“For the private,” she admitted. “Sam, why didn’t you tell me about your parents?”
“Oh,” Sam said. “Would you mind if I sat down?” He settled into a wrought iron chair. “This is awfully uncomfortable,” he declared. “No wonder gazebos are out of fashion.”
“I still want to hear about your parents,” Evvie said.
“What have you heard?” Sam asked instead. “Not that it matters. Probably the truth. Who told you?”
“Schyler.”
“Schyler?” Sam said. “I always thought people that good-looking only talked about themselves.”
“You came up in conversation,” Evvie said. “He said there was a big mess about your parents, that they were some sort of radicals, and your father was dead, but your mother was still missing. Is that true?”
“True enough,” Sam replied. “Schyler. I assumed you’d hear it from somebody, but I never would have guessed him. My money was on Mrs. Baker, the way she looks at me. Or even Aunt Grace, in a moment of weakness. Not Schyler. He isn’t even a summer person. How does he know?”
“Clark told him,” Evvie said. “The question is why didn’t you tell me?”
“It never occurred to me,” Sam declared. “And I was right. You found out anyway. You didn’t need my teary-eyed confession.”
“I know we don’t know each other very well,” Evvie began. “But I felt a connection between us. Did I make it up? I thought we liked each other enough to be honest.”
“Oh, Evvie,” Sam said. “It isn’t that simple with me. You want the truth. Here’s the truth. I didn’t tell you because I’ve never in my life told anybody. Nine months a year, I live a lie. I’m Sammy Greene, and my grandparents took me in after my parents died in a car crash. Very noble of them, very tragic for me. But normal. I didn’t learn the truth myself until I was eleven, and overheard them talking about it. The Steinmetzes were forcing the issue. I was old enough to know the truth. Granddad and Grandmom were debating how to tell me when I overheard. That’s how I learned. I was eleven years old and I didn’t even know my mother was still alive.”
“How did it happen?” Evvie asked. “Your parents, I mean.”
“Probably just the way Schyler described it,” Sam said. “They were part of a radical commune. They were already underground when it happened. They decided to blow up a bank as a political statement, only the bomb went off a little too soon. Four people died, including my father and a bank guard. My mother was seen running out of there, which is how they knew she was alive. No one’s seen her since, or if they have, they haven’t talked about it.”
“You weren’t there with them?” Evvie asked.
“No, Evvie,” Sam said. “Not even the most devoted radical terrorists take two-year-olds with them to bank bombings. They found me a day or so later, all alone in the commune. It wasn’t hard to figure out who I was. The Greenes got me. My other grandparents, after all, had just had their son die. It was in all the papers.”
“I was only one then,” Evvie pointed out. “I didn’t read the papers.”
“Neither did I,” Sam said. “Not until I was eleven. Then I read everything I could find about them. My parents, I mean. Did you know my mother holds the record for being the longest-running female on the Ten Most Wanted list? I used to be mortified every time I went into a post office.”
Evvie reached over and touched Sam’s arm. He looked at her and moved away slightly.
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “Actually, the only real difference after I found out was that I started spending summers here, rather than at camp. Before then Granddad wouldn’t let me stay here because everyone in Eastgate knew about Mark and Linda Steinmetz. They still do, obviously. But once I found out, Belle and Lou insisted I start coming here. Which I did. The first summer I guess I had a big chip on my shoulder, but then I realized nobody cared. It wasn’t like I was a real year-rounder. I was just the Steinmetzes’ grandkid. It got to the point I didn’t even mind going to the post office.”
“I wish you’d told me,” Evvie said. “Not because it matters. But because I would like to have heard it from you, not Schyler.”
“Nine months a year, I live a lie,” Sam said, and Evvie could see he was choosing his words carefully. “Three months a year, it doesn’t matter. It never occurred to me to tell you. When I go off to college, I won’t tell people. It’s better the fewer people who know. There’s less risk that way.”
“Risk?” Evvie said. “For who?”
