Meant To Be Read online

  "I don’t know how long I’ll be," I acknowledged, regretful now that I hadn’t let him drive me in his truck.

  He seized my sweat jacket off the dash, rolled it into a pillow, and laid his head back against the passenger window. "Don’t worry about it," he responded. His eyes closed.

  I smiled, wondering why I should I trust a man I had known less than a week to protect me from a man who most likely was a blood relative. There was no logical reason I should and several reasons I shouldn’t. Nevertheless, there was something about Fletcher that made me feel safe with him. A gentleness of spirit, perhaps, that shone through even when he hadn’t wanted it to.

  I straightened, turned toward the diner’s entrance, and started walking. My eyes stared at the ground until I reached the glass door, pulled it open, and stepped inside. Then, heart pounding, I lifted my chin and surveyed the crowd.

  I walked farther into the diner, wondering if I had arrived first. There were only two more men in sight who were roughly the right age: one was with a woman of equal maturity, the other was with an elderly man. Neither bothered to look up.

  "Excuse me. Are you Meara?"

  I spun around. A man stood directly behind me. He was tall, with a full head of bushy brown hair and dark eyes that surveyed me with a bemused expression. He must have walked in right after I had.

  "Yes," I stammered, cursing my nervousness. "And you must be Jacob."

  "Call me Jake," he said in a smooth, assured tone. "Everyone else does."

  For a long moment we stood motionless, studying one another. He was an attractive man—solid and in good shape for his age, with only the slightest hint of a paunch. His skin was weathered and suitably wrinkled, but his face, with its thick eyebrows, square jaw, and wide, easy smile, held an ageless sort of charisma. His bearing exuded self-confidence, as if he were well-used to making good first impressions, and his eyes reflected none of the taut apprehension I was certain were in my own. In fact, the look he offered was more that of a satisfied customer—as if I was merchandise ordered sight unseen, and he was tickled pink I had turned out so well.

  I grew suddenly uncomfortable. "Maybe we should sit down," I suggested.

  He agreed, and we took a booth. A waitress descended upon us, but though he ordered a half-pound cheeseburger and fries, a glass of orange juice was all I felt I could manage. The waitress departed, and as his bold, piercing eyes fixed on me again, I fought a strange urge to call her back.

  "I can’t believe it," he said with a grin. "You look just like your mother."

  "There is a resemblance," I agreed, anxiously scanning his features to compare them with my own. My face was thinner than Sheila’s had been…had his long, narrow visage contributed to the mix?

  "She was a good-looking woman," he reminisced, leaning back in his seat. But before he had finished the thought, his expression clouded. "Back in the beginning, anyway."

  A sour feeling rose in my stomach, and I began to fight the conflict I had known such a meeting might bring. I was here because he knew things—things about Sheila, things about me. I was grateful for his help, but at the same time, I could not keep myself from resenting his upper hand. Getting the information I wanted—information I deserved as much as anyone else—required that I put my emotional well-being at his mercy. Whether he was my birth father or not, he could easily bend the truth about my adoption for his own purposes. He could lie to me on a whim. He could refuse to help me entirely. Was I really ready for that?

  I sat up, my pulse racing. There is no need to panic, I assured myself. Just slow things down. "So," I said, attempting light-heartedness. "The marriage license said you were a policeman in the seventies?"

  His chest swelled with pride. "The seventies, the eighties, the nineties. I retired last year."

  "That’s impressive," I responded mindlessly. "Were you with the Somerset force the whole time?"

  He shook his head, watching me with a curious expression. "No, I moved around."

  Silence descended, during which his eyes continued to drink me in, almost without blinking. Such a reaction was not unexpected; Sheila hadn’t been able to keep from staring at me, either. Yet something about Jake’s gaze was different. Whereas I had surveyed Sheila with an equal sense of awe, meeting his eyes now was awkward—almost unnerving.

  "I know it must be odd to receive a phone call out of the blue like this," I blurted, suddenly anxious to get on with it. "And I want to assure you that I have no intention of intruding on your life. But I would very much like some closure about my adoption."

