Truth or Beard(105)

“Just leave,” I said, holding Tina’s gaze.

He snorted, all part of the show, then stormed out of the office.

When he’d gone, I let go of her wrist and walked to one of the chairs in front of Hank’s desk, motioning her to follow. “Please. Sit down.”

She didn’t move, but said in a rush, “You can trust me, Duane. You know you can. Beau never liked me and he never understood us.”

I nodded, but made no verbal response. I was starting to think I never understood us.

Again I motioned to the chair. “Please sit down. We need to talk.”

She gave me a hopeful smile then crossed to the seat, sitting as I’d instructed. I sat in the other chair, positioned it so we were facing. I couldn’t bullshit. That wasn’t my strength. But I could be focused, and I could be precise, and I was good at honesty.

Thus, I focused on pushing distracting thoughts of Jessica’s sobs from my mind.

I explained the situation to Tina in precise—but not explicit—detail.

And I was honest.

I didn’t have a choice. My family needed her help. And there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my family.





CHAPTER 21


“Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness.”

― Ray Bradbury





~Jessica~


I wasn’t mad.

I was hurt and sad and confused by…well, everything. But I wasn’t mad.

My aunt’s funeral took place on Friday.

Except she wasn’t my aunt. She was my birth mother. This devastating tidbit had been revealed as soon as I arrived to her house from the airport. My daddy traveled with me and both my parents—the only parents I’d known—and Aunt Louisa’s lawyer pulled me into the office on the ground floor and told me the truth.

A big part of this truth was that she’d purposefully waited to tell me until she’d gone, and no one knew the identity of my biological father. Aunt Louisa hadn’t seen fit to share my paternal parentage with anyone.

In light of the fact that Louisa had waited until dying to tell me she was my birth mother, I was feeling understandably emotional. And reflective. And reckless. And angry I’d been cheated out of knowing the truth while I had time to do something other than accept a huge inheritance from a woman who hadn’t liked me much.

So I told Duane the truth, and he’d responded by saying nothing. Nothing.

I’d told him I was in love with him and he hadn’t reciprocated. I’d been foolish. I’d allowed myself to fall too hard and too fast, and he probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. Maybe Aunt Louisa was crazy, or maybe my biological father was a whack job who fell in love too hard and too fast, who valued freedom and wanderlust over lasting relationships and responsibilities.

Maybe I was the person I was because my biological parents were circles surrounded by good, generous, reliable square pegs. It certainly would explain a lot.

When the will was read on Saturday, I was again named as her daughter, and therefore the official sole beneficiary. I’d had two days to adjust to the truth of my biological beginnings, but it was still a shock when the executor said, “To my daughter, Jessica James, I leave my entire estate. All patents, holdings, accounts…”

After the word accounts I’d zoned out, feeling sick to my stomach.

My daddy left on Sunday, needing to return to work. Before leaving he told me that I was his daughter. He told me he held me the day I was born and made me his, and nothing would ever change that fact. I cried. He cried. We hugged. He cleared his throat and told me to take care of my momma, and let her take care of me.

Momma stayed and tried to help me get things sorted. I’d decided it didn’t matter whose uterus I’d inhabited, my parents were my parents. They’d raised me. They’d bandaged my cuts and kissed my hurts and attended my school plays. Aunt Louisa might have left me her empty, cold estate, but she’d never tucked me in at night. She wasn’t my mother because she hadn’t been my mother.

I tried calling Duane again on Sunday. He didn’t pick up and he didn’t return the call. My heart splintered a little more.

By Tuesday evening Momma was anxious to get back for Thanksgiving, so we took one of my new-to-me cars—a new model Jaguar F-Type—and split up the fourteen-hour drive. I’d never driven a luxury sports car before. It was fun. Or rather, it would have been fun, if I hadn’t been so sad.

I told Aunt Louisa’s lawyer I would return after Christmas to make arrangements. I’d decided to wait the month because I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do.

Momma and I left early Wednesday morning and pulled into our driveway just before 10:30 p.m. We talked very little on the drive. I asked her all the obvious questions—Do you know who my biological father is? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Louisa tell me before she died? Why did you adopt me?—and she had very few answers.