Beachcombing in the Bahamas (Once Again #11)

Chapter 30 – Adeline

30

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ADELINE

I ’d debated whether to do this with the entire family present or to take my dear son and his pathetic fiancé to my room for a one-on-one.

It might blow up in my face. After all, I didn’t miss the way Jodi called me Adeline the other day. And the grandchildren might turn their anger on me instead of where it belongs: on their parents.

But at the same time, no one can deny anything if it’s public knowledge. And so I’ve made my decision. “You should all sit down.” I flourish a hand toward the living room sofas and chairs. Naturally, they all obey. All except Brock and that gold digger.

It wasn’t enough that she stole Pierce. Now she’s snared Brock in her web too.

Well, she doesn’t have a prayer in heaven, not when I’m done with her.

Brock puts an arm around her. It makes my skin crawl.

“I’d hoped never to have to tell this story,” I begin. Unbeknownst to them, I’ve held it in my back pocket for just such an occasion. Although truly, I never thought the occasion would arise. I never believed Brock could be so gullible. Or so stupid.

Brock’s tone is one of bored tolerance. “What story are you making up now, Adeline?”

What’s the best way, a long, drawn-out tale? Or the unvarnished truth hurled at them?

I like the unvarnished version. “Unfortunately—” And really, I don’t smile. Even though inwardly I’m bursting with it. “I need you to know that Yvette is your father’s by-blow.”

One of those insipid girls running around with my grandsons asks, “What’s a by-blow?”

Truly, Ethan can’t want to marry this imbecile. But I have to answer. “It means that your father cheated on me, and Yvette is his daughter.” I don’t need to state the obvious, that it means Brock is her half-brother.

“You’re lying, Adeline.” Brock’s voice is suddenly like a Brillo pad across my skin. But I expected that.

I give a long-suffering sigh. “Honestly, I couldn’t lie about a thing like this.” I put a hand to my chest. “It’s just too painful.”

“And how do you know this?” he barks at me. It’s possible I have him running scared now, but one can never tell with Brock.

“Because Harris told me himself,” I say, watching his face harden and his eyes turn… Could that be fear? I can only hope.

Actually, Harris said no such thing. He denied it when I threw the accusation at him. But I never believed him. I knew. I saw the way he looked at that chauffeur’s daughter. It was so pathetic, like something out of that silly Audrey Hepburn movie, Sabrina .

Then the gold digger speaks up. I hoped she’d simply fall to the floor in a dead faint. But she doesn’t. “If that were true, why would Harris have let Pierce marry me?”

Jodi, that traitorous granddaughter who was far too smart for her own good, or mine, says, “She’s got you there, Adeline.” Perhaps I’ve been too hasty in appreciating that she’s like me. Because that is definitely a derisive tone in her voice.

I’ll have to deal with that kind of disrespect later. But now, I must handle that all-important question. “Harris allowed it,” I say distinctly, “because Pierce was not his son.”

That takes the wind out of their sails. Not one word comes out of any of them. Until Trevor—when has he become so ungrateful?—says, “Isn’t this just a little too convenient, Adeline? That would mean you had to tell Father you’d committed adultery.”

I laugh. Bitterly. Because I am still bitter. Even more than fifty years later. “Of course I told him. I only slept with another man to pay him back for what he’d done.” I straighten my spine. I’d like to hold on to the banister, but that might seem a sign of weakness. “Perhaps it was childish and immature, but I was young then, and yes, I threw that fact in his face.”

“Who was Pierce’s father?” Trevor wants to know.

I flap my hand at him. “Nobody of importance,” I tell him. All these years later, I can’t even remember the man’s name. And now I make the salient point. “So you see, Pierce and Yvette were not brother and sister.” I turn my gaze on the never-will-be-happy-again couple. “But you and Yvette are.”

Brock swallows. Then his eyes widen, their depths turning a fierce blue. “You’re making this up. You don’t want us to be together, and you’re trying to ruin our lives with your lies.”

