21
B rogan woke up late. She saw a tray beside her on the bed with a glass of orange juice, a small decanter of fresh coffee—fixed the way she liked it—and a croissant with a note that read, “After last night, this should be enough to get you going. Breakfast is pancakes. Come down when you’re ready.”
She munched on the croissant, downed the orange juice in one gulp, and started on the coffee before heading to the shower. After toweling her hair dry, she pulled on a chunky ribbed knit sweater in tan and a pair of her softest jeans that she could wriggle into. After spending fifteen minutes fiddling with her hair, she headed into her office to check her work emails and noticed Professor Lockney had sent her an update. She had to read it twice before the information sunk in.
“I have a surprise for you,” Amalie wrote. “I think I’ve found your birth mother. More verification is needed, but I’m sure this Britta is the right one. Everything fits, including the modeling contract she signed when she was sixteen. If it’s okay, I want to stop by your house this afternoon and walk you through everything I discovered. It’s a lot to process. Make sure Lucien is with you for support. Fingers crossed that the confirmation comes back clean.”
Brogan didn’t wait to type an email response. She picked up her cell phone and sent Amalie a text message. Yes. Absolutely. This afternoon is perfect.
Great. How about four-thirty? Could you send me directions to your house?
Sure. No problem.
Elated, Brogan launched MapQuest on her phone, keyed in the starting point and destination, selected the best route from Santa Cruz, and copied the link to share with the professor. After rushing off the directions, she darted downstairs to tell Lucien the news.
The dogs greeted her at the foot of the staircase, following her all the way to the kitchen. He had already started the pancakes and brewed another pot of coffee. The rich aroma recharged her as she set the tray on the island counter and wrapped her arms around Lucien. “Amalie found my birth mother.”
“What? You’re kidding?”
“It’s true. I can feel it. She found Britta. She’s stopping by this afternoon at four-thirty to lay it all out for me.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. I thought it might take longer.”
“Me too. She told me to make sure you were here.”
Lucien frowned. That sounded like bad news to him. But he didn’t want to dampen her excitement. “I hope you’re hungry.”
She laughed, feeling a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with hot pancakes and syrup. “Starving, actually.”
As they ate breakfast, Brogan’s mind raced with questions and emotions. She rattled on about what news Amalie might share, letting her imagination run wild. “Do you suppose Britta wants to get in touch?”
Lucien considered that but doubted the possibility. “If that’s the case, then why hasn’t she done so before now? And has Amalie actually got a response from this Britta person? We don’t know that until the professor tells us more.”
Her enthusiasm was tempered by nervous anticipation. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Lucien reached across the table to take her hand. “Do me a favor. Don’t get your hopes wound up about the results. You read all the time about people getting disappointed after they reach out to a birth mother or father. It doesn’t always go the way you think. Sometimes, taking this step leaves you feeling hollow inside because they don’t always want to be found.”
Hadn’t Scott mentioned that same thing on Halloween night when she’d summoned him to the patio? She squeezed his hand and let out a sigh. “Thanks for reminding me that it might not go like I want.”
“I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm. But life isn’t always a Hallmark movie. Just saying.”
“No one knows that better than us. You’re right. I need to calm down and temper my expectations. But do you think Amalie will be able to answer the one burning question I have? How did Rachel end up with me? That’s really the driving force behind this whole genealogy thing. Why did Rory turn me over to a total stranger?”
Lucien’s thoughtful gaze met hers. “Those are realistic issues. We can always hope for the best. Just remember, no matter what, you have people who care about you. Through the years, we’ve made our own extended family.”
“I know. For a moment there, I let my imagination take over.”
They finished their breakfast and tidied up the kitchen. She tried to stay occupied, addressing work-related problems back east and negotiating solutions from three thousand miles away. But her thoughts kept wandering back to the possibility of finally having a mother. She found herself imagining different scenarios, each one rosier than the last, and tried to brace herself for the reality that awaited her.