  He nodded, and his visage once again turned sober. "Of course you would. But I don’t understand. You say you met Sheila, but she wouldn’t answer any of your questions?"

  I took a breath, wishing my explanation didn’t have to be so complicated. I didn’t want to lie, but where could I begin? And how much did I really want to share with him? I had never laid out for anyone the whole, convoluted series of events that had begun the day I met Sheila in the coffee shop. I didn’t want to do so now, either.

  "She called me to her bedside after the accident," I said, simplifying. "But she wasn’t able to speak clearly. And she died shortly afterward."

  "I see," he answered, his tone softening. "So how did you find me?"

  I explained about the marriage license and the internet search, and he surprised me with a chuckle. "Well, it’s a good thing I’m not trying to hide from anyone, isn’t it? Amazing what you can find out online." He offered a charming smile, but in the next instant his gaze changed from admiring to appraising, and his voice lowered. "How much do you know about Sheila?"

  My eyes met his, and we both knew what he was talking about. My heart pounded anew. "I know that she was in prison."

  He nodded. "And how did you find out about that?"

  "Another woman who’d been at Muncy," I explained. "She came to the funeral."

  A trace of nervousness flickered across his features. "Sorry I didn’t make it. But I didn’t know—I don’t read the obits. What did this woman tell you?"

  I squirmed in my seat, all too cognizant of what was happening. Jacob Kozen knew more about Sheila than he was inclined to share. He was fishing to see what I had already discovered, all the time being careful not to tip his hand. Resentment swelled within me once more, but I tried not to hold his reticence against him. If the truth about Sheila was as disturbing as I suspected, he might only be trying to spare my feelings.

  "I know that whatever she did, she was in prison for a long time," I answered. "But it seems she didn’t confide in this friend about her personal life."

  He nodded again. "Sheila never was a talker," he confirmed. "I’ll give her that."

  The waitress returned, bringing our drinks. Jake cast a fetching grin at her as she placed his in front of him, and she eagerly smiled back. The flirtation was as unconscious as it was harmless, and I knew I had no business judging him for it. Nevertheless, as I watched him grab two packs of sweetener for his tea and rip them open with a flourish, I found myself fighting back ire. How could the man be so blasé? Right now? How could he even think about food, or sweetener, or buxomy waitresses, when one look at my orange juice was enough to turn my stomach?

  I drew myself up straight. I could wait no longer.

  "I want to know why she went to prison," I announced. "And I want to know why I was given up for adoption when the two of you were married when I was born." My voice quavered toward the end; my heart beat violently in my chest.

  His gaze trained back on mine, his expression at first surprised, then contemplative. Out of the corner of my eye I noted that my arms were trembling again, and I hastened them under the table and out of sight.

  The silence that followed seemed endless. "I hate to have to tell you this," he began finally, his voice flat. "But your mother was a drug addict. Heroin, to be exact."

  My heart stopped in mid beat. I had to force myself to breathe. In. Out. Calm down. You knew this was a possibility. "I see," I answe
red, my voice cracking. "So that’s why she went to prison? Drug charges?"

  He confirmed my words with a slow nod. His eyes bore into mine, and although just seconds ago I had been irritated by his nonchalance, the intensity of his gaze now disturbed me more. "She was in deep," he continued. "Real deep. I tried to help her, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t in the best place myself back then."

  A shiver ran up my spine, and its impact rocked my shoulders. Stop it! I ordered myself, furious. I didn’t want him to see how unsteady I was…after all my preparation, after all the truth scenarios I had imagined I could deal with. This wasn’t the worst of them, and still I was crumbling. I had to buck up.

  "She tried to be a good mother," he went on, his tone more matter-of-fact than soothing. "But you know how it is with drugs. You just can’t think about anything besides where your next fix is coming from."

  No, I thought angrily, my teeth beginning to chatter in my jaws. I don’t know how it is. I’m not that stupid. "So I was taken away by the county?"

