Her Secret Past Page 5

  Suddenly chilled in the afternoon heat, she lifted her hand to knock, but the door was drawn back so abruptly, she was left standing with her fist in midair. Lowering her hand, she cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably as the woman on the other side of the threshold stared at her in mute shock.

  “Amber? Oh, my heavens—” The soft Southern drawl broke off as the woman took a step toward her. She lifted her hand, perhaps to touch Amy’s face, but almost unconsciously, Amy moved away from her.

  Something that might have been hurt flashed in the woman’s eyes. As if needing to do something with her hands, she wiped them on a tattered white apron that tied around her neck and again around an ample waistline. She wasn’t fat nor did she appear out of shape, but was plump in a pleasing, down-home sort of way that spoke of fried chicken, potato salad and luscious pecan pies.

  Her red hair, tinged with gray, was pulled back into a knot, but wiry tendrils frizzed along her forehead and at her nape. She looked to be comfortably in her fifties, unassumingly attractive with a pale, lovely complexion and eyes the color of a summer sky.

  Amy said tentatively, “I’m Amy Calloway. I spoke with Mrs. Tremain on the phone yesterday. I believe she’s expecting me.”

  The blue eyes danced with sudden amusement. “Indeed, I am! We’ve all been dying to see you since we received your letter.”

  Amy’s face flamed in embarrassment. So this was Lottie Tremain. The woman looked nothing like Amy had pictured her, and she realized guiltily she’d been expecting the proverbial wicked stepmother—tall, elegant and coldly remote. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you—”

  The woman waved aside her apology. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have introduced myself right off, but it’s hard to remember that you don’t remember. Amnesia, for heaven’s sakes!” She held out her arm. “Look! It gives me chicken skin, just thinking about it. Mama, God rest her, was senile for years and almost as blind as a bat when she died, but that’s not the same thing, is it?”

  She continued the patter as she took Amy’s arm and ushered her into the house. Amy stopped in the cool foyer, her breath suspended somewhere in her throat. Whereas the outside of the house looked worse for a century and a half of wear and tear, the inside had been beautifully preserved.

  Fanlights over the double oak doors illuminated the high gloss on the hardwood floors and showcased a spectacular freestanding staircase that curved regally toward a wide, open gallery above. Carved moldings and whimsical frescoes adorned the high ceiling, and a crystal chandelier tinkled in the breeze of a lazy tropical fan.

  But what stopped Amy’s breath, what made her heart slam against her chest in slow, painful strokes, was the echo of a thousand voices, whispering to her, calling out to her, telling her that at long last, she had finally come home. The feeling was so strong, the house almost seemed like a living entity to her.

  Lottie Tremain touched Amy’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  Amy started a bit. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just this place…it’s so beautiful.”

  “It is magnificent, isn’t it?” Lottie’s eyes glowed with pride. “Many of the furnishings are original to the house, as is most of the woodwork. Sometimes, even after all these years, I still have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. Who would ever have thought that someone like me—” She broke off, biting her lip as her blue gaze searched Amy’s features. “But you, of all people, would know how I feel. You used to love this place as much as I do.”

  A frisson of tension went through Amy, as if something unspoken had passed between them. But the feeling was gone in an instant, and Lottie smiled warmly, taking Amy’s arm again. “Welcome home, Amber, honey. If only Emmett could be here to see you—” She paused, looking distressed. “You do know about your daddy, don’t you? He died last year.”

  “Yes, I know.” Darnell Henry had told her about her father’s death, but Amy had already read his obituary in a Jackson newspaper. Until now, however, the impact hadn’t fully hit her. She’d believed her parents dead for the past nine years, but her father had been alive for most of that time. The realization of what her memory loss had cost her made Amy suddenly want to cry.

  As if sensing her emotion, Lottie squeezed her hand. The faint scent of lemon sachet seemed to emanate from her clothing, from the essence of the woman herself. “You can’t begin to imagine how he suffered when you disappeared like that. It very nearly killed him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Amy murmured, helpless to know what to say or do in such a situation.

