Chapter 4 - Seventeen Years of Beautiful Lies
The rocking chair had been in my family for eighty years.
My grandfather made it for my grandmother.
My father repaired the legs after a flood damaged the old family home.
My mother rocked me to sleep in it when I was a baby.
And I had imagined rocking my own child there.
After losing the pregnancy, I couldn't bear to enter the nursery.
But I had asked Dorian not to move anything.
He promised.
That promise lasted until Blythe wanted the room.
---
Naomi arranged a lawful inspection of the carriage house after obtaining the necessary permissions through the property proceedings.
I went with Helen and Margaret.
Two preservation specialists accompanied us to document the condition of the furnishings.
I hadn't expected seeing the chair to hurt so much.
It sat beneath a dusty sheet beside broken lamps and discarded furniture.
One curved arm was scratched.
The cushions smelled of damp wood.
I approached slowly.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Margaret stood beside me.
"Your mother loved that chair."
"I know."
I knelt.
Beneath the seat was a small wooden panel secured by two brass screws.
The preservation specialist carefully removed it.
Inside lay a narrow tin box.
My heart hammered.
Naomi photographed the discovery before opening the box.
Inside were photographs, handwritten notes, and a sealed envelope.
The envelope carried my mother's handwriting.
For Audra, when she is ready to know.
I stared at it.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Then I opened it.
---
My mother had written the letter shortly before her final hospitalization.
My darling Audra,
There are things I have not told you because I wanted you to have a marriage free of the mistakes I made.
But silence has become dangerous.
I swallowed.
Helen leaned closer.
I continued.
Dorian's father, Malcolm Kincaid, once approached your father about acquiring several properties through our preservation company. Your father refused because the proposed transactions concealed the true buyers.
After your father's death, Malcolm returned.
He offered me a partnership. I declined.
Then you met Dorian.
My hands started shaking.
The words blurred.
I wanted to believe his affection was genuine. Perhaps some of it was. But I discovered that his family had continued pursuing our holdings through intermediaries.
If Dorian ever asks you to sign away control of the trust, do not do it.
I stopped.
Margaret began crying quietly.
Naomi waited.
I forced myself to continue.
There is one more matter I must tell you.
You have a sister.
The world seemed to stop.
I stared at the words.
Then read them again.
You have a sister.
I looked at Helen.
She had gone pale.
"You knew?"
Helen closed her eyes.
"Audra..."
"Did you know?"
She nodded.
I stepped back.
All my life, I had believed I was an only child.
My mother had told me that my parents struggled for years before I was born.
My father died when I was twelve.
There had never been mention of another daughter.
"Where is she?"
Helen's eyes filled.
"Your mother intended to tell you."
"Where?"
"Audra, let me explain."
"No."
My voice rose.
"Everybody keeps explaining why I wasn't allowed to know things about my own life."
Helen flinched.
I looked down at the letter.
My mother had written more.
Before I married your father, I gave birth to a little girl. I was seventeen. My family insisted on a closed adoption.
I never stopped looking for her.
Her birth name was Clara.
My knees weakened.
I sat in the rocking chair.
It creaked beneath me.
Three years ago, I found her. She was living in Oregon, working as a pediatric nurse. We exchanged letters.
She knew about you.
I was waiting for the right moment to bring you together.
Then my illness returned.
I covered my mouth.
There was a final paragraph.
Clara asked for nothing. She only wanted to know where she came from.
Audra, if you find her, please tell her I never stopped loving her.
I began crying.
Not softly.
Not quietly.
I cried for my mother.
For the sister I'd never known.
For the years stolen by secrecy.
For the terrible possibility that Dorian knew more than I did.
---
That evening, Naomi reviewed the remaining contents.
One photograph showed a young woman standing outside a children's hospital.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
A smile almost identical to mine.
On the back, my mother had written:
Clara, Portland, 2014.
Another document identified a private investigator who had helped locate her.
Naomi made copies.
Then she found an unusual detail.
A later letter from Clara had been returned to the trust office unopened.
The forwarding instructions directed all correspondence to Dorian's private office.
I stared at the address.
"Dorian intercepted her letters."
Naomi examined the postal record.
"We'll need to confirm who received them."
I thought of Dorian telling me my mother's old friends had stopped writing.
He said grief changed people.
He said it was better not to cling to the past.
Maybe the past had been trying to reach me all along.
---
That night, Dorian appeared at Helen's townhouse.
I was upstairs when the doorbell rang.
Helen looked through the security camera and called Naomi.
Dorian stood outside beneath the rain.
He wore a black overcoat.
His face looked exhausted.
"Audra," he called. "I know you're there."
I stood at the top of the stairs.
Helen asked whether I wanted to speak to him.
I shook my head.
She informed him through the intercom that communication should go through counsel.
He didn't move.
Then he said something that made me freeze.
"Tell Audra that Clara isn't who she thinks she is."
I gripped the railing.
May you like
Dorian looked directly into the camera.
"And if she goes looking for her sister, she's going to regret what she finds."