Sensing her restlessness, Lucien suggested they take the dogs for a walk. They headed down to the beach, the sound of the waves providing a soothing backdrop. The crisp air invigorated her spirits. They walked without talking, keeping an eye on the dogs, each lost in their own thoughts. Occasionally, Brogan stopped to pick up a seashell or inspect a piece of sea glass. The simple act of being together brought her a sense of peace. As they wandered along the shoreline, Brogan felt a gradual loosening of the tension that had gripped her since Amalie’s email.
After a while, Lucien broke the silence. “You know, whatever we find out today, it won’t change much.”
Brogan’s lips curved, appreciating his trying to cheer her up. “It’s just... I can’t help but wonder how different things might have been if my mother had been part of my life. Even Rachel. I’ve often thought of how life would’ve turned out if she hadn’t died when she did. If I hadn’t come to live with Rory, we might not even be together now. And you need to know, that’s more important to me. Whatever we learn won’t change my life or yours.”
Lucien nodded. “It’s natural to wonder. But remember, the past isn’t what defines you. A lot of choices were taken out of our hands a long time ago.”
They continued their walk, talking about lighter subjects to ease the stress, laughing about the dogs’ antics as the two pups chased each other, playing a game of rough tag with nips that turned to nuzzles.
When a colony of seagulls descended on the sand all at once, disrupting the playful game, Brogan tried to shoo them away from the dogs but only managed to attract more birds.
“Maybe it’s time to go back,” Lucien shouted over the flock’s noise.
“I think so,” she bellowed, running after Poppy and scooping the little Bichon into her arms while Stella raced Lucien back to the house.
After returning home, Brogan felt more centered, ready to face whatever Amalie had discovered. She occupied herself with small tasks, trying to keep her mind from spiraling into a frenzy of “what ifs.”
She started in the garden, pulling weeds. But that only lasted until she’d dealt with the patch of crabgrass from around her camellias. She rearranged the patio furniture, then ended up in the living room, fluffing the cushions on the sofa four times, straightening the pictures on the wall, and watering more plants she didn’t get to the day before. Each little activity helped her stay grounded, but the expectation of what would come never entirely went away.
As morning turned into afternoon, she made skillet BLTs for lunch. By two, she began setting out refreshments. Way too early, she made raspberry lemonade in a futile attempt to distract from the nerves fluttering in her stomach.
Just before four-thirty, Lucien left his office and touched her shoulder reassuringly. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
At four-forty, ten minutes late, the doorbell rang. Brogan’s heart skipped a beat as she took a deep breath and headed for the entryway.
Amalie Lockney, in person, was a stunningly beautiful woman in her late fifties. Her Nordic roots were evident as she stood five-nine with golden blonde hair turning white in places and the most gorgeous blue eyes Brogan had ever seen. She wore frameless glasses, making her look more radiant than studious. She spoke with a slight accent when she apologized for running late.
Taken aback by this goddess of Scandinavian culture, Brogan waved away her apology. “Don’t worry about it.” Hoping to pull off a calm demeanor, she nervously shook hands with the professor and steered her inside. “How are you? Did you have any trouble finding us?”
“Your directions were perfect. Thank you.”
They settled in the living room as Amalie set her briefcase on the floor and shed her houndstooth outer jacket, revealing a stylish suit underneath. She noticed all the refreshments spread out on the coffee table. “Are we waiting for other people to join us?”
Embarrassed that she’d made three different varieties of finger sandwiches and an assortment of cookies for a simple discussion, Brogan sent her a smile. “No, it’s just the three of us.”
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. But the sandwiches look delicious. How about we eat after we talk?”
“That sounds like a plan,” Brogan managed.
Lucien settled beside Brogan on the sofa as Amalie opened her briefcase.
