She just stood there, her eyes bleak, frantic. “I don’t know what to do.”
Olivia put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Does Lori have a boyfriend?”
With a shaking hand, Estelle held out a piece of
paper and Olivia took it, read it, then handed the paper to Kit.
He read it and groaned. “That’s great! Just perfect. Lydia has run off with Wickham. Fiction becomes reality.”
Casey drew in her breath, her fist to her mouth in fear, and looked at Tate. He pulled her into his arms.
“Who the hell are we going to get to replace them at this late date?” Kit said angrily. He turned to Tate. “We need some actors fast. Can you call an agent? A casting director? Or—”
“Is that all you care about?” Estelle said. “Who can fill the places in your damned play?”
Kit drew himself up into military stance. “Madam, I am sorry for your unhappiness, but eighteen-year-old girls have minds of their own.”
“Eighteen!” Estelle shouted. “Is that what she told you? Lori is fifteen years old.” She looked at Olivia. “She’s always been tall for her age and she makes people think she’s older. She—”
“This is a case for law enforcement.” Kit’s anger was gone. He pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the FBI.”
Estelle shook off Olivia’s arm and stalked forward to Kit. “Then what? You turn everything over to them and you go back to your little play? What happens when this odious man hears that he’s run off with a child and the FBI is chasing him? What do you think he’ll do to her? Dispose of her?” Her voice was a screech.
“I’m sorry.” Kit’s voice was full of sympathy. “What else can I do?”
“I don’t know!” Estelle yelled. “This is all your fault, Christopher Montgomery! You and that damned money of yours. Haines found out who Lori is. They called me from Jacksonville and said someone had been asking questions. They said he’d been told the truth!”
Kit’s voice was gentle but firm. “I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else. I’ve never been to Jacksonville.”
Estelle, wringing her hands, her face red, her eyes wild with fear, turned to Olivia. “Tell him! Tell him everything!”
Olivia’s face had gone pale, but she kept her composure. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Lori’s mother, my daughter Tisha—short for Portia—was born on the twenty-eighth of May, 1971. Dr. Everett arranged the adoption. Do you remember that date?”
It took Olivia a few seconds to understand what she was hearing. When she did, her knees buckled under her. Tate made a leap and caught her before she hit the wooden floor.
Kit still didn’t understand what was going on.
Estelle glared at him. “Lori is your biological granddaughter. I believe that man playing Wickham enticed her to run away with him because he found out that she’s related to you and your rich family. I think he means to marry her to get money from you. But he can’t marry her! She’s just a child who lies about her age.” When Estelle broke into tears, Tate helped her to a chair beside Olivia.
What Estelle was saying was finally beginning to sink in to Kit. When he looked at Olivia, all the blood had drained from her face. Casey and Tate were hovering over her protectively.
“You had our child?” Kit’s voice was so soft they could barely hear him. For a few minutes he seemed too stunned to know what to do, but then his many years of dealing with crises kicked in.
His phone was still in his hand and he called a number. “Rowan,” he said in a voice of command, “I need you here immediately. This is official business.”
Kit turned off the phone and looked at them: Olivia, Estelle, Dr. Kyle, Tate, and Casey. “Need I admonish you to say nothing of this to anyone? My son will be here in a matter of hours, then we’ll—” He broke off, and for a moment he stared at Olivia.
She returned his stare with her chin high, almost in defiance.
Kit turned away, started to speak, but then, with his shoulders back, he went down the stairs and disappeared into the garden.
Thirty minutes later, Casey made her way through the blackberry tunnel and into the well house. As she’d hoped, Kit was sitting on the cushions. He looked as if he’d aged a hundred years. Since she had no idea what to say to him, she fell back on her standard: feed them and listen. She poured a cup of hot coffee from a thermos and handed it to him with a toasted bagel with lots of butter on it.
“I haven’t been in here in years,” he said. His voice was hoarse, raspy, as though he’d been crying. He glanced up at the ceiling. “It needs some repair.”
Casey had changed into jeans and a shirt. On impulse, she’d put the cord with the ring she and Tate found around her neck. She took it off and held it out to him. “Is this yours?”