Look Again - Lisa Scottoline [80]
“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 passed 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, cocking 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 seashells. 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 passenger seat.
It was time to go home.
Chapter Fifty-seven
The ticketing line wound back and forth, and Ellen assessed 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-class line, only four people deep. “I wonder how much first class costs.”
“Highway robbery,” the old man shot back, and the line shifted forward an inch.
Her gaze drifted back to the first-class line, where a pretty redhead had just arrived,