“Why?"
She's quiet for a moment. "Because you're not your mother. You're not the fight we had or the years between us or any of the things that happened before you existed." A pause. “My son loves you and that was enough."
I should be angry and I'm not, which I'll think about later.
“The fact that you are her daughter changes nothing," Olive says. "I want you to understand that. Not how I felt about you then and not how I feel about you now. You came into this family as yourself. That's how you'll stay in it."
My throat closes. I press two fingers against it and breathe through my nose.
"Jade."
"I'm here," I say. My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to.
"I know this is a great deal to absorb." She pauses. "I also know you've texted your mother."
I go still. "How do you know that?"
"Because I know Sydney," she says. "And I know you. And I know that if you'd called her, she would have found a way to say nothing for forty-five minutes.” Olive takes a beat. "She hasn't responded?”
“No."
NotI don't know what you're talking about.NotJames Dupree was just a man I dated.Whatever she sends back, it won't be either of those. Whatever comes will confirm everything without technically saying a word.
"She will. In her own time, which will frustrate you considerably. But she will." Another pause, shorter. "If you have questions about the history, about any of it, I'm willing to answer what I can. Not Sydney's version. Mine. They're not the same story."
I look out the kitchen window at the Pacific. The marine layer is back today, the water gray and flat, the horizondisappeared into a cloud. Phoenix will be home by six. I have approximately seven hours to decide how much of this I want to tell him.
"Can I ask you something now?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Did you know when Phoenix first brought me home. That first dinner."
She takes a moment before she answers, which tells me more than a quick yes or no would have. "I suspected. I wasn't certain until later."
"But you suspected."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing."
"No," she says. "I said nothing."
I think about this. Olive has talked with me about writing and offered to read my novel. All of it with this sitting underneath.
"Why?" I ask.
She's quiet for a moment. "Because you weren't ready. Or maybe I wasn’t. Because Nicholas asked me not to. And because," she pauses, "I thought you deserved to find out yourself.”
Outside a wave breaks hard against the base of the bluff. I hear it through the glass, that deep concussive sound, and then the pull of water drawing back over rock.
"That's a generous way to frame it," I say.
"It is," she agrees. "It's also true. Both things can be true."
I almost smile. She doesn't defend herself by denying. I've watched her do it with Nicholas in the kitchen when she thought he was wrong about something, quiet and unmovable. I'd admired it from across the room. I admire it more now that it's directed at me.
"What's Sydney's version?" I ask. "Of what happened between you."
