The Keeper of Happy Endings(100)

Anson stiffened, bristling now. “Miss Grant—”

“He lied,” she said again. “About why Soline left and where she went. It was all a lie. She didn’t leave you. Your father kicked her out. Thia knows. She didn’t then, but she does now. That’s why I’m here—to talk about what really happened.”

Anson sat very still, his face devoid of emotion. “This is what you needed to discuss with me? This ridiculous, cooked-up story?”

“Do I look familiar to you?” Rory asked, realizing there was only one way to make him understand. “Look at my face. My eyes. My nose. Do I remind you of anyone?”

Anson’s eyes narrowed warily. “What is this?” His whole body was coiled for an attack, his jaw rigid. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I can tell you it isn’t going to work.”

“I’m not playing at anything. And I think you should start calling me Rory. Or Aurora, if you prefer.”

“I have no intention of calling you anything.” He shoved his chair back and pushed to his feet. “This conversation is over.”

Tiny needles of panic prickled through Rory’s limbs. If he walked out now, she’d never get another chance. “Soline had a baby,” she blurted. “Your baby.”

Anson froze.

“Assia,” she added quietly. “Your daughter’s name was Assia.”

He pivoted stiffly, dropping back into his chair, as if the weight of what he’d just heard was too much for his legs. Rory pulled her tote into her lap, withdrawing the photos and setting them side by side on the table. “Do you know what these are?”

Anson studied the photos a moment, then returned his gaze to Rory. “They’re pictures of my sister. A birthday party, I think.”

Rory nodded. “One of them is.” She pointed to the photograph on his right. “This one. But this . . .” She paused, pointing to the photo on the left. “Is a photo of your granddaughter—your daughter’s little girl—when she was eight. She’ll be twenty-four in January.”

Anson sat stonily, arms folded. “Until fifteen minutes ago, I’d never laid eyes on you, but you expect me to believe this on your say-so?”

“Not just mine.” She reached into her tote for the ledger and placed it in front of her on the table. “Your father’s.”

He eyed the book warily. “What is that?”

“Thia found it among your father’s things after he died. Lucky for us, he was meticulous about keeping records. And they line up perfectly with what Soline told me. He arranged for her to go to a home for unwed mothers. And by arranged, I mean paid. Only, when the baby came, they told Soline she died. Then they gave her to a wealthy couple from Boston. Their name was Lowell. They renamed the baby Camilla. Eventually, Camilla married a man named Geoffrey Grant and had a daughter of her own—a daughter named Aurora, Rory for short.”

It took several seconds, but eventually her words seemed to penetrate. “It isn’t . . .”

“But it is. It’s why you thought both these photos were of Thia. I look like her because I’m her grandniece. I also look like you . . . because I’m your granddaughter.”

His face grew dark. “If you think you’re going to get a cent—”

Rory slid the ledger to his side of the table, effectively cutting him off. “It’s all there. Every penny your father spent, including what look to be blackmail payments. There’s also a decree of adoption naming Soline as the birth mother. The father’s name is listed as unknown, but the date of birth lines up perfectly with your last night together in Paris.”

Anson closed his eyes, as if the mention of that night brought him physical pain. After a moment he opened them again and cleared his throat. “My father lived by his own set of priorities, Ms. Grant, and nothing got in his way. He had plans for me, and those plans didn’t include a wife unless she had the Owen Purcell stamp of approval. I don’t doubt he did what you’re accusing him of. In fact, it sounds just like him. But in this case, he had good reason to doubt the sincerity of my . . . fiancée.”

The way he pronounced the word fiancée made Rory’s blood simmer. “How can you say that? She was pregnant with your child when he sent her away.”

“I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that I might not have been the only man in Soline’s life. And that there might be a very simple explanation for why the father is listed as unknown—she didn’t know herself.”

Rory stared at him, stunned by his feigned indifference. And it was feigned. She could see it in the set of his jaw and in the way he gripped the base of his glass, so tightly his knuckles went white. He couldn’t let himself believe the truth because it meant he’d thrown away too much.

“You don’t believe that,” she said evenly. “I know you don’t.”

A muscle ticked along Anson’s jaw. “I think I should be the judge of what I believe and what I don’t. She’s convinced you that she’s some kind of martyr, but I happen to know better. It doesn’t matter how; I just do. So let’s dispense with the fairy tale that she’s spent the last forty years nursing a broken heart.”

“She never married.”

Anson lifted his glass, nearly empty now, and stared into the dregs. “That’s no business of mine.”