“For me, for starters,” Sam said. “I don’t like to be thought of as a curiosity. A whatever-happened-to. I really am Sammy Greene, a lot more than I’m Sam Steinmetz, Mark and Linda’s legacy to the movement. You know, I’m starting to like this gazebo. It does feel private. And the chairs are uncomfortable enough to distract me.”
“My parents are a unit,” Evvie said. “And my father, well, he isn’t a fraud exactly, but sometimes he embellishes. Appearance counts for a lot. But I’ve never felt they’ve been dishonest with me. No matter what, I’ve always known they were being honest with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a lie,” Sam said. “Just as long as the truth doesn’t come out.”
Evvie wondered if Sam meant that. She suspected he did. “Have you ever heard from your mother?” she asked. “Once you found out about her? Has she ever contacted you?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Sam said.
Evvie stared at him. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Of course you can. You think I’m the FBI or something?”
“No, of course not,” Sam said. “But you might tell someone what I told you and that someone might tell the FBI. I told you there were risks, and there are. Not just for me. For my mother. For my grandparents. For everybody who might know something.”
“Oh come on now,” Evvie said. “It happened fifteen years ago. Who cares?”
“They care,” Sam said. “Evvie, I really do like you. I like you more than any girl I’ve ever met. I like you enough that I didn’t want you to know the truth. That was pretty stupid of me, here in Eastgate, but I wasn’t thinking. Evvie, they care. As long as they think my mother is still alive, they’ll care. I’m the link. What kind of mother would ignore her only child for fifteen years, after all. All the phones are tapped. There’s constant surveillance. I don’t mind. I’m used to it. But if it’s going to bother you, then forget we ever met. They probably haven’t started a file on you yet.”
Evvie looked out the gazebo into the garden and wished she didn’t feel quite so uncomfortable. Sam was undoubtedly exaggerating. And even if he wasn’t, what difference should it make.
“I like you a lot, too,” she said. “It bothers me that you can’t trust me.”
“People who live a lie don’t trust easily,” Sam replied. “I would have thought you’d know that.”
“I didn’t before,” Evvie said. “You’re a real learning experience, Sam.”
“Great,” Sam said. “Think of me as summer school.” He got up from his chair, and dusted himself off.
“Sam,” Evvie said. “Does it matter that I know?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I think I might be glad. How do you feel?”
“Sad for you,” she said. “Having to lie all the time. And for having the parents you have.”
“That’s the luck of the draw,” Sam said. “There are worse. And my grandparents love me a lot. I love them, too. All things considered, I’m okay.”
“All things considered,” Evvie said. She walked over to Sam and kissed him. Lies or no lies, the connection was still there.
Sam broke away from the kiss first. “I should be going,” he said. “Lou still isn’t feeling well. I should get back to the store.”
“Will I see you again?” Evvie asked.
“If you want,” he said.
Evvie nodded. “You know my parents burned a dress right by this gazebo,” she declared, wanting to keep him there by her side for as long as she could. “A pink
dress with ruffles.”
Sam laughed. “Every family comes complete with its own history,” he declared. “Mine is bombing. Yours is arson. Who knows? Maybe we deserve each other.”
“Maybe we do,” Evvie murmured, and watched Sam walk away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“We’re about five blocks from your aunt’s street,” Sam said as he and Evvie rode through Beacon Hill. The traffic hadn’t been too heavy, and they’d made good time on the drive from Eastgate. “By the way,” Sam said, glancing at Evvie, “my grandparents are in town.”
“In Boston?” Evvie asked. “Why’d they leave Eastgate?”
“Not those grandparents. The other ones. The Greenes.”
“I thought they lived on Long Island,” Evvie said. She stared out at the brownstones that constituted Grace’s neighborhood, and as she always had on those occasions when she’d been forced to visit there, felt extremely uncomfortable. She wished Grace hadn’t asked her to pick up some papers at the Beacon Hill house. Grace had probably made up the errand to guarantee that she and Sam wouldn’t spend too much time together.
