The Red Gloves Collection (38 page)

A light switch near the door lit up much of the downstairs. Hannah walked past the marble fountain that separated the entrance from the formal living room. She was about to head up to her bedroom when something on the dining room table caught her attention. She stopped and peeked around the corner. It was a package of some kind, a manila envelope.

Strange. Hannah walked closer, curious. Her grandmother took care of the mail, so what was this? She peered at it.
Miss Hannah Roberts,
it read. She opened her mouth and a soft gasp came out. The package was from her mother. After days of silence, not even an E-mail, her mother had sent her something.

She tore open the package and spread the contents on the table. A bulky white envelope, and next to it a single sheet of note paper and a hand-written letter. Hannah picked it up. Her mother’s handwriting was familiar, but only vaguely so. She rarely sent packages from Sweden. Hannah let her eyes find the top of the note.

Dear Hannah,

You might not understand what I’m about to tell you, but I think it’s time. I wanted to wait until you were eighteen, old enough to check into this information and make some decisions for yourself. Having Christmas all alone, you’ll have time to think this through.

This is it: Jack isn’t your biological father.

Hannah’s knees trembled and she grabbed hold of the back of the closest chair.
What?
She moved her eyes over the line again, but the words wouldn’t come together, wouldn’t form into a logical sentence. Her mother must be crazy, sending her a note like this. She tried again and this time the words slammed at her like a series of rough waves, each one knocking a little more wind from her.

Jack Roberts isn’t my biological father?
A sharp stinging started in the corners of her eyes. This couldn’t be right. Of course Jack was her father. Her parents wouldn’t have lied about that all these years … would they? She swallowed hard, pulled out the chair, and sat down. Her vision was blurred, and she blinked, finding her place on the note.

Your father’s name is Mike Conner. I’ve enclosed some details about him, but I know very little. I haven’t spoken to him since we parted. But what information I do have is on a sheet of paper in the envelope, also.

Hannah took three quick breaths and gave a sharp shake of her head. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. She’d never heard the name
Mike Conner
before, so how could it be true? How could he be her father? Her heart thumped hard within her, a little more convinced than her mind and soul. Her mother wasn’t a liar; though she wanted to rip up the letter, throw it in the trash, and pretend she’d never opened the package, that single truth kept her reading.

Hannah, there was a time when I loved Mike very much. But he wasn’t the sort of man I could marry; I hope you understand, darling. We were together until your fourth birthday and then our lives took us in different directions. There are more details, information I’ll share with you some day when we’re together. For now, this is all you need to know. Inside the envelope are some photographs and a pair of wings he bought before he joined the Army. It was something Mike wanted you to have.

I suppose I should’ve told you this face to face. But for some reason I felt this was the time. Don’t hold it against me, Hannah. Jack will always consider you his daughter, and he will be no less a father to you simply because you know the truth. Instead try to be adult about it. I know you will be. You’re a good girl. Talk to you soon,

Mother

Hannah stared at the page. The only sounds were her heartbeat and the rustling of the note, still clutched in her trembling hand. She couldn’t take it all in, couldn’t rationalize about whether the information was or wasn’t true. But her mother obviously thought it was true, and that meant…

She set the note down and reached for the stuffed white envelope. Carefully, as if it contained something too terrifying, too sacred, to examine, she slid her finger under the flap and slit open the top. Her heartbeat was louder than the envelope shaking in her hands. Her mind screamed at her, willing her to put it down. But she continued, moving slowly, trancelike.

The first thing she pulled from it was a photograph.

Hannah’s breathing wasn’t right, and she couldn’t blink as she stared at the image in the picture. It was her—a litde-girl version of herself—cuddled on the lap of a handsome blond man. The man was reading to her.

Again Hannah’s mouth fell open. Gradually, like the changing colors in fall, the picture of her past began to come into focus. If the little girl was her—and she knew it was because of other baby pictures she’d seen—then the blond man would be Mike Conner. And if he was Mike …

A series of dots inside her mind connected at lightning speed. The lines in her memory came into crisp focus. If he was her father, and he liked to read to her, then maybe Mike Conner was the man in her memories. The one who sang with his guitar and got down on the floor to play with her.

