Chapter Five
Delaney returned to her seat, no
longer hungry for the muffin. With her legs crossed, she poked at a
rip in the knee of her jeans. She didn’t want to hear about
siblings who were probably as messed up as she was because of their
errant father. Apparently, Delaney’s mother had given birth, then
walked out of the hospital in San Antonio in the middle of the
night, leaving her newborn daughter and husband of six months
behind. Delaney had been only days old when her father had
deposited her on Clara’s doorstep, clearly not willing to limit his
rising career to raise a daughter.
Throughout her childhood, the
brilliant Gideon Bryant, internationally famed nature photographer,
had been like a meteor streaking into Delaney’s life for short
bursts of time. During those visits she’d tried everything she
could think of to make him love her enough to stay. But invariably
he’d disappear again for months, sometimes a year at a time, with
only an occasional colorful seashell or interesting stone sent in
little packages from places as disparate as Tristan da Cunha and
Macquarie Island. She’d kept every one of those treasures in a
wooden box James had made for her.
Then fifteen months ago, a packet had
come from the Bureau of Consular Affairs in Indonesia, explaining
that Gideon Bryant had died after contracting dengue, which had
developed into a hemorrhagic fever. She’d looked up the disease and
learned enough to know her father had died a miserable death. She’d
mourned his passing, but it hadn’t hit her with the tsunami force
James’s death had brought.
Clara had paid to have Gideon’s
personal effects and cremated remains sent home, and among his
belongings had been books of field notes written in his scrawling
script and spanning most of his adult life.
He’d been sporadic about journaling,
sometimes going months between entries. It’d been from the pages of
those journals Delaney had read to try to know her father, to
understand him, that she’d learned how truly self-absorbed he’d
been. She’d also found mention of his other two
daughters.
It hadn’t been any surprise to learn
they’d had even less contact with Gideon than he’d bestowed upon
her. She supposed he’d only stayed in touch with her because he’d
left her with his mother. If he wanted to see his mom, he’d had to
see his kid too.
Delaney had shared what she’d found
with her grandmother and was doubly confounded when Clara insisted
on searching for the women who were her granddaughters. Gideon’s
other children were born to different mothers within a few years of
Delaney’s birth, one younger than her by a year and a half, the
other younger by over two years. Which meant the youngest had been
fathered when the mother of his second daughter had been
pregnant.
Her father had been a promiscuous
jerk.
Gideon’s field notes had offered
little information, not even their names, but Clara wasn’t
deterred.
Pulling back at the mix of anger and
despair that always accompanied thoughts of her father, Delaney
said, “Okay, tell me what the investigator reported.”
“He found the older of the
two girls. Her name is Cameron and she lives in Oklahoma City,
Oklahoma. She graduated from Bryn Mawr College with a degree in
anthropology. Her mother met Gideon when she was doing an
educational program in New Guinea through her college, apparently
returning to Oklahoma when she learned she was pregnant. When
Cameron was eight, her mother married a wealthy man in the Oklahoma
oil business and he formally adopted her. She’s engaged to be
married to a man whose net worth is well over ten million dollars.
I don’t think you need to worry about her wanting to sell the farm
for cash.”
“Huh. So she’s living her
life and doesn’t need us.” Delaney caught the gleam in Clara’s
eyes. “You’re plotting something.”
“Not plotting because I’ve
already done it. The investigator was able to find her current
address and I sent Cameron a letter introducing myself. I told her
about you and invited her for a visit.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. That was a week
ago. She may want to know us, she may not. But I’ve asked her to at
least acknowledge receipt of my letter so I know it made it to
her.”
Delaney shook her head. “You’re never
one for simple, Gran. Has she replied?”
“No, but it’s early
days.”
Delaney narrowed her gaze. “Are there
any more surprises you want to spring on me?”
Clara lifted her shoulder in a casual
shrug. “Nothing at the moment. We’re burying the love of my life in
a few days, and I need to get my feet back under me.”
And just like that Delaney’s eyes
filled and her throat tightened. “You’ve never said James was the
love of your life.”
“He was. He was a
beautiful man, inside and out. We’d both had first marriages, his
happy, mine not.” Clara stared out at the mountain, but Delaney
knew she wasn’t seeing its pine-covered slopes. “James asked me to
marry him several years ago. He said he wanted me to make an honest
man of him, but I turned him down. I was dead set against it
because of the experience of my first marriage. I thought we were
fine as we were.” She twisted the cloth napkin through her fingers.