“They do,” Sam said. “They sneak into Boston once a summer to check up on me. This is their annual sneak time.”
“I don’t understand,” Evvie said. “They’re your grandparents. They have custody. Why do they sneak?”
“It’s how we do things in my family,” Sam replied. “The Greenes sneak in once a summer, and the Steinmetzes sneak in during winter vacation. I meet them in New York. Neither set completely trusts the other, so they feel the need to check up on me. It’s okay. Basically, it’s kind of a game.”
“Your family plays some pretty strange games,” Evvie declared.
“I can see how it might seem that way,” Sam said. “Anyway, I mentioned to them that you were going to be here and they said you should join us for tea. That gives them plenty of time to have lunch with me and run a complete physical. Granddad’s a doctor, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” Evvie said. “Sam, I wish you’d given me more warning.”
“Heart surgeon,” Sam replied. “He’s retired now, but he still teaches and delivers papers at conferences. Dr. Myron Greene. He’s kind of famous in heart surgeon circles.”
“Sammy Greene has money,” Evvie said.
Sam nodded. “Not like Clark Bradford,” he said. “But enough.”
“That’s nice,” Evvie said. “Money comes in handy. The house is the next block up.”
Sam drove the block, and parked in front of Grace’s home. “Not money like your Aunt Grace, either,” he said. “I’m starting to feel left-wing, Jewish, and inadequate.”
“I just feel inadequate,” Evvie replied.
“That’s okay,” Sam said. “You can always convert.”
Evvie laughed. “Where are your grandparents staying?”
“The Carlyle,” Sam replied. “How does tea at four sound? We’ll leave from there, and have supper on the road. You’ll get back to Eastgate before ten.”
“It sounds fine,” Evvie said. “Although I wish you’d given me more warning.”
“I wasn’t sure the tea was a good idea,” Sam replied. “I’ve been doing really well with you as Sam Steinmetz. I wasn’t sure you were ready to meet Sammy Greene just yet.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Evvie told him. She bent over, and gave him a kiss. “I’m not sure what I plan to do. Maybe I’ll go sightseeing. Why don’t you pick me up here?” she asked. “In time for tea.”
“Right here,” Sam said. “See you then.”
Evvie got out of the car, located the set of keys Aunt Grace had given her, and after waving good-bye to Sam, unlocked the front door. The house was still. Grace kept a skeleton staff on during the summer, but apparently they had the day off. Evvie was alone in the house.
She resisted the temptation to break a Ming vase or two, and instead took her shoes off and walked around. Nothing had changed from the last time she’d been there, not that she had expected it to. Aunt Grace was not one to change her decor to meet the current fashion.
It was, Evvie realized, being careful not to touch anything even remotely breakable, the most oppressive house she’d ever been in. Her family had lived in some awful places, their current home included, but none of them ever had been as off-putting as Grace’s Beacon Hill residence. The colors were all dark and deep, browns, maroons, even purples, aged and faded. There wasn’t a chair that didn’t seem to weigh a hundred pounds. Even the lamps looked heavy and dark. And the endless family portraits, people Evvie knew she should feel some kind of connection to, stared down disapprovingly at her. No wonder Nicky never came there. Small wonder that Megs had run away. Evvie was tempted to herself.
And she would, just as soon as she picked up the papers for Aunt Grace. In fact, she could locate the papers, and leave them at the house until Sam came back to take her to tea. There was no reason to carry them around while she went sightseeing. Escaping, even into the hot and muggy summer day, sounded good to Evvie. No matter how humid Boston was, the air would still be easier to breathe than it was in Grace’s home.
Evvie waved good-bye to her unidentified ancestors, and walked upstairs. Grace had said the papers should be on the desk in the library. Maybe the library itself wouldn’t be too bad. How could a room with books be oppressive?
