Chapter 33 #2
“I was forced to give up my beautiful, perfect baby boy the minute I gave birth to him, only allowed to kiss him once.” My bewildered eyes shift to Mrs. Blanchard, the woman proclaiming to be my grandmother.
“I wasn’t even permitted to nurse my baby.
Heck, I didn’t even have time to find out the color of his eyes—”
“Green, like mine,” I say.
“And like yours,” Mrs. Blanchard says to her husband.
“My mom had hazel-green eyes.” I’m not sure why I feel compelled to share that.
Mr. Blanchard slides an arm around Mrs. Blanchard’s shoulder.
Of all the possible scenarios that played in my head explaining the reason this man wanted to see me, this one wasn’t anywhere near the list.
“The separation between mother and child was quick.” Mrs. Blanchard lets out a heavy sigh. “Cruel. Merciless.”
“Why weren’t you able to hold Dad in your arms?”
“The adoption agency stated if the baby and I formed a bond, it would be more difficult for everyone involved. I wasn’t supposed to name him, but I did.
” She lifts a defiant chin. “It was my only act of rebellion. I picked Dwight for your daddy––a strong name, deeply rooted in the south. A president’s name, too.
” She pauses. “Darren isn’t a president’s name, but his adoptive family selected a good name for my son. ”
A tear runs down Mrs. Blanchard’s face, messing up her makeup. She rummages through her handbag to pull out a tissue.
My heart wrenches in my chest. “Dad was a good man,” I say. “A hard-working man. A God loving one, too. He was also an amazing father and husband.”
“Hear that, Lore,” Mr. Blanchard says, “our boy turned out great.”
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less. After all, he comes from good stock.”
They smile at each other.
“The blanket was a gamble.” Mrs. Blanchard wipes her tears away.
“While my parents were ironing out last minute details with one adoption agent, I begged the one who had taken my son to wrap your daddy in a blanket I crocheted for him while singing and talking to him when he was still in my belly. I wanted him to know he was loved––” Her voice catches.
“She told me she’d do her best, but couldn’t promise the blanket wouldn’t get lost.”
“It didn’t get lost,” I say.
“My heart shattered into pieces when Warren showed me the People magazine article. What were the odds? I wasn’t the best at crochet or knitting and I made a few mistakes, but since I was doing this on the sly because I didn’t want my parents to know, I didn’t have time to make it perfect.
I couldn’t believe it. All those years later and my baby boy kept a piece of me.
A piece of us.” She waves a finger between her and her husband.
“Then, I dissolved into tears, my heart breaking for a whole other reason. My baby boy was dead. Then, another realization hit me and my sadness morphed to elation… I knew, with certainty that pierced my heart, we’d found the grandson we never knew existed. ”
“I can’t believe this,” I say.
“It’s true, Rhett, we’re your biological grandparents,” Mr. Blanchard says.
“You’re… Dad’s parents?” Even though Mr. Blanchard and Mrs. Blanchard just said as much, I can’t wrap my head around the shocker.
“We are, son.” He nods. “We are.”
“Why’d you give up your child for adoption?” I say, my tone accusatory. “I’m sorry, that came out the wrong way.”
“It’s a legitimate question, Rhett.” Mrs. Blanchard offers a warm smile.
“You don’t have to answer the question,” I say.
“I want you to know where you come from.” She inhales a deep breath, filling her lungs with air, as if she needed an anchor. “As the only daughter of a Texan oil and gas heir, I was destined to marry up in rank, not down. Old money and all, going back several generations.”
Holy shit.
“It was drilled into me since I was a little girl.”
My eyes shift to Mr. Blanchard for a beat.
His expression is unreadable.
“I had accepted my fate as the sole heiress of a dynasty—my parents couldn’t conceive after me and adoption was out of the question for them. My place in life and my parents’ expectations all went out the window when Daddy hired a new foreman. The new hire’s son was to become a new stable boy—”
“That’s me,” Mr. Blanchard says.
