Tangled Memories. Marta Perry
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She left for Savannah to talk to you about me when I was six months old. She died in an accident on the trip.”
An accident—that was what Aunt Ella had always said. It was what Corrie had always believed, until she’d been sorting through Aunt Ella’s papers after her stroke. She’d found the marriage license and a scribbled postcard, knocking down her belief in who she was like a child’s tower of blocks.
He made a dismissive gesture with the papers. “Grace Grant never returned to Savannah after my son died.” His voice grated on the words. With grief? She couldn’t be sure. “If you are her daughter, that still doesn’t guarantee my son was your father.”
Her temper flared at the slur, but before she could speak, one of the lawyers did.
“A DNA test,” he murmured.
Manning shot him an annoyed look. “From what I’ve learned, that’s not likely to be conclusive with the intervening generation gone.”
“Nevertheless—” The lawyer’s smooth manner was slightly ruffled. Obviously the attorneys would prefer that he let them deal with this situation.
“I have no objection to a DNA test.” Why would she, if there was even a chance that it would answer her questions?
Who am I, Lord? I know I’m Your child, but I have to know more.
Manning tossed the papers on the table, bracing himself with one hand on its glossy surface. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t get anything from me in any event.”
“I don’t want anything.” That was what they seemed incapable of understanding. “All I want is to know something about my father. Nothing else.”
His mouth twisted. “Do you really think I’ll believe that?”
The truth sank in. Manning didn’t believe her, and he wouldn’t help her.
“No, obviously you can’t.” She wouldn’t offer to shake hands. If her father had been anything like this man, maybe she was lucky he’d never been a part of her life. “I can’t say it’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Manning, but it’s been interesting.”
She turned toward the door again, holding her head high. Aunt Ella wouldn’t have expected anything less. But the disappointment dragged like a weight pressing her down, compounding her still-raw grief.
“Just a minute.” Manning’s voice stopped her again. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Proposition?” She turned back slowly, not sure she wanted to hear anything else he had to say.
A thin smile creased his lips. “I won’t claim you as a grandchild, understand that. I won’t give you anything. But you may come and stay at my house in Savannah for a few weeks.” The lawyers were twittering, but he ignored them. “If you mean what you say, that will give you a chance to learn something about my son.”
“If you don’t believe I’m your grandchild, why would you want me there?” She eyed him, wondering what was in his mind.
His smile grew a bit unpleasant. “Ever heard the expression, ‘putting a cat among the pigeons’? I suppose not. Never mind my motives. They are not your concern.”
“Mr. Manning, we really don’t think this is a good idea.” Courtland and Broadbent exchanged glances.
Manning transferred his grip from the table to the back of the chair, leaning heavily, obviously tiring. “You make the arrangements. She can go now, while I’m still out of town. Lucas will take care of her.”
“Lucas?” She grasped at the unfamiliar name, trying to make sense of this.
“Lucas Santee. He was married to my niece’s child. He runs my companies.”
“The young woman hasn’t agreed to go.” And the lawyers obviously hoped she wouldn’t.
“She will.” Manning sent her a shrewd glance. “Won’t you?”
She didn’t like his attitude. Didn’t like the feeling that he was manipulating her for some reason she couldn’t understand. If she acted on instinct, she’d walk right out the door and go back to Ulee. She had plenty there to keep her busy until school started again.
But she wouldn’t, because if she did, she’d never know the answers to the questions that haunted her. I hope this is what You want, Lord.
“I’ll go,” she said.
Corrie leaned against the leather seat of the town car that had been waiting at the airport in Savannah. From the window, everything was so much softer, more verdant than she’d expected. Palmettos lined the road, and beyond them she could see rank after rank of tall, straight pines.
“Too bad the azaleas are past their prime.” The grizzled driver, Jefferson, he’d said his name was, turned from the highway onto a residential street. “I always say you haven’t seen Savannah until you’ve seen it with the azaleas blooming.”
She watched the city flow by—streets lined with cream-colored walls, wrought-iron fences, twisted live oaks draped with silvery Spanish moss. Flowers bloomed everywhere, so lush and colorful they almost looked artificial. The houses seemed to hide behind their colorful barrier, as if holding secrets closed to her.
“Does the family live in this section of town?”
Jefferson nodded. “Not far. This here’s the old part of town.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the left. “River Street’s over that way. You’ll want to see that while you’re here. Right now I’m to stop and pick up Mr. Lucas, then take y’all to the house.”
Corrie’s nerves tingled. Manning had said Santee ran his company. What else did he run? Santee obviously intended to vet her before exposing the rest of the family to her. She felt a tingle of apprehension. “Are we picking him up at his office?”
“At the construction site. They’ve been having problems at the new building. Nothing Mr. Lucas can’t handle. He can handle anything.”
That was another view of Lucas Santee. He could handle anything. Maybe the implication was that he could handle her, too. In a moment she’d have a chance to decide for herself just how much of a challenge Lucas Santee was going to be.
Thanks to the briefing the lawyers had reluctantly provided, she knew that a number of Savannah businesses bore the Manning name. Lucas Santee ran the largest, the construction firm, and oversaw the rest since Manning’s retirement.
The driver stopped the car next to a wooden construction barrier. “Here we are, miss. I’ll just go find Mr. Lucas.”
Jefferson disappeared into the construction site, but Corrie was too restless to wait. She was keyed up and ready. The plane trip had been a prelude. Her quest was about to start. She slid out of the car and followed Jefferson on to the construction site.
The three stories of what was going to be a new bank, according to the sign, were at the stark girder stage. The building loomed over her, surrounded by heavy yellow construction vehicles.
She didn’t see Jefferson, so she smiled at the nearest worker. “Where’s Lucas Santee?”
The man gave her the once-over before pointing to the third level of the building. “Up there. The suit.”
Actually, Lucas Santee had shed his suit coat, but Corrie understood. The other man was short, round and rumpled in workmen’s overalls. Santee’s shirt was dazzling white, and his dark slacks had a knife-edge crease she could see from here. He stood confidently on a girder, as self-assured as if he stood in a boardroom.
Santee said something that looked emphatic, motioning to the building around him. The other man appeared to object, but Santee cut him off with a quick, definitive gesture.
Santee stepped into the open cage of an elevator. With one hand braced against the metal on either side, he descended. Was he looking her way?