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Dad and I don’t speak. What can we say to that?
“I suppose you must think me callous,” she continues, “but I’ve rarely given him a thought all these years. I couldn’t, for my own sanity.”
“No one’s judging you, Mom,” Jack says.
“No, of course not,” Dad agrees. “But you should know that he is in Snow Creek. His name is Pat Lamone…and he has this address.”
Lauren covers her mouth with her hand as she gasps. “How did he find me?”
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I got your address from my private investigators—”
“Why the hell would you be looking for my mother?” Jack interjects.
“It’s a long story,” I say. “Go ahead, Dad.”
“Your son got an anonymous message,” Dad says, “and my son and I got the same message. It was an acrostic puzzle, and the answer was Wendy Madigan.”
“Who’s Wendy Madigan?” Jack asks.
But Lauren looks at her lap.
“I believe your mother may know,” I say.
Lauren trembles and then turns to Jack. “Wendy Madigan is my mother. Dyane Wingdam is an alias she used off and on, and twenty-five years ago, she began using it exclusively. Wendy Madigan no longer exists.”
“So your real name…”
“Is Lauren Madigan,” she says. “But twenty-five years ago, my mother somehow got everything changed. I have no idea how she did it, but your birth certificate, mine, everything, now shows my name as Lauren Wingdam.”
Margaret returns with the coffee and tea.
“I’m going to need something a little stronger,” Jack says.
“It’s ten a.m.,” Lauren admonishes.
“Yeah, and I think I’m going to be drinking all day.”
“Dyane Wingdam.” Jack wrinkles his forehead. “Wendy Madigan.”
“It’s an anagram,” I say.
“I’ll be damned.” Jack looks up. “Margaret? I’m going to need a scotch. A double. Fuck. A triple.”
“Jack…” Lauren says.
“Mom, I’m not even kidding.”
“Right away, Mr. Murphy,” Margaret says.
“Okay.” Dad takes a drink of his coffee and then wipes his lips with a napkin. “So we have two more questions. First, Lauren, who is your father? And second, Jack, how exactly are you a Murphy?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ava
I throw myself into baking, trying desperately not to think about all the new revelations about my life.
My normal response when I’m feeling this way would be to draw a tarot card, but I’m determined to keep to my promise of taking a break from that world. After all, the last several cards have given me nothing but negativity.
There’s enough negativity in my life now without the cards.
Still…
No. No. No.
I punch the ball of sourdough I’m kneading. Then I punch it again.
No cards.
No cards.
No cards.
“Ave?”
I look up at Luke’s voice.
He wipes his hands on his apron. “What the hell did that dough ever do to you?”
He’s right, of course. The dough ball has had enough. I place it in an oiled stainless-steel bowl, turn it to coat, and cover it with a piece of cheese cloth.
Time to do something else.
I head to the front counter to relieve Maya.
The breakfast rush has died down, and I clear out the croissants and place freshly baked loaves of sourdough and whole-grain bread in the glass case. Time to slice for the lunch rush that will start in less than an hour.
I gear up the slicer when the bells ding as someone walks in the door.
Brock.
“You doing okay?” he asks. “I wanted to check in this morning.”
“I’m fine,” I say with as much nonchalance as I can muster.
Brock narrows his gaze. “I don’t buy it. At least your cheeks have color. I hope you’ve eaten.”
“Not since our tacos.”
“Ava, come on. This isn’t the end of the world.”
I dart my gaze around. “Quiet down, for God’s sake.”
“No one’s here. Just a few customers at the back table and Luke and Maya, and since I don’t see them, I assume they’re in the back.”
“They still have ears.”
“With supersonic hearing?”
“Brock, I swear…” I remove my gloves, toss them in the trash can, and head into the kitchen. “Maya, I need you out front.”
Once Maya is handling things, I grab Brock and pull him out the back door into the alley.
I shiver against the chill in the air. “You can’t just come into my place of business and start talking about this stuff. I promised my dad I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I’m not asking you to tell anyone. Fuck, Ava, I was just concerned.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. If I hadn’t forced you to eat tacos last night, you still wouldn’t be eating.”
He may be right. My stomach is still full of knots. But the tacos did taste good. I can’t starve myself forever. I don’t want to do that. I love my life.
Yeah, I do love my life.
My business is thriving, and I’m in love with a wonderful man.
Time to get over myself.
“Ava?”
“Sorry, just thinking.” I wipe my hands on my apron. “I’m good, Brock. Truly. So I’m not descended from Daphne Steel. I’m descended from two psychopaths instead.”
“How much do you know about your grandfather on your mom’s side?” he asks.