Her hands shook harder, and she worked to steady the image. Something about his eyes looked familiar, and after a minute she figured it out. His eyes were the same ones she looked at in the mirror every day. Hers couldn’t have been more like his—the shape, the color. Even the arch of her eyebrows.

The tears were back, spilling from the confused corners of her soul straight into her eyes, clouding her vision again and making her wonder at the feelings coming over her. Anger at her mother, of course. Because how could she lie about something so important? And for so many years? And maybe more anger because if her memories—the good memories—were about Mike Conner, then … how could her mother have left him?

But there were other feelings, too. So many others.

Confusion because this new truth still felt like a joke or a trick. Fear because her world was tumbling off center, wobbling and falling and threatening to break into a million tiny pieces. And curiosity because if it really was true, then she wanted to meet him. As soon as possible, so she could ask him if he was the one. The daddy in her dreams.

And over all of it was sadness. Because it had to be true; the picture in her hand told her so. Only now she was almost grown up and she’d lost ten years, a decade, with the man in the picture. Sadness because maybe he’d forgotten about her the way she had forgotten about him.

She laid the photograph down carefully on the table in front of her. Then she reached back into the envelope and pulled out another one. This picture was of the same man standing on the beach in shorts and a T-shirt. A surfboard was tucked under his arm.

Her mother’s voice came to mind, faded by the years:
“Don’t go near the water, Hannah. Stay here on the towel with Daddy.”

That was it. Nothing more came to mind. But her mother’s warning was as real as if she were standing upstairs shouting down at her. It was another clue, further proof that the photographs weren’t a figment of her imagination. When she was little, her mother had warned her about the water—the ocean, probably. And Mike Conner was a surfer.

Another few dots connected.

The next item in the envelope was a sheet with Mike’s name and birth date and the fact that he’d lived in Pismo Beach. A few other bits of information. And last inside was the lapel pin, the wings her mother had mentioned in the note. Hannah ran her thumb gently over the metal surface and held it up, noting the gray-and-black detail. Had he become a pilot, then? Someone flying for the Army?

A knock sounded at the door and she jumped. Her dance teacher! She set the pin and the photos back in the envelope and put the envelope back inside the bigger manila packaging. Whatever truth lay in her mother’s note, she’d have to sort through it later.

Hannah let her dance teacher in and apologized for not being ready. Then she raced to her room, threw on her tights and leotard, and met the teacher in the dance room downstairs. For the next hour she practiced pirouettes and jazz leaps, but all the while she barely heard the music or the teacher chiding her to land lighter or jump higher.

Jack wasn’t her father?

The blond man in the pictures overtook every other thought until finally the lesson was over and she scurried the manila package to her room. There she read her mother’s note again and pulled out the photos from the envelope. Before she fell asleep that night she stared at the photos for a long time. That’s when she realized another feeling had been added to the mix.

Happiness.

Because maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe, if Mike Conner was the daddy in her memories, she could find him again and they could start up loving each other where they left off all those years ago. Maybe the blond man would be her father, and Jack would be nothing more than a nice man who had married her mother.

Which was all he’d ever been, anyway.

She fell asleep and this time the memories of her long-ago daddy sprang to life in her dreams. In them she was chasing him down a sandy beach, giggling like mad when he turned around and caught her up over his shoulder.

The next morning she dressed in her favorite jeans and denim jacket, and on the lapel she pinned the wings. The wings Mike Conner had told her mother to give her.

Normally she didn’t wake her grandmother before going to school, but this was an emergency. She would know if her mother’s note was right, or if the information about Mike Conner was some sort of trick or mistake.

She was completely ready for school when she gave a light knock on the door into her grandmother’s suite. “Hello?”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then she heard movement from behind the door. “Hannah? Is that you?”

“Yes. Can we speak for a minute, please?”

Her grandmother opened the door, a slight scowl creasing her forehead.
“May
we speak for a minute, you mean.”

