A barrage of questions assailed her as she continued to stare at the photo of present-day Anson. Captured and held for five months. Two years in Switzerland, learning to walk again. What had gone through his mind when he returned to find Soline gone? What had his father told him about her—and about the baby? And more importantly, why had he not come looking for her? Or perhaps he had looked and hadn’t been able to find her. That seemed unlikely, though, given his obvious resources. Was it possible time and events had simply blunted his feelings for her?
The last question sent a prickle of dread through her. Perhaps because it struck too close to home. For months, she’d been fixated on Hux coming home to her, safe and sound and whole. Not once had she let herself imagine him returning a changed man, broken and tormented by what he might have endured at the hands of his captors.
Rory shoved the thought down as she gathered the photos and clippings and slid them back into their envelope, preferring to focus on the matter at hand. She had asked Doug to dig up a photo of a dead man, and instead, he’d managed to dig up the man himself. And now she was going to have to figure out how to tell Soline that the man she’d been mourning for more than forty years was very much alive.
One thing was certain. She wasn’t breathing a word about any of it until she’d looked Anson Purcell in the eye and gotten some answers. Soline deserved at least that much.
THIRTY-SEVEN
RORY
September 24, 1985—Newport
Rory pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine, then glanced at the Post-it note stuck to the dash one more time. Purcell Industries Ltd., 6 Commercial Wharf, Newport, Rhode Island. This was the place. Not an ideal venue for the kind of conversation she was about to have, but it was the only address directory assistance had.
She grabbed her purse and headed up a meticulously landscaped walk toward a pair of smoked glass doors. It was a massive building of dark red brick, with a steeply pitched roof and arched windows that gave it the look of an old mill or railroad depot.
She hesitated as she reached the door, noting the elaborate matching logos etched into the glass. Was she really doing this? Ambushing a stranger at his place of business and demanding to know why he wasn’t dead? And when all was said and done, what did she think she was going to accomplish? Perhaps the whole thing was better left alone. Except she was here now, after a nearly two-hour drive, with a long list of unanswered questions. If he refused to talk to her, all she’d have lost was half a day and a tank of gas.
She pulled back the door, stepping aside to let a man in navy shorts and deck shoes exit. The interior was clean and open with a high blue ceiling meant to mirror the sky and gleaming floors of honey-hued teak. There was a tall glass reception desk, where the Purcell Industries logo was again on display. Rory cleared her throat as she approached, hoping to convey the kind of confidence her mother displayed when entering a room.
The receptionist lifted her head, smiling. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Purcell.”
The woman’s smile slipped as she peered at Rory over half-moon glasses. “Mr. Purcell?”
“Anson Purcell,” Rory clarified, realizing there might be more than one.
She smiled politely but with the slightest shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Purcell doesn’t work in this office. If you care to tell me what it is you were hoping to discuss, I might be able to direct you to the correct party.”
She was the gatekeeper, Rory realized, strategically positioned to prevent random women from wandering in off the street to ask impertinent questions. “It isn’t business-related. I’m here about a friend of his. An old friend of the family, actually,” she added, thinking of Thia. “Do you know how I might get in touch with him?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t give out that information, but if you’d like to leave a contact number, I could pass it along to his assistant.”
Rory did her best to maintain her smile. “Is Thia here, by any chance?”
The receptionist’s brows lifted, a blend of wariness and surprise. “Thia?”
“Anson’s sister, Cynthia. I’ve come from Boston, and it’s quite important that I speak to one of them as soon as possible.”
The woman regarded Rory again—and then the barest of nods. “What is your name, please?”
“Aurora Grant.”
“Thank you. If you’ll just give me a moment.”
She reached for the phone and punched in a number, twirling a pen while she waited for someone to pick up. “Yes, it’s Paulette,” she said, sitting up a little straighter in her chair. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a young woman here asking to see Mr. Purcell. When I explained that he doesn’t work here, she asked to talk to you. She’s from Boston. She says it’s about an old friend of the family.”