A Mom For His Daughter. Jean C. Gordon
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how did Stella’s appointment go?
Marc scratched the side of his neck. He was used to his mother and sisters’ friends and his business partner’s wives asking him about Stella because he figured that was what women, especially mothers, talked about. Although Fiona’s question wasn’t any different, it prickled his spine.
Okay, he typed back.
Could we get together this evening?
Fiona was using Stella as a lead-in to getting together? He couldn’t say it was the first time since Cate’s death that a woman had. He slumped against the wall. From their work together at church the other evening, he’d thought better of Fiona.
It’s about Stella appeared before he could form a response. Marc pressed the i-button at the top of his screen and then the telephone icon to call Fiona. He wore off the sudden spike of adrenaline by tapping his foot while the phone rang. He didn’t need this, whatever it was, on top of Stella’s doctor’s appointment.
* * *
Even though Fiona had expected Marc to respond, she nearly dropped the plate she was putting in the cupboard when her phone rang on the counter. She stared at his flashing caller ID and debated whether to let it ring. She’d thought he’d text back to her casual invitation to get together. Her fingers had seemed to go off on their own and added It’s about Stella. She drummed her fingernails on the counter before pressing the answer button with her other thumb.
“Hello.”
“This is Marc Delacroix. I got your text. Why would you need to talk with me about my daughter?”
“I’m sorry. My text was cryptic.”
Fiona clearly heard the derision in the puff of breath Marc released.
“Can I start over? I have an important reason for talking with you about Stella.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
Fiona took a deep breath and kept her voice low. “I had wanted to say this in person. I’m almost certain Stella is my sister’s child.”
The phone went silent for so long, Fiona wondered if he’d hung up, except her phone showed the call was still connected.
“I’m supposed to believe that because you, practically a stranger, say so? And what’s next? You’re going to tell me she wants her back? No way. Your sister, if she really is Stella’s birth mother, gave up her parental rights. The adoption was finalized nearly two years ago.”
“My sister is dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Marc’s voice had lost some of its edge. “But what do you want?”
Some family to love and to love me. She couldn’t say that. He’d think she was unstable. “To be part of Stella’s life, as her aunt, like your sisters,” Fiona answered.
He ignored her answer. “Can you prove it?”
“That Stella is Mairi’s daughter? I think so. I have information and documents and photos of Mairi at Stella’s age.” The last part sounded like she was grasping at straws. “Can we meet?”
“Not until I talk with a lawyer. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.” His phone clicked off.
That hardly could have gone worse. She leaned on the counter. So much for the fantasy she’d concocted on the drive home after Marc had dismissed her at the birthing center. A fantasy of her becoming part of the Delacroix family, of Stella staying over at her apartment, them exploring things together as she and Mairi had. A fantasy of Marc welcoming her help with Stella so he could put in more time on his restaurant launch.
Fiona slapped the countertop. But Stella was family. The only family she had, and she was going to fight to be in her life. It’s what she did, what she’d always done—fight to keep her family together.
* * *
Marc met Claire on her doorstep when she got home from work. He’d hated to drop Stella on his mom again, despite her insisting it was fine, but he needed to talk with someone away from little ears. And who got him better than his twin?
She eyed the bag from the Chinese restaurant around the corner from her apartment in Ticonderoga. “Happy Star? This must be serious.”
“More than you could guess.” Marc rose from his seat on the steps and followed his sister upstairs and into the kitchen.
“Get the food out, and I’ll get us drinks.” Claire opened the refrigerator. “I have lemonade, root beer and milk, or I can brew you a cup of coffee.”
“Root beer’s good.” He took the plastic cartons out of the bag and placed them on the table. “How well do you know Fiona Bryce?”
Claire raised an eyebrow suggestively as she placed the drinks on the table.
“Not like that.” Although the slight trip of his heart contradicted the force of his response.
“Just as a coworker. She seems nice, good at her job. We had lunch together the other day.” Claire hesitated. “From something she let slip about moving a lot, I got the feeling she may have had a rough childhood. But she seems like someone I could be friends with.”
He pressed his lips together. “Would you say she’s honest?”
Claire opened her food container and studied the contents. “As far as I know. Why?”
Marc took a slug of his drink. His throat was suddenly parched. “She says she’s Stella’s aunt.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh and then some.”
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
For whatever reason, even without proof, he did. “Possibly. If you’ve noticed, her hair is exactly like Stella’s and she says she has information and documents and photos of her sister as a child that look like they could be of Stella.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m talking to you, to help me decide. I called the lawyer who handled the adoption. She assured me that I’m rock solid on it.”
“You think Fiona wants to challenge it?”
“I don’t know. She said she only wants to be part of Stella’s life as her aunt.” And he’d believed her. Or wanted to believe her, anyway.
“Could she be after money?”
He hadn’t thought of that. He laughed. “If so, she’ll have an uphill battle with that. Everything I own is sunk into the restaurant partnership and a job that’s dependent on what’s currently an empty shell of a building.” The sarcastic humor drained from him. “She wants to get together to talk.”
“Just the two of you? Is that wise?”
He bristled at his twin challenging him. “I’d rather start off keeping it private and civil, not drag Stella through some kind of legal battle.”
Shades of his mother and no less irritating, Claire patted his hand. “I understand. I meant you and Fiona could get together with a mediator.”
He stabbed a broccoli stalk. “Are you suggesting Renee? I know she’s a qualified counselor, but I’m not comfortable with our baby sister mediating my life.”
She slapped the hand she’d been patting. “Not Renee. I was thinking Connor.”
“Fiona might not agree. I haven’t seen her at Sunday services.” He would have remembered.
“That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t agree.”
“I guess. She may prefer someone else, like her pastor, if she belongs to another church.”
“You said Fiona wants to be part of the family, so play the