He smiled, "I see Dr. De Beers had a good influence on his own child. You are very fortunate to have grown up with him as a father, I'm sure."
"Yes, yes, I was." I said.
He opened the door and told the receptionist to write out the address for what he called Soya del Mar,
"Excuse me, but is that a hotel?" I asked the receptionist as she wrote on a slip of paper.
She looked up at Dr. Anderson, who laughed.
"No. You know you're in a core home in Palm Beach when the house and the grounds have a name. This one simply means "Jewel of the Sea." It has its own beach front. I suppose to most people in this country, it would look like a resort. But don't let me give any of this away," he said, winking. "You're about to discover another country, another world, which, as you might imagine, and as you just heard through some small examples, provides me with plenty of work."
His receptionist laughed.
I thanked them both and left.
Outside. I released all the hot, pent-up air in my lungs. I clutched the note with the address in my hand.
I had found out what I had come to find out. My mother was still here. She was not in therapy. She was out there somewhere, waiting for something to fill the empty spot in her life and never imagining, perhaps, what it was she was waiting for. Would she be disappointed when I appeared on her doorstep? Would she be angry because I was threatening her new life, her very sanity, perhaps? Would I bring too much pain along with me?
Aside from that one letter in which she had remarked about the pictures of me my father had sent, there was no other evidence that she had tried to find out about me. Perhaps she had come to terms with it all. She had traveled past her regret and her sadness. What right did I have to bring her back to it? 6
Joya del Mar
.
I decided to return to The Breakers for some breakfast. My nerves kept me from haying much of an appetite. but I knew I should eat something before attempting to do any more. For a while I sat sipping my coffee, nibbling on a danish, and staring at the slip of paper on which Dr. Anderson's secretary had written the address that had been my mother's. What would the people who lived there now tell me that would matter to me? Why bother with them at all?
Wasn't I wasting my time pretending to be a student doing a study of Palm Beach life? Shouldn't I just find out where my mother was and go directly to her, shock or no shock? Was I just procrastinating? Now that I was actually here and I had gone forward with my first steps, the tension had my fingers trembling so much that I almost spilled my coffee twice. I sat there fighting with myself. truly a split personality.
One part of me was tiring me to check out of the hotel immediately and just return to college.
Go home, the voice told me. The deanwill fix everything again. Your teachers, your friends, maybe even Allanwould attribute your impulsive actions to the terrible grief following your father's death. After all, the -woman you're attempting to see and get to know is really a stranger. What you're doing to her is unfair. Do you dare simply appear and explode in her face like some sort of bomb? What if you were responsible for driving- her to another breakdown? Wouldn't the rest of her blame you and hate you and rightly so? What good would you have accomplished? Could you accomplish more than simply satisfying- your curiosity, anyway?
The other side of me snapped back with just as much passion: Your cowardice is making you selfish. Of course you should go. Why shouldn't she see you, get to know you and to know what happened during- all these years? A real relationship is not a one-sided affair, You will give to her as much as, if not more than, she will give to you Maybe not having you, not having a family, has left her a broken, lonely person. You have the power to repair that, to restore some
meaning, to her life, too. Couldn't it be that your -father intended for you to do this someday? Why else would he have left you his diary? Who do you think you are? my counter self asked. You can't do that, restore meaning to someone's life. You have enough trouble doing- it for yourself much less for someone else. You're carrying, too much psychological baggage. You're like a handicapped person diving into the water to save a drowning victim.
Nonsense. Don't listen to that. You are your father's daughter. You have his backbone. You can do it.
"Excuse me," I heard a soft voice say. For a moment. I thought that was in my mind. too. "I know it's not any of my business, but are you all right, miss?"
I looked up and into the deepest, dark blue eyes I had ever seen. There was a brightness to them, a distinct glint of intelligence, but the way the young man lifted his eyebrows and curled his strong, straight lips at the corners indicated an underlying current of amusement in this handsome, well-tanned face. That complexion, his beautiful eyes, and his perfectly straight white teeth made the face seem positively electric. cinematic. His styled dark brown hair was just on the border between being distinguished and businesslike and a little wild, young, carefree.
He wasn't quite six feet tall, but he filled out his gray pinstriped suit jacket with athletic broad shoulders. It was a custom-made suit, fitted to his slim waist. I caught sight of a gold cufflink with a tiny diamond in the center. It glittered in the sunlight that seemed like a spotlight capturing both of us on some stage for the moment.
I saw him glance at another man at the table across from mine and wink. He, too, was in a suit and tie and looked about the same age, which I estimated to be thirty at the most.
"What?" He widened his smile. "My associate and I couldn't help but notice how troubled you looked," he explained. "I should add that I am a trial attorney and make it my business to read people's faces, especially when they are on the witness stand or they are sitting in a jury. I'm very good at it Can I help you in any way?"
"No," I said sharply. That he was right about me suddenly annoyed me. I didn't like the fact that I was under observation, especially without my being aware of it. It was embarrassing. Had I been talking to myself? Were my lips moving? Did they think I was some sort of crackpot? The way my adoptive mother used to pounce on me if I spoke to my imaginary friends or my dolls came storming back.
I looked at this man and then at his friend again. What audacity!
"I'm usually not mistaken," he insisted when I didn't reply quickly enough for him.
"Well, you're not in a courtroom now," I said as sharply as I could. "And you are mistaken."
The humor and warmth in his eyes popped like a bubble, and those blues took on the steely, cold glint of someone who had been reprimanded. The speed with which he changed expression actually quickened my heartbeat.