Desperately Seeking Twin... Read online

  Blair didn’t want him talking to anyone in her family. She had forced herself to do it for just that reason. “I don’t think—”

  “Rosebud.”

  She stared at him as if he’d just lost his mind. “Excuse me?”

  “Rosebud,” he repeated, unfazed by the incredulous expression on her face. “In Citizen Kane, Orson Welles says ‘Rosebud’ just before he dies. Nobody around him knows what he’s talking about. It means absolutely nothing to them. But if they’d said the word to the right person, they would have found out that he was talking about his sled.” Having sufficiently made his point, Devin grinned. “And there would have been no movie.”

  Blair looked at him blankly as she shook her head. “I don’t—” Devin read between the lines. “Never seen Citizen Kane?” he guessed.

  Movies, especially old ones, had never held much interest for her. “No.”

  “Great movie,” he assured her, finishing his meal. Now he could do with more coffee, but this was the wrong time for Rosie to enter. He was weaving a mood, an atmosphere to encourage Blair to confide in him. “You’ll have to rent the video sometime.”

  She had no intention of renting anything. “Mr. Quartermain—”

  She was going to say something about his mind wandering, he could see it. If his mind were to wander, it wouldn’t be onto topics of movies he’d enjoyed. It would be to wonder about her private life, the life that had been so unsettled by all this. And about how many lovers’ heads had graced the pillow beside hers.

  He held up a hand to stop her and to signal. “Rosie, I’d like some more coffee, please.” Then he turned his eyes toward Blair. “Now, then, those names, please.”

  Behind the counter, Rosie chuckled to herself as she reached for the coffeepot. She enjoyed watching Devin operate—she surely did.

  3

  The phone was ringing when Blair walked through the door. Instinct had her hurrying to pick up the receiver, despite the fact that her answering machine was alive and well and, from the looks of the red light flashing on it, intensely busy.

  It was too soon to hope that Quartermain could have discovered something already, but she did anyway. It had been over two hours since she had left him. She’d spent the time driving around aimlessly before she’d finally decided to come home. Driving always calmed her down. Today, she had found herself going from point to point without any consciousness of the journey involved in getting there.

  Blair straightened the hoop at her ear, getting it out of the receiver’s way. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

  “Blair? Is that you?”

  As she recognized the voice, there was an initial wave of pleasure, quickly followed by the splash of pain that completely drenched it. Almost bonelessly, Blair slid down onto her sofa.

  “Yes, it’s me, Aunt Beth. Burglars don’t answer phones.”

  If there was an edge to her voice, an implied distance, Beth gave no indication that she noticed. There was only concern evident when she asked, “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning.”

  Well, that probably explained who belonged to the flashing red lights, Blair thought, looking at the answering machine.

  She sighed, passing a hand over her eyes. There was a headache working its way into existence just behind them. “I thought you were working today.”

  “I took an extra few days off.” There was a pause, as if Beth was weighing her words. Something she’d never had to do before with Blair. “I was hoping to spend them with you. Blair, why don’t you come over? We can talk.”

  It was an invitation that had been extended more times than Blair could remember in the last two days. And she had refused each one. She just wasn’t up to it.

  Blair frowned, picking at a thread hanging from one of the cushions. Through the window, she saw the sky darkening again, as it had been doing off and on all day. The dreariness matched her mood.

  “Thanks, but no. I really don’t feel like talking right now.”

  “Blair, please,” Beth begged, “don’t shut all of us out this way.”

  There was a part of her that hated putting Aunt Beth through this, hated causing the woman any more pain than she already felt. But it was held in check by the large part of her that had been so severely wounded by the secret that they’d all kept from her. It had drawn a line in the sand and placed them on opposite sides of it.

  “I’m not shutting you out, I’m…postponing you.

  I know you mean well,” Blair bit off the words. I don’t know anything of the sort. If you really meant well, things would have been different. “But right now, I would do just fine if everyone would just leave me alone.”

  Beth knew that tone. It echoed her late sister’s. Blair was more Ellen’s daughter than she knew. But for now, it was useless to argue with her niece.

  “Blair, we love you,” she said helplessly. It was all she could say, all she could offer. Somehow, it didn’t seem quite enough.

  Blair’s frown deepened until it felt as if it creased her bones. “Right now, I find that a little hard to believe.” She paused, struggling not to let the bitterness overcome her. “Give me time to work this through for myself.”

  “You were never a loner, Blair. You even hated the fact that you were an only child.”

  Blair thought of the photograph she’d found. The smile that came had no feeling behind it. “Yes, well, I guess I’m not that anymore, am I?” Something small and mean—spirited rose up to egg her on. “And since I did hate it so much, why didn’t Mom just go out and buy me a brother or sister? It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t have known how to go about it.” That was uncalled—for and she knew it, but she couldn’t help it.

  Silence answered her flippant remark. And then Beth sighed. “You’re right. Maybe you do need some time to think this through. And while you’re thinking, I want you to remember one thing.”

  Frustration grew within Blair. She felt her lashes moisten. “What’s that?”

