Secrets on Cedar Key (5 page)

I
woke Wednesday morning after another sleepless night. The digital clock on the bedside table read five-fifteen. I wasn't due into the yarn shop until two in the afternoon. It was going to be a very long day. I decided to get up, get dressed, and grab some coffee, and instead of taking the golf cart, I'd walk downtown with Oliver. Good exercise for both of us. After leaving a note for my mother to let her know that I had the dog, we stepped outside just as dawn was breaking.

We walked along Gulf Boulevard and turned onto Whiddon. Only one vehicle passed us, a truck pulling a boat, most likely headed to Anchor Cove to launch the craft for a day of fishing. Not pleasure fishing but working for their livelihood, like my daddy had done for so many years.

Walking along G Street, I glanced out at the tide coming in and once again thought of Andrew and my father. My dad had never held that initial snobbery against my future husband. He was always friendly toward Andrew, but I often wondered what he really thought of my choice, whereas I had always felt, although she never said a word, that my mother wasn't all that pleased with Andrew for her son-in-law. What was it that she might have seen and I hadn't? Or more honestly, what was it that maybe I had preferred not to see?

As I approached the City Park, there was a figure farther down the beach with a dog on a leash, and when I got closer I realized it was Worth. He turned around, saw me, and waved.

“Good morning,” he said, walking toward me.

I smiled and returned his greeting. “And who is this?” I asked, putting my hand out for the Labradoodle to sniff.

“Ah, my best girl. Meet Suzette.”

“She's beautiful, and this is my mom's dog, Oliver. I'm not sure if you met him yet in the yarn shop.”

Worth also extended his hand for Oliver to sniff and shook his head. “No, I've never had the pleasure. What a handsome fellow.”

“Do you let Suzette loose? I was going to let Oliver run a bit.”

Both dogs were already doing the requisite sniffing of each other.

“Yes, I like to give her a bit of exercise before I leave her to go in to work,” he said as he unclipped her leash.

I did the same and we watched the two dogs run off together through the park. Worth and I took a seat on one of the benches to watch them.

“How've you been?” he asked. “I was a little concerned about you over the weekend, and your shop has been closed for two days.”

I nodded. “Right. We're closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. I'm doing okay. I think. I'll know better later this morning after I speak with that attorney.”

“This is a rough thing for you to go through. I hope whatever he tells you won't be too disturbing.”

“The thing is, I have a million questions. I just hope he'll be able to answer them.”

“I have some good news for you. That bay window will be installed this afternoon. Will you be in the shop today?”

I nodded. “That
is
good news. Yeah, I'll be there around two.”

“Good. I think that will make a big difference. After I get the window installed, I'll begin working on the ceiling and walls.”

“That'll be great. That windowsill will allow me to display some finished pieces, which might entice people passing by.”

“I don't know much about this type of thing, but is your needlepoint similar to tapestries? I've seen a lot of those in France.”

“They're actually pretty similar. It's the technique and methods that might differ. Needlepoint is done on open-weave canvas using wool, silk, or cotton threads. Many designs use only a simple tent stitch, which relies on color changes to construct the pattern.”

“So you do needlepoint in addition to knitting?”

I laughed and nodded. “Yeah, most women have a variety of handwork that they enjoy doing and usually a favorite. I go back and forth on both knitting and needlepoint, depending on my mood.”

We both turned around as barking caught our attention. Suzette was bowing low, and as Oliver ran toward her, she spun in circles, forcing him to chase her.

“They seem to be having a great time,” I said.

A smile crossed Worth's face. “Yeah, I'm afraid she's flirting with him.”

My smile matched his. “Nothing wrong with that.” I glanced at my watch and saw it was going on seven. “Oh, gee, I have to get going. Come on, Oliver,” I hollered.

“I wish you luck with that phone call, and, well . . . I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have dinner with me this evening.”

I clipped Oliver's leash to his collar. “That's really nice of you. I think I would. Thanks.”

The smile on his face broadened. “Great. How about I pick you up at seven? And is the Island Room okay?”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay. Then I'll see you later today at the shop.”

As I headed home I had the comforting thought that no matter how the phone conversation went with the attorney, I had a nice dinner to look forward to. With quite a handsome man.

 

I waited until my mother had left for the yarn shop and then placed the call to James Coburn in Boston, Massachusetts.

