Page 11 of You'll Find Out
It had been over four years since Mara had called Shane’s father on the telephone and learned the devastating news that Shane had been killed in a terrorists’ attack in Northern Ireland. Mara had realized that as a television cameraman, Shane’s occupation could at times be dangerous. She knew that this particular assignment in Belfast would be difficult and risky. But when confronted with Mara’s fears for his safety, Shane had waved them off, emphasizing that the film, a frank documentary on the political battle in Northern Ireland, was important, not only for his personal career advancement but also for public awareness. It was his hope that the film would demonstrate the political unrest of a society torn by religious and economic strife.
Shane had downplayed the hazards and dangers of the assignment, and Mara had reluctantly accepted his careful explanations and ultimate decision to make the trip to the tiny island. Later she realized that it had been her own foolish attempt to hide behind a curtain of half-truths, because the knowledge of the bloodshed and risks that Shane might have had to encounter were too much for her to bear.
Mara hadn’t known that she was pregnant when Shane had left her alone in the airport terminal. Perhaps if she had realized that she was carrying a child, she could have convinced him to stay with her and the baby, and they could have been married, as she had hoped. But as it was, she never saw him again—until he walked into her office over four years later.
It was in the telephone call to Shane’s father that Mara had hoped to get in touch with the father of her child and let him in on the glad news. Shane had been gone for over six weeks, and in that long, lonely time, she had received only one badly connected telephone call and a hastily written card. Then, abruptly, nothing.
But the raspy voice of Shane’s father, and the heavy pause as she asked about Shane, heightened the dread that had been mounting. Before the old man could whisper the news to her, she understood that Shane was gone—forever. She managed to quell the scream of disbelief and bereavement in her throat and murmur her sympathies to the stranger on the other end of the line. She tried to hang up the phone, but didn’t, and the receiver dangled awkwardly in midair for the rest of the evening as she sat in stunned silence. She cried herself to sleep that night, and when slumber did finally come, it was fitful and shattered by the truth: Shane was dead.
For the rest of the week she cried intermittently, unable to piece together the fragments of her broken life. Her appetite disappeared with fatigue and nausea. When Peter Wilcox, an old high school friend, had dropped by to visit her, he had found Mara lying on the couch, disheveled, crying bitter tears and battling unsuccessfully with morning sickness. He had helped her to the bathroom, and the sight of her thin body, torn with uncontrollable retching as she hung her head over the basin, didn’t stop him from attempting to comfort and console her.
With strong and commanding movements, he had helped her get dressed and had listened compassionately when she had explained, through convulsive sobs, about Shane. And the child.
Peter had the strength to make the decisions that Mara couldn’t. He understood her grief for Shane, and then forced her admission into a local hospital insisting that it was necessary for her health and that of the baby. The one consoling thought throughout Mara’s turbulent period of anguish was the knowledge that she was carrying Shane’s child.
Slowly she regained her strength, and though never nonexistent, the pain of her grief eased. Peter helped her through her deepest depression. His words were comforting, his arms were strong, and above all else, he was kind to Mara rather than critical or judgmental. It was as if he had taken it upon himself to see that she was cared for. And as the days passed, Mara could sense that Peter was falling in love with her. Although she never returned the depth of his feelings, it seemed only reasonable that she should marry him. She had a child to care for and Shane was dead—or so she believed.
The first arguments in the marriage didn’t begin until after Angie was born. It seemed to Mara that once the baby arrived, and the physical evidence of Mara’s passion for another man existed, Peter and she became alienated. Although Angie bore the Wilcox name and the secret of her parentage was never discussed, all of the attention that Mara lavished upon the child seemed to annoy Peter and add to his resentment of the blond little girl.
Mara and Peter would quarrel, bitterly at times. Then he would leave her, sometimes for days. She had heard the gossip about his supposed affairs, but she ignored it and refused to forget the kindness he had shown her when she needed it most. And then came the sudden shock of his illness and the steady deterioration of a young and once healthy man.
The grandfather clock struck the quarter hour, and Mara was jarred back to reality. Headlights flashed through the windows and a car engine died in the driveway. It had to be Shane. Mara felt a shiver of anticipation—or was it dread—as the doorbell announced Shane’s arrival.
