In the living room, she navigated the sofa, then a pair of wingbacks, finally making her way to the curio cabinet in the corner. She had just turned the tiny key and was pulling back the door when the living room lamp snapped on.
“Aurora, what on earth are you doing skulking around in the dark?”
Rory’s mouth worked soundlessly as she racked her brain for an explanation.
Camilla frowned at her. “I saw your car in the driveway when I pulled in. Is something . . .” Her voice trailed off when she noticed the picture frame in Rory’s hand. “What are you doing with that?”
“I was just . . .” Rory ran her eyes around the room, as if there might be an excuse lurking in one of the corners. There wasn’t. “I thought you were going to the theater.”
“I’ve been, but my allergies are kicking up, so I left at intermission.” Camilla set her handbag on the arm of the sofa and peeled a shimmery beaded shawl from her shoulders. She gave it a shake, sending a shower of rain droplets flying, then laid it aside. “Aurora, what’s going on? You haven’t returned any of my calls, and now I find you slinking around in the dark. Is there something I should know?”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea, but something’s going on. If you wanted to borrow a photograph, all you had to do was ask.”
For a moment, Rory considered lying, but she’d never pull that off, not when her mother knew how much she’d always hated this particular photo. “I wasn’t taking it,” she said finally. “I was putting it back.”
“Back from where?”
“I came by the other night while you were out and sort of . . . borrowed it.”
Camilla looked genuinely baffled. “Why?”
“I’ve just come back from San Francisco. And before that, I was in Newport.”
“I don’t understand. What do San Francisco and Newport have to do with a photo of you as a little girl?”
Rory closed her eyes, letting out a long sigh. She was going to have to tell her—all of it. “It’s not just to do with me. It’s about you too.”
“You’re not making sense, Aurora. What are you saying?”
Rory dropped her gaze. She wasn’t prepared to have this conversation now. For starters, she’d given the ledger and adoption paperwork to Anson. She had no proof for the claims she was about to make. But there was no walking it back now. Her mother was waiting for an answer.
“I’m saying we need to talk.”
She looked wary suddenly. “About what?”
Rory took a deep breath, letting it out all at once. “Your parents.”
Camilla sagged onto the sofa, her eyes bent on the carpet. When she finally lifted her head, she looked tired and strangely relieved. “How did you find out?”
Rory stared at her, trying to wrap her head around the response. She hadn’t asked, What about my parents? She had simply conceded the point. “You knew about the adoption?”
Camilla nodded.
“For how long?”
“I was ten. I wasn’t supposed to know, but my mother let something slip one day when I made her angry. She said she should have known better than to think I’d ever be a Lowell, that I’d always be trash and she should have packed me up and sent me back when she had the chance. I had no idea what she meant, but a year later, she and my father were arguing, and I heard her say it again. Trash. I don’t know where I ever found the nerve, but I threw the door open and marched right in, demanding to know why she kept saying it. She slapped me so hard, my ears rang for an hour. She was furious that I’d been listening, but deep down I think she enjoyed telling me I wasn’t hers. My father didn’t speak to her for weeks.”
Rory’s throat went tight as she imagined it. Hearing the woman she thought of as her mother refer to her as trash, being told point-blank that she’d never be good enough. No wonder she never spoke about her childhood.
“All these years, you’ve been keeping this from me. Why?”
Camilla’s eyes remained downcast. “I never told anyone. Not even your father.”
“You never told Daddy?”
“My mother was determined to see me married well. She didn’t care to whom, so long as the boy was from a suitable family. She told me to choose someone and get the business done. I chose your father, threw myself at him, really. He married me for my name. And for my inheritance. And I didn’t care. I would have married him on any condition. But my mother had conditions of her own. She made it clear that if I ever told your father about the adoption—if I ever breathed a word to anyone—she would cut me off without a cent, and that would be the end of my marriage. She would have done it, too, if I had crossed her.” She looked away, shaking her head. “I never cared about the money, but I couldn’t lose your father.”