“Most of what I found came from ArkivDigital and Riksarkivet websites, designed to help people worldwide find their Swedish ancestry. I also scoured through the usual births, marriages, and death records. The documents are from various sources that are too numerous to mention. Suffice it to say that what I’m about to tell you is as accurate as possible. Britta’s last name was Jonasson, a very common name. Your Britta was born in 1973 to Maja and Fredrik Jonasson. Maja was a nurse, while Fredrik was an entertainment lawyer. He used his influence and contacts to get Britta a modeling contract when she was sixteen. She was a very popular model locally in Gothenburg . But what started as a simple local television commercial blew up overnight. She began modeling for several fashion houses and appearing on the cover of magazines.”
She handed Brogan several photographs of the beautiful Britta walking the Paris runway at a fashion show. “Britta was seventeen when that picture was taken.”
With trembling hands, Brogan studied her mother’s face and features. “My God, she’s gorgeous and so very young.”
“She was,” Amalie said, handing off more photos from Britta’s days of doing music videos. “The music videos are easy to find online if you know where to look. I’ve shared the links with you in the documents I’ll leave behind today.”
“There’s no doubt how she met my father,” Brogan said to Lucien. “The music industry has far-reaching tentacles.”
“And not all of them are positive,” Lucien concluded. “Did she get mixed up with drugs at all?”
“That’s not what killed her. I’m sorry to be so blunt,” Amalie articulated. “Yes, Britta died in childbirth.”
Brogan let out a gasp. “Did she bleed to death?”
Amalie laid a hand on Brogan’s knee. “No. And it was no one’s fault. Britta developed a rare heart condition that weakens the heart muscle during labor . Hers lasted almost twenty-four hours. It’s known as PPCM, postpartum cardiomyopathy. Some women make a complete recovery. Some are plagued by heart failure for the rest of their lives. Some experience arrhythmias or thromboembolic events. In Britta’s case, she went into labor, spent twenty-four hours in agony, and died before delivery. She suffered a major cardio event, losing total myocardial function due to a blood clot that broke away and traveled to her heart. It happened quickly. The doctors had to act fast to perform a cesarean to get you out of there to save your life.”
“Oh, my God,” Brogan muttered, leaning forward, hanging on every word . “That sounds horrific.”
“You asked me to find out what role Rachel Brinell played in all of this. Hospital records show that your father, Rory Rossum Cole, was with her when she died. He was inconsolable. But she had a friend there with them, and that was Rachel Brinell.”
“Rachel Brinell was at the hospital during my birth,” Brogan repeated, the statement lingering in the air like a haunting echo. “And Britta’s parents?”
“Arrived later to discover their daughter had died,” Amalie finished, knowing the weight of her words.
“Are they still alive?”
“They are.” Amalie patted a thick folder. “All the contact information is contained in the file. It’s up to you if you want to pursue contact. Everything I tell you can be corroborated.”
“I don’t understand, though,” Brogan began. “What exactly was the relationship between Rachel and Britta? If I’m not mistaken, there was a big age difference. Ten years, maybe.”
“Ten years, yes. The women met at a party given by Versace. At the time, Britta became obsessed with everything English or American, even though she couldn’t speak the language well. Thus, she became fascinated with the American heiress who helped interpret for her. Before their meeting, Rachel had taken time off to tour Europe. Time off from what, I don’t know. Her job at Brinell Steel consisted mostly of being a figurehead. During this time, her mother ran the company. From the people I talked with, Rachel had very little to do. So she could afford to hang out with the likes of Miuccia Prada, Calvin Klein, Marc Jacobs, Karl Lagerfeld, or any of the Arnault heirs. She ran in the same circle.”
“Descendants of Christian Dior,” Lucien provided.
“Both women ran with a very wealthy, very sophisticated crowd. According to the people I spoke with, Rachel and Britta became inseparable after spending a weekend partying on a yacht somewhere in Greece. From all accounts, when Britta crossed paths with your father—the English rock icon living in the States—she fell hard. Despite her youthful age, she was smitten.”
“A member of Indigo told me that Rachel showed up in Madrid and talked a pregnant Britta into leaving, returning to Sweden to have the baby,” Brogan offered. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why would she do that?”