I explained to the secretary who I was and requested to speak with the attorney. My hand grew clammy as I gripped the phone tighter and listened to a piece of classical music on the line.

A few moments later, I heard, “James Coburn. How may I help you?”

Clearing my throat, I said, “I'm Marin Kane. Wife of Andrew Kane, one of your clients.”

“Mrs. Kane,” he said, and I heard the surprise in his voice. “I've been attempting to reach your husband since April.”

“Yes, well . . . My husband passed away in March, and I'm calling to find out about the letter you sent him in reference to Bianca and Fiona Caldwell.”

“Oh, I'm so terribly sorry for your loss. My deepest condolences. I had no idea. Was it sudden?”

“Thank you,” I replied, detecting sincere sympathy in his tone. “Yes, it was. A heart attack.”

“Again, I'm so sorry. Well, this does complicate the situation a bit.”

“Perhaps you could start at the beginning and explain to me who these women are. Why was there a bank account for this Fiona Caldwell?”

A deep sigh came across the line. “I take this to mean that Andrew never did explain the situation to you?”

“Never. The first I heard of it was when I was contacted about a piece of correspondence at his Mail Boxes account that I also knew nothing about. Andrew had given them my cell number as an emergency contact. That was how I came to receive your letter sent to him in May.”

“I see.” Another sigh. “This is a bit awkward, and I hate to have to be the one to tell you. I really thought that over time Mr. Kane would explain the situation himself.”

“Which he did not,” I said as my anger began to build.

“Right. Well . . . Fiona Caldwell is the daughter of Mr. Kane and Bianca Caldwell.”

There. The words had been spoken. What I was pretty sure I knew had just been confirmed. There was no turning back now. And yet, I could feel hurt and betrayal spreading through me. Hearing it said out loud made it all heartbreakingly real.

“Mrs. Kane? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I'm here.”

“Not that hearing something like this in person would make any of it easier, but I hate having to do this by telephone.”

He was right. Finding out something like this would not have been one bit easier in person, but without seeing his face, I focused more strongly on his voice. And I couldn't deny the compassion I heard.

I swiped away the tears that had started to fall. “It's not your fault,” I said. “It's certainly not
your
fault. I need some answers, though. I need to know about this . . . girl. This Fiona Caldwell. How old is she? Does she live in Boston? Does she know Andrew is her father? Was he still in touch with her mother?” I felt the questions tumbling out of me as my tears subsided and the natural desire for answers took over.

“I don't know the entire story,” he said. “Andrew and I were classmates in college, but we had lost touch until he contacted me about this situation, so I'll tell you what I know. Fiona is not a child. She turned nineteen this past April, born . . .”

I heard him rustling through papers.

“Ah, I have the file here. Born April 22, 1994.”

My mind did a quick calculation. April of 1994. That would mean she was conceived in July of 1993. Andrew and I were married. Jason would have been five years old and John three. I couldn't think beyond that.

“What else?” I questioned. “How did Andrew know the mother? Where did she live?”

“From what I recall Andrew telling me, Bianca Caldwell was a colleague of his. They had both been teaching a course at the same college. She did live in Amherst, Massachusetts, when he first came to me. About five years later she relocated north of Boston to Marblehead.”

Amherst. The summer of 1993. A teaching position that Andrew had been offered. Could it be possible? While I stayed behind in Gainesville to care for our two sons, he was having an affair with another woman?

“And did Andrew continue seeing her? Did he visit . . . his daughter?”

“I can't answer that for sure, but I think not. That was why he came to me. He wanted to set up an account to provide for the child until age eighteen. So I can assume he had no further contact with either the mother or the daughter. All of the financial arrangements were done through my office and the Boston Bank and Trust Company.”

“But I don't understand,” I said. “If he was providing money for that girl's support, why is there still fifty thousand dollars in the account?”

I heard the attorney clear his throat. “Well, over the eighteen years Bianca Caldwell only withdrew a portion of what the balance was, and I have no idea why she never took the full amount, which continued to grow monthly, and it accumulated interest as well. But as my letter stated, sadly, Bianca Caldwell was killed in a car crash in April. That was one of the stipulations that Mr. Kane had put in place. If anything were to happen to Bianca Caldwell, he was to be notified, we would send him the required documents to be signed, and the balance of the account would be put in Fiona Caldwell's name.”