  “Your mother loved you more than anything,” Beth told her fiercely. “We all love you,” she repeated.

  Words, Blair thought, just words. Empty words. “Love means taking risks, Aunt Beth. It means risking the truth.”

  Suddenly, Beth didn’t feel as if she were only ten years older than Blair. She felt old, very old, and she was closer to Ellen at this moment than she was to Blair because she was a mother herself now, and understood things differently from the girl she had been.

  “You’re young yet, and fearless. When you get older, you’ll find out that you’re not so brave about things that really matter. Goodbye, Blair.” There was resignation as well as love in Beth’s voice. “Call me when you need me.”

  Blair squeezed her eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling out. I need you now, Aunt Beth. I need someone to make this awful pain go away.

  But all Blair said out loud was, “Goodbye,” and then hung up.

  Taking a deep breath, Blair slowly blew it out, desperately trying to get her bearings, trying to lock up her emotions and just function on automatic pilot for a while until she could stand this mournful feeling that was ripping through her like a jagged knife.

  The way she saw it, she could do one of two things. She could sit here, almost submerged in the couch cushions, feeling sorry for herself and waiting for Quartermain to call her when he had information to relay.

  Or, she could get up and put some of this anger to positive use.

  Without guilt or eagerness, she thought of the order form sitting on top of her desk in her studio. The order for jewelry she had yet to craft. If she ever hoped to pay Quartermain for his services, she had better get herself in gear. Wallowing in self—pity wasn’t going to accomplish a damn thing.

  It didn’t even feel good.

  Muttering under her breath, Blair dug her fisted knuckles into the sofa and pushed herself out of the cocooning cushions. Vertical again, she made her way to the studio in back of the house.

  A studio her mother had
helped her decorate.

  Blair pushed the thought from her mind. She couldn’t deal with thoughts of her mother now. Didn’t want to have any pleasant memories haunt her. She didn’t want to think about anything except her work.

  Her stomach rumbled, vaguely reminding her that in the last few days, she’d eaten barely enough to keep half a hummingbird alive. But she wasn’t hungry. She was empty. Very, very empty.

  Her studio was dark, even though it was early afternoon.

  Autumn, well on its way to creeping out toward winter, was mournful today. Her hand hovered over the light switch as she debated turning it on. The darkness suited her mood. The abysmal, recurring drizzle just outside had depleted the room of its normal warmth. A blanket of gloom seemed to smother everything.

  It might suit her mood, but it would wreak havoc on her eyesight. Giving in to practicality, Blair turned the light on.

  Over in one corner, where the windows met, she had set up shop, complete with all the various tools that were necessary to her craft.

  Glancing at the propane canister torch, the polishing machine and the hand drill, she mused that it looked more like the workshop of a handyman than a work area where delicate jewelry was born.

  Blair liked the freedom of working at home, of being able to take advantage of inspiration whenever it whimsically hit, no matter what time of day or night. She enjoyed her work; loved it, in fact. It was an outlet for both her creativity and her energy.

  The career that had gotten its start in a workshop she had been mistakenly assigned to in junior high school had taken off in the last few years, allowing her to build a name for herself in the right circles. Blair designed and crafted jewelry, first for fun, then for gifts, and finally, as a livelihood that was on the cusp of paying off handsomely.

  Right now, she was the main candidate under consideration to create a new line for the ostentatious jewelry counter in Baylor’s Department Store. The pieces she would bring in would be the deciding factor. Nothing definite had been asked for, but the word “outstanding” had been bandied about enough times to intimidate someone without Blair’s talent and flair.

  Until two days ago, she’d thought she’d inherited her talent from her mother, for whom painting had been a life’s passion.

  Wrong again.

  Blair stared at the various designs she’d drawn that were spread out on her worktable, not really seeing them. Several ideas had occurred to her, but they’d all had flaws or were too mundane. Finding just the right design for Baylor’s had heretofore stymied her.

  Until now.

  Pulling up the stool that Jeremy, another of her cousins, had bought for her, Blair sat down at the worktable. Lost in thought, she curled her legs around the legs of the stool. The stool was ergonomically correct. Jeremy, a doctor of osteopathy, would have never dreamed of getting her anything else.

  They looked out for one another, she and her cousins. Or had, she amended with a twinge of bittersweetness that was more bitter than sweet. Try as she might to argue herself out of it, she just couldn’t get herself to forgive any of them. She could only pray that she would in time.

  Something was beginning to form in her mind, almost without any conscious intention on her part. Pulling over her sketch pad, Blair began to draw furiously. riously, alternately nodding and frowning as she worked.

  Twenty minutes and seven crumpled—up sheets later, she finally had it down. Something Baylor’s would be proud to display.

  Now came the part she loved. Giving her creation dimensions. Giving it life and breadth.

  She smiled despite herself. Old Mr. Potter, her shop teacher, hadn’t known what he was unleashing on the world when he had stood over her, hiking up his slipping baggy gray trousers over his wide belly, all the while telling her to “Do it better, girl. You can do better than that. You’ve got talent. See it in here first—” he tapped a tobacco—stained finger at his temple “—and then here.” He jabbed the finger at the Bunsen burner, somehow always managing to avoid getting it singed.