  “Now, why should you be sorry? It wasn’t your fault. You explained in your letter about the amnesia, and how that strange woman kept you down there in Houston and somehow managed to convince you you were somebody else. Who in the world was she, and whatever possessed her to do such a thing?”

  Obviously not expecting answers, Lottie drew Amy into a square room off the foyer. An antique sofa and Hepplewhite chairs were grouped around a huge marble fireplace that had been swept clean of winter ashes and festooned with a potted fern. Wooden shutters at the windows were slatted against the afternoon sun, giving the parlor a faint air of oppression, but the shadowy coolness was almost a relief to Amy. Her knees trembling, she sat gratefully in the chair Lottie motioned her to, then watched while her stepmother—Amber’s stepmother—assumed the seat across from her.

  Again, Lottie wiped her hands on her apron, as if she couldn’t quite still her fingers. But her gaze never left Amy’s face. “The woman’s name was Jessop, you say.”

  “Yes. Nona Jessop. She told me once her brother still lives around here. I need to find him if I can.”

  Lottie frowned. “I can’t recall anyone by that name, and I’ve lived here most of my life.”

  “Jessop may have been her married name. She told me she was a widow. But I haven’t been able to find out what her maiden name was. She didn’t leave any papers or records, or anything.”

  Lottie shook her head in disbelief. “This is just so strange, you turning up like this, after all these years. We didn’t even know if you were alive or dead—”

  “Strange is the word for it, all right,” said a voice from the doorway.

  A thirtyish-looking woman, reed thin and well-groomed in a lime sundress, sauntered into the room, trailed by an almost mirror image of herself. Both women were redheads, both tall and pale and quietly attractive.

  The only difference in the two that Amy initially discerned was the style of their hair. The first woman wore hers in fiery corkscrews that bounced against her shoulders, while the second woman had pulled hers straight back, highlighting the freckles that dappled her pale skin like tiny copper pennies. Amy knew at once that she was the shy, demure twin while the other tried to make the most of their wan coloring with thick mascara and bright red lipstick.

  “These are my daughters,” Lottie explained. “Your stepsisters, Phaedra and Philomena Darling.”

  The second twin, dressed in jeans and a white shirt tucked neatly into the waistband, stepped toward Amber and offered her hand. “Please call me Mena.” Her smile was soft, hesitant. “Everyone does. Welcome home, Amber.”

  Amy returned her smile and took her hand. The redhead’s grasp was surprisingly firm. She shook hands with Amy, then retreated into the background when her sister moved forward.

  “You might as well call me Fay,” she said. “I detest the stupid name, but I can’t seem to shed myself of it.” Her hand barely brushed Amy’s fingertips as her gaze, cool and appraising, moved over her, taking in the soiled white dress and wilted, tangled hair. Her mouth twitched in amusement—or satisfaction, Amy couldn’t tell which—as she turned and took a seat on the sofa, curling one leg underneath her.

  “Please get your feet off the furniture,” Lottie scolded.

  Fay’s expression soured, but she did as she was told. “Tell us more about your life in Houston, especially the part about that woman practically holding you prisoner all those years.” She shuddered, but h
er blue eyes were bright and malicious. “How did she manage to brainwash you like that?”

  “Phaedra!”

  Fay shrugged and smiled. Her teeth were small and pearly white. “I’m just curious, Mama. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, turning back to Amy. “After all, that is why you’re here, isn’t it? To get everything out into the open? At least that’s what you told our attorney.”

  “I’m here to learn the truth,” Amy said, “About the night I disappeared and about why the woman I thought was my aunt lied to me.”

  Fay shuddered again. This time, her revulsion seemed quite genuine. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to wake up one day and realize you aren’t who you always thought you were. To look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back at you. To not even remember all the terrible things you might have done in your past…” Her voice trailed off as she gave Amy a knowing glance.

  Unsettled, Amy let her gaze wander from Fay to Lottie, and then to Mena, seeing an uncanny resemblance in all of their faces, and yet they seemed so different: Lottie, with her kind eyes and mothering ways; Mena, with her lovely features and bookish demeanor; and Fay—Phaedra—a glamour girl trapped inside a rather plain-Jane body. How that must rankle, Amy thought, sizing her up.

