had her. She hoped that “the baby,” as she called Posey, was happy and healthy.
And that was it.
“Nothing about wanting to meet me?” Posey said quietly.
Max squeezed her hand. “No, honey. Which is not to say that she might not want to meet you now, if you reached out.”
“So all of a sudden, you want to meet her?” Stacia asked, her voice tight.
Posey swallowed. What she wanted was a stiff drink. And Liam, maybe. Liam definitely. “I don’t know, Mom.”
“Well, I hate to be the one to point it out, honey,” Stacia said, “but she could’ve had any arrangement she wanted, and she chose a closed adoption. For whatever reason, she thought that was best.”
“I know.” Posey sat there for another minute. “I’m gonna go, okay?”
Her parents followed her to the door. “Are you going to apologize to Gretchen?” Stacia asked, her way of regaining the moral high ground.
“Not really high on my list of things to do,” Posey said tightly, and with that, she walked out to her truck, her steps shortened by her dress. The new sandals were already giving her a blister.
At home, she changed into shorts and a sweatshirt and poured herself a glass of wine. A healthy glass, one guaranteed to induce a buzz. She sat on the back steps, rubbing her dog’s head as he licked her ankle.
The sky was that sweetly painful shade of between, not quite dark, not quite light, the blue aching and melancholy. The birds quieted, a bat wheeled out from the belfry, and from the swamp, the frogs sang their nighttime song.