  And she had done her best, heaping appropriateor inappropriate, depending on the viewpoint—curses on his woolly white head. Candlestick holders had been the result. The lopsided ones that had found a home in the bottom of her mother’s bureau drawer. He’d only shaken his head in disapproval and given her a C minus for the effort and the project.

  Incensed, Blair swore she’d show him. And she had. The earrings that came after had turned out to be superior to their predecessors. By the time she had fashioned the matching beaten copper bracelet, she knew she’d found her vocation.

  And old Mr. Potter had found something to brag about at end-of-year parties.

  A fondness she wasn’t even aware of nudged at Blair. She wondered if he had always been called old Mr. Potter and where he was these days. The questions floated through her mind aimlessly as she lost herself in her work.

  Blair wasn’t sure just how long she had been at it when she realized that the doorbell was ringing. Pealing, actually. It sounded as if someone was leaning on it.

  At first, she decided to ignore it. She was finally working, finally creating something, and she didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the process.

  But the ringing continued, elbowing its way into her space like an ill—mannered, uninvited guest and intensifying the headache she kept telling herself didn’t exist.

  With an oath, Blair shut off the torch. She put down the piece she was working on and pushed back her stool. The ringing persisted as she marched to the front of the house.

  If it was someone wanting to spray—clean her windows with a revolutionary new product or sell her seven subscriptions that would somehow allow him or her to get the vacation of a lifetime while remaining a struggling student, they were going to be very, very sorry. She was in no mood to be accommodating or even polite.

  Yanking open the door, she snapped, “Yes?” right into Devin Quartermain’s face before she realized that it was him.

  The snapped greeting left him unfazed. He had been on the receiving end of all kinds of salutations. Devin was more concerned that she opened her front door with so little regard for her own security.

  “Don’t you bother asking who it is?” From the surprised look on her face, he could tell she hadn’t even looked through the peephole.

  There were streaks of perspiration on her forehead that were in conflict with the cold day outside. His first guess would have been that she was working out, but people seldom worked out while wearing leather aprons. At least, he thought with amusement, not any people he was acquainted with.

  She didn’t like being on the defensive and he seemed to have a knack for putting her there. “I figured I knew who it was, a boorish clod who refused to go away even when no one answered the door.”

  The words had just popped out and she was embarrassed enough to flush.

  He liked the added color in her cheeks. “Ah, free association. Refreshing.”

  At least he didn’t get offended easily. But people in his line of work probably had to develop a tough skin. Still, that didn’t excuse her behavior. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  He knew better and for some reason, it made him smile. “Yeah, you did. I was leaning on the bell. I saw your car and figured you had to be home.” She’d left it parked in the driveway, before the unopened garage, as if she’d just shed it the way she might have a sweater or a pair of shoes she’d stepped out of.

  Droplets of rain were clinging to his hair, giving him a raw, untamed look. Without realizing it, her fingers tightened on the door that she still held as a barrier between them.

  “Why didn’t you just call? It certainly would have been easier. And drier.”

  He had his own logic and it didn’t always gibe with anyone else’s.

  “Because then I couldn’t see your eyes.” Before she could comment, he continued. “They’ve got phone systems now where you can actually see the person you’re talking to, but those are still in the rough stage
s and even if they were perfected, it doesn’t beat going one-on-one with a person.” His eyes held hers, hoping to tease a smile from her. “In the flesh,” he added softly.

  There was something pleasantly unsettling about the way he said that, but she wasn’t prepared to go down that road and explore it. She was carrying around enough emotional baggage now and her hands were too full to pick up anything else.

  Stepping back, Blair held the door open wider, allowing him to come inside, out of the rain. She didn’t feel up to company, but she obviously didn’t have a say in the matter.

  For now.

  She probably looked disheveled, she thought. Blair dragged one hand through her hair, hoping it would fall into some kind of place.

  “So what did you want to ask me—in the flesh?” she emphasized.

  With the trained eye of a professional, Devin swiftly took in his surroundings. It was a small house. One story with neatly arranged rooms that appeared to efficiently utilize the space allotted to them. The furnishings were eclectic, comprising pieces that didn’t look as if they belonged together, but somehow did.

  It was a house that belonged to a happier woman than the one who had been in his office this morning.

  A happier woman than the one who was facing him now. He wondered what it was like, being in that happier woman’s company. Devin had a feeling that it was very, very nice.

  He passed his hand along the back of his neck, shaking off some of the raindrops in the process. “I must be getting old,” he admitted. “I forgot to ask you something this morning.”

  Blair looked properly surprised. “You mean there was actually a question you left out?”

  Because she had resisted answering his questions when they pertained to her adoptive family, he hadn’t been as thorough as he normally was, making only the most necessary of inquiries. Devin figured he could do the rest slowly.

  He laughed at her expression. “You’d be surprised. I need to ask you the ages of your aunts and uncles.”

  The momentary bantering faded. Blair stared at him. “Their ages? What does that have to do with anything?”