We got out and made our way to the front door. As we approached, I noticed that the dried-flower wreath on the front door had a simple wooden cross hanging in the middle of it. I glanced over at Connor, lifting my eyebrows, and he only shrugged.
Just do it, Angela, I told myself. So I reached out and pushed the doorbell.
I could hear the familiar Westminster chimes sequence from somewhere inside the house. A few minutes later the door opened, and an older woman with soft white hair pulled up into an elegant French twist opened the door. The afternoon sunlight hit the gold cross around her neck and made it gleam as if lit from within.
“Yes?” she said uncertainly, looking from me to Connor.
Since we’d put on “good” clothes to have breakfast with Lucas, we looked pretty respectable, Connor in jeans and a short-sleeved olive green shirt, me in a pair of my new jeans and a pretty sleeveless top with sequins and embroidery around the neckline. I could tell this woman was trying to puzzle out what we wanted, since we obviously didn’t look like your usual solicitor.
The words seemed to stick in my throat, but somehow I forced them out. “Mrs. Bryant?”
“Yes?”
Okay, so we definitely had the right house. Not that I’d really doubted the information Lucas’ P.I. had passed along. “My name is Angela — Angela McAllister. And this is my fiancé, Connor Wilcox.”
At the name “Wilcox,” she put a hand to her throat and took a step back. Then her gaze hardened as she seemed to really stop and study Connor’s face, looking for the family resemblance. At last she said, her voice much colder than it had been, “Yes, you do look like one of them.”
This was not going well, to say the least. I didn’t know what kind of bad blood existed between this woman and the rest of the Wilcox clan, but I couldn’t let it get in the way of our purpose for being here. “Mrs. Bryant,” I said desperately. “I really need to talk to you. I’m — that is, I think I’m your granddaughter.”
Dead silence. Her sharp blue eyes shifted, taking in my own countenance, seeming to study my features. For a second or two I thought I saw the thin lines of her mouth soften, but then she pulled herself up, saying, “Well, come in, I suppose. I certainly don’t want to have this conversation on the front porch where the neighbors can hear.”
An ungracious invitation, but one I’d accept nonetheless. I stepped inside, Connor hesitating before he followed me. I could tell he really wanted to be anyplace but here, and I couldn’t blame him. At least he could comfort himself that he was only related to this woman by marriage, whereas she was the only grandparent I had left.
She led us into a formal living room, the kind of stiff, uncomfortable space, with its faux antique furniture, floral patterns, and ugly landscapes in oil on the walls, that I really couldn’t stand. Just being there made me feel claustrophobic. But I made myself sit down on the couch, and Connor took a seat next to me, his hand reaching out to hold mine, to offer what reassurance he could.
I did notice that even with all the knickknacks sitting around, on the mantel and the side tables and in the curio cabinet in one corner, not one photograph was in sight, not one image of a husband, children…nothing. That disappointed me, because I’d been hoping for some visual evidence to corroborate Andre’s identity.
No offer of a glass of water or anything like that. She sat down on a wingback chair covered in faded French blue velvet, then said, “How did you find me? Was it…witchcraft?” The word was uttered with such distaste you’d think she’d just mentioned child pornography or something.
“Actually, no,” Connor said, his voice hard. “My cousin Lucas hired a private investigator to track you down.”
She sniffed. “Lucas. Lucky Lucas. And how is he? Same as always, I would imagine.”
“Very well. Thank you for asking.” Polite words, but I could tell from the edge to his tone that he might as well have said “fuck you for asking.”
“Mrs. Bryant” — there was no way I could call her “grandmother” — “was Andre Wilcox your son?”
“Was?” she repeated. “Is, as far as I know. At least, no one’s contacted me to tell me otherwise.”
A chill seemed to inch its way down my spine and then spread out, sending cold to every limb, even though it was quite a warm day, even here in Williams. “You mean…he’s alive?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” she said irritably. “He’s only forty-five years old, you know. To someone your age, I suppose that sounds like one foot in the grave, but I assure you it isn’t.”