Don't Say a Word - Barbara Freethy [74]
"You tell me."
"I do remember a woman like that. She was very quiet, and new to the company, but excellent with a needle and thread. That was the first and only trip she made with us. She didn't continue on with the company after that trip."
"Do you know if she had a child with her, a little girl?"
"There were some children in the company like yourself, Alex. I don't know if one of them belonged to this Sarah." She paused. "I'm surprised you're not asking me more questions about your father." He stiffened. "What should I be asking?" "Well, I always thought your father had other reasons for being in Russia-reasons that had nothing to do with our theater exchange. It was even rumored that he might be some sort of a spy. I thought it was very dangerous and sexy. I flirted with him madly, but he never flirted back."
"He wasn't a spy; he was a photographer. And he was married," Alex added pointedly. Defending his father came naturally, but as he did so, he wondered if he had the right. Tanya Hillerman was the third person to imply his father was a spy. Could they all be wrong?
"I think he said he was separated," Tanya continued. "It didn't matter. He wasn't interested in me. He had more important things to do. I knew it even if he didn't say it." She paused. "It was a different world back then. No one trusted anyone, especially over there. The KGB watched us like hawks, worried we would tempt some of their artists with our American ways. It was terrifying at times. Your father and I spoke about it once. He had such passion for the Russian people. I worried that it would get him into trouble. Up until that trip, I'd never not been free, but that week I felt trapped. I never wanted to go back there. And I never have. When did your father pass away?"
"A few weeks after that trip," Alex said shortly.
"He was so young, so vibrant. How did it happen?"
"A car accident."
"Oh, dear. That's terrible. Such a shame. He was a very talented photographer."
"Yes, he was."
"Are you still involved in the theater, Mr. Manning? If you grew up to look like your father, I imagine you'd make a wonderful leading man."
"No, I'm not in the theater. I'm a photographer-; just like my dad." He hung up the phone, wondering if that was true. He'd always thought he'd followed in his father's footsteps. Maybe he hadn't. Because right now those footsteps seemed to be leading him far away from what he'd always believed to be true.
***
Christine Delaney, the reporter from the Tribune, was waiting in the lobby of the radio station when Julia finished her show Tuesday afternoon. As soon as she saw Julia, Christine put up a hand in apology. "I'm sorry about the hit-and-run photo the other day."
"I don't think you're sorry at all," Julia replied. "And I have nothing further to say to you." Julia tried to sidestep around her, but Christine got in her way.
"I've done some research, Miss DeMarco. I found someone who used to work at the orphanage in Moscow where your picture was taken."
Julia couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You contacted someone in Russia?"
Christine's smile was smug. "Actually, the woman lives in the United States now. She came over about six years ago. She was a cleaning woman at the orphanage. She didn't want to talk to me at first, but I assured her that I would keep her anonymous."
"Why would you do that?" Julia asked suspiciously.
"Because I want your story, not hers." Christine paused, giving her a speculative look. "She told me that everyone in the orphanage was instructed to say that you were never there. They were threatened with death if they spoke about your presence. She said you were there for only one day, and she believed your parents were in serious trouble with the government."
Julia tried hard not to react, not to reveal anything to Christine, but inside she was reeling. She had to say something. She had to buy some time. She fell back on what Alex had suggested earlier. "I'm not that girl. It's a mistake. I was born and raised in Berkeley, California. I have a birth certificate to prove