“Maybe she thought she was saving her from a life of debauchery with a rock star,” Amalie joked. “I don’t know the reason for that. And you probably will never know either. Every piece of information I discovered from the time Britta and Rory were together, brief as it was, is in the file. You must read it for yourself. Maybe then, you will have a better understanding.”
“What I’m hearing is that Rachel must have known more about their relationship than anyone else, including Britta’s parents.”
“That’s a fair statement,” Amalie confirmed. “Remember, Fredrik encouraged their daughter to have this illustrious modeling career where she could meet such people as Rory. I’m sure Rachel was privy to many of their secrets as a couple. Rachel was one of the few people Britta trusted completely.”
Brogan blew out a breath. “She’d likely have done whatever Rachel suggested. How did Rachel get custody again?”
“Ah. Fredrik was a lawyer. He arranged for you to be taken to the States for Rachel to raise.”
“Just like that. I suppose I should feel lucky that Rachel felt the need to raise me as hers. Otherwise, I’d be growing up in Gothenburg with grandparents who didn’t really want me.” She glanced at the coffee table. “I think we should eat now,” she suggested.
“You could still get in touch with Britta’s parents, your grandparents,” Amalie proposed.
“Why? I don’t need to know people who didn’t want me in the first place, who pawned me off on the first person who offered to take me.” She picked up the platter of food. “Have a sandwich, Amalie. I made cucumber with cream cheese, salmon with cream cheese, and my famous egg salad.”
“I can tell you’re upset.”
“No, not really. Lucien told me not to expect a happy ending. It’s a good thing I took it to heart and listened.”
By the time Amalie departed, Brogan had gone through a range of emotions—relief, gratitude, and a hint of sadness about the death of Britta, a woman she never got to know. They shared blood and DNA but not much else. She wondered about her father, who had obviously loved the young model. After all, he’d hung around for the birth of his daughter. And then left her in Rachel’s care to raise without looking back.
Overwhelmed, Brogan was left to process everything in the thick file folder with Lucien’s help. But not tonight.
They turned off their phones and popped popcorn, then curled up on the couch with the dogs, talking late into the night, dissecting every nuance of their childhoods. She went over that moment when she arrived at LAX fresh off the flight, not knowing what to expect from anyone. They reminisced about that first day they met at the beach, going back over their teenage years and all the summer tours they’d been dragged along, going from city to city when what they wanted more than anything was to return to L.A., sleep in their own rooms, even if the housekeepers had to look after them.
“Sure, there were visits I remember those from my early years in Connecticut. He’d fly in and check on me, then fly out, sometimes the same day. Forget the idea that he and Rachel ever shared a romantic link with each other. I don’t think they ever did.”
“You were the link. The glue that kept him returning for the visits. You came to California to stay with him during the summers, though.”
“They had nasty, loud, shouting arguments about that. Now I see how it all played out for him. Rachel was responsible for my day-to-day upbringing while he checked in periodically to see how things were progressing. For eight years, he was on the road so much, the arrangement worked out fine for him.”
“Aren’t you curious to dive into that folder?” Lucien asked, dragging it to the edge of the coffee table with his fingertips.
“No. Why should I be? Amalie hit the high points. And to think I would never have known any of this if I hadn’t uploaded my DNA. That simple act changed my perspective about everything I thought I knew.”
“At least you don’t have a sibling walking around you’ve never met.”
She snickered. “There is that. I am curious about one thing. Maybe overly so. It’s Rachel. Did she ever have a love interest of her own? I can’t remember, Lucien. I never saw a guy hanging around for long, never caught her kissing a man who walked her to the door. She was young when she died, only thirty-eight or so. Do you suppose she ever took a lover that I don’t know anything about?”
“Please don’t bring that touchy subject up to Delia.”
