He pulled a thick sheaf of papers from the envelope he held. “This is the last will and testament of Melissa and Thomas Kilraven.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Your parents, Melissa and Thomas Kilraven,” he repeated.
“My parents are Rebecca and Talbot—”
“Your birth parents,” he interrupted.
Chapter Two
“What?” Her throat constricted and a coughing spasm gripped her.
He reached over and pressed a button. “Ms. Gwynn, would you please bring Miss Briscoe some tea.” He looked up at her. “I didn’t think. You must be parched after your trip.”
“Yes,” she barely whispered, her voice failing her.
There was a tap on the door.
Morgan jumped. The woman must have been standing outside the door, teapot in hand.
“Come in.”
She ignored the hot tea that was set in front of her. When she found her voice again, she asked, “My birth parents? The Briscoes are my birth parents. There’s been some mistake.”
“Your biological parents, Melissa and Thomas Kilraven, died when their plane went down three weeks ago.”
“My biological parents?” God, she sounded redundant.
“Yes.” He studied her. “The Briscoes didn’t tell you?”
Unable to utter a word, Morgan shook her head.. She reached out and picked up the delicate china cup and saucer from the desk in front of her. The cup rattled as she tried to steady it and her nerves at the same time. She concentrated on sipping the tea, hoping he would give her a moment to get her pounding heart under control.
Her mind raced. But, she looked like them. Mom’s red hair, Dad’s eyes—well almost—at least the color. She was, after all, their late-life miracle.
His voice droned on, “…of course they were given the choice as to when they would tell you. However, it was their responsibility to do so—before now.” His voice rose on the last.
Melissa and Thomas Kilraven. A dull ache formed inside her chest. She had no faces to attach to the names he bandied about. Why was she even here? It wasn’t as if she cared. She didn’t. They weren’t her parents. They gave her away.
“Miss Briscoe?”
Morgan felt his eyes on her as she sat, mesmerized by the points of light playing through the leaded panes behind him. She knew she should look away. She felt numb. She didn’t care if he stared. Finally, she forced herself to look directly at him.
He looked down and shoved the papers back into an envelope.
“I regret that I am the person to give you this information.” He hesitated, then spoke quietly, “You look very much like her.”
“You knew them?”
He nodded. She saw genuine sadness in his expression.
This was too much. She had to think. Suddenly, Morgan stood. “I need to go home.”
“But there’s…” his voice trailed off. He reached over and punched the button. “Ms. Gwynn, please arrange for our private plane to take Miss Briscoe home as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Mr. Bask.”
His voice was softer when he spoke. “Please sit down, Miss Briscoe. Drink your tea. It will take a few moments to make preparations. I’ll arrange for you to return on Thursday. There’s still much to discuss and I’m afraid we’re under a time constraint.”
Morgan frowned at him but did as he asked.
He put some documents into a leather folder and stood. He handed the folder to Morgan.
“You go home. Talk to the Briscoes. I’ll see you on Thursday.” He walked around the desk and took her hand. “Ms. Gwynn will see you out.”
****
Morgan—disgusted, disgruntled, and angry—shoved the key into the lock. She shifted the folder she’d read and reread under her arm and pushed open her apartment door. Her father leapt up from the dining room chair and her mother stepped in from the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hands. No one spoke.
Morgan walked over, threw the folder down on the bar counter, turned and stormed toward her room.
“That went well,” Talbot muttered.
“Oh, shut up.” Becky Briscoe tossed the dishtowel down and rushed after Morgan.
Morgan slammed the bedroom door in her face.
“Morgan,” Becky called softly.
“Go away!” For a second she wished she’d never given them a key.
“We aren’t going anywhere. You need to come out and talk to us.”
Morgan could hear the plea in her mother’s voice and wanted to open the door and rush into her arms. She took one step. No. Not now. She dropped down on the bed and reached for the box of tissues. She’d thought her tears were long dried. As soon as she saw them—her parents—a new onslaught threatened.
She listened to the low murmur of their voices in the other room as she walked into her bathroom. Bask must have called them. Naturally, they dropped everything and came running. She knew it was a two or three-hour trip from the falls. Good. She hoped they were as exhausted as she was. Taking her time, Morgan washed her face and contemplated taking a shower, even though she’d had one this morning. God, had it been just this morning when she’d stood in this very bathroom? Her whole world had tilted on its axis since then.
Feeling a little better and not finding anything to delay the confrontation, she opened the door and stepped out. Her parents sat at the table, across from one another. When had they aged so much? She hadn’t noticed. They actually looked middle aged. And tired. Weary. The folder was open between them, the papers spread.
Walking over to the table, Morgan stopped. She glanced down. The beautiful face of the stranger she so resembled looked back at her. The eyes of her biological father stared out from under the edge of the woman’s picture. She looked at the Briscoes.
“Who are you?” she asked. Then, pointing down, she added, “And more important, who are they?”
Talbot rubbed his rough fingers against his brows, pinching the bridge of his nose. Becky let a single tear fall before wiping it away. “We’re your parents. You’re our daughter. I don’t care what the damn papers say. You’re ours.” She forced back a sob.
“Dad?” She turned to the man who had been her rock growing up. The man who had always had time to answer her questions. The man who always knew the answers.
Suddenly his shoulders shook. “I’m so sorry, Morgan,” his voice cracked. “We never meant to hurt you. We just love you so much.” He broke.
“Dad,” she whispered. No matter how upset she was, these were the people that loved her. Morgan went to her father and put her arms around him, as he had done for her so many times. She looked at her mom, tears streaming. Becky rose and came to them, enfolding both her husband and her daughter in her embrace.
