Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

L auren could not get warm.

Hours had passed since she'd watched Lawrence die, and yet her pulse still pounded. Her blood rushed to her heart, as if that could help put the pieces back together. All it did was leave the rest of her cold.

"Here. Hold this." Greta bustled into the bedroom and handed her a hot water bottle wrapped in a flannel pillowcase. Curled onto her side beneath the covers, Lauren hugged it to her chest. The older woman slid another one between the sheets to warm her feet. "Better?"

"Thank you."

Voices swirled outside the bedroom. Ivy fielded telephone calls, and Elsa hosted her parents in the living room. Aunt Beryl and Uncle Julian had come with a huge vase of flowers but had little to say to Lauren. No wonder. They'd despised Lawrence even before they'd learned the depth of his deception. Their embraces and stricken expressions, however, proved their concern for their niece sincere. Sal had also arrived, and by the smell permeating the apartment, he'd brought an Italian feast to share with all gathered.

Lauren couldn't stomach a bite of it.

The mattress tilted as Greta settled onto the edge of the bed. She placed a hand on Lauren's shoulder, her quiet presence warmer than the quilt.

"Did you know," Lauren said, "that the ancient Egyptians believed that the heart was the organ for thinking, the seat of both knowledge and emotion? The brain, they thought, was mere stuffing for the head, which is why they discarded it during mummification."

"Is that right?"

"Thank goodness we know better," Lauren whispered. She did not want to rely on the convulsions of her battered heart to guide her. Her feelings were no reliable compass. She had to stand on the truth. And the truth was, Lawrence Westlake had been a liar and a thief. He'd manipulated her and forsaken her. He'd cast her parentage into question, though Mr. Clarke had assured her those doubts were unfounded. If Lawrence had escaped the authorities this morning, as he'd intended, she never would have seen him again.

But he hadn't escaped. He'd been murdered, and so had Fred. No one deserved that, either.

Greta smoothed Lauren's hair away from her face. "It's true, we cannot discard the brain, but we are not to discard our feelings, either," she murmured. "Didn't God give us both? You must allow yourself to grieve, Lauren. You can't skip over that just because of the crimes Lawrence committed."

Pressure mounted from unshed tears. "I can't mourn the loss of his deception," Lauren said, "but I hate how his life ended. I won't miss the man he revealed himself to be. But I mourn the loss of hope for a restored relationship. My mother longed for that. So did I."

"Don't you dare take on an ounce of guilt for that." Greta's soft face grew stern with conviction. "It takes two people to have a healthy relationship, and he wasn't doing his part."

Lauren squeezed her eyes shut, but her mind filled with the image of Lawrence trying to sneak away, knowing her life was in danger. He had made his choice in that instant. He had not chosen her. After he'd been shot, he could have left her with some word of affection or even regret for his behavior. Instead, he'd proven his selfishness to the end.

"I'd already begun grieving for a father I never had." Lauren's voice buckled. "I grieve that Lawrence's priorities twisted into an obsession that ultimately killed him."

"Then grieve. Don't lock that away, dear, and don't bury it. Let it out."

A knock sounded on the bedroom door, followed by a beloved voice.

With a surge of energy, Lauren threw back the covers and stood, heedless of the wrinkles plaguing her dress.

Eyes glossy, Greta embraced her, kissed her cheek, then left.

Joe came in.

No sooner had Greta closed the door than his arms were around her, holding her up, encircling her with strength she couldn't muster on her own. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She melted into him and wept.

SATURDAY, FEbrUARY 27, 1926

Weeks later, Lauren stood at the grave with her hand firmly ensconced in Joe's. "I wish you could have met her."

When they were children, Lauren hadn't brought Joe back to Aunt Beryl's house to meet Mother. All she'd wanted to do was escape that mansion, leaving its rules and sadness behind. Regret stabbed through her. Mother would have loved Joe, if she'd been given the chance. Even though she'd been sick, she would have loved him, as Greta had lavished her care on Lauren. "I feel like I've only just gotten to know Mother myself in the last few months." The letters had become the most precious things she owned.

A few feet away lay another grave, more recently dug and filled. But Lauren wasn't here for that man, whose name so closely resembled her own. She had not been here when he'd been buried. Her aunt and uncle had taken care of everything. Lauren wanted no part of it. She was here with Joe today to honor Mother on the anniversary of her death.

"From what you've shared with me," Joe said, "she loved you more than life. She would be so proud of you."

Smiling at the irony, Lauren nestled a pot of bright purple pansies in the slush in front of the marble headstone. "All my life, I've been trying to make my father proud. I longed for his approval. But this matters more to me now." She straightened and waited for her voice to steady. "The more I know her, the more I love her. The more I see how she loved me. Did I ever tell you that the last letter from Mother was actually written to me?"

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Would you like to share what it said? Or is it better kept between the two of you?"

