Chapter 17 - GRACE WHITMOREGrace Whitmore lived in Maine, in a gray house facing the sea.
She had refused every call.
She refused Eleanor’s letter.
She refused the foundation’s lawyer.
But when Clara wrote one sentence, Grace answered.
I think your brother was my father.
Three days later, Clara stood on Grace’s porch with Eleanor, Andrew, and Victoria behind her.
Victoria insisted on coming despite her healing wound.
“I want to see what a family member who hates us looks like,” she said.
Clara knocked.
The door opened.
Grace Whitmore was in her seventies, tall and thin, with silver hair tied at the back of her neck. Her eyes landed first on Eleanor.
They hardened.
“Still wearing pearls,” Grace said.
Eleanor swallowed.
“Hello, Grace.”
Grace looked at Clara.
Then everything in her face changed.
She reached out, stopped herself, and whispered, “Thomas.”
Clara’s throat tightened.
“I’m Clara.”
Grace stepped aside.
Inside, the house was filled with books, old photographs, and the smell of black tea.
On the mantel stood a picture of a man with Clara’s eyes.
Thomas.
Clara walked to it slowly.
Grace watched her.
“He would have loved you loudly,” she said.
Clara laughed through sudden tears.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means annoyingly. Proudly. With no dignity at all.”
Eleanor began to cry.
Grace turned on her.
“You don’t get tears here.”
Eleanor nodded.
“I know.”
Grace faced Clara again.
“My brother died because he wanted to take Eleanor away from Charles. He told me she was pregnant. He said he was going to claim both of you.”
Eleanor whispered, “He never told me.”
Grace’s eyes flashed.
“Because he died that night.”
Clara looked at the photo.
“Car accident?”
Grace’s mouth tightened.
“Charles called it that.”
Victoria sat very still.
Grace looked at her.
“And who are you?”
Victoria lifted her chin automatically, then lowered it.
“Victoria.”
Grace’s gaze sharpened.
“The replacement daughter.”
Victoria flinched.
Clara said, “Don’t.”
Grace looked surprised.
Clara continued.
“She didn’t ask to be stolen either.”
Victoria stared at her.
Grace’s expression shifted.
“Fair enough.”
Eleanor stepped forward.
“I was told Thomas left me.”
Grace laughed bitterly.
“Charles was efficient.”
Then she handed Clara a box.
“Thomas left this with me the day before he died. He said if anything happened, I should give it to Eleanor.” She looked at Eleanor coldly. “I was too angry.”
Eleanor accepted the judgment in silence.
Clara opened the box.
Inside was a ring, a stack of letters, and a small stuffed rabbit with faded pink ears.
A note lay on top.
For my daughter, Clara Rose Whitmore.
Clara covered her mouth.
Grace’s voice softened.
“He named you before you were born.”
Eleanor whispered, “I didn’t know.”
Clara held the stuffed rabbit to her chest.
Victoria looked away, wiping her cheek quickly.
Grace noticed.
“You cry like Charles,” she said.
Victoria stiffened.
Grace studied her.
“No. Not like Charles.” She leaned closer. “Like someone I knew a long time ago.”
Victoria frowned.
“What?”
Grace walked to an old drawer and pulled out a photograph.
A young woman stood beside Thomas on a dock, laughing into the wind.
Grace handed it to Victoria.
Victoria stared.
The woman in the photo had her eyes.
May you like
Grace whispered,
“Her name was Celeste. She disappeared the same month Thomas died.”