When Mara opened the door, she braced herself and tried to cool the race of her pulse that gave evidence to her tangled emotions. But as the doorway widened and the warm interior lights spilled into the night, Mara suddenly realized how vain her attempts at composure were. Shane was too much the same as he was when she had been so mindlessly in love with him. She could sense the return of familiar seductive feelings, and she wanted to be propelled backward in time to a familiar setting that was carefree and loving.
A smile touched the corners of the hard line of Shane’s mouth, and his eyes seemed to come alive as he looked down at her. His gaze poured over her, and even fully dressed in a rose-colored crepe gown, she felt naked. Shane loosened his tie and raked his fingers through his ebony hair in a gesture of indecision. “You . . . look . . . gorgeous,” he murmured with a frown, as if the thought were a traitorous admission. “But then, you always manage to look elegant, don’t you?”
His voice was a seductive potion to her, and she felt a need to break his disarming spell. “Shane . . . I—”
He interrupted. “Aren’t you going to invite me into your home?” A black, somewhat disdainful eyebrow cocked.
“I thought we were going out.”
“We are. But we have to talk a few things over first. Don’t you agree?” There was an urgency to his words, as if four years was too long a time to bridge the widening abyss that separated them.
Mara drew in a long, unsteady breath as she realized that she hadn’t moved out of the doorway, as if her small body would somehow discourage him from entering her home. She didn’t know quite why, but she understood that she couldn’t let him into the house, into her privacy, into her heart. Not again.
“Can’t we talk in the restaurant?” she asked, still forming a weak barrier to her home.
“Would you feel safer in a crowd?”
“No . . . yes . . . oh, Shane so much has happened in the last four years. Perhaps we’re making a big mistake. I’m not really sure that I want to—”
“Of course you do,” he coaxed. “As much as I do.” His dark eyes held hers for an instant, and without consciously thinking about it she stepped away from the door. By her movements she invited him inside.
In a scarcely audible voice she managed to pull together her poise and her graciousness. “Excuse my manners, please come in,” she whispered. “Could I get you a drink?”
The tightness of his jawline seemed to slacken a little. “Yes—thanks. Bourbon, if you have it.”
“I remember,” Mara murmured, and led him through the tiled foyer and into the drawing room. As she walked she sensed his eyes roving over the interior of the house, probing into the most intimate reaches of her life. Although he said nothing, there was an air of disapproval in his stance. His dark eyes skimmed the elegant drawing room with its expensive furnishings. He missed nothing: the gracious mint-green brocade of the draperies, the peach-colored linen and velvet that highlighted the Chippendale chairs, the ornate and lavish antique tables that had been part of the Wilcox home for generations, the walls covered in linen and proudly displaying past members of the Wilcox family, even the plush pile of the authentic Persian carpet. Nothing escaped his gaze, from the French doors near the garden to the hand-sculpted Italian marble fireplace, Shane stood with one hand in the pocket of his chocolate-colored slacks, his tweed jacket pushed away from his body, and Mara could tell that he was tense, tightly coiled. When she handed him his drink, she was careful not to let her fingers brush against his, for fear that the passion that had smoldered within her for so long would suddenly be ignited.
Shane’s studious gaze traveled to the fireplace, and Mara froze. The glass of wine that she held in her hand remained motionless in the air, suspended halfway to her lips. Upon the Italian marble of the mantel stood a picture of Angie as an innocent two-year-old. The portrait captured Shane’s attention, and he strode meaningfully over to the fireplace for a closer look at the child. Mara’s breath constricted in her throat as she watched him. Dear God, would he know? Could he guess? Should she tell him—could she?“She’s your daughter, Shane! Your own flesh and blood.”Mara wanted to shout the words but was unable. She raised the trembling glass of wine to her lips and let the cool liquid slide down her suddenly parched throat.
“Is this your little girl?” Shane asked, studying the portrait carefully.
“Yes . . . yes it is. It . . . I mean, the picture was taken almost two years ago . . .” Mara whispered. Again she swallowed the wine.Tell him! Tell him!her insistent mind commanded.No matter what has happened in the past, he has the right to know about his child! No pain or anguish that you have suffered at his hand gives you the right to withhold the fact that he fathered Angie. It’s his right! Tell him the truth! Tell him NOW!
“She’s very pretty,” Shane observed, “just like her mother.” He fingered the portrait as if drawn to the beguiling child’s face, and Mara knew that if she didn’t steady herself, she would faint. If only she had the courage to tell him the truth. A faint shadow hardened Shane’s features.He must know,Mara thought.
