Passion and Scandal Page 3

"Twenty-five... You're looking for your biological father, then? You're adopted?"

  "I'm looking for my biological father but, no, I'm not adopted. Not officially. I was raised by my aunt and uncle. Mostly, anyway." One corner of her mouth lifted in a little half smile. "It's a little complicated to explain."

  "It usually is, but try."

  "Yes, well..." Willow smoothed her skirt down over her thighs, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. "I grew up in a commune."

  "A commune? You mean with hippies? Back to nature? Turn on and drop out? That kind of commune?"

  Willow nodded, sending a heavy sheaf of shiny brown hair swinging down over her cheek. She hooked it behind her ear with the tip of one well-manicured finger. "Pretty much, although it was more back to nature than drug oriented, even in the very beginning. My aunt Sharon and her husband Dan, and about fifteen others, founded it in the mid-sixties. It was just a farm, really, located outside Bend, Oregon, in the Cascade Mountains, but Dan—he was a third-year law student before he dropped out—made sure it was legally incorporated as a real township. Unlike most communes of that era, they've managed to survive, more or less intact, right on into the nineties. Are you familiar with Blackberry Meadows' Pure Fruit Essences?"

  Steve accepted the apparent change of subject without blinking. "Organically grown, pesticide-free, sugar-free jams and jellies? Available in limited quantities at the toniest gourmet shops and health food stores in town? That Blackberry Meadows?"

  "That's us. The commune, I mean."

  "Raspberry Rhapsody is my favorite," Steve informed her. "I put it on my frozen toaster waffles. It makes a good ice-cream topping, too."

  "I'll be sure to tell Sharon that," Willow said, smiling a little when she thought of what her aunt's reaction would be to having her healthful fruit spreads used as a topping for junk food. "According to family legend, she cooked up the very first experimental batch of Blackberry Bliss Pure Fruit Essence on an old wood-burning stove. It was so good, she ended up practically denuding the farm's blackberry patch to make enough to sell to a couple of the local merchants. Hard cash wasn't easy to come by back then," she confided, "so everyone did what they could. Today, we make six different flavors and sell it in select markets up and down the West Coast."

  Steve nodded and waited for her to go on.

  "So, anyway..." She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt again, suddenly not at all anxious to get to the heart of the matter. She was desperately afraid he would say he couldn't help her, that there wasn't enough information to go on.

  "I was born on February 26, 1971," she said. "My mother left Blackberry Meadows when I was three months old, in April of that year, leaving me with Sharon and Dan. Two months after she left, she was hit by a car while crossing Hollywood Boulevard." Willow recited the facts calmly, as if they had long ago lost the power to hurt her, but her hands were rubbing up and down the tops of her thighs as she spoke. "Sharon didn't even know my mother was dead until almost a month after it happened."

  "And your father?" Steve asked gently.

  "I don't know who he is. Nobody knows."

  "Is that what it says on your birth certificate? Father unknown?"

  Her hesitation was slight but telling, clearly telegraphing her uneasiness with the subject. Her hands stilled on her lap, pressing down against the tops of her thighs, as if she were trying to keep herself from jumping up and running away from his questions. "I don't have a birth certificate."

  Only his quick reading of her distress enabled him to hide his astonishment. "No birth certificate?" he asked mildly. "How did that happen?"

  "I was born at home," she explained, "in a log house, with Sharon and a couple of the other women serving as midwives to my mother. Back then, the inhabitants of Blackberry Meadows considered birth certificates to be a meaningless establishment convention, just like marriage licenses."

  "How were you able to register for school? Or get a social security card? Or a driver's license?"

  "Sharon used the family Bible as proof of when and where I'd been born. She recorded all the births in the commune that way. Marriages, too. It's unorthodox but perfectly legal. After that, it was just a matter of taking the school's aptitude tests and placement exams to figure out which grade to put me in."

  "I take it they didn't start you in kindergarten like everyone else?"

