Secrets Rising

  SECRETS RISING

  Sally Berneathy

  http://www.sallyberneathy.com

  Original cover art by Alicia Hope, http://www.aliciahopeauthor.blogspot.com/.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  "The world lost a couple of great people when your parents died." George Flanders and his wife, Dorothy, wearing their best black clothes, smelling faintly of mothballs and funeral flowers, walked out on the porch into the heat of Texas in late May. "But I reckon you know that."

  Fighting back the tears that threatened to flow again, Rebecca Patterson gave the elderly couple a smile. "I do know that."

  "You call us if you need anything," Dorothy added.

  Rebecca hugged her. "I will, Dorothy. Thank you both for coming."

  George stepped forward awkwardly, and Rebecca gave the tall, lanky man a warm embrace.

  Then they were gone, the last of the mourners.

  Rebecca closed the door behind them and surveyed her parents' house. It was a mess, paper plates and cups everywhere, the kitchen full of half-eaten food that should be refrigerated. She'd clean it up later. Right now none of it seemed important. Her parents weren't coming back to the house whether it was messy or clean.

  She walked over to her father's battered brown recliner. A faint whiff of cherry scented pipe tobacco lingered, and she half expected her father to ease out of the chair, smile and wink, enfold her in a bear hug, tease her about a nonexistent freckle or her naturally blond hair that he jokingly accused his brunette wife of bleaching from the time Rebecca was a baby.

  Any minute now her effervescent mother would rush into the room and embrace her, introduce her to the latest guest or guests, ask her to stay for dinner, to spend the night in her old room...if nobody else was using it at the moment.

  The three-bedroom, ranch-style home in Plano, a suburb of Dallas, had always been filled with people. Her parents had drawn them like magnets...entertained them, helped them, cared for them.

  But the house was empty now. Even that evanescent smell of pipe tobacco had faded.

  Since the automobile accident three days ago that had taken the lives of her parents, the house had been filled with friends day and night, even more than when her parents were alive. From her earliest memories, Rebecca had wanted the constant stream of people to stop, had wanted the house to be quiet and her parents to belong only to her.

  Now she had half that wish. The house was quiet.

  And she'd give everything she had or ever would have to bring back the noise, to have her parents again even if she had to share them with twice as many people.

  She walked through the living room, touching the inexpensive, comfortable sofa as she went past it. The family restaurant had always provided a decent income. Rebecca had never lacked essentials as she grew up, but her parents hadn't believed in luxuries for themselves when others needed necessities.

  She'd have to find something to do with all of it...the furniture, the pots and pans, the mismatched dishes, her mother's red silk dress...

  This was too much, returning from the devastation of the funeral to face cleaning out the house, giving up her childhood home, the last remnants of the wonderful parents she'd loved with all her heart.

  Her condo would never have the warmth of this place, never really be home. Maybe she ought to consider moving here even though it would mean a long drive down Central Expressway to work every morning.

  No, that was her grief speaking. Without her parents, this house was only a house. She couldn't recapture their love by living here. Her condo close to downtown Dallas, her career as Director of Human Resources at the Wingate Hotel, those were the niches she'd carved for herself. She could only go forward, not backward.

  She turned down the hallway to the bedrooms, hesitated at the entrance to her parents' room. Their answering machine rested on a desk in there. She'd been in and out several times the last three days, checking messages, but every trip still felt like an invasion of their privacy.

  Numbly she walked over and sat in the desk chair. Instead of listening to more sympathy calls, however, she hit the button to hear the outgoing message, to hear her mother's voice.

  "Hi! This is Brenda Patterson. Jerry and I are busy right now, but if you'll leave us a message, we'll get right back to you. I promise!"

  The voice that always had a smile in it. Only a voice now, a whisper of the once-vital person. Yet, like the smell of pipe tobacco from her dad's recliner, the voice on the answering machine brought with it a wisp of that person.

  Tears obscured her vision so that she had to move the machine closer in order to find the button again.

  As she listened to her mother's voice one more time, she noticed a small key where the answering machine had been. It must have been shoved under the machine and forgotten about.

  She picked it up and yanked on the top desk drawer to open it, to toss the key inside.

  The drawer was locked.

  Impossible.

  Her open-hearted parents had no secrets, never locked anything.

  She studied the key more closely, then slowly inserted it into the locked drawer.

  It fit.

  And turned.

  So maybe the drawer had been accidentally locked and the key lost under the answering machine.

  Only...how did you accidentally lock a drawer?

  Maybe her parents had secrets after all.

