Open Secret

She heard herself say automatically, “I’m pretty sure it’s unlisted, Mom. You don’t have to worry.”

Am I your daughter? Her mouth formed the words, but she didn’t say them. Eyes squeezed shut, Carrie felt dampness seep from them. Mommy, tell me the truth!

“I’d…better go,” she lied instead, her voice thick. “Somebody’s waiting to talk to me.”

Somehow she finished the day at work. By the time she got home, it was after five. Maybe Kincaid Investigations stayed open until five-thirty or six. She could at least leave a message.

Assuming she wanted to talk to him at all. The phone in her hand, she closed her eyes, steadying herself. She wanted, oh so desperately, to reject out of hand everything he’d said and the doubt he’d stirred in her, but she couldn’t. Her mother had sounded so…odd. Maybe, most of all, Carrie was unsettled by the knowledge she’d always lived with—that she was quite different from her parents, in looks, temperament, tastes and abilities.

Of course, kids weren’t clones of their parents. The genetic mix that made up any human being was complex. She’d never worried about it before. But now…

She dialed the number she’d taken from the Web site, listened to the options, pressed 3 for “Leave a message for Mark Kincaid” and then said in a rush, “Mr. Kincaid, this is Carrie St. John. I’m sorry I ran out on you. I’m still pretty sure that I’m not the person you’re looking for, but I’m willing to hear what you have to say.” She left her phone numbers, work and home, and hung up.

She had trouble deciding on anything for dinner, trouble figuring out what she wanted to do for the evening. She felt restless, anxious, jumpy. She wanted to talk to somebody, but couldn’t decide who. Stacy, a friend from nursing school, who hardly knew Carrie’s parents? Ilene, her best friend from childhood, who did know them? So well, in fact, that Ilene had gone to Carrie’s mom for comfort when her own parents had split up.

In the end, she didn’t call anybody. It felt disloyal to express doubts based on no evidence whatsoever. She wasn’t even entirely sure why she was taking this so seriously, why she was so upset about it. She should wait until she had some proof one way or the other.

Nothing on TV looked interesting. She changed channels, unable to care about fictional storylines or the absurd drama on reality shows. She switched the set off, cleaned her bathroom, picked up a People magazine and lost interest in it, too. She should have gone to the health club, but now if she worked out she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

The phone rang, and she jumped. She hesitated, then picked it up. Don’t be Mom or Dad, she prayed.

“Ms. St. John? This is Mark Kincaid again.”

“Oh!” she said, absurdly. “Did you get my message?”

“Yeah, I did. I sometimes check them from home. Is this too late for you?”

“No! No. I’m glad you called. I keep thinking about what you said, and…” She shrugged, even though he couldn’t see her. “I just wished I’d let you explain. That’s all.”

“I’d prefer to talk to you in person.”

Knowing she was crazy to suggest it, she still said, “You could come over. I won’t be going to bed for a while.”

He was nice enough to sound regretful. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve put my son to bed and it’s too late in the evening to get a sitter.”

“Oh.” Carrie was conscious of a funny mix of emotions. If he had a son, that probably meant he was married. She hadn’t consciously thought of him as someone who would interest her—that was hardly the point—but now she was just a little disappointed. At the same time, she was actually relieved, because the fact that he was a good husband and father meant he was safe.

“Can I meet you at lunchtime tomorrow?” he asked.

“I work in Bellevue…” She stopped, suddenly self-conscious. “I suppose you know everything about me, don’t you?”

“No, actually, I don’t,” he said. “I could have learned more, but once I had your address and phone number, I didn’t look for background. I was hoping you’d want to meet Suzanne…”

“Suzanne?” she interrupted. “Is that my… I mean, is she your client?”

“Yes. Suzanne Chauvin.”

“It sounds French.”

“You could be French,” he pointed out.

Her stomach knotted. She could be. It wasn’t just the fact that neither of her parents were brown-eyed that made her look different from them. It was the golden tone to her skin, the dark, crackling wavy mass of her hair, her quick movements, her petite stature. Breathing shallowly, she thought, I could be French. She didn’t look like a St. John, not like her father did, with his patrician features and natural reserve.

“Yes,” she said, past a lump in her throat. “I suppose I do.”

“In fact,” his voice was gentle, “you look extraordinarily like your sister.”

Her sister. Oh God. In full fledged panic, she said, “Can we talk about this tomorrow instead?”

They agreed on a restaurant and time. She hung up with the terrifying knowledge that she was taking an irretrievable step.

HE MADE A POINT of getting there before her; he invariably did the same at any appointment. Paranoia, no doubt. He liked to look over the surroundings, choose a seat with the best possible vantage point.

He saw her the minute she arrived. The hostess waylaid her, then led her toward his table.

Carrie St. John did bear a remarkable resemblance to her sister, no question. At the same time, she was distinctly her own person.

Neither were tall women, both under five foot four inches. Suzanne was more curvaceous, Carrie slimmer, probably able to go braless. Both had dark eyes and dark hair, but Suzanne’s was smooth and the younger sister’s unruly.

Mark was made uncomfortable to realize that, while Suzanne didn’t attract him, Carrie did. He didn’t even know why. He did know he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, certainly not while he was acting as go-between.

He stood when she approached. “Ms. St. John.”

“Make it Carrie, please.” She took the seat across the table from him and thanked the hostess.

He inclined his head. “Carrie it is.” He indicated her menu. “I see the waitress already on her way. You might want to look that over before we talk.”

She flipped it open, scanned and was able to order a moment later. Then she took a visible breath, lifted her chin and asked, “Why do you think I’m this Suzanne’s sister?”

He opened the folder that sat beside his place and took out a copy of the adoption decree, with her birth name and the names of the adoptive parents highlighted.

Her hand trembled slightly when she took it from him. Her face actually blanched when she looked at it, and he tensed, thinking she might faint. But she only drew a shuddery breath and kept staring at the highlighted names.

When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were dilated, unseeing. “If this is true… Why wouldn’t they have told me?” she whispered.

“Because they so desperately wanted you to be theirs. Maybe they intended to when you got older, then never found the right moment. It would have gotten more and more difficult, as time went by. Maybe they pretended so hard that you’d been born to them that they almost fooled themselves. Maybe they were just afraid.”

She clung pitifully to the one word. “Afraid? Of what?”

“Losing you,” he said simply. “Adoptive parents often feel insecure in a lot of ways. At the backs of their minds is the fear that birth parents might suddenly spring up and want their baby back. Beyond that is the fear that you, the child, won’t love them the same way you would if they were your ‘real’ parents. I’m sure you’ve heard the nature versus nurture argument. Adoptive parents convince themselves that nurture wins. Genes don’t matter nearly as much as experience. They believe they can make you their child in every way.”

“But…they weren’t completely successful.” She sounded heartbroken. “I know I frustrated them sometimes.”

“Yeah.” He watched her with compassion, wishing he hadn’t been the one to bring that terrible unhappiness to her face. “It’s healthier for everyone if the adoptive parents acknowledge that their children are a kind of amalgam. If they could laugh and say, ‘Oh, your birth mom must have been a procrastinator, too,’ or, ‘Maybe your birth father was artistic like you are, because we sure aren’t.’”

“You make my parents sound as if they’re selfish.” Before he could respond, she said with quick anger, “They were selfish.”

“Our food’s here,” he warned her, voice low.