  "No," she said. "I was home schooled until I was eleven. There were three ex-teachers in the family, so it wasn't nearly as unconventional as it sounds," she added defensively. "I scored two grade levels above my age group on the placement exams and attended regular schools from then on. I have a Bachelor's degree in Accounting and an M.B.A. and, as soon as I graduated, I took over the management of the family business and—" She stopped abruptly, realizing she was rambling like an idiot in an attempt to balance the un-conventionality of her early childhood with her very conventional life since then.

  But none of what she'd just told him was going to help him find her father. It was time to give him the pitifully few clues she did have and pray they would be enough.

  "My mother wrote to Sharon twice while she was living in Los Angeles. I have the letters," she said, reaching for the briefcase she'd set on top of the computer. She laid it on her lap and unsnapped the locks but didn't open it. "My mother's name was Donna. She was working as a waitress while she tried to break into acting. In April of 1970, she wrote that she'd gotten a small part in a soap opera and that she was moving to a new apartment with a girlfriend. Soon after, there was another letter saying she'd met a really great guy and the writers on the soap opera had made her part on the show a continuing one. It sounded as if everything was really going her way, that she might actually make it as an actress. And then, after that, nothing until September when she showed up at Blackberry Meadows, sick, broke and four months pregnant."

  "Alone, I assume."

  "Yes."

  "And she never said another word about this supposedly great guy who'd gotten her pregnant, then abandoned her?" he said, unable to hide his contempt for a man who would do such a thing. "Not even to her sister?"

  "Not a word."

  "Are you sure you want to find this character?" Steve asked, already knowing what she'd say. She wouldn't have come to him if she hadn't already made up her mind. Still, he felt obligated to point out a few home truths. "If by some wild chance I do manage to locate him for you—and, believe me, with the information you've given me so far, the chances are slim to none. But if I do locate him, he might very well refuse to see you or to acknowledge you in any way. Have you thought of that? How you'll feel if that happens?"

  "Yes, I've thought of that. But I still want to try." Her hands curled into fists on her lap. "I have to try."

  "All right," Steve said, acquiescing without an argument; he knew grim determination when he saw it. "Let's see the letters."

  Willow opened her briefcase, withdrew a small manila envelope and handed it to him across the desk. "There are some pictures in there, too, and a card, written to my mother and signed with the initial E," she said, watching as he opened the envelope and tipped the contents out on top of the ledger on his desk. "The three Polaroids are of my mother and me, but the others are from her time in L.A."

  "No envelopes?" Steve asked, as he picked up one of the letters and unfolded it.

  "No, Sharon just saved the letters," Willow said, apologizing for her aunt's oversight. She snapped the locks on the briefcase closed and set it on the floor by her chair. "She had no way of knowing, back then, that the envelopes might be important someday."

  The two letters were short, overflowing with the enthusiasm and emotion of youth, woefully inadequate when it came to hard facts. '"I finally got a part,'" Steve read out loud as he scanned the letters. "'I play a nurse at Meadowland General on 'As Time Goes By' ...I met this really great guy.... Christine and I move into our new apartment next week.... The writers expanded my role and made the nurse a continuing character. Maybe now I'll be abl
e to cut down on my hours at the restaurant." Both letters were signed "Love, Donna" and both were written in purple ink on the kind of standard pink writing paper that could be found in any stationery or office supply store. Steve set them aside and picked up the card.

  The envelope had neither stamp nor address, suggesting that it had been hand delivered. Steve lifted the tucked-in flap and extracted the card. It was one of those romantic soft-focus ones with a picture of a hand-holding couple walking on a sunset beach. Someone had written you and me over the couple, with arrows pointing down so there would be no mistake about which was which. Inside was a sappy verse about the nature of love and the inked-in sentiment, "You really blew my mind last night, babe. Love, E."

  Steve set it on top of the other two letters and picked up the pictures. The first two showed Willow and her mother, obviously only minutes after the birth. The newborn baby was red and squalling. The mother looked wan and exhausted, her expression a touching mixture of triumph and sadness. The third snapshot showed mother and child a few weeks later. The baby was plump, healthy and content, tenderly cradled in her mother's arms. The mother appeared marginally less exhausted but the sadness hadn't left her eyes. If anything, it seemed to have grown, overshadowing her obvious pride in her baby girl.