Somehow that little display of emotion calmed Delaney. “Now I wish
I hadn’t been so unbending. He said it didn’t matter, but I know to
him it did.”
Delaney studied a bee buzzing around
the lilies, thinking of James. “He loved you, Gran. He showed it
every day. He knew you loved him too.”
Clara straightened her shoulders. “His
death has only confirmed that I want to find my missing
granddaughters before it’s too late. We only have so much time in
this world, and you need to know your sisters.”
“I’m an only child, I’m
fine with that.”
“I’m not. You need to know
your sisters,” she repeated, “and I want to know my granddaughters.
My son led an unconventional life and he didn’t do right by his
children. I intend to do what I can to make up for
that.”
***
Delaney drove into Sisters, the
setting sun at her back. She loved the old buildings of downtown,
many built in the early years of California’s gold rush. At the
height of those heady days, Sisters had teemed with rowdy women and
men drawn to the area by the lure of gold prospectors had first
found in Mill Creek, then in mines dotting the hills. There had
also been strong, shrewd migrants like the three sisters the town
was named for. Not only had those women built and operated Mother
Lode, the most productive mine in the area, but they’d also saved
the townspeople during a harsh winter that threatened to be as
deadly as the one that had doomed members of the Donner party in
the winter of 1846 and 1847. Lore was that those women, Alice,
Eliza, and Kate, had enforced discipline and teamwork among the
townspeople that had kept the population alive through the perilous
winter.
The following year the spring runoff
had churned up the earth and savvy prospectors had found sizeable
nuggets, some the size of thimbles, leading to an even greater
influx of prospectors pouring into town.
Sisters was one of dozens of towns
along California’s Highway Forty-Nine in Gold Country with colorful
names like Rough and Ready, Dutch Flat, and Twain Harte, named for
the authors Mark Twain and Bret Harte.
Now the mines were played out, and in
more recent history the area had been transformed into a region
popular with tourists, with entertainment geared toward families.
She steered her small SUV into a parking lot. Sisters didn’t have a
lot to offer in the way of nightlife except the biker bar on the
other side of town, and tonight’s destination, Easy Money, a
restaurant and bar popular with locals specializing in locally
produced craft beers—thirteen on tap—and excellent food.
“Hey, friend.”
Delaney locked her car and turned to
give Keeley a hug. “Hey back.”
“Ready to rock this
town?”
Delaney burst out laughing. “I think
our town rocking days are behind us.”
“Speak for
yourself.”
Delaney pushed in the door to Easy
Money, Keeley right behind her. The open beams overhead and the
long bar made of mahogany gleamed in the warm light, original to
the establishment that’d been in operation since before the turn of
the twentieth century. Easy Money’s new owner, Owen Hardesty, had
made oversize prints from black-and-white photos showing the early
days of the town and hung them on the walls in a nod to the town’s
colorful past.
Since she’d allowed Keeley to talk her
into a girls’ night out, Delaney’d decided to go all out by making
an effort on her appearance. She didn’t do heels unless she
absolutely had to, so she’d paired cute sandals with skinny jeans
and a top with a scooped-out back, which left most of her back
bare—other than the tail of her French braid.
Keeley looked fabulous in her skinny
jeans, a blousy top with a hippie-ish look, and wedge heels. With
her long fall of honey-blonde hair and dangly earrings, her friend
hit the mark as sexy girl-next-door.
Besides hanging out with her best bud,
a selling point for going out was Delaney wanted to check out Blue
Moon, the band scheduled to play that evening. She’d planned to add
live music on weekend afternoons when Cider Mill Farm opened for
the summer season and wanted to scope local talent the farm could
afford.
Couples and small groups occupied most
of the tables and she waved to several people she knew. Bobby
Finley sat on the same stool at the end of the bar he always
occupied. The dark and broody Owen worked the bar and gave her a
slight chin lift, which served as his version of a welcome. His
gaze locked on Keeley, but when Keeley raised her hand to wave,
Owen turned his back to pull the tap to fill a glass for a
customer.
“Did you see that?” her
friend hissed. “Is it my imagination or is that man somewhat
friendly to everyone else, but acts like I don’t exist?”
Delaney glanced at Owen again. “I