Page 144 of The High Tide Club
Write to me soon, darling Gardiner, and tell me what to do. I love and miss you with all my heart, but the thought that I will soon hold our own sweet baby in my arms has me giddy with excitement. And terror. Do you know, I’ve never held a newborn or changed a diaper?
Your expectant M
Brooke read the letter a second time and again a third time. She heard the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the whir of the box fan in the window, and she felt the slow slide of sweat trickling down her back. Finally, she looked up at Lizzie, who was watching her with open curiosity.
“My God,” Brooke said finally. “Millie was pregnant with my mother. And Gardiner was my mom’s father. Not Pops. Gardiner.”
“That’s what it looks like to me,” Lizzie said. “Gardiner Bettendorf was your grandfather. Which means that Josephine was your great-aunt.”
Brooke’s hand trembled as she handed the letter back to Lizzie. “I’ve got to talk to my mother.”
“Agreed,” Lizzie said. “And then you’d better call Gabe too.”
“Gabe?”
“Uh, duh. If Gardiner was Marie’s father and your grandfather, unless I’m sadly mistaken, that makes the two of you Josephine’s closest family. Her heirs.”
Brooke let that sink in for a moment, especially in light of what they’d learned during their visit to the children’s home in Savannah.
“Don’t count out C. D. yet,” Brooke cautioned. “If he really is Josephine’s long-lost son, he’ll be calling all the shots around here.”
“And he’d be your mom’s cousin.”
“Eeeewww,” they said in unison.
Brooke flopped backward onto the carpet and stared up at the ceiling, whose plaster was water-stained and flaking. “This whole thing is too weird to be true.”
“I know. It’s gonna make a great story. And just think! You’ll have every right to tell Dorcas and Delphine to kiss your grits.”
“Kiss my grits?” Brooke said. “Now I know you really have gone native.”
62
Brooke and her mother sat in the small room her parents had added to the back of the 1920s-era Ardsley Park home. Marie had transformed the former den into a cozy sunroom, painting the dark pine paneling, ripping down the drapes, and installing a pair of flowered chintz love seats, wicker armchairs, and huge baskets of ferns and pots of pink geraniums.
“I fixed us an early supper,” Marie said. There was a large club salad with wedges of juicy red tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, sliced, poached chicken breasts, and bacon bits. She served Brooke a plate and handed her a linen napkin rolled around the flatware.
Marie had never flagged in keeping up the standards Millie had instilled in her. Bone china, linen napkins, and always the good silver. The only time Brooke could ever remember eating off paper plates was when the family went on beach picnics.
“Okay,” Marie said. “You’ve got me on pins and needles. What’s so important that you had to drop everything and drive up here today? Is it something about Josephine? Have the DNA results come back on C. D.?”
Brooke sipped her iced tea. “Yes, it’s definitely about Josephine. But this isn’t about C. D., Mom. It’s about you. And Millie. And Gardiner.”
“Oh yes,” Marie said. “The pilot. He was killed in the war, right?”
“That’s right.” Brooke handed her mother the packet of letters. She’d had Farrah make photocopies of everything before leaving the office, but she wanted Marie to read the originals.
“Before I forget, your dad wants you to call him.”
“Why? What does he want?”
“He’d like to speak to you. Could you just do me a favor and call him, please?”
“No.” Brooke abruptly set her glass down on the table. “I’m not calling him. He can call me if it’s that important.”
Marie handed the letters back. “I’m not looking at these until you call your father.”
“Mom! This is really important. It’s why I drove all the way up here today.”
