Tangled Memories

The attorneys exchanged glances. “You must realize,” one of them began.

She shot to her feet. “Never mind what I must realize.” Coming on top of the struggle to stretch her teaching salary and the meager income from Last Chance Café to pay Aunt Ella’s hospital bills and funeral expenses, she didn’t think she could handle any further runaround. “I’m done here. If Mr. Manning is interested in talking to me, he knows where to reach me. I’ll be on my way.”

She was halfway to the door when the voice stopped her.

“Come back here, young woman.”

She turned, pulse accelerating. The man who’d come out of the suite’s bedroom was older than either of the lawyers—in his seventies, at least. Slight and white-haired, his pallid skin declared his fragility, but he stood as straight as a man half his age.

“Mr. Manning.” It had to be.

He lifted silvery eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to call me ‘Grandfather’?”

“No.”

He let out a short laugh. “Fair enough, as I have no intention of letting you.” He extended his hand to one of the attorneys without looking. The man gave him the copies she’d brought of her mother’s marriage certificate and her own birth certificate.

“The birth certificate doesn’t name a father.” He zeroed in on the blank line, his gaze inimical.

She’d learned, over the years, to brace herself for that reaction whenever she had to produce a birth certificate. You’re a child of God, Aunt Ella would say. Let that be enough for you.

Not exactly what a crying eight-year-old had wanted to hear, but typical of the tough Christian woman who’d raised her. Ella Grant had taken what life dished out without complaint, even when that meant bringing up an orphaned great-niece with little money and no help.

“According to my great-aunt, when I was born after my father died, my mother was afraid her husband’s family would try to take me away. Later, she decided that they had a right to know.” She kept her gaze steady on the man who might be her grandfather. “You had a right to know. She left for Savannah to talk to you about me when I was six months old. She died in an accident on the trip.”

An accident—that was what Aunt Ella had always said. It was what Corrie had always believed, until she’d been sorting through Aunt Ella’s papers after her stroke. She’d found the marriage license and a scribbled postcard, knocking down her belief in who she was like a child’s tower of blocks.

He made a dismissive gesture with the papers. “Grace Grant never returned to Savannah after my son died.” His voice grated on the words. With grief? She couldn’t be sure. “If you are her daughter, that still doesn’t guarantee my son was your father.”

Her temper flared at the slur, but before she could speak, one of the lawyers did.

“A DNA test,” he murmured.

Manning shot him an annoyed look. “From what I’ve learned, that’s not likely to be conclusive with the intervening generation gone.”

“Nevertheless—” The lawyer’s smooth manner was slightly ruffled. Obviously the attorneys would prefer that he let them deal with this situation.

“I have no objection to a DNA test.” Why would she, if there was even a chance that it would answer her questions?

Who am I, Lord? I know I’m Your child, but I have to know more.

Manning tossed the papers on the table, bracing himself with one hand on its glossy surface. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t get anything from me in any event.”

“I don’t want anything.” That was what they seemed incapable of understanding. “All I want is to know something about my father. Nothing else.”

His mouth twisted. “Do you really think I’ll believe that?”

The truth sank in. Manning didn’t believe her, and he wouldn’t help her.

“No, obviously you can’t.” She wouldn’t offer to shake hands. If her father had been anything like this man, maybe she was lucky he’d never been a part of her life. “I can’t say it’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Manning, but it’s been interesting.”

She turned toward the door again, holding her head high. Aunt Ella wouldn’t have expected anything less. But the disappointment dragged like a weight pressing her down, compounding her still-raw grief.

“Just a minute.” Manning’s voice stopped her again. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Proposition?” She turned back slowly, not sure she wanted to hear anything else he had to say.

A thin smile creased his lips. “I won’t claim you as a grandchild, understand that. I won’t give you anything. But you may come and stay at my house in Savannah for a few weeks.” The lawyers were twittering, but he ignored them. “If you mean what you say, that will give you a chance to learn something about my son.”

“If you don’t believe I’m your grandchild, why would you want me there?” She eyed him, wondering what was in his mind.

His smile grew a bit unpleasant. “Ever heard the expression, ‘putting a cat among the pigeons’? I suppose not. Never mind my motives. They are not your concern.”

“Mr. Manning, we really don’t think this is a good idea.” Courtland and Broadbent exchanged glances.

Manning transferred his grip from the table to the back of the chair, leaning heavily, obviously tiring. “You make the arrangements. She can go now, while I’m still out of town. Lucas will take care of her.”

“Lucas?” She grasped at the unfamiliar name, trying to make sense of this.

“Lucas Santee. He was married to my niece’s child. He runs my companies.”

“The young woman hasn’t agreed to go.” And the lawyers obviously hoped she wouldn’t.

“She will.” Manning sent her a shrewd glance. “Won’t you?”

She didn’t like his attitude. Didn’t like the feeling that he was manipulating her for some reason she couldn’t understand. If she acted on instinct, she’d walk right out the door and go back to Ulee. She had plenty there to keep her busy until school started again.

But she wouldn’t, because if she did, she’d never know the answers to the questions that haunted her. I hope this is what You want, Lord.

“I’ll go,” she said.

Corrie leaned against the leather seat of the town car that had been waiting at the airport in Savannah. From the window, everything was so much softer, more verdant than she’d expected. Palmettos lined the road, and beyond them she could see rank after rank of tall, straight pines.

“Too bad the azaleas are past their prime.” The grizzled driver, Jefferson, he’d said his name was, turned from the highway onto a residential street. “I always say you haven’t seen Savannah until you’ve seen it with the azaleas blooming.”

She watched the city flow by—streets lined with cream-colored walls, wrought-iron fences, twisted live oaks draped with silvery Spanish moss. Flowers bloomed everywhere, so lush and colorful they almost looked artificial. The houses seemed to hide behind their colorful barrier, as if holding secrets closed to her.

“Does the family live in this section of town?”

Jefferson nodded. “Not far. This here’s the old part of town.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the left. “River Street’s over that way. You’ll want to see that while you’re here. Right now I’m to stop and pick up Mr. Lucas, then take y’all to the house.”

Corrie’s nerves tingled. Manning had said Santee ran his company. What else did he run? Santee obviously intended to vet her before exposing the rest of the family to her. She felt a tingle of apprehension. “Are we picking him up at his office?”

“At the construction site. They’ve been having problems at the new building. Nothing Mr. Lucas can’t handle. He can handle anything.”

That was another view of Lucas Santee. He could handle anything. Maybe the implication was that he could handle her, too. In a moment she’d have a chance to decide for herself just how much of a challenge Lucas Santee was going to be.

Thanks to the briefing the lawyers had reluctantly provided, she knew that a number of Savannah businesses bore the Manning name. Lucas Santee ran the largest, the construction firm, and oversaw the rest since Manning’s retirement.