She kept an eye on the house and straightened up as a mail truck appeared on the main drag and began stopping at the houses, delivering packets of mail. No sign of Carol with an envelope to be mailed, and now it was too late. The mail truck turned onto Surfside, traveled up the street on the right side, and delivered the mail to the Braverman house.

d.a.m.n.

Ellen felt on edge. Hot and testy. She sipped warm juice, then dug in her purse for the notes from the DNA test, reminding herself of the sample possibilities. Gum, soda can, cigarette b.u.t.t, blah blah blah. She tossed the list aside and glanced back at the Bravermans' house, where there was finally some activity. Carol was stepping out the front door.

Ellen's senses sprang to alert. She couldn't keep waiting for something to happen. She had to make something happen. She got out of the car in her sungla.s.ses and visor and went into her I'm-just-a-walker routine, strolling across the main drag and entering Surfside. She walked slowly, staying on the opposite side of the street as Carol walked from the front door and disappeared into the garage.

Ellen cut her pace, taking smaller steps, and the next minute, Carol came out of the garage with a green plastic gardener's tote. She had on a cute sundress and another visor, with her dark blond hair in its ponytail again.

Ellen kept her eyes straight ahead, but watched Carol cross the lawn to the memorial to Timothy, then she knelt down, setting the gardener's tote next to her. She slid on a pair of flowery cotton gloves and began to weed in front of the memorial.

It's as if she's tending a grave.

Ellen felt a twinge of conscience as she turned the corner, and as soon as she was out of sight, she broke into a light jog. She didn't know how long Carol would be out front and she couldn't blow this chance. It was almost too humid to breathe, and she was panting by the time she lapped the block and reached the intersection of Surfside Lane and the main drag, where she knelt next to a tall hedge, pretending to tie her sneaker.

Carol gardened at a leisurely pace, pulling the weeds and putting them in a neat pile on the left. A small plastic bag of peat moss and a large flat of yellow marigolds were sitting on the lawn next to the memorial, and a full sun bathed the front lawn. Ellen's breathing returned to normal, but she was sweating behind her sungla.s.ses, and Carol must have been feeling the same way, because in the next second, she took off her sungla.s.ses and visor and set them down. Ellen flashed on the DNA list: Hair with the follicle still attached.

She couldn't be sure there would be a hair on the sungla.s.ses or visor, and she wouldn't get another chance, so she rejected the idea. She shifted her feet and fake-tied the other sneaker, watching as Carol moved to the marigold flat and twisted off a small packet of flowers. Ellen watched her from her crouching position, and Carol gentled the plant from the flat and set it on the ground. She reached into the gardener's tote and pulled out a can of soda, then popped the tab, and took a sip.

Bingo!

Ellen scanned the block, and there was no one in sight. She slid the plastic glove from her other pocket, put it on her hand, and rose slowly. Then she slid her BlackBerry from her pocket and pressed the number for information in Miami. She asked for the Bravermans' phone number, and while the call connected, she walked toward Carol, who was bent over her flowers, making a hole for the new marigolds with her fingers. The phone rang once in Ellen's ear, then again, and in the next second, Carol looked up at her house.

Get the phone, Carol.

Ellen slid the paper bag from her pocket and started walking down Surfside Lane, keeping her gloved hand at her side, out of view. In the meantime, Carol was rising, taking off her gardening gloves on the fly, and hurrying toward the house.

Yes!

Ellen crossed to the Bravermans' side of the street, her heart pounding. She hustled up the sidewalk, getting a bead on the soda can. There was n.o.body exercising or walking dogs, and she wouldn't get another chance. She broke into a light run, the ringing cell phone to her ear. Ten feet away, then five, then right in front of the Braverman house. Carol's soda was a Diet Sprite, sitting next to the tote.

Now, now, now!

She ran straight up the Bravermans' lawn, swooped down with her gloved hand, grabbed the Diet Sprite and took off like a shot, running down the block. She turned the can upside down so the soda poured out, and she ran like she'd never run in her life. She tore around the block, bolted all the way to the main drag, then darted across the street.

HONK HONK! went a truck, skidding to a stop behind her. went a truck, skidding to a stop behind her.

Ellen tore open her car door, jumped in, and dumped the can in the brown paper bag. She twisted on the ignition, floored the gas pedal, and headed straight for the causeway. She felt like cheering. Wind off the causeway whipped her hair around, and she hit a red light, taking off the glove and leaving it on the seat, its purpose served. She took off her visor and sungla.s.ses, relieved to finally shed her disguise. She caught a glimpse of the street sign and did a double take.

