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Gloria Radcliffe loved her home. The two-hundred-year-old Cape was small and charming and, even with its view of the ocean, far more modest than her current income reflected. But it was the first thing she'd bought with her own money—almost three decades ago—and it was the place she'd brought her infant daughter home to raise right after she was born.
Her parents had been incensed. Then again, they often were when it came to her decisions. Rockport had been a poky town back then, a far cry from Beacon Hill. A beach community of
clam chowder joints, bed-and-breakfasts, and would-be artists, it was exactly where she wanted to live.
It still was. She'd done some of her best sketches here, and that was the case to this very day. Even a week in the Big Apple, with all its glamour and excitement, couldn't detract from the simple joys of being home.
That was especially true this time. Her excursion to New York had been more draining than she'd expected.
She shut the door behind her, gazing around appreciatively, savoring the soft cream and taupe furnishings, and the gleaming hardwood floors. She carried her two pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage into the master bedroom, then headed for the kitchen, opting for a quick bite to eat and a hot bath before she unpacked.
Forty minutes later, she padded out of the bathroom, tying the belt of her silk dressing robe. She sat down at the dressing table, ready to begin her ritualistic beauty regimen.
Her make-up-free reflection looked back at her. She was fortunate, and she knew it. Mother Nature had been kind to her. She'd aged well. The general consensus was that she looked forty-five rather than sixty-one, thanks to a naturally slim figure, skin that hadn't wrinkled, and hair that—with a little help from Jean-Paul, her genius of a hairstylist—was still a lustrous honey-brown. Her good looks were something she'd once taken for granted and now appreciated fully. Not out of vanity, but out of pragmatism. In the fashion business, aging was a no-no. Being old meant being out of touch with the times and the trends. And that meant being a fashion designer who was passé.
She'd just finished applying her moisturizer when the telephone rang.
Frowning, she glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-five. It was unusual for anyone to be calling this late.
She walked over and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hi, Mother, it's me."
"Sabrina." Was it her imagination or did her daughter sound strained? "Is everything okay?"
"I know it's late," Sabrina replied, evading the question. "You probably just got in from the airport. But I have to talk to you."
No, it definitely was not her imagination.
Gloria's grip on the receiver tightened. "Of course. What is it?"
A long sigh. "Would it be all right if I drove out there?"
"Tonight?"
"Yes. I realize you're probably on your way to bed, but it's important."
This was totally unlike Sabrina. She wasn't the dramatic type. Yet her voice sounded unnaturally high and out of sorts. "Sabrina, are you ill?"
"No, nothing like that. I just got hit with some news that threw me. It affects both of us. I really need to discuss it with you, right away. Apparently, time is of the essence."
There was no point in playing guessing games. The sooner Sabrina got here, the better. "Fine. Are you leaving now?"
"Yes. I'll be there before eleven."
10:48 P.M.
Sabrina turned onto the cobblestone driveway, the headlights of her Lexus RX300 illuminating her mother's front lawn. She threw the gear shift into park and turned off the ignition, resting her forehead against the steering wheel for one weary moment.
The long drive hadn't helped. She was still just as unsettled as she'd been when Dylan Newport left her, maybe more so, since analyzing the situation had forced her to confront the numerous painful consequences that might arise.
Consequences that would vastly impact her mother, send ripples through every facet of her life, both personal and professional.
She could just see the headlines now: High-profile CEO Carson Brooks revealed to be biological father of Sabrina Radcliffe, youngest member of the rich, socialite Radcliffe family.
And once the tabloids got hold of it, they'd exploit the juicy tidbit to death. The result would be a media extravaganza with the Radcliffes smack in the middle of it. So much for Gloria's privacy, her carefully sculpted way of life. As for Sabrina's grandparents—what a nightmare that would be. The whole topic of how she'd been conceived was considered taboo in their book. Not only wasn't it discussed, it was deemed as having never happened. After their unsuccessful attempts to dissuade Gloria from going through with the donor insemination, they'd dealt with it through denial, never touching on the subject of Sabrina's father, wordlessly designating the subject as taboo among their friends and colleagues. And given how much influence Abigail and Charles Radcliffe wielded in the Boston country club set, they had no trouble getting anyone who was anyone to take the hint.
So, Sabrina came into the world, a welcome, beloved daughter and granddaughter. Gloria had taken the wise course, privately telling Sabrina that a father didn't factor into her life and then, as soon as Sabrina was old enough to understand the birds and the bees, explaining the donor insemination process—and her grandparents' unwillingness to acknowledge it. Sabrina heard her mother's message loud and clear. And the truth remained buried in the silent woodwork.
