Abby, Get Your Groom!

“He didn’t answer the letter at all. So GiGi found his attorney, who said that Gus had been a widower with no kids so we shouldn’t worry about it. I guess not even the attorney knew about you.”

Because she’d been a nothing even to her own father?

That thought didn’t boost her spirits.

More and more feelings were coming at her but they were all jumbled and indecipherable as Dylan continued. “Like I said, telling the chaplain was the first time he’d so much as spoken of you since the supervisor’s death. He told the chaplain that that was because he wanted to spare you having to grow up with the disgrace of a dad who had taken another person’s life, who was convicted of manslaughter and sent to prison. He didn’t want that following you around. The chaplain said your father was ashamed of what he’d done, that he’d never forgiven himself and that he didn’t want to pass that shame on to you. He thought that you’d be better off just left somewhere—somewhere safe, because he knew you’d be taken care of in a hospital—without a last name or any information that could link you back to him.”

So he had cared about her? He had thought about her welfare in whatever skewed fashion?

More feelings came, bringing with them more confusion.

It must have shown on her face because out of nowhere Dylan said, “I know it’s kind of hard to reconcile things that don’t seem to go together. I loved my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my dad and my uncle. They were unfailingly good to me. But I can’t say I’m proud of all the things they did outside of the family. It’s something we’re all having to come to grips with. For us, we never forget that those same men who didn’t always behave honorably were still people we loved, who loved us, so we have to separate things. And it seems like—in spite of what your dad went to jail for doing—he really did care about you. Maybe that’s something to hang on to.”

“Maybe...” she parroted, struggling with it all. Struggling, too, with the fact that this was so completely different than any of the romanticized thoughts she’d always entertained about where and who she’d come from, about why she’d been left.

But here she was, with Dylan Camden at the moment and she wasn’t sure where this was supposed to go.

So she asked. “I guess, then, you’ll tell me where to find the lockbox and that’s it?”

“Well, if you’ll let me, I’d like to help you piece together what we can of your background,” Dylan said. “Figure out more about where you came from and the kind of man Gus Glassman was—because I have hope that he might have been a loving dad to you, despite what he did. Maybe we can figure out who your mom was, what happened to her and any family she might have had. It just seems like you should know as much as you can from here.”

Should she? Abby wondered.

She wasn’t sure.

In some ways she wanted to deny that this could actually be her background and step away from it as if it wasn’t really hers.

It had been difficult enough growing up a foster kid. She’d been vigilant about being a good girl in order to live down preconceived notions about what that might mean.

And now to learn that she really was what some people had assumed—if not bad herself, then at least the child of a criminal? The daughter of someone who had killed someone else? Someone who had died in prison?

A part of her did not want to embrace it.

But it didn’t seem as though that was possible.

“How would we do those things you said?” she asked, buying herself more time to think while her head was swimming.

Dylan nodded toward the key on the table again. “Gus told the chaplain that the lockbox that that key opens is hidden in the store—meaning one of our Superstores. We’re trying to figure out which one he might have worked out of and locate the box. Hopefully that will give us more to go on. Plus, I run the security department for the Camden Superstores, and part of my job is to do background checks on people we hire. I have full access to our employee files, even the ones from before my time. If Gus was married to your mother I can find record of it and get your mother’s maiden name—that would give us a starting point to looking into that side of your family.”

“What about the chaplain? Where did he go in all of this?” Abby asked.

“He’s from the prison in Canon City so he went back there. When GiGi heard what he had to say, she swore to him that we would take care of this.”

“By hiring me to fix your sister’s hair for her wedding?” Abby asked because she was trying to fit the pieces together.

“No. This and the wedding are not connected. Your reputation for your work preceded you. Or, at least, the work of the special occasions team from Beauty By Design preceded you. Then it just happened that the same name GiGi finally put to Gus Glassman’s daughter was one of the names included on that team.”

“So it’s only a coincidence?”

“It honestly is. My haircut today was my chance to meet you, but even if you had turned down the wedding, you and I would still be here right now and I’d still be asking you to let me help you find out about your family. The fact that you agreed to do what you’re doing for Lindie—on such short notice—is a whole separate thing.” Under his breath, he muttered, “One that I’m hoping will get me some much-needed brownie points.”

She didn’t know what that meant so she didn’t comment.

Then he said, “So, what do you think? I’m sorry I haven’t brought you a happier story, but will you let me help you, anyway?”

Abby merely sat there looking at him, trying hard to absorb all he’d told her, trying to deal with it, considering what he was asking.

Did she want to know more if it was as sordid as what she’d just learned? Because this was not the fairy tale she’d always envisioned. And what if what went with it was worse?

But there was that key on the table between them and the knowledge she already had. And after a lifetime of not knowing anything, she knew she couldn’t just ignore the chance to find out whatever more she could, good or bad.

“I’ll be right by your side every step of the way,” Dylan said then, as if he was reading her mind.

And Abby found that assurance that she wouldn’t be alone in the process of uncovering her history somehow comforting.

Which was all the more confusing because she prided herself on standing on her own two feet to face whatever she had to face. The most support she’d ever had had been from China and this wasn’t China. This was a stranger she’d just met today.

But here was this guy offering to help her and stick by her, and it made the whole delving-into-her-history thing more palatable.

It had been a really strange day...

“Okay, I guess,” she heard herself say without any conviction whatsoever.

“Great!” he decreed. “I already have people looking for the lockbox, so that—and my digging through old marriage records—is where we’ll start.”

Abby nodded, feeling slightly shell-shocked.

“And in the meantime, Lindie’s wedding is pulling a lot of attention from newshounds and I also have to keep a handle on that. Is there any chance that you and I can take an after-hours look through your salon so I can get a feel for how I can make sure the test run can be kept private?”

He’d moved on. It took Abby a moment to realize that and switch gears, too.

But she did.

“We don’t do the special occasions work at the salon,” she informed him. “The owner—Sheila—has two salons and there’s a third location midway between the two where we only do the special occasions work. It makes it so our brides and their wedding parties—or whoever else we’re working with for a special event—can spread out and get a little pampered without regular clients around.”

“Then can you give me a tour of that place so I can check it out? The sooner the better.”

He was really expecting a lot of her in her befuddled state. But she tried to think about work and scheduling and finally came up with an answer. “I guess I could meet you there tomorrow night—I know it’s Saturday night but I’m booked from early tomorrow morning until closing at the shop so that would be the soonest... I know it’s probably a date night for you with your girlfriend or wife or whatever, but—”

“There’s no girlfriend or wife or date night or whatever. Would meeting with me be messing with any of that for you?”

“Me?” she said as if that was unthinkable. “No. There’s none of that for me right now, either.”

“Then we can do it tomorrow night?”

“I’ll text you the address and directions. I can probably be there by seven.”

“Seven it is, then,” he agreed. “Now, how about that burger place over there? Can I buy you dinner?” He pointed his sculpted chin in the direction of a small redbrick building that housed two restaurants just in front of the old Victorian house where Abby rented a studio apartment.