Monday morning she called her father’s lawyer, Jared, at his law firm and asked him for his help locating information about Natalie Kane, formerly Natalie Smith.
Jared was happy to hear from her. “This firm didn’t start representing your father until he opened his first automotive repair shop. That being said, I’ll be happy to go through the files and see what I can find. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“No, just anything and everything having to do with her. I can’t find any photos or mementos, and I know there have to be some . . . somewhere. I thought maybe he had the firm hold on to them . . . maybe when he moved into the house from the apartment,” she said. “I’ll be surprised if you find anything, but I’d appreciate it if you would look.”
“To be honest, I can’t imagine there’s anything here. She died before your father hired the firm. Isn’t that right? And you were just a baby back then.”
Jared didn’t know the truth about her mother, but then why would he? Her father had kept the secret until his deathbed. Cordie decided she didn’t want to explain. Let him continue to think that Natalie had died years ago.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can find.”
They chatted a bit longer, and by the end of the call Jared had talked her into going to dinner with him that evening. He picked her up at seven thirty, and they drove to an Italian bistro a few blocks from her house. As they sat at a table with a red-checkered tablecloth sipping glasses of rich red wine, Cordie was relieved that Jared kept the conversation light and relaxed, but by the time the dinner was over and they were waiting for the check, Jared’s demeanor changed. He looked very serious when she told him about her upcoming move to Boston, and he cautioned her against making any more decisions in her current state of mind.
“Exactly what is my current state of mind?” she asked, trying not to take offense.
“You’re in mourning,” he reminded her. He reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Wait to put your home on the market. Don’t do anything that can’t be reversed. You could wake up one morning and realize you’ve made a mistake.”
Sophie and Regan had given her the same argument. Like Jared, they didn’t know the real reason she wanted to leave Chicago, and she wasn’t about to tell them.
“It’s sweet that you’re worrying about me, but moving to Boston is something I really want to do. I think I’ll be okay there,” she added.
“Maybe I’ll come see you in Boston.”
“I’d like that.”
She meant what she said. She really did like Jared. Although she knew he would disagree, there just wasn’t any chemistry between them now, but who knew what the future held? Could something like that grow from friendship?
Later he walked her to her door and kissed her good night. He didn’t press to come inside, and she was thankful she didn’t have to say no. As old-fashioned as it made her, she didn’t sleep around. When infatuated with one man, it was impossible to substitute another. At least for her, anyway. Once she was settled in Boston, she would be able to get Aiden out of her head, and then she would change pretty much everything else about her life. She didn’t plan to become promiscuous—that thought made her smile—just not so reserved. It was getting easier to pretend nothing had happened with Aiden. Obviously their kiss hadn’t meant anything to him, and that helped her put it all in perspective. Still, until her move to Boston, she would do her best to avoid him.
The next week was spent painting bedrooms and closets and thinning out clothes and clutter to get the house ready to put on the market. By Sunday evening all the bedrooms had been turned into showrooms that could grace any home magazine cover.
Jared called to tell her he hadn’t been able to find anything in the firm’s records relating to Natalie Kane or Smith. Cordie had known it was a long shot but was still a little disappointed.
She had donated all her father’s clothes, and of all the boxes he had brought with him to her house, there were only three left, the ones that had Keepsakes printed across the tops in black Magic Marker. She had sifted through the contents once already, but feeling nostalgic, she decided to go through them again. She sat on the floor and lifted the lid on the first box. Her father had saved nearly every paper she’d brought home and had everything organized in folders labeled by grade. She laughed as she looked at some of her art projects. Nearly every one of them had something to do with cars.
In the second box, nestled between the sixth- and seventh-grade folders, was a plain white legal-size envelope. It was stuck to the back of the sixth-grade folder. The first time she’d gone through the boxes she’d flipped through the folders assuming everything in them was her schoolwork. She hadn’t bothered to pull out any of the papers.
She opened the large envelope and emptied the contents onto the floor. And there they were. Not many mementos, but a few. A faded black-and-white photo of the first Kane Automotive Shop, and another photo of her father’s truck with Kane Automotive painted on the side. She thought it must have been his first truck. There was one other photograph of a stretch of beach and a beautiful sunset on the water. In the distance she could see several people standing on the beach, but they were all turned away from the camera, looking at the horizon. Next she found two flyers for art exhibits, a couple of ticket stubs for a rock concert, and a wedding invitation without an envelope. Hillary Swanson was marrying Jonathan Black at the First Presbyterian Church on Second Street. The wedding date was exactly six months before Natalie married Cordie’s father in Las Vegas. Under the invitation was a birthday card. It was signed, Love, Natalie. A pang of sorrow stabbed at her heart, imagining her father’s happiness at receiving the card, unaware of the insincerity . . . or the grief that was coming. There was a smaller envelope. She opened it, and inside she found a flyer from Las Vegas with a picture of the Forever Wedding Chapel, where she assumed her father and Natalie had gotten married, a matchbook from a Vegas restaurant, a chip from a casino, and a small square of tissue paper. She unfolded the tissue and revealed a simple gold wedding band.