Evvie found out the answer to that the moment she entered the room. There were books all right, the library was lined with them, but they were all clearly valuable sets and first editions. There wasn’t a paperback to be seen. The only lively touch was a matched set of paintings of Irish setters. Evvie smiled at them until she noticed that in one of the paintings the setter was tearing apart a dead rabbit. At least, she hoped it was dead. She could imagine what Sam would say about the painting, and laughed. The laughter sounded funny in the empty room in the empty house. Evvie resolved not to laugh there again.
The desk was mahogany and beautifully cared for. Evvie wondered if any of Grace’s furnishings would be left to Megs. There would at least be a symbol of affection, she thought. Even she could see the desk was an antique, undoubtedly a part of Winslow family history.
The files Grace had asked her to bring back were lying on the desk. Evvie picked them up, to make sure they matched the list Grace had given her. Sure enough, everything she wanted was there. Some combination of lawyers and servants had seen to that.
But there was another file as well. Evvie picked it up, and saw it was labeled “Sebastian.”
She knew what it was instantly. The detectives’ report. She dropped it on the desk, and then put the other files down. “Sebastian.” It wasn’t a thick file, just a dangerous one.
Evvie realized Grace had had it left there for her to find. Grace was not a subtle woman. This was as close to guile as she would come. Evvie was under no obligation to read the file. She could leave it on the desk, take the other papers downstairs, and follow her original plan of escaping from the house until four. No one was forcing her to read that ancient detectives’ report. Sam would tell her not to read it. He would laugh at the family games the Winslows played. He would warn her not to stare truth in the face unless she was completely protected.
But Sam wasn’t there, and the report was. And maybe Grace was right in wanting Evvie to read it. Besides, what could be so bad? Megs had read the report when she was sixteen, and in spite of it, she’d waited and married Nicky. This was a test. If Evvie could read the report and not have it make a difference, then Aunt Grace would lose the game.
And, finally, Evvie admitted, she was too curious not to read the report. Who wouldn’t want to see what detectives had found out about your father so many years before. Sam had admitted reading every newspaper article he could find about his parents. It was only natural. There was no point in fighting it.
Evvie took the file and curled up on a well-worn leather easy chair. The first page listed the name of the detective agency, the date of submission, and the subject of the investigation. Nic
holas George Sebastian. Evvie smiled. She had never known Nicky had a middle name. She only hoped the rest of the revelations were as amusing as that one.
Nicholas George Sebastian was born George Nicholas Keefer on April 12, 1938. His mother was Mary Maud Keefer, aged twenty and two months at the time of his birth. His father was listed on the birth certificate as “unknown.” However, his father was Sebastian Taylor Prescott, a well-to-do North Carolina businessman, whose secretary Miss Keefer had been. Miss Keefer accepted a payment of one thousand dollars, in exchange for which she did not list a father on her son’s birth certificate.
Miss Keefer boarded her son out with various relatives while she moved from city to city. In 1946, she met and married former Pfc Harold Clay, of Wilmington, Delaware. She brought George home to live with her. In 1947, Mrs. Clay gave birth to a son, Harold, Jr. In 1949 she had a daughter, Diane.
Mr. Clay worked at various factories in the Wilmington area. He drank heavily and was reputed to have a violent temper. George’s school reports show he was a boy of unusual intelligence (his IQ was 148) but erratic temperament, occasionally doing brilliantly, frequently getting into trouble. It was believed family problems were at the root of George’s behavior, and in 1950, after a social services investigation, George was put in foster care for six months until his mother sued to regain custody.
Evvie put the report down and stared at the painting of the Irish setter. Did she really want to read more? She’d already lost her heroic D-day grandfather, the one she remembered having written a school report on when they’d done a section on family histories. Nicky had helped her with all the details, she recalled. He’d even supplied a photograph. She wondered now if he’d bought it, or stolen it from someone’s family album.
I should feel sorry for him, Evvie thought. How he must have hated having these awful facts written out for Grace to see. And worse still, he had to live this life of foster care and abuse. Father unknown. It was all so tawdry. No, what was the word Aunt Grace had used? Vulgar. Nicky’s past was vulgar, and Nicky never was. No wonder he lied.