She smiles at her husband before returning her attention to me.
“The second I met Warren’s gorgeous green eyes, I was desperately, foolishly, wholeheartedly in love.
When he smiled, I was enchanted, completely under his spell.
He was only sixteen, but he looked like a man.
He was tall, strapping, and strong. I was fifteen, but my heart had sealed my destiny––I was to never love another.
That summer was the best of my life. We became clever at sneaking around and hiding in the sunflower fields. ”
Mr. Blanchard winks at her.
“That’s where we pledged our undying love and Warren made me his…
” She lets out a loud exhale. “The problem with being in love when you’re young is that you’re dumb.
” She sighs. “I didn’t know the first thing about birth control, so I became pregnant.
It took me a while to figure out what was going on with my body.
When I did, I told Warren. He promised he’d take care of the baby and me.
I believed him. Then, I told my parents… ” A sad expression veils her blue eyes.
“Mr. Jones flew into a fit of rage, fired my father on the spot, and proceeded to kick us off his property,” Mr. Blanchard says.
“His demeaning words rang in my ears for decades. I was nothing but a poor sucker who shoveled horse shit for a living––with little chances of doing much better than my old man. How dare I touch––soil––his precious daughter?” Mr. Blanchard’s jaw clenches.
“He threatened to sue my father and promised he’d make sure he was never able to find work in the great state of Texas ever again. ”
“I didn’t know my father had done that,” Mrs. Blanchard says.
Great-grandpa Jones wasn’t a nice guy.
“We were forced to do the walk of shame because my father had been blacklisted from working for any ranch in our town and several surrounding towns,” Mr. Blanchard says.
“Through word-of-mouth, Daddy found some work in Wyoming. Heartbroken, I had no other choice but to leave the love of my life behind and never have any contact with her ever again.”
“I was born in Wyoming,” I say.
“I know.” Mr. Blanchard nods. “I hired a private investigator to make sure Lore and I weren’t two sentimental fools,” he says. “I couldn’t approach you with false hope and disrupt your whole existence. I had to be certain you were ours.”
He went to a lot of trouble.
Mrs. Blanchard reaches for my hands. “To answer your question,” she says.
“I wanted to keep my baby. Even though I begged––and God knows I begged––my father refused to entertain the idea of keeping an ill-advised bastard child. Especially, one from a poor worker’s teenage son.
It was inappropriate for a girl of my stature, and it would irrevocably stain the family name. He wouldn’t stand for it.”
Mr. Blanchard grumbles something under his breath.
“As a river of tears trailed down my face, I watched, helpless, as a complete stranger, carried my baby in her arms. Thus, taking away my desire to live. My father shot me a warning look—a reminder there was no going back. My mother busied herself patting me on the arm, coaxing me to be reasonable, a satisfying smile curling her red lips, too happy to get rid of my little problem. And there I was. Alone. The pit of despair in my stomach yawned wider when my son started wailing as the agent left my bedroom—”
“It angers me every time I hear that part, of you, struggling alone,” Mr. Blanchard says. “Shame on them.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry, Rhett, for letting old wounds affect me like this, but that was our son. Our son.”
Mrs. Blanchard pats her husband’s arm before shifting her attention to me. “Since I’m petite, it didn’t take long before I was showing. To prevent tongues from wagging, my father dictated I’d have a home birth. Our ranch became my prison—complete with tutors.”
“You weren’t allowed to leave your home?”
She shakes her head.
“Her father stripped her of all her rights because he believed he owned her.” There’s no hiding Mr. Blanchard’s bitterness.
“I was only allowed to set foot outside the acres of our land once I was no longer a disgrace,” she says.
Holy shit.
“Even behind closed doors, I couldn’t comfort my baby. It wasn’t allowed.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if reliving the traumatic ordeal. “Months after the adoption, I was inconsolable. I’d lost the man I loved and our child. I wanted to die.”