  The front door slammed and footsteps hurried across the foyer. A youthful voice called out, “Is she here yet?”

  The girl stopped dead in the doorway, her question trailing away when she saw Amy.

  The sight of her took Amy’s breath away, and she found herself standing on wobbly legs to greet the newcomer. The girl looked about seventeen or eighteen, with long wheat-colored hair, tawny eyes that tilted at the corners and a smooth complexion that had been tanned to golden brown.

  She wasn’t tall—probably about five five or five six, like Amy—nor was she rail thin like the twins. Rather, the denim cutoffs and midriff top showed off a body that was lush and curvaceous, hinting at baby fat that would someday melt into more svelte and sedate lines. For now, however, she exuded a kind of raw magnetism that could only spell trouble in a girl her age.

  And she looked exactly like the picture Amy had seen of herself at that age.

  It was as if she were peering in a mirror that erased nine years from her face, and for the first time, Amy glimpsed in her sister’s eyes, in the knowing curve of her lips, the “package” Darnell Henry had hinted that Amber Tremain had once been. A wild, headstrong young woman who might well have run off and married a man like Conner Sullivan.

  The notion made her legs tremble even more, and Amy stepped to the side of her chair so that she could cling to the back as she greeted her sister. “You must be Jasmine.”

  Elegant brows arched sharply. “You recognize me? I thought you didn’t remember anything.”

  “I just guessed. There’s a family resemblance.”

  “Not much of one. Not anymore.” The girl crossed the room to stand in front of Amy, her gaze drinking in Amy’s disheveled appearance. A shadow moved over her features. “You don’t look anything like you used to.”

  “Nine years is a long time,” Amy said, her tone defensive though she wasn’t sure why. “People change.”

  Jasmine gave her a sly look beneath thick lashes. “Daddy used to say a leopard can’t change his spots, no matter how hard he tries.”

  The inference wasn’t lost on Amy, and she felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. The day was not turning out at all as she’d hoped. She might have expected a fair amount of wariness from her stepfamily, or even Fay’s snide antagonism and Conner Sullivan’s dark accusations. But the open animosity in her sister’s eyes—her own flesh and blood—was hard to understand.

  Jasmine couldn’t have been more than nine or ten when Amber disappeared. What could have happened between the two of them to make her sister so hostile now? Or was it, as Con had hinted, the fact that Amber’s return challenged Jasmine’s inheritance?

  As if she could read Amy’s thoughts, Jasmine abruptly turned away and went to stand at the window, staring toward the river. Her gaze took on a faraway look, and Amy wondered what her sister was thinking.

  “Did you have any trouble finding the house?” Lottie asked her. “Darnell said he gave you detailed directions.”

  “Yes, he did. He even drew me a map.”

  Lottie glanced at her. “We expected you some time ago. I don’t mind telling you, we were all getting a little worried.”

  Somehow Amy doubted that. She hadn’t exactly been welcomed with open arms. “I’m afraid I got sidetracked. I decided to take a drive along the river.”

  Lottie’s hand crept up to finger a button at the neck of her blouse. “You…didn’t go all the way to the old bridge, did you?” When Amy nodded, Lottie said, “Oh, honey, why? Why would you go there?”

  Amy shrugged. “I’m not sure why. I just wanted to see it. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t have gone?”

  “That’s where our mother killed herself,” Jasmine said bluntly, still gazing out the window. “That’s where we thought you’d drowned.”

  A shudder ripped through Amy. So that was why she’d felt so compelled to find the bridge, why she’d been so terrified standing on the edge, staring down into the water. She remembered the vision she’d had of the hand reaching out of the darkness, of a body falling into the water—

  “Did you…see anyone there?” Mena’s soft, anxious voice cut into Amy’s thoughts.

  She frowned, wondering if they knew about Con, if they were aware of his claim that he and Amber had gotten married the night she disappeared. Or was the elopement still a secret, after all these years? She said hesitantly, “I saw a man there. He said his name was Conner Sullivan.”