  Holding her breath, not sure what she expected to find, she slid the drawer open. It contained two items—a square of folded blue fabric and a letter with "To Brenda and Jerry Patterson" written in faded blue ink as if to match.

  Curious, she shook out the fabric. A dress in a fashion reminiscent of the eighties, small like a child or teenager would wear, but the style more mature. Had her mother, a woman of average height and weight, once been that tiny? Had she worn this dress? Why had she saved it?

  She picked up the envelope, withdrew the single sheet of paper and unfolded it.

  Dear Brenda and Jerry, the note read. I'm going to miss both of you more than I can say. I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me…

  Another grateful recipient of the Pattersons' big hearts. Tears threatened to overflow again. Her parents had been very special people. She'd been lucky to have them no matter how many people she had to share them with.

  ...everything you've done for me and for my baby, taking in a stranger, giving me a job and a place to live. But most of all, with my whole heart, I thank you for what you're doing for Rebecca.

  Rebecca?! Her eyes stopped on her name.

  Don't be silly, she chided herself. So the writer of this letter named her baby after her benefactors' child.

  It was a perfectly logical explanation, but a chill settled over the room...or, at least, over her. Suddenly she didn't want to continue reading. She had to forc
e her eyes to move on to the next word, the next sentence.

  I know you'll give her a good home and loving family, all the things I can't. But please, please remember your promise and never tell her or anyone else about me. If she ever finds out you're not her natural parents, you must not, under any circumstances, let her try to find me.

  The room spun around Rebecca, out of focus, out of control.

  Her fingers clutched the paper so tightly, her thumb went white.

  The letter couldn't have said what she thought it said. She was confused, in a state of shock over the loss of her parents. She'd misread the note, misconstrued it, misunderstood.

  She read it again.

  And again.

  And a deep abyss opened up and swallowed her as her whole world slid away.

  She grabbed at the desk for support, her fingers clutching the answering machine, accidentally pushing a button.

  "Hi! This is Brenda Patterson. Jerry and I are busy right now, but if you'll leave a message, we'll get right back to you. I promise!"

  The voice of a stranger.

  It wouldn't matter whether or not she cleaned out the house and got rid of all the furniture and the dishes and her mother's red silk dress.

  All remnants of the parents who'd raised her had just disappeared. Her identity, her whole life had vanished...stolen by a few words written in faded blue ink on a sheet of paper.

  Chapter 1

  Rebecca pulled into the parking lot of the office building in North Dallas, the address for the private detective she'd contacted. Her hands on the steering wheel of her Volvo were sweaty. Not because the July temperatures were in the triple digits. She'd run her air conditioner on high all the way over, keeping the car cool, even a little chilly.

  No, her palms were sweaty because they, like everything else in her life, had gone completely out of her control.

  From the seat beside her, she picked up her purse and briefcase, then opened the door.

  Heavy heat slapped her in the face, trying to push her backward as if it would stop her forward movement, return her forcibly to a past that no longer existed, a past when she'd thought she had a mother and father, when she'd thought she knew who she was.

  As she stepped out, more heat rose from the concrete all around her, even through the soles of her snakeskin shoes with their three-inch heels. She'd chosen the shoes deliberately. Being tall had always given her a sense of confidence in dealing with people, and today she needed all the external sources of confidence she could find. Her internal source had gone a little shaky.

  Cars zipped past on the busy streets behind her. Cars filled with people going from one destination to another, people who knew who they were, where they'd been, where they were headed.

  She turned to look at the square, ordinary, brick office building. So what had she expected? A low-rent district, signs hanging askew, strange characters skulking around?

  Nothing.

  She no longer expected anything.

  She crossed the parking lot and entered the air conditioned lobby then took the elevator to the third floor. It was all so mundane. Tan, industrial carpet down the hallway. A brass plaque on the door that identified the offices of Thornton and Associates, Licensed Private Investigators.

  Her whole world had fallen apart and somehow it didn't seem right that the agency she'd chosen to help her put it back together should be so ordinary. How could anyone in ordinary circumstances understand her extraordinary ones?

  She smoothed her wilted linen suit, took a deep breath and sent up a silent prayer that she looked more normal than she felt, then opened the door.

  "Can I help you?" the perky receptionist asked.

  Rebecca straightened her shoulders. "Yes," she said. "I'm Rebecca Patterson. I have an appointment with Jake Thornton at 3:00."

  "He's on the phone right now. If you'd like to have a seat, I'll let him know you're here."

  Rebecca moved to the corner of the room, to one of the half dozen anonymous tan chairs grouped meticulously around the walls. This urge to hide in the corner wasn't like her. She'd always been at the front, taking the lead.