That was it? This was all her father had saved from his marriage? There wasn’t a single photo of Natalie. Had he not taken any, or had he destroyed them in a fit of anger? Reading the farewell letter would have done it, she thought.
Now wasn’t the time to delve into her father’s motives, she decided.
She had enough information to call in the big guns to pinpoint Natalie’s exact location. Alec and Jack would do anything for her, and she didn’t think it would take them any time at all to get Natalie’s address.
She lured them over to her house with pizza and beer. Their wives came with them, of course, and while Regan and Sophie made salads, Cordie let Alec and Jack read the letter her mother had left for her father. She shouldn’t have been embarrassed, but she was, and she couldn’t understand why. You can have her. Maybe that was why. Maybe being tossed aside as though she had absolutely no value to her mother was the reason.
The doorbell rang, and she went to collect the pizzas from the deliveryman, thankful to have an excuse to leave the room. When she returned, they had finished reading, but neither Jack nor Alec commented on the letter. They followed her to the kitchen, where she put the pizzas on the table and quickly got out of the way.
“Wait,” Sophie said. “You should eat the salad first.”
Jack just smiled at her and took a large wedge of pizza. Alec dragged out a chair and sat across from him. He pulled the pizza box toward him and reached for a slice. Cordie handed them each a beer and distributed napkins as though she was dealing cards.
“So here’s what I know,” she began. “Her full name was Natalie Ann Smith. She was born in Sydney, Australia, and I assume she went back there.”
“What other information do you have on her?” Jack asked.
She handed him copies she had made of her fa
ther’s marriage certificate, the divorce decree, the flyer from the Las Vegas chapel, and the Swanson-and-Black wedding invitation.
“That’s all there is,” Cordie said. “Tell me where to start.”
“We can check government records, and how about we track down Hillary and Jonathan Black?” Jack suggested. “We have the date they were married, and it’s public record . . .”
“They could have moved away,” Sophie warned.
Jack smiled at his wife. “We’ll find them.”
“And the invitation might have been for Cordie’s dad before he met Natalie Smith,” Regan said. “They might not even know Natalie.”
“Cordie won’t know until she talks to them,” Jack said.
“I’ve been on the Internet,” Cordie said. “I pulled up the phone directory for Sydney. Do you have any idea how many Smiths are listed? It’ll take me a year to go through all of them,” she exaggerated.
“I know a guy,” Alec said.
“Where?” Jack asked.
“Australia.”
“That’s a big place. Where exactly in Australia?”
“Perth . . . or maybe Sydney,” Alec answered. “He moves around a lot.”
“Interpol?” Jack guessed.
“Something like that. He’s based out of London.”
“Who is he?”
“Liam Scott,” he answered. “I did a favor for him a couple of years ago. He’ll help Cordie.”
“One of us will call you tomorrow with the information on the Blacks,” Jack told her.
• • •
They came through just the way she knew they would. Alec called her at nine fifteen the following morning with the address and phone number for the Blacks. Cordie thought about calling first to set up the meeting but decided face-to-face without any warning would be better. Fortunately she wouldn’t have to drive far. They lived in a suburb just north of the city.
It was a beautiful sunny morning for a drive. And hot. She wore a short white skirt and navy blouse with sandals, but she had her workout clothes in her gym bag in the trunk of her car for her kickboxing class. Regan had signed up both of them for the class, insisting Cordie would love the exercise once she got into it. It was offered twice a week. They normally went on Saturday, but because of a conflict they were going today instead.
The Blacks lived in an older neighborhood of cookie-cutter ranch houses. She found their house number stenciled on the curb and pulled into the narrow driveway. A dog barked when she rang the bell, and she stepped back and waited. A moment later a woman with curly gray hair opened the door. When she saw Cordie, her hand flew to her throat and she gasped. “Oh my God, you have to be her daughter. You’re the spitting image. I swear you’re identical. You could be her twin if she were twenty years younger,” she stammered.
“I look like Natalie?” Cordie asked.
The woman looked confused. “Who?”
Cordie shook her head and smiled. “I think we should start over. Are you Hillary Black?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “And I know who you are. You’re Simone Taylor’s daughter.”
EIGHT
Cordie was fit to be tied.
“It was all a lie, a big, fat, horrible lie,” she ranted as she paced around Regan’s office. “There is no Natalie Smith. Never was. It was just the name on a fake driver’s license she bought from Hillary for twenty-five dollars so she could go into bars and drink. That’s how they met. Hillary had a nice little sideline going while she was in college. She printed counterfeit driver’s licenses for extra money. Lovely, right?” Hands on hips, she turned to Regan. “Hillary bragged that she was really good at it, too; said it was difficult to tell the difference between the fake and real licenses.”
