The Secret Daughter

Like so many other places, though, this, too, had undergone change. A smart awning covered the fenced patio where faded sun umbrellas had once given shade to patrons. Wicker furniture and woven place mats had replaced the old plastic tables and chairs. And instead of scones, homemade strawberry jam and tea served in mismatched china cups, a chalkboard menu propped by the patio gate offered a selection of chilled soups, salads and trendy pasta dishes.

Tempted by the thought of langostino salad, Imogen passed through the gate and waited to be seated. It was as she was being shown to a table that a voice exclaimed, “Imogen Palmer, is that you hiding behind those dark glasses?”

Startled, she looked around to see Patsy Donnelly, of all people, rising from a table just inside the patio’s wrought-iron railing, her dark blue eyes and black hair so much like her brother’s that, without warning, all Imogen’s fine resolutions to stay in charge of herself and the events surrounding her wilted like roses left too long without water.

Mistaking her stunned silence for nonrecognition, Patsy said, “It’s me, Imogen. Patsy Donnelly. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

“Of course not,” Imogen said weakly. “I’m just surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

But if her response was less than enthusiastic, Patsy didn’t seem to notice. Inviting Imogen to join her by pulling out one of the chairs at her table, she laughed and said, “I don’t see why. It is Rosemont’s centennial celebration, after all, not to mention Miss Duncliffe’s big retirement bash. Just about everyone we went to school with is in town, even Joe. I’m just the first of a long line of familiar faces you’ll be running into. How long are you staying?”

“Not long at all,” Imogen said, suppressing the urge to bolt to the hotel, pack her bags, race to the airport and climb aboard the first flight headed west. Why was Joe Donnelly here when, from everything she’d ever heard, the only time he’d shown the slightest interest in school had been during basketball season?

Patsy flagged down a waiter, asked him to bring an extra wineglass, then sat regarding Imogen expectantly. “So, tell me about yourself. Are you married? Do you have any children?”

“No.” Her answer was brief to the point of rude, but not for the life of her could Imogen get past the fact that Joe Donnelly was in town. She couldn’t face him. It was as simple as that! Bad enough that he was resurrecting himself in her memory without her having to confront him in the flesh.

Patsy leaned forward, her pretty, vivid face creased with concern. “Did I ask the wrong question, Imogen?”

Realizing she was committing the kind of social gaffe that would have put her mother under the table with shame, Imogen struggled to rally her composure. “No, no. I’m just...surprised you remember me.”

It wasn’t an entirely moronic observation. She’d been tutored by a governess until she was thirteen and would have been sent to boarding school after that if Suzanne had had her way. But Imogen, desperate to be “ordinary” like the teenagers she saw around town, had prevailed on her father to allow her to attend Rosemont High.

But she’d never really belonged. Her circle of friends had been limited to those few girls her mother had decided were sufficiently gently reared to associate with a Palmer. In fact, she could count on one hand the number who’d been allowed to set foot inside Deepdene’s gates to enjoy a game of tennis or dabble their well-bred toes in the swimming pool.

Although Patsy had been universally popular with her schoolmates, she had not met Suzanne’s rigid standards, and the best Imogen had been able to establish with her was an association that, though friendly, had rarely extended beyond the school grounds.

“Not remember you?” Patsy hooted, gesturing to the waiter to fill both glasses from the open wine bottle on the table. “Imogen, you were the most unforgettable girl ever to pass through the school doors. When we weren’t all terrified of you, we wanted to be just like you. You were—” she stopped and waved both hands as if invoking divine intervention “—a princess in our midst. Mysterious, regal. The Grace Kelly of Rosemont High, which is why—”

“Why what?” Surprised by Patsy’s sudden awkward silence, Imogen leaned forward, intrigued. “What were you going to say?”

Patsy shrugged and made a big production of wrapping her paper napkin around the base of her wineglass. “Oh, just that, well, I thought you might be...with someone.”

“No one special, no.”

“I see.” Still noticeably ill at ease, Patsy continued to find her napkin fascinating. “So, um, where do you live and what do you do?”

Imogen continued to regard her curiously. The girl she’d known in school was never at a loss for words, yet Patsy was foundering. “I work for an interior design company in Vancouver.”

“Interior design!” Her vivacity resurfacing, Patsy grinned delightedly. “My, that has a real Imogen ring to it!”

“Simply put, it means I help rich women decide what color they should paint their bathrooms.”

“I suspect it involves a lot more than that. You always had a real eye for style. You’re the only girl I ever knew who could make blue jeans and a T-shirt look like high fashion.”

“Probably because the only way I could persuade my mother to let me wear them in the first place was if they had designer labels sewn on them. But what about you, Patsy? Any husband or children in your life?”