Charbonneau Drive?

The traffic light turned green, but instead of going straight over the causeway, she turned right onto the street.

Chapter Fifty-six.

CHARBONNEAU DRIVE, read the street sign, and Ellen flashed on the dentist's reminder from the Bravermans' trash bag. She had known that Charbonneau sounded familiar, though she couldn't remember how. She'd pa.s.sed the street every time she'd driven back and forth to the causeway. Charbonneau Drive had to be connected to Carol Braverman. It was too distinctive a name not to be.

Curious, she drove along Charbonneau Drive, which was winding and pleasant. She pa.s.sed a white stucco rancher, a fake French chateau, and a brick McMansion; the houses had the same variety as on Surfside Lane, but all of them were the same, more recent, vintage. Palm trees lined the road, throwing dappled shade on the street, but they weren't as established as the palms on Surfside, and the vegetation, white oleander and bougainvillea, looked newer. A woman in a running singlet and shorts jogged by, and two men walked matching dachshunds.

She followed the street, and at the end of a cul-de-sac stood an immense mansion of pink stucco with a clay tile roof. It was three stories tall, with at least thirty arched Spanish windows and a covered walkway that sheltered a grand main entrance. A sign on the lawn read, CHARBONNEAU HOUSE CHARBONNEAU HOUSE, and underneath that, OPEN TO THE PUBLIC OPEN TO THE PUBLIC.

I'm the public.

Ellen pulled into a parking lot of crushed sh.e.l.ls and turned off the ignition. She'd make it quick, but she put her DNA samples under the seat anyway, then got out of the car and walked to the house. The stucco had been repainted and the tiles on the roof meticulously maintained, but the mansion was much older than the houses surrounding it on the drive. The lot was at least three acres of lush lawn, the breeze was fragrant, and the place a reminder of a slower, older Florida. She walked up the breezeway, climbed stairs of red Mexican tile, and went inside the door, looking around.

The entrance hall had a black-and-white tile floor and was dominated by a huge staircase, covered with an Oriental carpet. There were three large rooms off the hall, furnished as meeting rooms, and she entered the center room, which overlooked an expanse of green lawn and a small circular fountain.

"May I help you?" a voice asked, and she turned around. It was a woman with a dark brown bob, light eyes with friendly crow's-feet, and a warm smile. "Were you looking for something?"

"I was driving past the sign, and I'm not from around here. I thought the building was so pretty, I wanted to see it."

"Why, thank you. We're very proud of Charbonneau House and the work we do here."

"What is that, may I ask?"

"We promote theater arts and other cultural events to children in the community." The woman, professional in a crisp white blouse and a khaki cotton skirt, with red espadrilles, gestured to the main hallway. "In addition to the conference rooms and cla.s.srooms, we have a full theater in the back, which seats seventy-five people. We have a large backstage and several dressing rooms. We stage three productions a year and we just finished our run of Once Upon a Mattress Once Upon a Mattress."

"How nice," Ellen said, meaning it. "And I see there's Charbonneau House and Charbonneau Drive. I a.s.sume it's related to the Charbonneau family?"

"Yes, exactly. The Charbonneaus are one of the oldest families in the area, and they've donated the house for the community's use." The woman gestured to an oil portrait in an ornate golden frame, one of two flanking the windows. "That's our benefactor, Bertrand Charbonneau, who unfortunately pa.s.sed away about five years ago, at the age of ninety-one."

"How interesting." Ellen looked at the painting, of a reedy, silver-haired man in gla.s.ses and a light green business suit, leaning against a wall of bookshelves. She tried not to stare at the picture, to see if there was any resemblance to Will. Her head was already swimming, and the bag in the car would eliminate any guesswork.

"Bertrand was a wonderful man, a friend of my father's. He was one of the community's first residents and developed much of the real estate here. This house, his childhood home, was only one of his many gifts to our community."

Ellen was trying to piece together where, if anywhere, Carol Charbonneau Braverman fit in, but didn't want to show her hand, especially since this woman knew the family. "I gather Bertrand Charbonneau had an interest in theater?"

