The Secret Sister. Brenda Novak

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СКАЧАТЬ was intrusive, like searching through his drawers, so she refused to abuse his trust in that way. But she couldn’t help glancing around his house as she left. Rafe’s bungalow was much neater than she would’ve expected. The furnishings weren’t expensive or particularly tasteful—nothing that would meet with her mother’s approval or show up in a decorating magazine—but they weren’t tacky, either. For a guy who’d had so little growing up, she thought he’d done quite well for himself. If she had to describe his decorating style, it would be “sensible and comfortable.” His bedroom, although slightly more Spartan than the rest of the house, followed this theme. So did his living room, which contained a large flat-screen TV, along with an overstuffed sectional and chaise, a recliner with an accent table nearby and a coffee table in the center.

      He hadn’t hung much on the walls, though. It wasn’t as if improving that space could benefit Laney, since she couldn’t see. And Maisey guessed he didn’t care enough about art to bother.

      Or perhaps he’d get to that with time. She had to remind herself that he hadn’t lived in Smuggler’s Cove for very long. Jack would want his space to “show well” should anyone see it. But Jack was a different kind of man—very fastidious and driven.

      Maisey was almost at the door when she spotted a pile of children’s books on the coffee table and had to stop. She loved books, all books, but especially children’s books, even if it was only to look through them to admire other people’s work.

      Half hoping she’d discover a Molly Brimble story, she sorted through the stack. None of her books was there, but she hadn’t seriously expected to find one. If Rafe knew she’d written and illustrated several children’s books, he would’ve mentioned it. He had no reason not to.

      Instead of Molly Brimble, she found a lot of Dr. Seuss, Guess How Much I Love You—she had to smile at that one—and Shel Silverstein’s hugely popular collection of poems, Where the Sidewalk Ends. In a second pile was a collection of books on kittens and dogs, and Chica Chica Boom Boom, which taught kids the alphabet.

      It looked as though he read to Laney quite often. He obviously loved his daughter very much. Maisey was happy for him—happy for them both—but she found it bittersweet that he had his daughter and she didn’t have hers. As petty as that flare of jealousy was, her gut twisted as she fingered Laney’s books. She knew Rafe and Laney had their challenges, and they’d face more in the future, but Rafe ending up with a child to raise seemed so random and unlikely—not that he’d have a child, necessarily, but that he’d turn out to be such a responsible parent.

      How had Laney come to live with him? What’d happened to her mother?

      Maisey was curious about those things—curious enough that, after stacking the books in their original piles, she headed back down the hall to Laney’s room. When she’d passed it earlier, she hadn’t even paused. She’d been too busy telling herself she had no business snooping, that she needed to get out of Rafe’s house and forget about anything else.

      But knowing she might never have another opportunity, she decided to take a quick peek to see if she’d find a picture of Laney’s mother or something else that would reveal some clue as to why Laney was living with her father, whether or not she had any contact with her mother or her mother’s family and what had caused her blindness.

      Laney had a tall, four-poster bed with lots of frilly pillows and the usual assortment of stuffed animals and toys. Or maybe the assortment wasn’t so usual. All the toys appealed to the sense of touch, or they made sounds when certain levers or bars were pushed or when various shapes were put into the corresponding holes of a ball. An electric piano stood under the window. The keys were well worn, suggesting that it received considerable attention. But, surprisingly, since the walls in the rest of the house were mostly bare, there were things to see in here—stars on the ceiling, a big mirror over the dresser and a large picture of Laney as an infant being held by her father.

      There were no other pictures, no cards propped on the dresser, no letters on the small nightstand next to the Disney princess-themed lamp, no Mommy Hearts Laney T-shirts tossed on the ground—nothing, in other words, to indicate who Laney’s mother was or whether she had any involvement in Laney’s life.

      Maisey moved closer to the photograph of Rafe holding Laney. His hair had been cut differently five years ago, and he looked lighter overall, less muscular. But besides the tenderness on his face, she saw a determined set to his jaw that led her to believe he was thinking something like, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ll be there for you no matter what.”

      His expression—that smile for the camera—couldn’t quite hide the protectiveness he felt, and that made it almost impossible for Maisey to look away. She wished she could have a copy of that photograph. It reminded her of the love she’d felt from her own father, of how powerful a father’s love could be.

      She thought of the pictures taken of Jack and Ellie. He’d had no reason to assume that Ellie’s life would end the way it had, so the look in his eyes was never quite as fierce. But why had that love not been stronger? Once Ellie was gone, Jack had seemed willing to move on, which was partly why Maisey’s recovery had been so hard. It was almost as if she’d been left to mourn for both of them. He hadn’t even kept any of the pictures of him and Ellie and, much as Maisey was tempted when she got rid of his other stuff, she hadn’t been able to make herself throw them out. They were in a box marked Attic, and had been sent, along with Ellie’s other pictures, to Coldiron House, where they’d stay until Maisey could bear to reclaim them.

      If that day ever came...

      She chastised herself for being so rude as to poke around. She’d told herself she wouldn’t. It felt like an invasion of Rafe’s privacy just to see this photograph because it laid his heart so bare.

      With a final glance, Maisey left Laney’s room, locked the house behind her and hurried over to her own bungalow. She was intent on finding her phone.

      She could hear it ringing as she came through the door.

      Was it Keith? Finally? Or Josephine?

      Maisey doubted her mother would lower her pride and try to make amends. Still, Maisey ached for that olive branch, for Josephine to show enough love and concern to forget how wronged she felt and, just once, let the past go without forcing Maisey to assume all the blame. The little contact they’d had since Maisey left Fairham had been her doing. She’d never forget how cold and uninterested her mother had acted when she received news of Maisey’s pregnancy—and that didn’t change when Ellie was born. The morning Ellie died, her mother had been the last person Maisey had wanted to speak to. She’d instinctively worried that Josephine would make her feel as if she deserved what she’d gotten. And yet she’d needed her mother that day. So she’d swallowed her own pride and, out of the depths of her despair, called Coldiron House.

      That unforgiving reception had cut the deepest. She couldn’t reach out afterward. She didn’t have the emotional fortitude it required. But she’d have to now, to ask for a truck so she could move some furniture.

      Surely she could approach her mother for something as simple as that. And if it was Josephine on the phone, she’d have her chance.

      The call wasn’t from anyone she might’ve expected, though.

      Maisey felt her jaw drop as she recognized the number. She’d deleted this person from her contacts list, so there was no name attached. But she recognized those ten digits more quickly than she would’ve recognized the number attached to her own phone.

      It СКАЧАТЬ