Hannah exhaled quietly. Propriety always came before purpose. That was her grandmother’s rule, no matter what the situation. “May we speak for a minute, please?”

“Certainly.” Her grandmother wore her long blue-velvet robe, the one she’d had for the past year. She stepped aside, and the robe swished around her ankles. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” Hannah hated this—the formality. But it was all they’d ever known. She followed her grandmother into the spacious room. The words were on her tongue, rehearsed. But before she could speak them, her grandmother’s scowl deepened and her eyes grew wide. She was looking at the wings.

“What—” She pointed to the pin. “—is that?”

Hannah blinked. “Well, Grandmother. That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”

Her grandmother’s face looked paler than before, almost as white as her linen bedspread. “They’re pilot wings.”

“Yes.” Hannah gulped. Without realizing it, she fingered the pin. “My mother sent them.”

“She … ” Her grandmother’s eyes lifted. “Did she say why she’d do such a thing?”

Hannah twisted her fingers together and shifted from one foot to the other. “Jack Roberts isn’t my father, is he?”

For a long moment her grandmother stared at her, surprised. Then indignant. She took a step back. “Young lady, that’s something for you and your mother.”

“But he isn’t, right?”

Her grandmother straightened herself and turned her back to Hannah. “Where did you hear that?”

“My mother.” Hannah came closer. Her stomach twisted. “She sent me the wings and two photos and a note.”

Her grandmother whirled around. “Photos?”

Hannah hesitated. “Pictures of Mike Conner.” Her mouth was dry. “He’s my real father, right, Grandmother?”

For a long minute her grandmother only stared at her, unmoving. Then she cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “Your mother would never lie to you, Hannah. You know that.”

The thick carpet beneath her feet felt suddenly liquid. “So, it’s true.” Her words were breathy, a whisper, all she could force.

“Yes.” Her grandmother turned toward the window again. “But I have nothing to say about him. I warned your mother not to go to California.” She glanced over her shoulder at Hannah. “I taught myself to forget she ever actually did.”

Hannah hugged herself. She felt faint, the way she sometimes felt when she’d gone too long without eating. Her grandmother had known about Mike all this time, and never said anything. Her entire family was in on the conspiracy. “Did you … did you know Mike?”

“Hannah… ” Her grandmother spun toward her once more, and for the first time she looked less than controlled. Fear creased the skin at the corners of her eyes, and her voice was higher than before. “You need to get to school. Buddy will be waiting for you.”

Anger hit Hannah then. She tightened her hands and wiggled her toes in her black dress loafers. “Grandmother, I asked you a question.”

Her grandmother’s voice rose another notch. “It was your mother’s mistake.” She pointed to the door and gave a terse nod at Hannah. “Ask her.”

At first Hannah couldn’t move. Two thoughts fought for position in her mind: the fact that her grandmother obviously knew something about Mike Conner, but refused to talk about him. And the possibility that maybe this was why her grandmother kept her distance—because she wasn’t the child of the great Jack Roberts. Rather, she was the daughter of a California surfer.

That had to be it, the reason her grandmother had always seemed to barely tolerate her.

Hannah resisted the urge to say something spiteful to the old woman. Instead she turned around, flew down the stairs, grabbed her backpack, and ran out the front door. Tears stung at her eyes again, but she held them off. Even so, she didn’t fool Buddy Bingo.

“Something wrong, Miss Hannah?” He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “You look a little flustered.”

Hannah situated herself and buckled her seat belt. She was breathing hard, keeping herself from crying. “I’m fine.”

Buddy gave a slow nod and let the conversation stall until they were on the main highway to the school. Hannah’s mind raced faster than her heart. How had she missed it all these years? Of course Jack Roberts wasn’t her father. He never looked at her or hugged her or spent time with her the way she’d seen her friends’ fathers do. The strange memories were a sign, one that had been there all along. In the soil of her heart, the truth had always lay buried, hadn’t it? That the daddy in the dreams wasn’t Jack Roberts, but someone else.