She gave him a gentle shove. “Are you crazy? I haven’t completely lost my mind, at least not yet. Just because I suspect something doesn’t mean I’d ever have a conversation like that with my grandmother. I know how much she loves living in an alternate universe. Bless her heart. She probably still believes Rachel was a virgin. Here I am thinking about myself when she’s the one who’s been knocked for a loop about the lie.”
Lucien threw his arm around her. “My mother once mentioned to me that she thought Rachel might have been having a longtime affair when she died.”
Shocked to hear that, she glared at him. “Okay. And you never said a word about this until now? What made her think that? Who with?”
“Look, it’s just my mother trying to stir up trouble.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
“Remember, your mother and my mother ran in the same circles once. They’d sail around the Greek islands every summer before we were born. Kate loved recounting how wonderful her life was before I came along and ruined it. That’s how they met so many rich and famous people. Probably how they met Rory and Graeme.”
Brogan was silent for several long minutes, considering that, trying to picture the two women lounging on the deck of a yacht, having a life before children entered the picture.
“What?” Lucien prompted.
“You know Rachel held onto her apartment on the Upper East Side, not too far from Kate after I was born. She told Delia she needed the apartment because of Brinell Steel. She’d work in town five days a week and then return to Connecticut on weekends. Oftentimes, she didn’t come home at all on the weekend. She’d leave me with the nanny and stay in New York or wherever she had decided to party. That must’ve been when I was around five. Was she hiding an affair then?”
Lucien blew out a sigh. “Don’t get mad, but according to Kate Ashcroft, Rachel was seen clubbing with Nigel multiple times in and around New York during that time.”
“Nigel? Nigel Brighton?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, my God. And he never said a word. When I talked to him that day, he acted like he barely knew Rachel. Why didn’t he just come clean with me? I don’t care if they were together. His wife, on the other hand, certainly might feel differently.”
“It was a long time ago. Why is this so important to you?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. But it’s like I can’t remember the basics about Rachel. Once I left Connecticut, it was almost as if I never really knew the woman who raised me. Or maybe I forgot about her completely because she always seemed so distant. I don’t know. It’s almost like I can’t close the door to my childhood without knowing what she was like. We are, after all, websleuths.”
“At least you didn’t say private investigators.”
“I’m still not sure why PIs get a bad rap. There has to be a way to find out whether Rachel had another life in New York that Delia never knew about or questioned.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a sec. Her apartment had a doorman. I remember him the few times I went there before she died. He always cracked jokes and tapped my nose with his finger. The tapping annoyed me, but otherwise, he was hilarious.”
“A hilarious doorman in the eyes of an eight-year-old? Where are you going with this?”
“If I tracked him down, he’d have a few stories to tell about those days.”
“Why would you want to do that? It sounds like you aren’t happy with discovering the details about Britta. That’s not enough for some reason. Now, you need to go digging around in Rachel’s life. Why? I don’t get it. Explain it so I understand. Because trust me, my relationship with Kate is far from perfect. You know that. The only difference between Rachel and Kate is that Rachel died. My mother’s hobby is marrying wealthy men and divorcing them. Whatever life your mother had was her business—”
“You’re right. What good would it do? I won’t even bring up the affair to Nigel when he comes for Thanksgiving. How’s that?”
“That’s a very bad idea to bring that up. That would ruin Thanksgiving for everyone.”
“I know. I won’t. I promise.”
“I’m holding you to that. I know you’re upset about Britta’s death and how her parents didn’t want to have contact. I get that part. You have a right to be mad. But you don’t have the right to take it out on Nigel.”
“Okay. I understand. You’re right. I won’t.”
In those first few hours of enlightenment, Brogan gradually began accepting the unusual circumstances of her childhood. But in her mind, those first eight years spent with Rachel lacked clarity. She had fuzzy memories that needed explaining. Some blanks that needed filling before she could completely move on.
She made a promise not to ruin the holidays for anyone. She’d throw herself into the preparations for Thanksgiving and give guests the best day they’d ever had.
But after the holidays, when all the guests had gone, she would learn more about Rachel’s life, even if she had to go to New York to do it.