  "The other five snapshots are from when she lived in Los Angeles before I was born," Willow said as Steve laid the pictures of mother and child on top of the letters.

  For a second, Steve thought he was looking at a completely different woman. The Donna Ryan in these pictures was as different from the Donna Ryan in the previous ones as a rosebud was from a dried flower. Even the outlandish fashions of the early seventies couldn't obscure her fresh, innocent beauty. She was an enchanting young temptress with huge, luminous eyes set at a slant above high, chiseled cheekbones. A waterfall of straight, gleaming mahogany red hair flowed down her back, hanging nearly to the hem of her psychedelic tie-dyed minidress. She stood alone in front of a wrought-iron gate, her delicately voluptuous body in profile to the camera, her head turned to face the photographer. She was smiling—a happy, seductive smile meant for whoever was taking the picture.

  Steve glanced up at Willow, studying her for a moment over the top of the desk. "You have her eyes," he said, and he set the picture aside.

  Willow said nothing, watching him while he studied the other photographs. They were all group shots, various combinations of Willow's mother with another young woman and four equally young men. They appeared to have been taken at the same location as the first one, at the same time, as if the camera had been passed around among the group so they could take pictures of each other.

  "I suppose you're thinking that one of these guys might be your father," Steve said.

  It wasn't a question but Willow answered it anyway. "I think it's possible. Maybe. She must have kept the pictures for a reason. They were the only things, besides the card and a few clothes, that she brought with her when she came to Blackberry Meadows."

  Steve nodded vaguely and went back to studying the photographs. Something about the building in the background seemed familiar. Maybe it was the predominantly Spanish architecture that made him think he'd seen it before, but he didn't think so. Faded pink stucco walls and fanciful wrought-iron balconies were common in many of the old neighborhoods in and around Los Angeles but the vaguely Moorish tower jutting up on one side of the building was unique. He opened a desk drawer, rooting around until he found a magnifying glass. Fanning the photographs out, he studied each one more closely, scrutinizing every detail.

  He knew the building, all right.

  He also recognized two of the faces.

  "What?" Willow demanded, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer. "What is it?"

  Steve took one more long look, just to be sure. "This building—" he tapped one of the photographs with the edge of the magnifying glass "—is the Wilshire Arms Apartments. It's only a few miles from here."

  "And?" She knew there was an and; she could see it in his face.

  "And one of the guys in these pictures is Zeke Blackstone."

  Willow's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Zeke Blackstone?" she echoed. "The actor? Are you sure?"

  "Take a good look at the guy on the far left." He extended both picture and magnifying glass across the desk. "If it isn't Blackstone, it's his twin brother."

  "My God. I think you're right," she said, looking past the tousled hair and the tight bell-bottom jeans with the peace sign sewn on the knee. "I think it is Zeke Blackstone."

  "Now take a look at the guy standing next to him, the one with his arm around your mother."

  Willow looked as ordered, her forehead crinkling up as she peered through the magnifying glass. He had long sideburns and a thick, drooping mustache. "Is he an actor, too?"

  "He used to be, years ago. Don't you recognize him?"

  Willow shook her head. "Who is he?"

  "That's Ethan Roberts. If the Republicans have their way in the next election, he'll be Senator Roberts."

  Willow's golden brown eyes widened until they threatened to fill up her whole face. "Oh, my God," she murmured. Ethan Roberts. The single initial E on the card to her mother. And there he was in the picture, with his arm slung casually around Donna's shoulders. After all these years of wondering, was it really going to be that easy? She stared across the desk at Steve. "Do you really think it might be him?" she whispered.

  "It might," he said, emphasizing the second word. "Might," he repeated when she continued to sit there with the picture and magnifying glass clasped in her hands, staring at him with a look of shimmering hope in her eyes. "Or it might not." He brushed aside a pile of papers and reached for the telephone. "There's only one way to find out."