They stood silent—crying, loving. No one spoke.
And, for the first time in Morgan’s memory, an awkward silence built.
****
Becky brought a fresh pitcher of iced tea over to the table. She sat down across from Morgan. The tears had dried—for the moment.
“We married young.” Her mother raised red-rimmed eyes to meet hers. She took a steadying breath. “We met and that was it for both of us. He was my first.” A blush crept up her neck. “We were naive. I got pregnant. We were thrilled. Our parents—not so much—we got married anyway.” Her father reached over and took her mother’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “Anyway, our blood didn’t match. Our little boy was stillborn and I almost died.”
Morgan reached over and took her mother’s other hand.
“I don’t remember very much.” Becky shrugged. “When all was said and done, I couldn’t have any more children.” Her focus shifted as memories came rushing back. “For a while, we were all right. We went back to school with the help of our families. We had teaching and each other. However, it wasn’t enough. We wanted a family. So, we put our name on an adoption list. For the longest time, nothing happened. Then we got a call from a law firm about a private adoption.” Becky smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand.
Her father spoke, “We didn’t know much, except that it would be a newborn and we would have medical affidavits, just in case. Anyway, the only stipulation was that we tell you that you were adopted by the time you were twenty-five.”
“Oops.” It came out a little more sarcastically than Morgan intended.
“I know,” her father said. “We were planning on telling you. I can honestly say we talked about it. We should have when you were younger. Besides, we didn’t hear from anyone and we figured—”
Becky broke in, “The money, Talbot. I bet this is about the money.”
“What money?” Morgan asked and got up. She went to the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets—anything to expend some of the nervous energy building inside of her. She grabbed a box of scones from the counter and went back to the table. No one touched them.
“Well,” her father explained, “when we went to the lawyer’s office for the adoption—a big ol’ house in Atlanta—Mr. Morrisette said that money would be put aside each month for you. We didn’t want it. You were ours. We didn’t want anyone having a hold over our family. However, he said it would be put into an account and, if we decided we had need of it—or anything else—we should contact him. That was twenty-six years ago.” Her father smiled with pride. “We have taken care of our family ourselves, including your college.”
Her mother took a sip of tea, set it down and folded her hands in the delicate fashion that was so familiar. “It has to be the money. It should be quite a tidy sum by now. It’s yours.” She glanced down to the papers strewn across the middle of the table. She lifted the picture of the woman, studying it.
“She’s lovely,” she said quietly. She looked at Morgan. “You have her eyes.” She laid the picture gently back on the pile. “It’s such a tragedy that they died. But, for whatever reason, she gave you up for adoption. We never heard from anyone…” She didn’t finish her thought.
Morgan leaned back. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Mom. Dad,” she addressed each of her parents, looking deep into their eyes. “I am your daughter. Don’t ever doubt that. You raised me well and I love you.” She hesitated. “I just wish I’d known.”
Her parents looked at one another.
“No, don’t feel guilty. That’s not what I’m saying.” Morgan stood, paced to the window and stared into the dark. “Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying.” She spun around to face them. “Inside.” She touched her stomach, not her heart. “I’m curious—about so many things.” She walked back to the table and plopped down. “I’m hurt that someone gave me up.” Morgan grabbed her mother’s sudden outstretched hand. “Not because of a lack of what I have. It’s…oh… I don’t know.”
Becky spoke, “We understand. Or…we’re trying to understand. We should have told you. I don’t know why you were supposed to know by twenty-five. I know they couldn’t have known they were going to die. It has to be the money.”
“What did the lawyer say?” her father asked.
“I didn’t wait around to find out. I was so angry. Shocked. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of there.”
“It’s got to go back to the money.”
“I guess.” She thought for a moment. “But why make it so urgent?”
“Don’t know.” Her father shrugged. “Want us to go with you?”
She did. Oh, God, she did. Instead, she said, “No. I need to do this myself. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out what’s going on.”
By the time her parents left, it was late. She tried to get them to go back to the mountains, but they refused. Instead, they offered to look after Mrs. T. Acquiescing, Morgan hugged them both. She knew this journey was just starting and God only knew where it would lead. She wanted to make sure they knew that, to her, they were her “real” parents.
With all that they had talked about, Morgan realized she had forgotten to tell them about the lay-off. And her break-up with Rob. Both seemed insignificant now.
Morgan turned out the lights and walked into her bedroom. Mrs. T opened her eyes from the little nest she’d created on Morgan’s pillow, acknowledged Morgan with an outstretched paw, and went back to sleep. If only life could be so simple. Morgan stripped and stepped into the shower. She let the water cascade over her head and down her body, letting it dull the ache she felt. Her mind whirled with questions. The only way she was going to get answers was to take that flight back to Atlanta.
Finally, as the water started to run cold, Morgan turned off the shower and reached for her towel. She let the towel slide down her side, absorbing beads of moisture and glanced down to study the crescent shaped birthmark on her right hip. The report Bask had given her described an identical birthmark on her mother’s—her biological mother’s—right hip.
Morgan wiped the remaining steam from the mirror with the towel. Fingers trembling, she reached over, flipped off the lights, and forced herself to look at her reflection in the dark, something she seldom did. Her eyes shimmered an iridescent green, two glowing orbs. With a shudder, she switched back on the lights. Her eyes no longer glowed, but held a crystalline appearance, like faceted emeralds. The doctors said it was a birth defect. Maybe not.