  The room stilled with a tension that was almost electric. Lottie’s face froze into unreadable lines, while Fay’s expression twisted in contempt and Mena’s cheeks flushed bright red.

  But the most interesting reaction was Jasmine’s. She turned slowly from the window, her eyes narrowed in what Amy could only call suspicion. “What did he say to you?”

  Amy shrugged, still tentative in how much she wanted to reveal. “For some reason, he doesn’t seem to like me. He doesn’t believe I have amnesia.”

  Triumph flashed in Jasmine’s eyes before she turned quickly back to the window.

  Fay, after a moment’s consideration, said slyly, “Well, I hate to admit it, but he does have a point.” As if sensing the inevitable reprimand, she lifted a manicured hand to silence her mother. “Wait a minute, Mama, just hear me out. How do we really know she has amnesia?” Her gaze locked defiantly with Amy’s.

  “I guess you don’t,” Amy said. “But why would I lie about something like that?”

  “It’d be a great cover for an impostor.”

  “Phaedra!”

  “Oh, don’t ‘Phaedra’ me,” she chided her mother. “And don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same thing yourself. If squirrely ole Mr. Henry hadn’t talked you into it, you never would have invited her here.”

  Lottie’s face turned beet-red. She seemed at a loss for words, but Mena quickly came to her mother’s rescue. “This isn’t a novel, Fay. Things like that don’t happen in real life, and besides—” she glanced shyly at Amy “—no one could look that much like Amber and not be her.”

  “Oh, please,” Fay said in contempt. “No offense, but you don’t even look that much like Amber to me. Even Jasmine said so. How do we know you’re not some gold digger who has cooked up this wild scheme to try and bilk money from us?”

  “You can’t bilk blood from a turnip,” Jasmine muttered at the window.

  “Girls, please,” Lottie said, wiping her hands rather urgently on her apron.

  Ignoring her mother, Fay leaned toward Amy, scouring her features with a cold, appraising glare. “If you really believe you’re Amber Tremain, then you wouldn’t object to a DNA test, would you?”

  “DNA test?” boomed yet another voice from the parlor doorway. “Why, you’re out of your cotton-pick
in’ mind, Phaedra Sue Darling, if you think I’ll fork over good money for some fancy smancy blood test. Y’all think I won’t know my own kin just by looking at her? Let me see her. I can tell you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail whether she’s the real thing or not. And if she’s not—” the voice turned ominous “—by gawd, we’ll call out the Mississippi Highway Patrol to chase her clear back to Texas.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AT THE SOUND of the strident voice, Jasmine, Fay and Mena all jumped, as if they were connected to an invisible string that had suddenly been yanked. A frown creased Lottie’s brow as she gazed at the doorway. “Corliss! I thought you were in Yazoo City.”

  “I was,” the woman confirmed unhappily. “And I’d still be there, too, if Merrily Tucker hadn’t called to tell me what was going on around here. Which is more than any of y’all saw fit to do.”

  Tall and big boned, the woman sailed into the room on a draft of talcum powder, gardenias and a more pungent aroma that might have been liniment. “Where is she? I swear, I can’t see a damn thing in here. You keep this place as dark as a mole’s butt, Lottie, just so you can save a buck or two on the electric bill—”

  Her tirade ended abruptly when she spotted Amy. Her hand flew to her heart where her chest visibly rose and fell beneath a chic lavender jacket as she struggled for breath. For a full ten seconds, she couldn’t seem to move. Then, collecting herself, her gaze narrowed and she said sternly, “So, young lady. You’re the one who’s claiming to be my niece Amber, are you?”

  “Not exactly,” Amy said, nervous in spite of the fact she hadn’t done anything wrong. “I’m just here to find out the truth. I don’t remember anything before nine years ago.”

  “So I’ve been told. Amnesia, huh?” The woman’s tone implied she wouldn’t easily fall for any such nonsense as that. “Well, don’t just sit there like a knot on a log. Stand up, girl. Let me get a good look at you.”