  He took a long, slow breath. I stole another glance at his eyes, wondering if he could see how much his words were hurting me—wondering if he cared. But all I perceived was concentration. Or perhaps, calculation.

  "Sheila never wanted to give you up," he said mildly. "She just couldn’t deal with being a mother. There were a lot of problems at home, and later on, you weren’t living with us much anyway. When Sheila finally got convicted, it was just the end. I knew she was going away for a long time, and there wasn’t anybody else who could take care of you. I was in debt up to my eyeballs thanks to her, and neither of us had any family to count on."

  He paused and watched me, his expression suddenly anxious. "I thought you’d be better off adopted."

  My blood ran cold; my mind reeled. The information was coming at me fast and furious, far too quickly to process. He didn’t make it sound as though the county had taken me. He made it sound as though Sheila had lost her rights, and he had given his up.

  He hadn’t thought he could raise me alone. Perhaps he too, had had a drug problem. Or perhaps…

  "I have to ask you," I said, lifting my shaking hands above the table again and folding them together to still them. "I know that you and Sheila were married when I was born. But were you sure—" I broke off, nauseous. "I mean, with her being an addict, I wondered if—"

  His facial expression didn’t change as I spoke, but his eyes flickered with indignation. "If you want to ask me something," he said coolly, "just ask."

  I looked away from him, a fresh wave of resentment surging. Jake had divorced Sheila twenty-five years ago and had probably not laid eyes on her since. Now she was dead. Yet the mere suggestion that his ex-wife might once have been unfaithful to him was enough to threaten his ego? When here I was, trembling all over, practically begging for the truth?

  "I want to know if you’re my biological father," I snapped, unable to control my frustration. "I’m not judging you—or Sheila. All I want is a straight answer."

  Our eyes met once more, and this time, mine held his fast. I studied their brown depths, trying desperately to read the man inside. Was he my birth father? Did I even want him to be?

  When I had first met Sheila, I expected to sense something immediately—some sort of connection between us. I hadn’t, even though the legitimacy of our bond was not in question. What I did feel upon meeting her was a final acceptance, a feeling of wholeness, and of hope. I didn’t understand her, but I thought that perhaps I could, someday.

  Could I ever understand Jake Kozen? This smooth, blue-collar Casanova who had felt unable, even at the age of twenty-nine, to raise a daughter alone? I had sworn I wouldn’t judge him. But I couldn’t deny the fact that if I were meeting him under different circumstances, I would already have run—not walked—the other way. Paternal instinct was one of the qualities I had come to value most in a man. Had he even a drop of it?

  His eyes flickered with a range of emotions. My outburst seemed to have caught him off guard, but its effect was far from negative. I sensed a grudging respect, then something I could describe only as intrigue. His face softened, and his lips curved into a smile.

  "Of course you’re my daughter," he answered evenly, his eyes glimmering. "I’m sorry I didn’t make that clearer. I assumed you already knew."

  You’re lying.

  I gave no indication of the certainty that swelled within me. I merely forced my lips to smile, concealing the clench of my teeth.

  You’re not my father, and you know it.

  The diner spun; my head seemed to wobble.

  "Do you want a copy of your birth certificate?" he asked. "I still have it somewhere. And the adoption records, too. I’ll—" he paused, studying me again.

  Could he sense my mistrust?

  "I’ll be happy to answer any questions you want," he offered. "I guess the answers aren’t exactly what you’d hoped for though, are they?"

  I shook my head only slightly, but the diner spun worse. I couldn’t move. His expression now was kind, his words, sensitive. But at that moment, in the depths of his eyes, I saw something else. Something that hit my already twisted gut as violently as a fist.

  Ice.

  His dark pupils couldn’t hide it—couldn’t match the friendly, casual smile on his face. There was a coldness in him. A core beneath the facade. Hard, callous, unbending.

  Unmerciful.

  "I’d like to get to know you better, Meara," he continued, the polite words flowing smoothly from his mouth. There was nothing sinister about them. Nothing at all. "Well, what do you say?"