I look at him oh-so sadly. “I know you would like it to be untrue. But it’s not. Just to be sure, I had DNA tests done.”

That shuts him up. The gold digger shrinks just the way I want her to. She will not have my oldest son, not after she ruined my favorite boy.

Brock, however, isn’t down and out yet. “I suppose this DNA test is conveniently back at home.”

I want to smile. Because I have him, and he’s asked for it. But of course, I can’t smile, not for the rest of my audience. “If you wait just a moment, I’ll go upstairs and get it.”

My dear traitorous Jodi just has to say, “You mean you carry it around with you? So you’ve known Mom and Uncle Brock were in love this whole time and you’ve just been waiting to throw down your trump card?”

Such a perfect question. “I knew nothing about their—” I curl my lip. “—relationship. I thought my son had more respect for his dear departed brother’s memory. The document is something I carry with me always. Just as I carry my daily diary.”

Then I turn on my heel and march up the stairs. Even if it makes my knees ache. Even if coming down again is worse.

But I hand the folder to Brock. He snatches it away, opens it, stares.

And I draw blood. “You better read both documents, one for you, one for Yvette. And don’t forget the conclusion page.”

The papers shuffle. Trevor puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Yvette stands stock still, staring at me. She used to wear an annoying if-looks-could-kill stare. But I’ve finally wiped that look off her face. I’ve won.

And she is utterly devastated.

“This can’t be real,” Brock says, his usual cocksure tone suddenly not so cocksure anymore.

I say, so calmly, “It’s quite authentic.” It had better be. I’d paid handsomely to make sure the two certificates looked as authentic as possible. No one could ever tell the difference.

“How did you get our DNA?” he asks.

This time I allow myself a laugh, but I make it sad, too, hiding the glee I feel inside. “Oh my dear boy, how many times have you eaten at my dinner table?” I look at Yvette, who is shrinking inch by inch, until she seems shorter than I am. “And so has Yvette. It was quite easy to secure a bit of DNA.”

“So you’ve known for years,” Trevor says. He points at the date. At least I assume that’s where he points. “But you only did this five years ago?”

“I had it done as a safeguard after my poor Pierce passed away.”

It is now that Yvette puts a hand over her mouth, and her pathetic cry is music to my ears. “Oh my God,” she cries. Then she runs. Something she should have done years ago. It would never have come to this if she had. I would not have had to reveal my secret.

And I know she believes every word I’ve said.

Ah, at last, the chaos I crave.

My oldest son suddenly towers over me, his features strained, his voice rasping. “I won’t let you do this.”

I feel the slightest urge to quake at the ruthlessness of his tone. But I have never quaked for anyone. “It’s too late. I’ve already done it.”

He drops my folder of evidence to the floor, the papers scattering, and runs after his pathetic paramour. In the end, he will see I’ve done the right thing.

Now I feel the others’ stares, like malevolent spirits swirling around me. My least favorite son, his pregnant wife, all my grandchildren. Then Trevor says softly, and with a menace I’ve never heard in his voice, “Why are you so cruel?”

“The truth can’t be cruel. It’s simply the truth.” I sound smug even to my own ears. Then, with his wife’s hand in his, he walks out the front door, my papers crumpling beneath his shoes.

It doesn’t matter. He, too, will eventually understand that I’ve done what I had to do. They will all understand. It had to be done. I should have done this when she first stole Pierce. But Harris had been alive then. He would never have allowed it.

Finally, the silence in the room scrapes like talons along my skin.

I can’t help myself, and I say, “It’s a party. It’s New Year’s Eve. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

And I tell myself this will all blow over in time.

My youngest granddaughter picks up a champagne bottle, then a platter of some ridiculously fatty appetizer Olive has made. Passing me, her eyes midnight blue pools of anger, Jodi says softly, venomously, “Why do you have to ruin everything?”

And as she marches to the front door, the DNA results mash beneath her shoes.

Without saying a word, the others gather glasses and champagne and platters and follow her out the door.

Until finally I am alone in the oppressive silence. And all my proof lays torn to shreds on the floor.