"His wife Rhoda had a brief career as an actress before she retired to raise their children. Even then, she remained very active in children's theater." The woman strolled over to the other oil portrait, and Ellen followed her. The painting showed another man, this one in a casual brown sweater, by a pool. The plaque read Richard Charbonneau.

"So this must be Bertrand's son?" Ellen asked, scanning the man's features. He had the same blue eyes she'd seen on Carol, and Will. It was the tour of Will's bloodlines, maybe, but she'd know soon enough.

"Yes, Richard was my father's contemporary. He and his wife Selma continued their father's efforts. Unfortunately, they both pa.s.sed away many years ago, in a car accident."

"That's too bad. Do you think the family will carry on this tradition? It really seems like a wonderful idea."

"No worries there." The woman smiled pleasantly. "Richard and his wife had a daughter, Carol, and she works with the children every Wednesday and Friday morning. She understands all aspects of children's theater and even directs a play a year."

"Well, that's wonderful." Ellen's chest tightened, and she looked away from the portrait, hiding her emotion. If Will was really Timothy, then Bertrand Charbonneau would be his great-grandfather and Richard Charbonneau his grandfather. Will would be part of a wonderful family, born to extraordinary wealth. She thought ahead, to the day she'd get the DNA results, when she'd have to make a decision, or not.

You'll have to make a choice I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

"Will that be all?" the woman asked, c.o.c.king her head.

"Yes, thanks," Ellen answered, turning away.

She said another good-bye, walked from the room, and hurried out the entrance hall to the door. By the time she hit the walkway, her pace picked up from a light jog to a full-out run, and her footfalls crunched the seash.e.l.ls. She wanted to forget Charbonneau House, Charbonneau Drive, and her DNA samples, which would answer a question she never wanted to ask. Her chest heaved and panted, and she reached the car out of breath, then she flung open the door, grabbed the paper bag from under the seat, and raised her arm to throw it across the gorgeous lawn.

Her hand halted in midair. She thought of Will, and stopped herself. It was his birthright, not hers. His truth, not hers. She'd come here to learn whether he belonged to her or to the Bravermans, but neither was true. He belonged to himself.

She lowered her arm. She walked back to the car, sat in the driver's seat, and stowed the bag on the pa.s.senger seat.

It was time to go home.

Chapter Fifty-seven.

The ticketing line wound back and forth, and Ellen a.s.sessed it, worriedly. She didn't want to miss the flight and she'd been lucky to get a seat. She couldn't wait to see Will, and she felt almost herself again, having changed back into her sweater and jeans, which she needed in the air-conditioned terminal anyway.

She checked her watch. She'd scarfed down a turkey sandwich in the first fifteen minutes of her wait in line, and now she had nothing to do but look at the other travelers who had nothing else to do. The girl in front of her bobbed to music playing on her iPod, and the man in front of her was a middle manager, his thumbs flying over his BlackBerry keyboard at the speed of carpal tunnel syndrome. A man before him talked on a cell phone in rapid Spanish, which reminded her of Marcelo. She'd called him this morning but he hadn't answered, so she'd left a message saying she'd be back to work tomorrow.

"Excuse me, is our line even moving?" asked an older man behind her, and Ellen stood on tiptoe to see the ticket counter. Only one agent was manning the counter, and two of the self-service kiosks bore Out of Order signs.

"Honestly, no." Ellen smiled, but the man grumbled.

"I can walk to Denver faster."

"You got that right." Ellen looked away, and her gaze fell to the first-cla.s.s line, only four people deep. "I wonder how much first cla.s.s costs."

"Highway robbery," the old man shot back, and the line shifted forward an inch.

Her gaze drifted back to the first-cla.s.s line, where a pretty redhead had just arrived, rolling a Louis Vuitton bag behind her, her head held high. She looked vaguely familiar and when she dug in a black purse, Ellen remembered where she had seen her before. It was the young woman who lived across the street from Carol Braverman.

Her name is Kelly Scott and her family has more money than G.o.d.

Ellen watched the redhead fan herself with some papers, looking s.e.xy in black stilettos and a cobalt blue dress, whose bold color stood out among the Miami pastels. Businessmen pa.s.sing by gave her more than a second glance, running their eyes over her body and shapely legs.

The line shifted, and Ellen moved up. Another businessman strode past her, carrying a lightweight bag and moving so quickly that his tailored sport jacket blew open. He joined the end of the first-cla.s.s line, and Ellen looked over.

She recognized him instantly, stunned.

