Surprised by his candid admiration, I’d switched on the bedside lamp. Earlier, I had drawn the curtains, something I rarely bothered to do, given we had no nearby neighbors with prying eyes to hide from at bedtime. “If they gave him pen and paper, he had plenty of time to practice in prison.”
“If you offered a thousand inmates pen and paper, and ten years to practice, they’d never attain this level of craftsmanship.”
“Am I hearing a note of jealousy?” I asked.
“Maybe a little,” he admitted, turning toward me. “Just because forging isn’t something I do anymore doesn’t mean I can’t admire formidable artistry when I see it.”
All I could do was sigh. “So what does he want? How bad is it?”
Dressed for bed, Will slipped in beside me. “I couldn’t bring myself to read the damn thing beyond his greeting line, which was oozing with self-satisfied bravado, all chuffed up like a perfect imbecile. So much for crime, punishment, and rehabilitation—”
“You want me to read it?”
“It can wait until morning,” he said, not hiding his exasperation. “We both know his game anyway. It’s just a matter of what the maniac wants now. Either way, he’s not getting so much as a penny or a paper clip. He’s literally gotten his pound of flesh from me, and that’s more than I ever owed him to begin with. By the way, did you move Ripley’s food and water bowls?”
“Of course not. She’s your spoiled stray, not mine.”
“They’re missing from the studio doorsteps out back. For that matter, so’s Ripley.”
“Will. It’s night. She’s making her catly rounds,” I assured him. “Maisie might have brought the bowls in to refill and forgot to put them back.”
“When? She was out with her friends.”
“You need to sleep. Ripley’s fine,” and I extinguished the light.
Now, this morning, back at the kitchen table, I saw the worry that clouded Maisie’s face and realized we owed her an explanation. Especially given that she, through no fault of her own, was part of the whole loathsome narrative. “You remember what we said when you asked about your father’s hand? That he’d lost his fingers in an accident?”
“I remember.”
“Ever since you first came to live with us when you were five, we’ve always tried to be truthful with you, Maisie,” I went on, as Will busied himself with cooking our breakfast; this was a confessional moment he had hoped might never come. “After your mother was diagnosed with cancer and asked us if we’d be willing to raise you like you were our own daughter, we made a pact with her and ourselves that we would do our absolute best, and that included always being honest with you. I hope you’ll forgive us for eliding on just this one matter.”
“What’s eliding?”
“Means omitting things,” Will spoke from over at the stove. “In this case, fudging.”
I may have nodded, I’m not sure. “The truth is, many years ago, your father had some business dealings with a man that didn’t go well. This man—”
“Guy last night?”
“That’s what we’re assuming. We think he’s the one who attacked your father, hurt his hand, and ended up in jail. I hope you’ll understand that one of the reasons we didn’t tell you the whole story is because you’d had enough of your own hardships, and we didn’t want to burden you with another that happened before you were even born. We figured he was out of our lives forever, so why torment you with it?”
Maisie stared at Will’s hands for a moment, then at her own. “Who was my real father?” she asked, her voice tight, quiet.
That was unexpected. But then, everything seemed bent toward the unforeseen since the night before. I glanced at Will, who shrugged his assent. Seemed the time had come for this as well.
“Your mother always dreamed of having two things, Maisie. One was the bookshop that I started and she developed into the wonderful mecca it’s become. The other was to have a child. To have you. Since there wasn’t anyone special in her life she could raise a baby with, she found a donor and had you herself.”
“In other words, I don’t have a flesh-and-blood father. Strictly speaking.”
“Strictly speaking,” Will said, “you do. But probably not one you’ll ever meet.”
Maisie pondered this for a moment. Her oval face, prominent tall brow, and silky reddish-chestnut hair reminded me so much of her mother, while her brown eyes, cleft chin, and lanky figure—Mary’d had bottle-green eyes and a medium build, not short but not as tall as Maisie promised to become—were clearly from her bio-dad’s genes.
“I’m afraid,” Will added, “your paternity may always be a mystery.”
Undaunted, she asked, “You think you ever met this donor?”
“Your mom was a very private person, Maisie,” I said, wishing I could offer more.
For not quite half a minute, the kitchen clock ticked louder than I’d ever heard it.
“I understand,” Maisie said finally, expression unreadable as she reached over to squeeze my hand before getting up, walking around to the stove, and giving Will a sideways hug. “Thanks for explaining. So now what’re we going to do about this man?”
That was it? That was all? Mary Chandler, I reminded myself, had been like this. Settle an issue great or small, and move on. No sitting around, Rodin-style, with chin on fist. I always admired her for the trait, even envied her a little. When she fell ill, she transferred ownership of the bookshop to me and, in trust, to Maisie without so much as a second thought. Like Mary, her daughter—now ours—was often tougher, more stoic, than I sometimes credited her with being.
Will carried the platter with the frittata to the table and set it down. “I’m going to make a couple of phone calls today to check on the status of the man who did this to me years ago”—holding up his right hand as he dished a slice onto Maisie’s plate with his left—“and who we think accosted you last night. Meantime, if you want to visit your friends after dark, Meg or I ought to drive you until we know what that was all about.”
Impatient now myself, I interjected, “So what did the letter say?”
“He wants to meet.”
“What? No—no way are you going to do that.”
“Not sure.” He hesitated. “The situation’s exponentially more complicated than I might have guessed. More complicated and, truth to tell, more intriguing. Believe it or not, good could come of it, if I’m understanding correctly.”