She paused to take a breath and then continued. “According to Hillary—and God only knows if she’s telling the truth or not—Natalie’s real name is Simone. Simone Taylor. Want to hear something else? Simone was nineteen years old when Hillary met her, and wild, really wild. Men were crazy about her, Hillary told me.”
The pacing started again. Regan sat at her desk watching her friend and waiting for an opportunity to ask questions. She had never seen Cordie so upset, so out of control. Her friend’s cheeks were flushed, and she was sputtering.
“Did you ask Hillary if she knew your father?” She pushed her chair back and stood.
“Yes and no,” Cordie answered. “I asked her if she had ever met Andrew Kane, but I didn’t tell her he was my father. She said no, she had never met him. You know what was really odd? She never asked my name. I tried to introduce myself, but she interrupted to tell a story about Simone. She talked so fast I could barely keep up. Oh, and she said she could tell by looking at me that my mother had married well. How strange was that?”
“Did you have hundred-dollar bills pinned to your shirt again?” Alec asked the question as he walked into the office.
Cordie knew she needed to take a second to calm down and collect her thoughts. She tugged the scarf from her neck, haphazardly folded it, and tossed it on the desk. It slid to the floor, but she didn’t notice. Her sunglasses were on top of her head. She pulled them off and dropped them into her purse, which was perched precariously on the edge of a chair. When she glanced through the double French doors of Regan’s office, she noticed Aiden in the outer room. He was leaning against the reception desk with one ankle crossed over the other, and he had his phone to his ear. His frown indicated he wasn’t pleased with what he was hearing. His side of the conversation was short and not very cordial. She heard him emphatically say, “No,” and nothing else. By the time he finished the call he looked as though he wanted to throw the phone across the room. Turning to the desk, he picked up a stack of papers, walked into Regan’s office, and dropped them in front of her.
He seemed preoccupied when he said, “Here are the forms you wanted. They need to be filled out, signed, and sent over to the accountants as soon as possible.”
“Everything is as soon as possible with you,” Regan said. “We’re in the middle of something,” she added. “We were talking about Cordie’s mother . . . I mean the mother who gave birth . . .” She was making a muddle of explaining.
“He’s all caught up,” Alec said.
“What do you mean, he’s caught up?” Cordie asked.
Alec went to the desk, sat, and turned on the computer. “Remember I called you on your cell right after you left the Blacks’ house?”
Cordie nodded. “I had just gotten back into my car after my lovely visit with Hillary, who told me all sorts of fun stories about her wild friend, my mother dearest, and I was reeling, so you can imagine my state of mind.”
“Regan told me where you were going,” Alec said. “And I was curious to know how it went.”
Cordie recalled the phone conversation. She had been practically incoherent when she answered, and Alec had to calm her down before she could explain what she had found out. “I was very upset, and I might have raised my voice.”
Alec laughed. “Might have?”
Cordie turned to Aiden. “Alec caught you up on my exciting life, then?”
Aiden picked up her scarf and moved her purse so it wouldn’t fall on the floor. “Alec was in my office when he called you. He had you on speaker.”
Oh God. “So you heard every word?” she asked, mortified. She didn’t mind or care that Alec had listened to her tirade. Aiden was another story. She still stupidly cared what he thought. Have to work on that, she told herself. She would add that to her list of feelings she needed to squelch.
She motioned to Regan. “Come on. Let’s get to the gym. I need to kick something.”
“We’re way too early,” Regan argued.
“Don’t leave yet,” Alec said. “I want to show you something.”
Aiden walked behind the desk and stood next to Alec, look
ing at the computer screen.
“I know what you’re doing,” Cordie said. “You’re looking for Simone Taylor, aren’t you? I wouldn’t bother. That name is probably a lie, too, just like Natalie Smith. I spent hours and hours looking for Natalie on the Internet. Is that what you’re doing, Alec?”
“Uh-huh,” he answered as he typed on the keyboard.
“You’re wasting your time.”
Alec sat back. He was staring at the screen as he said, “I wouldn’t be too sure.”
Aiden glanced at Cordie, then back at the screen. “Wow,” he whispered.
“Wow, what?” Cordie asked.
“Come see.”
She rounded the desk, stepped in front of Aiden, and looked at what had captured their attention. There was a photo, and for a second Cordie thought it was of her. Same eyes, same dark hair . . . same smile . . .
Alec tilted the screen up so she could get a better look and said, “Meet Simone Taylor.”
NINE
Simone was seventeen when this photo was taken. She had just won some beauty pageant,” Alec explained.
“Was it difficult finding her?” Cordie asked. She couldn’t stop staring at her double on the screen. The resemblance was freaking her out.
“Not difficult at all,” Alec said.
Regan leaned over her husband’s shoulder. “Because you had her real name.” She looked up at Regan and added, “Hillary Black was telling the truth.”
Alec had found other information as well. “Simone’s mother isn’t alive, but her father, Julian Taylor, is. He’s about to retire and his son-in-law is set to take over the family business.”