  Until six weeks ago.

  "Ms. Patterson."

  Rebecca shot up from the chair at the sound of the deep, quiet voice speaking her name. The man seemed to tower, filling the doorway, capable of performing whatever impossible feats she might ask of him.

  In spite of her stilted shoes and sophisticated designer suit, Rebecca felt unaccountably small and helpless. She'd completely lost the unflappable composure that had kept her career on an upwardly mobile management track.

  Nevertheless, she strode toward Jake Thornton, extending her hand and making an effort to appear confident, like the woman she had been before the death of her parents...before she found the note. "I'm Rebecca Patterson."

  He wore a black knit shirt and matching jeans instead of the rumpled suit of movie detectives, but the square set of his jaw, the intensity of his black—no, midnight blue—eyes reassured her. His dark hair was a little too long and shaggy in a careless way, as though he hadn't taken time for a haircut lately.

  "Jake Thornton." He enclosed her hand in a solid shake. Please come in." He stepped back to permit her to enter.

  She moved past him, vaguely surprised that he was only a little taller than her 5'8" plus her three inch heels. That put him over six feet, but not the giant of her first impression.

  His inner office was like the reception area...nondescript, ordinary. A filing cabinet in one corner. A large desk in the middle holding scattered folders and a computer. Not much different from her own office at the Wingate Hotel.

  Except Jake Thornton had no pictures of family sitting on his desk.

  Actually, she didn't have any on her desk, either.

  Not really.

  "Have a seat." He slouched into the big, black leather chair behind the desk.

  She perched on the edge of another tan chair then made herself slide back, set the briefcase on the floor beside her and make an attempt to appear composed.

  "So Elaine Gaither gave you my name?" he asked.

  "Yes. You handled a matter for her about a year ago."

  He nodded noncommittally. "I remember."

  She liked that, the fact that he didn't elaborate, didn't comment by word or expression on the nasty divorce that had ensued when Elaine had gained proof of her husband's infidelity. She needed someone who would keep her confidences and wouldn't pass judgment.

  "So what can I do for you today, Ms. Patterson? My receptionist said you refused to give details on the phone."

  "This is a very personal matter."

  His gaze shifted to her hands where they clutched her purse in her lap. Checking for a wedding ring?

  "No," she said. "It's not like that. I'm not married. I'm not...anything."

  Rebecca bit her lip. She hadn't meant to say that. "I just found out that I'm adopted," she said, speaking the words evenly and without inflection as if they were a statement of fact, nothing more.

  Jake leaned back, crossing tan, muscular arms over his wide chest, distancing himself from her, shutting her out. "And you want me to find your real parents," he said noncommittally.

  "That's right."

  "There are several agencies out there you can register with."

  "I've done that."

  "So your parents aren't trying to find you."

  "No. I don't think so. I'm certain they aren't." But she didn't like his reminding her.

  "Is this some sort of medical emergency?"

  "No."

  "If they're not looking for you, are you sure you want to find them?"

  She clutched her purse more tightly. She hadn't expected to be given the third degree. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure. It's important that I find them."

  He picked up a pencil and slid it through his fingers from end to end to end, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's important." Neither agreement nor a question, merely an expression of disbelief.
<
br />   She had no more emotional energy left for arguing. She rose and looked down at him. "It would seem I've made a mistake. Apparently you're not interested in taking my case. My apologies for wasting your time."

  He motioned her to sit again. "Relax. I didn't say I wasn't interested. I just want you to be positive you really want me to find your parents. I've been in this business for several years, and I gotta warn you, not all reunions are happy. If your parents aren't looking for you, they may not be thrilled to be found."

  Rebecca sank back into the chair, her legs suddenly shaky. "I know that."

  She retrieved the briefcase, opened it in her lap and withdrew the note. Wordlessly she handed it to him, gave her deepest secret into the keeping of this man who seemed completely unconcerned with her problems. That detachment was the element that gave her the courage to do this.

  Jake Thornton accepted the folded piece of paper from the attractive, nervous woman seated across from him. She was a strange mix of fragility and determination. A lot of his individual clients had that I've got to know but really don't want to frantic confusion when they came in. That's why he was devoting more and more of his time to his corporate clients. Impersonal. Unemotional. Safe.

  Even when he had to deal with individuals, he reminded himself it was still business, still impersonal. His job was to find out what they wanted to know. Why they wanted that knowledge, what they did with it, how it affected their lives, that had nothing to do with him.

  But this one was different somehow.