Dear God.
“Mr. Jones’s rejection and the way he gave us no choice were my fuel,” Mr. Blanchard says.
“Her father robbed me of the chance to man up, which I was prepared to do.” He rolls his shoulders and cranes his neck side to side like a boxer warming up before a match.
“I promised myself I’d work until my bank account looked like a goddamn overseas phone number—with call prefix and all—and then, I’d go after the woman I loved.
I’m not quite a billionaire, but a net worth of six hundred million dollars is nothing to sneeze at. ”
Un-fucking-believable.
I figured the man was rich… but this is mega rich.
“But I was too late.”
His wife places a hand on his arm.
The man I know now as my grandfather flares his nostrils and purses his lips.
“You don’t go from being dirt poor to becoming rich overnight.
It takes a lot of hard work and years. Through my uncles and aunts who were still living in Texas, I found out Lore married not long after her eighteenth birthday. ”
“Oh, no,” I say.
“I was too late.” Mr. Blanchard’s green eyes turn dark.
“The only thing that kept me going was my determination to prove her father wrong. Come hell or high water, I was going to make something out of myself… even if I couldn’t be with my girl.
Going after a married woman wasn’t a consideration.
Even after Momma’s death, Dad was faithful to his deceased wife’s memory.
He always taught me marriage was sacred.
” Mr. Blanchard sighs. “When word got to me that Lore was pregnant, I had to accept the finality of it. My love belonged to another man… so, I married and moved on with my life.” His unflurried demeanor slips, and something resembling pain shines through.
This is a hell of a sad story. “How did the two of you reconnect?”
He and his wife exchange a complicit look.
“Four years ago, I was invited to the lavish wedding of the grandson of a business associate of mine in Austin,” Mr. Blanchard says.
“I was talking to the father of the bride when a woman standing next to me called out, ‘Why Loretta Lynn Jones, is that you?’ My heart lurched out of my chest. I turned around, and when my eyes locked onto hers, I stopped breathing just like the first time I saw her in the stable right before she was about to go for a horseback ride. She was still a gorgeous angel. My gorgeous angel.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Talk about being in the right place at the right time.”
“Serendipity––and a good old-fashioned, rowdy Texan wedding––gave us our second chance,” Mr. Blanchard says. “We were both divorced. I wasn’t going to waste precious time. I asked her to marry me just three short weeks after finding her again.”
“And I said yes.” Mrs. Blanchard smiles wide and flashes me her blinding wedding ring.
“After the wedding, we moved to Summerville to start a new life together,” Mr. Blanchard says.
“That’s an incredible story,” I say.
“I always knew it was meant to be,” Mrs. Blanchard says. “My father separated us, but fate brought us back together.”
“That’s what you call divine intervention,” I say.
“I was good enough for my Lore. Always have been. So many years wasted… I can’t make up for lost time, but every morning I wake up, my goal is to let this beautiful woman know I never stopped loving her.”
“And you do it so well.” Mrs. Blanchard smiles at her husband. “But you’re right, my father forced us both into loveless marriages that both ended in divorce.”
“But now, you’re happily married,” I say.
Mr. Blanchard brings his wife’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “We are.”
“And just when we thought life couldn’t get any better, we reunite with you, Rhett,” Mrs. Blanchard says.
Mr. Blanchard leans into the table. “Along with Carina and her family, you have us now,” he says. “And you have aunts, uncles, and lots of cousins––on both sides––right here in the Lone Star State.”
This is a lot to take in.
“You come from good Texan stock, grandson.” He winks.
Grandson… I never thought anyone would ever call me that.
“You’re a Blanchard, Rhett,” Mr. Blanchard says.
Mrs. Blanchard reaches out for my hand. “And a Jones, grandson.”
I hit my chest with a closed fist to dislodge the ball of emotions choking me.
I went from being twice orphaned to being part of two large families.
Holy shit doesn’t come close.