“Anson never married?”
Thia shook her head. “There’s been no place in his life for anyone since Soline. Not even me. We speak at Christmas and on my birthday, but it’s always very stilted. I hoped things would get better when my father died, that he might even come home, but . . .” She broke off with a shrug. “I don’t even know where he is most of the time, usually out of the country. It’s as if he’s trying to stay one step ahead of the memories.”
“And you think a total stranger is suddenly going to thaw his heart?”
“A stranger? No. His granddaughter? Maybe.” Thia tapped a finger to her lips, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She glanced at her watch. “I should still be able to catch her.”
Thia stepped to the desk and picked up the phone, punching in a number with cool efficiency. “Paulette, can you check with Cheryl and see where my brother happens to be this week? Thank you.”
Rory felt a bubble of panic forming in her throat. Whatever Thia Purcell had in mind, it was happening way too fast. She opened her mouth to protest, but Thia had grabbed a pen and was speaking to Paulette again.
“Yes, I’m here. No, I don’t need a phone number, just his hotel.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Rory. “I’m sending him something.”
THIRTY-NINE
RORY
September 25, 1985—San Francisco
Rory dropped her tote and overnighter on the bed and wandered to the window, gazing out over the San Francisco skyline, the sprawling city, the glistening bay, the iconic Golden Gate Bridge just visible through a scrim of fog. It was breathtaking, like a postcard she’d received once, but she hadn’t come to enjoy the sights. She was on a mission to upend a man’s life.
Eight hours ago, she’d been in Boston, still trying to think of a reason not to go through with what she was about to do. And then the boarding call had come and the decision was made. She’d debated the wisdom of staying at the Fairmont. Knowing Anson was just four floors above her felt vaguely stalkerish. But her time was short. It made sense to stay where travel time was limited to an elevator ride.
On the plane, she had tried to prepare herself for what she was about to do. She had practiced her opening lines, what she would say first, what she would say next, how she would lay out the facts, like a lawyer during summation. A tidy argument for why he needed to make things right with Soline. What she hadn’t prepared for was coming face-to-face with the grandfather who, until twenty-four hours ago, she hadn’t known existed.
How did one bridge that kind of gap? Twenty-three years without a grandfather and suddenly there was Anson Purcell. Absorbing the news that Soline was her grandmother had been hard enough, but at least they had formed a bond before she learned the truth. There was no bond with Anson, nothing but Soline’s memories to connect them. She’d heard the stories, people feeling an instant affinity upon meeting a newly discovered relative for the first time, others feeling nothing at all. Which would she be? She honestly couldn’t say, and for now she needed to stay focused on the mission at hand.
Returning to her tote, she pulled out the ledger Thia had sent with her—the proof she would need to convince Anson of his father’s deception. She had the photographs too: the one of young Thia in her party dress and the one of her, taken the day of her impromptu recital. She had borrowed the latter from her mother’s curio cabinet while Camilla was at her weekly bridge game last night. She’d been careful to rearrange the remaining objects on the shelf, so as not to leave an empty spot. With any luck, the frame would be back where it belonged before her mother noticed. Once she knew where Anson fit into the picture, she’d break the news to both her mother and Soline.
She glanced at her watch, still set to Boston time, and subtracted three hours. Almost 6:00 p.m. in San Francisco. She’d booked her return ticket for tomorrow afternoon, in order to be back in time for the final walk-through with Brian. That gave her twenty-four hours to do what she’d come to do. She checked Thia’s note for Anson’s room number, then picked up the phone and asked for room 903. A male voice answered on the third ring.
“Mr. Purcell?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Rory Grant. Your sister, Thia, told me where I might reach you.”
“What can I help you with?”
His voice was intimidating, crisp and all business. Suddenly every word she’d practiced during the flight seemed lodged in her throat. “I’m a friend of Soline Roussel’s,” she blurted finally. She held her breath, waiting for a click. It didn’t come. “Mr. Purcell?”