“It seems my dearly departed husband thought of everything,” I said and heard my sarcasm. “Except factoring in his own death. So now what?”

“This is where it becomes a little complicated. Because you are his legal spouse and next of kin, it now becomes necessary for us to obtain your signature on the documents.”

I couldn't suppress the chuckle that bubbled forth. “So you mean to tell me that my signature is what stands between my husband's love child, this Fiona Caldwell, receiving the handsome sum of fifty thousand dollars and getting nothing?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “That's precisely what I'm telling you.”

I shook my head.
How ironic,
I thought.
Andrew was the one who cheated, but I now hold the final card.

“I don't even know this girl. I know nothing about her. Why would I pass over fifty thousand dollars to a total stranger?”

“You're very right,” James Coburn agreed. “You're certainly justified in your thinking. However, I do want you to know something else. I have an updated contact number for Fiona Caldwell that was given to me by the bank. They are handling her mother's estate and had been in touch with Fiona. The bank manager told her about the account set up by her father, and she contacted me. We spoke for quite a while, and like you, she had many questions that I wasn't able to answer.”

When I remained silent, he went on.

“This has all been quite shocking for you, and I certainly understand the anger and betrayal you must be feeling. I don't know you at all, but just from speaking with you on the phone, I have no doubt that you're a good person. I would just like you to bear in mind . . . no matter what happened, no matter the terrible wrong that your husband and Bianca Caldwell committed, Fiona Caldwell is the innocent victim of two adults behaving badly. She had asked me for your name and phone number, but I didn't feel at liberty to share that with her. She then asked if I would give you her number and requested that you call her.”

After a few moments, I said, “Give me her number.”

A
fter hanging up the phone with James Coburn, I walked out to the patio, plunked onto a lounge, and stared out at the water. What the hell had my life come to?

So I now had confirmation that not only had Andrew been unfaithful but that union had resulted in the birth of a daughter. A daughter he had chosen to tell me nothing about. It was then that the irony hit me. After the birth of our two sons, I would have liked to try once more for a girl. I recalled how Andrew had not welcomed this idea. He felt two children were enough. We should be thankful that we had two healthy sons, he had said. Although I truly would have welcomed a daughter, I didn't push the subject.

No wonder,
I thought.
He already had that third child that he was paying for, and it just happened to be a daughter. His daughter. Not mine.

I forced myself to think back to that summer of 1993. For whatever reason, our marriage seemed to be on shaky ground. We argued a lot over seemingly trivial matters; we no longer pursued activities that we both used to enjoy; our sex life had come to a virtual standstill. Plain and simple, we were drifting apart. So when Andrew had told me about the offer to teach a summer class at Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts, I'd thought the time apart might do us both some good.

I walked into the house, filled the kettle with water, and placed a teabag in a mug. Leaning against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, I remembered that when he had returned home almost three months later, things had seemed to improve.

I had spent a lot of that summer with the boys at my parents' home on Cedar Key. By the time Andrew returned in late August, both of us were refreshed and definitely happy to see each other, and there appeared to be a subtle shift in our relationship. Thinking about it now, I wondered if perhaps acceptance was what had been acquired. Acceptance of each other, acceptance of our life together, and acceptance of a marriage and love that had always lacked a certain romance and passion.

The whistling of the kettle cut into my thoughts. After pouring water into the mug, I took my tea, along with the papers on the counter, and went back out to the patio.

I let out a deep sigh and allowed myself to breathe in the warm October air. Butterflies flitted on one of the flowering bushes at the side of the patio. I looked above me to see a bright blue sky dotted here and there with white puffy clouds. I realized that the grief I had been feeling since the loss of Andrew had lightened. Did this mean that I no longer mourned his passing? Or even worse—did it mean I no longer loved him? Was the anger and betrayal that I felt able to supersede any love that we may have shared over twenty-six years of marriage? I had no answer for that.

I took a sip of tea and then glanced at the papers in my lap, scribbled notes from the information that James Coburn had given me.

I wondered if Bianca Caldwell had continued her teaching career after her daughter was born. Since she had not touched much of the money that Andrew had contributed, I assumed that she must have continued to work. I also wondered if any other family was involved in Fiona's life. Perhaps an aunt or a grandmother. Although I realized that it was probably natural for her to want to speak with me, the thought of it left me uneasy. What, exactly, would she be hoping to hear about the father she had never known? With the anger and betrayal that I was dealing with, I wasn't at all sure I was the person to give her a clear and unbiased picture of this man.