Chapter Fifty-eight.

The businessman was Bill Braverman, and Ellen marveled at the odds that he would show up at the airport at the exact same time as his neighbor. She got a closer look at him than she had before, and he was an attractive man with a tall, wiry build, dark hair, and a nose that looked like Will's, even in profile. She tried not to stare as he took out his wallet and cleared his throat, and at about the same time, the redhead turned around and glanced behind her. She looked right at Bill, who stood behind her, but strangely, she didn't say h.e.l.lo. Instead, she turned away and faced the ticket counters.

Ellen didn't get it. The redhead had to have seen Bill. He was right behind her and the tallest man in the line, not to mention her neighbor.

"We're moving," the old man said, and Ellen shifted forward, glued to the goings-on. Something was fishy between Bill and the redhead, but she wasn't jumping to conclusions. She stayed tuned as Bill took out his wallet and faced the front of the line, showing no sign that he recognized his neighbor, who was standing in front of him, with bright red hair and a killer dress. Men all over the terminal were looking at her, yet Bill was pointedly looking away.

Ellen considered it. These two people had to know each other, and they clearly had seen each other, but they were acting as if they were strangers. There was one possible explanation, but she resisted it.

"You can move up again," said the older man behind her, and Ellen filled in the gap. She kept watching, hoping that she was wrong. The redhead walked to the ticket counter, and the balding ticket agent brightened immediately. Bill looked in her direction, and the redhead got her ticket, bunny-dipped for her Vuitton bag, and rolled it away. Bill seemed not to notice her as she sashayed off, and Ellen lost sight of the redhead as she walked toward security.

The coach line shifted forward, and one of the ticket agents walked to the front of the line, made a megaphone of her hands, and called out, "Anyone for Philly? Philly, come on up!"

"Here!" Ellen ducked the tape to get out of line and hurried to the front, maneuvering to stand next to Bill, standing so close she could smell the residual cigarette smoke wreathing him. As casually as possible, she said, "Hard to go back to Philly in the cold."

"I bet."

"Where are you headed?"

"Vegas."

"Wow. I've never been. Have fun."

"You, too. Safe trip." Bill flashed her a grin, then went to the front desk, got his ticket, and walked off toward security, his jacket flying open.

Three people later, Ellen got her ticket and hurried ahead to security, but lost sight of Bill and the redhead. She found herself again at the back of the line and in time made it through security, then took a quick look at the lighted departure signs for Las Vegas. The Vegas gate was two down from hers. She hurried toward the gate, scanned the pa.s.sengers waiting for the flight, and spotted them in no time.

Bill sat reading a Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal in one of the wide gray seats, and directly across from him was the redhead, flipping through a thick copy of in one of the wide gray seats, and directly across from him was the redhead, flipping through a thick copy of Vogue Vogue and crossing and uncrossing her legs. It was a game they were playing, frequent-flier foreplay. and crossing and uncrossing her legs. It was a game they were playing, frequent-flier foreplay.

Ellen lingered behind a round pillar and watched Bill and the redhead until it was time for first cla.s.s to board. They joined the line, leaving a few travelers between them. The redhead got her boarding pa.s.s swiped, and just as she entered the jet way, she turned behind her, ostensibly for her bag, and flashed Bill the briefest of smiles.

He's cheating on Snow White?

Ellen went ahead to her gate, disgusted and sad. She boarded, and her heart went out to Carol, planting marigolds on Timothy's memorial on the front lawn. Being nice to the grocery stockboy. Playing Mother Goose to toddlers. Teaching children's theater at Charbonneau House. Ellen was so preoccupied that she barely heard the ticket agent asking for her boarding pa.s.s.

She boarded, found her seat, and stowed her roller bag in the overhead, then sat down, suddenly exhausted. Outside on the tarmac, a baggage train chugged past, but Ellen closed her eyes. She didn't want to see anything anymore. Not Miami or its heat. Not Bill Braverman or his mistress. Not Charbonneau Road. Not the marigolds.

She felt awful inside, raw and depressed. She didn't want to think about letting Will go to the Bravermans. She didn't want to think about letting Will go at all. Will was her son and he belonged with her. And her father, and Connie. And Oreo Figaro.

Ellen stopped herself in mid-dwell. There was no point to making herself crazy until she had the DNA results.

She vowed to keep the melodrama to a minimum until then.

Chapter Fifty-nine.