  He smiled at me. I looked in his eyes again.

  I felt terror.

  A cold blackness exploded in my gut. My body reeled with a rush of adrenaline, and I slid from the booth with a jerk.

  "I’m sorry," I exclaimed, fighting to keep my voice from screaming and my feet from hustling me away. "It’s just that I’m not sure I’m ready for this." I reached into my back pocket, extracted a few dollars, and laid them on the table next to my untouched juice. "Th—thank you for answering my questions," I stammered, avoiding his eyes. "And yes, I would like the adoption records. Could you mail them to me?"

  "Of course," he answered, rising with me. "But I don’t know your address. Give me your number and I’ll call you when I find them."

  "I’m listed in the book in Pittsburgh," I replied, thinking quickly as I moved backwards toward the exit. There was no point in hiding that fact—my number and the address of my parents' house would show up in any internet search, just as his had. "I’m in the process of moving, but I’ll pick up messages at that number."

  He started to follow, and I hastened my retreat. "I’m sorry to leave so soon, but I really have to go. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Goodbye."

  I reached the door and pushed it open with my shoulders.

  Fresh air hit my lungs. I took it in with hungry heaves, moving quickly across the parking lot toward my car. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t look back.

  I could feel his eyes still watching me.

  Chapter 15

  Fletcher swung open the inn’s front door. Seconds passed before I realized he was waiting for me to walk in first.

  "Thank you again for going with me," I said when we had both entered the foyer. My voice sounded ominously vacant, even to me. "I’m sorry I wasn’t better company."

  He offered a frustrated look, but said nothing. Silence had been the norm ever since I had rushed across the parking lot and jumped into my Hyundai, waking him from a sound sleep by nearly breaking his kneecaps. He had taken one look at me, limped around the car, and pushed me over into the passenger seat. Ten minutes into the drive home, he had asked me if I wanted to talk. I had said no. We hadn’t uttered a word since.

  I walked back into the common room and stopped by the French doors. My eyes fixed on the aged house across the meadow, and my focus blurred. It didn’t seem to matter what I was looking at. Driving through the Laurel Mountains was lovely
this time of year—the leaves were at their freshest green, and overnight rain showers had left miniature waterfalls trickling down the outcroppings of rock along the roadside. But in my mind’s eye, all I had seen was Jake Kozen, standing outside the door of the diner with one thumb perched in a front jeans pocket, his other hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He had stood there, watching, as we drove away.

  I shivered.

  "All right," Fletcher announced. "That’s it."

  I turned my head towards him. I hadn’t even realized he was beside me. "I’m sorry. What did you say?"

  He exhaled. "You’re shaking again."

  I crossed my wrists over my chest and rubbed my upper arms. "Sorry."

  With a groan of exasperation, he rotated me to face him and caught my eyes. "Don’t apologize," he said firmly. Then his expression softened, and his voice dropped low. "I understand if you don’t want to talk to me. But surely there’s someone you can talk to. Just give me a number. I’ll get them on the phone."

  There must be someone. My lower lip trembled, and I felt the familiar, warm welling of tears behind my eyes. Was there someone I could talk to? Certainly I had friends, many of them close. But none of them knew about Sheila. I couldn’t possibly convey to anyone over the phone the nightmare of emotions I had experienced in the last seven days—much less explain the horror now gnawing at my bones.

  "I’d rather not talk to anyone right now," I said in a whisper, certain that my voice, if I attempted to use it, would crack. "But thank you."

  Fletcher released me. He turned his back, rubbing his face with his hands. Then he walked away from me along the windows, staring pensively out over the meadow. He seemed to be deliberating.

  "Please don’t feel like you have to baby-sit," I urged, finding my voice shaky, but functional. "Going with me and driving me home was more than enough. I’ll be fine." I wanted to assure him that I was not an emotional wreck—that I would not crumple into a weeping mass the second I was alone. But I had never been a very good liar.