I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see it was already noon. And here I sat, still in my shorts and tee shirt, no shower taken and no desire whatsoever to go into the yarn shop in two hours. It was then that I remembered the dinner date I had agreed to with Worth. This held no appeal for me either.

I got up, went inside, and called my mother.

“Are you very busy at the shop today?” I asked.

“Not especially, no. Why?”

I fibbed about not feeling so well, which really wasn't very far from the truth. Except that my symptoms were more emotional than physical.

“Oh, don't worry about coming in, Marin. Chloe and I are just fine here, and I can close around four.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I just wasn't up to going there and pretending everything was fine, and I still wasn't ready to discuss what I'd learned this morning.

“Thanks, Mom. Oh, and could you do me a favor? Could you tell Worth that I'm not feeling well? I was supposed to join him for dinner this evening . . . but . . . maybe you could ask him if he's free on Friday evening . . . I'll take a rain check.”

“I'll take care of it. Now, lie down and get some rest.”

 

I wasn't sure if it was because I felt guilty about not going into the yarn shop or because I just needed to keep busy, but I spent the afternoon preparing dinner for my mother and me.

Comfort food. That was what I needed, and I proceeded to put together a batch of homemade macaroni and cheese. Putting that aside to slip into the oven later, I then prepared a salad and placed it in the fridge.

I began removing all the ingredients necessary from the cabinets to make a chocolate cake. But not just any chocolate cake. Decadent. Sinful. So delicious it would send my taste buds into orgasm.

By the time I poured the rich, dark batter into the cake pans, the entire kitchen was filled with the wonderful scent of chocolate. I had even melted a pound of truffles from Berkley's shop to include in the batter. I carefully put the pans into the preheated oven, closed the door, stood back, and let out a deep sigh.

I hadn't even tasted it yet, and already I was sure my endorphin levels had notched up a degree. No doubt about it—chocolate had a way of easing a woman's sadness. Who knew—maybe it could even promote world peace.

I was just about to make myself another cup of tea when the phone rang and I answered to hear my eldest son's voice.

Oh. My. God. It suddenly hit me that eventually both of my sons would have to be told and learn the truth about their father.

I pushed aside my concern as my motherly voice took over. “Jason. How nice to hear from you. Everything okay in Atlanta?”

“Yeah, fine. Just calling to see how you're doing. I called the yarn shop but Grandma said you were home today, not feeling well.”

“Oh, no, nothing serious,” I fibbed. “Just a bit of a sinus headache. Probably all the fall trees and flowers in bloom. How's your job going?”

“Very well, but I'm still thinking about returning to grad school. Maybe next year.” He paused for a moment. “One of the reasons I was calling . . . I know you were counting on me being there for Thanksgiving. Especially since it's the first year without Dad. But, well, I've met this girl . . . September Callahan . . . and . . .”

I interrupted my son as I broke out in a chuckle. “Her name is September? Like in the month?”

I heard Jason's chuckle match mine. “Yeah. A bit unusual, huh? I'm not sure, but I think her parents might have been hippies. They now live in Manhattan and her father is an attorney, but . . . that's her name.”

I felt the smile cross my face. “Well, yes, it's certainly different, but I like it. So are you saying you won't be coming for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, September's parents have a country home in Connecticut and they've invited me there for the Thanksgiving weekend, but . . . I don't want you to feel bad.”

I had been counting on both of my boys being with my mother and me for Thanksgiving, so I felt a jolt of disappointment. But I summoned up a happy tone and said, “No, don't be silly. Of course you should go, Jason. Is it serious with this girl?” It was the first I was hearing about her.

“Well, if you're sure, Mom. We've been seeing each other for about six months now, so I think it could be leading to something serious. I met her at a dinner party through mutual friends.”

Six months they had been dating? I had to admit, I felt a little left out and couldn't help but recall that old saying,
A daughter's a daughter all of her life, but a son's a son till he takes a wife.

I forced happiness into my voice. “That's just wonderful, Jason. I'm really happy for you, and I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. Hopefully, you'll be able to make it here for Christmas.”

“Oh, thanks, Mom. Thanks for being so understanding. I have to get back to work, but I'll call you again soon. Love you.”

I hung up and then realized Jason had not given me an answer concerning Christmas.