Chapter 5 - The Daughter No One Was Supposed to Find
I spent the following morning staring at Clara's photograph.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
The shape of her smile.
The slight tilt of her head.
The small dimple beside her left cheek.
My mother had carried a secret daughter in her heart for nearly forty years.
And somehow, my husband knew enough to threaten me with her name.
I called Naomi.
"I want to find her."
Naomi paused.
"We can arrange a respectful contact through appropriate channels."
"I don't want Dorian deciding whether I get to know my own sister."
"He doesn't."
The simplicity of those words gave me strength.
---
The search was easier than I expected.
Clara had kept her surname after marriage.
She was now Clara Bennett, a registered nurse living near Portland with her husband and teenage son.
Naomi located a public professional contact address.
I wrote the first letter myself.
I rewrote it fourteen times.
Nothing seemed right.
How do you introduce yourself to a sister you've never met?
How do you explain a lifetime of absence without making it sound like rejection?
Finally, I wrote:
Dear Clara,
My name is Audra Vale Kincaid.
I recently found a letter from our mother.
I didn't know about you until now.
I would very much like to speak with you, if you would welcome that.
I don't know what you've been told, but I want you to know that I am glad you exist.
Audra.
I sent it.
Then I waited.
---
Meanwhile, Dorian was losing patience.
His attorneys informed him that Audra had challenged the trust transfers.
Naomi had requested financial records.
Helen Whitcomb was cooperating.
Margaret had agreed to provide a statement.
And the attempted transfer of Briarwood House was being contested.
Dorian sat in his office overlooking downtown Chicago.
Blythe stood beside the window.
"She's making this public," she said.
Dorian looked at her.
"Not yet."
"Her attorney is requesting records from half a dozen entities."
"That's what attorneys do."
Blythe crossed her arms.
"You promised me the house."
Dorian closed his eyes.
"Blythe."
"You promised that when the baby came, we would have somewhere permanent."
"I know what I promised."
"Then fix it."
He looked up sharply.
"Do not speak to me as though you're negotiating a press contract."
She stared at him.
For ten months, she'd been accustomed to Dorian's indulgence.
Expensive gifts.
Private flights.
Hotel suites.
Promises of a future.
Now the man who had once whispered that she was the only woman who understood him looked exhausted and angry.
Blythe touched her stomach.
"Our daughter deserves stability."
Dorian looked away.
"Yes."
"Then why are you still worried about Audra?"
He said nothing.
Blythe's expression hardened.
"Don't tell me you still love her."
Dorian looked toward the photograph on his desk.
Audra on their wedding day.
Laughing beneath white flowers.
He had kept it through seventeen years.
Through business wars.
Through injuries.
Through the miscarriage.
Through the affair.
And now he couldn't bear to look at it.
"I don't know what I am anymore," he whispered.
---
Clara replied four days later.
Her message arrived at 6:12 in the morning.
I was sitting at Helen's kitchen table with a cup of tea.
When I saw her name, I nearly dropped the mug.
Audra,
I've been waiting almost eleven years to hear from you.
I stopped breathing.
Eleven years.
Our mother wrote to me often. She told me about your childhood, your marriage, and how much you loved historic buildings.
After she died, I tried to contact you.
Your husband answered.
My stomach tightened.
He told me you knew about me but wanted no relationship.
Tears filled my eyes.
I believed him because I thought you had every right to feel that way.
But I never stopped hoping.
If you want to speak, I would love to hear your voice.
Love, Clara.
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
Eleven years.
Dorian had kept my sister from me for eleven years.
I called immediately.
It rang twice.
Then a woman answered.
"Hello?"
Her voice sounded like mine.
Slightly deeper.
Warmer.
"Clara?"
There was a sharp breath.
"Audra?"
I began crying.
She did too.
For several minutes, neither of us could speak properly.
Then Clara laughed through tears.
"I can't believe this."
"Neither can I."
She took a shaky breath.
"You sound like Mom."
My heart broke.
"You knew her voice?"
"Yes. We spoke almost every Sunday."
I closed my eyes.
Every Sunday.
The same day my mother wore the sapphire necklace.
The same day she used to bake lemon cake and play old jazz records.
Suddenly, I could imagine the two of them on the telephone.
My mother holding the receiver.
Smiling.
Knowing another daughter was somewhere listening.
"Clara, I'm so sorry."
"No."
Her voice became firm.
"You didn't know."
I wiped my eyes.
"I wish I had."
"So do I."
Then she said something that made me cry harder.
"But we know now."
---
We spoke for almost two hours.
Clara told me about her husband, Nathan.
Her son, Oliver.
Her work at the children's hospital.
She told me she'd always loved reading.
That she hated black coffee.
That she had Mom's exact habit of collecting mismatched teacups.
I laughed.
"I do that too."
"Seriously?"
"There's a cabinet full of them."
She laughed.
Then grew quiet.
"Audra, there's something I need to tell you."
I stopped smiling.
"What?"
"Last year, someone contacted me about our mother."
"Who?"
"A woman named Blythe Sorrell."
My stomach dropped.
"What did she want?"
"She said she was researching an article about the Vale family legacy."
I gripped the phone.
"Did you speak with her?"
"Briefly."
"What did you tell her?"
"Very little. She seemed more interested in Mom's trust than in Mom herself."
My chest tightened.
"Did she ask about me?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
Clara hesitated.
"She asked whether our mother had ever left me property."
I stared at the wall.
"Did she?"
"No. I never wanted money."
Clara paused.
"But she left me something else."
"What?"
"A collection of letters. And a key."
My heart accelerated.
"A key?"
"Yes."
"What does it open?"
May you like
Clara was silent.
Then she whispered, "Audra, I think it opens a room in your house."