  "You're going to call him? Right now? Right this very minute?" The last few words rose to a high-pitched squeak as her voice tightened with panic and excitement. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself. "Do you think that's the best way to handle it?"

  "You want to know, don't you?"

  "Well, yes, but... I mean—" She lifted her hands, realized she still held the photograph and magnifying glass, and put them down on the desk, all without shifting her gaze from his. "You can't just call and ask him if... if..." She floundered, unable to think of a way to phrase the question. "How do you ask a man if there's any chance he could be your father?" she wondered out loud.

  "You just ask," Steve said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "But don't worry, I'm not going to do it over the phone." He punched in a three-digit number. "Right now, all I'm going to do is call and set up an appointment to see him. Yes," he said into the receiver. "Do you have a residential listing for Ethan Roberts?" There was a moment of silence while the operator checked. "How about a number for his campaign headquarters? That must be listed." He listened for a moment, then pressed the disconnect button and redialed.

  Willow sat in tense silence, her nerves stretched tight, her hands clutched together in her lap, listening as Steve was transferred up the chain of command at Ethan Roberts' campaign headquarters until, finally, he reached someone with the authority to take a message.

  "No, I'm sorry, I can't discuss the matter with anyone but Mr. Roberts," he said to the person on the other end of the phone. "Yes, I realize you're his campaign manager but, as I said to the two people I talked to before you, it's a private matter. Highly sensitive and confidential. If you'll just tell him it concerns a young woman named Donna Ryan—" He spelled out the last name. "Yes, that's right. Donna Ryan. Her daughter has some questions she hopes Mr. Roberts can answer. He can reach me at the number I gave you anytime, day or night."

  "Now what?" Willow asked when he put the receiver down.

  "Now, we wait."

  "How long?"

  "Hard to tell. Maybe a few minutes. A few hours. Maybe a few days. It depends on how quickly his campaign manager gets the message to him. And how urgent he thinks it is."

  "A few days?" she wailed. "I do
n't think I can stand the suspense for that long."

  "You've stood it for twenty-four years. Another few days shouldn't make any difference."

  "I know, but to be this close and—"

  The phone rang, making them both jump.

  "Do you think it's him?" Willow whispered. "Already?"

  Steve smiled, looking like a shark who'd just scented blood in the water. "Only one way to find out." He picked up the receiver. "Steve Hart," he said.

  "This is the Ethan Roberts for U.S. Senate campaign office," chirped a disembodied female voice. "I'm calling in regard to a message you left for Mr. Roberts concerning a Ms. Donna Ryan."

  "Yes." Steve punched the speaker button so Willow could listen in. "Go ahead."

  "Mr. Roberts has asked me to inform you that he will be in San Francisco until very late this evening attending a fund-raising benefit at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. He regrets that he cannot address the matter of Ms. Ryan immediately but asks if it would be convenient for you to meet with him at his home tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m., at which time he'll be glad to offer whatever help or information he can."

  "Tomorrow morning would be fine."

  "Very good," the woman said, and rattled off the address. "Mr. Roberts will be expecting you for breakfast."

  The line went dead, filling the room with the buzz of a disconnected telephone. Steve pushed the speaker button and the buzzing stopped.

  "Oh, my God," Willow said softly and reached out, grabbing the edge of the wooden desk for support. Her face was dead white.

  "Jesus, you're not going to faint, are you?"

  "I don't know," she whispered, and swayed forward in her chair.

  Steve jumped up and came swiftly around the desk. "Put your head down between your knees," he ordered, cupping the back of her head to make her do it.

  "I'm all right. Really. I never faint." She resisted the downward pressure of his hand, turning her head to look up at him instead. "It's just so..." She took a deep trembling breath, as if to steady herself, and then sank forward, like a slowly deflating balloon, and pressed her forehead against his stomach. "I didn't think it would hit me this hard," she confessed, whispering the words into the soft fabric of his yellow T-shirt.