“No husband, but there are children. I’m an aunt twice over. Dennis is seven and a half, and Jack will be six in October. And they’re adorable, as you’ll see for yourself.” She raised her wineglass, said, “Cheers! Lovely to see you again,” then went on without a pause. “Joe took the boys fishing for minnows in Flanagan’s Slough, and I met some of the old gang from school for dinner here earlier, but I don’t have a car to get home, so he’s stopping by to give me a lift.”

Imogen sat there like stone, unable to drum up anything resembling a coherent response to the stream of information Patsy directed her way. Whatever else she’d thought herself prepared for, the possibility that Joe had settled down to family life had never once occurred to her. If she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning, the shock couldn’t have been more acute. But that’s not fair, she wanted to howl. If he was going to fall in love anyway, why couldn’t it have been with me?

“Did you go into nursing as you planned?” she managed to ask with a semblance of normality when Patsy stopped speaking.

“Oh, yes. Got my degree, took some post-grad training in neonatal care and have worked at Toronto General on the maternity floor ever since, looking after the premature babies. I love it, although it’s heartbreaking at times. But the miracle of birth never ceases to thrill me, especially when a baby survives despite the odds.”

The sun still sparkled on the lake, but Imogen was lost in a sudden darkness. How was it possible for old pain to rise up and consume a person so thoroughly that her vision was clouded by it and a giant fist seemed to be squeezing the life out of her heart? “I have to go,” she said, rising up from her chair almost violently.

“But you only just got here!”

“I know. But I just remembered—”

Too much. Far, far too much!

In her haste, she stumbled against the table and sent the contents of her handbag flying. Her wallet fell out and hit the patio with such a thump that the change purse opened, scattering loose coins under the adjoining table.

As if they’d been waiting for just such a windfall, two small boys appeared out of the lengthening shadows and, like beggars foraging for scraps, scooped up the shiny nickels and dimes with shrieks of glee.

Imogen didn’t need the chill of premonition creeping up her spine to tell her she’d waited too long to make her escape. Who but offshoots of the Donnelly clan could have been blessed with such unruly cowlicks, such thick black hair, such startlingly blue eyes? The boys scrabbling at her feet were miniature replicas of Joe, devils in the making. And if they were here, could he be far behind?

CHAPTER TWO

“GIVE the lady her money, kids.” Smooth and seductive as black satin, his voice practically stroked the back of her neck.

The boys could have robbed her of her last dollar for all Imogen cared. At that precise moment her only concern was that she not make a spectacle of herself. The last time she’d seen Joe Donnelly, she’d been an emotional mess. She would not appear the same way again. If anyone was to be caught at a disadvantage, it would be he.

Exercising an hauteur not even her mother could have matched, Imogen turned her head ever so casually and spared him a brief over-the-shoulder glance. “Oh, hello. It’s Joe, isn’t it?”

The effort was worth what it cost her, if only to witness the way his jaw dropped and his sultry black lashes spiked upward as the famous Donnelly eyes widened in shocked recognition.

“Imogen?” His voice changed, losing its baritone resonance and emerging rusty as a chunk of old metal fished from the depths of the lake.

“That’s right.” Even though her insides were churning, she flashed a cool, impersonal smile and tucked a few retrieved articles inside her bag. “Imogen Palmer. Patsy and I went to school together and were just reminiscing over old times.”

“The hell you say!”

He sounded as if he were being strangled. If she hadn’t been in such pain, she might have enjoyed his discomfiture. Instead, since there was no other way for her to escape unless she chose to vault over the iron railing separating the patio from the park, she steeled herself to turn and face him.

Oh, he was beautiful! Contrary to all she’d told herself, he was as trim and fit a specimen of manhood as any woman could wish for. Despite the intensified gloom under the awning, she could see that his face was more chiseled than it had been when he was twenty-three, defining more fully the character of the man he’d become. He stood tall and proud, the rebel in him controlled but not tamed.

“Well,” she said, turning away before he read the desolation she knew must show in her eyes, “it’s been nice seeing you again, Patsy. Sorry we didn’t have more time to chat.”

Patsy looked from her to Joe, her expressive face betraying utter confusion. “But—”

One of the boys held out a grimy paw. “Here’s your money, lady.”

“Thank you,” Imogen said, avoiding his clear-eyed gaze. She could not bear to look at him or his brother. Stepping past them and the man at their side, she said, “Sorry to rush off like this, Patsy, but we’ll probably see each other again in the next day or so. Goodbye, Joe. You have lovely children.”

She hoped she made a dignified exit. Spine straight, she tried to move with the unhurried grace of a fashion model through the maze of tables which wove an obstacle course between her and the gate. Only when she’d covered a hundred yards or so of her return journey along the shoreline boardwalk and was a safe distance from the restaurant did she allow herself to slump against the promenade wall and draw a shaking hand over her face.