A smile lifted her lips. "Everything is better when shared with you," she told him. It always had been. "She wrote, ‘Joy isn't just in the quest of a far-off land. It's in the coming home. It's in being here, with the people who love you, not just for the big, exciting moments but for the small ones, too.'"

"What a very wise woman she was."

Lauren slipped an arm around his waist. "She was right. It was exactly what I needed to hear."

After Lawrence's murder and the disaster that surrounded it, she knew she couldn't outrun the hollowed-out feeling within her. But she had wanted so desperately to hide. She wanted to quit her job at the Met, sure her reputation was ruined by association, but Mr. Robinson wouldn't let her, and Anita grew even more fiercely loyal. Lauren would have buried herself in the basement of the museum, under the guise of work, but Elsa, Ivy, and Joe brought her up and out of that sunless place, over and over again. Greta had even given her cooking lessons, calling good food and good work fine remedies. So while Lauren had wanted to run, she had stayed. And she had only survived the staying because of the people who stayed with her.

A mild breeze stirred the bare branches above. Warmer temperatures this week had melted snow, and the smell of wet earth hinted at the coming spring.

Lauren remained rooted with Joe near her mother, but her gaze wandered to the small stone marking her father's grave. Since his death, and even the days that preceded it, she had felt numb, angry, ashamed, and bereft by turns. She had no doubt she'd revisit all of those emotions. But when they had melted, she found a new sensation beneath.

Relief.

All her striving for his love and approval had ceased. He would never inflict new wounds on old scars again.

The Napoleon Society had died with him. Whether for Lauren's sake or her mother's, or simply to make Lawrence roll in his grave, Theodore Clarke had paid back every cent that the society had swindled from people with their forgeries. He also offered every victim an all-expenses-paid trip to Newport for a private tour of his mansion and the antiquities within. As for the Napoleon House, the mortgage reverted to the innocent board members. She didn't know what they would do with it. She didn't want to think about it anymore.

"We have company," Joe said quietly.

Nancy Foster approached with a bundle of chamomile.

"Nancy." A swell of emotion clogged Lauren's throat, and she reached out to the woman who had given so much of her life to Mother. "I was hoping I'd see you today."

Her watery brown eyes flared. "You found the letters."

"I did. I can't tell you how much they mean to me. Thank you for saving them." Lauren introduced her to Joe.

"Well, young man," Nancy said, "what is your relationship to Lauren?"

"I am the guardian of her well-being," he said without hesitation.

Lauren laughed, but he was right. "He's also my best friend, and the keeper of my heart."

A rare smile warmed Nancy's face. "Good."

They gave Nancy space to lay her flowers and pay her respects.

At length, she turned back to Lauren and Joe. "I read about your father. That's him, I suppose." She jerked her chin toward his grave.

Lauren nodded, but still she wondered. Mr. Clarke maintained there was no truth to the insinuation that he had fathered her. But would he claim her as his daughter now, even if she was his? Wouldn't he fear what that would mean for his fortune after he died?

"You have questions, sweetheart," Joe said, guessing the thoughts springing to mind. "I bet Nancy has the answers."

And Nancy would tell the truth.

"Lawrence suggested that Theodore Clarke is my biological father," Lauren said. "You were my mother's nursemaid since she was a girl. So, tell me, please. Could this possibly be true?"

Nancy's face puckered in thought. "You were born December 8, 1892, which means ... No, that would be impossible. Your parents were living in Chicago by then, and Theodore never came to visit until after his friend became a professor at the university there."

"Dr. Breasted?" Lauren asked.

Nancy snapped her fingers. "That's the one. He didn't start working at the University of Chicago until after you were born."

"That's right," Lauren affirmed. "Dr. Breasted began there in 1894."

"Goldie's marriage wasn't what it ought to have been," Nancy went on, "but she never would have sought her own pleasure outside of it. Never. Did you doubt her?"

Cold nipped at Lauren's nose and ears. "Right before Mother died, she said, ‘How I wish you knew your father.' I always thought she meant Lawrence. Then she closed her eyes and said, ‘Redeem this.' And so I've been trying, Nancy. Since Lawrence came to me last October, I tried to restore our relationship. But the harder I tried, the further it unraveled, and then..." She motioned to his grave. "When Lawrence said he'd suspected my father was Mr. Clarke, I had to wonder if that's what she meant."

The lines in Nancy's face softened. "Oh, child, that's not what she meant."

"I know."

But Nancy shook her head. "She wasn't talking about Lawrence, either."

Lauren stared at her, replaying the words in her mind. How I wish you knew your father. Your father.

Your Father.

Understanding pierced, scattering all confusion.

"She was talking about the one Father who won't fail you," Nancy confirmed. "Goldie always felt bad that you didn't get to church more. She would have taken you, were she well enough. When she said, ‘Redeem this,' she was praying. I must have heard her say that prayer a thousand times over the years. She wasn't giving you an order. She'd never tell you to fix what wasn't yours to solve. She only wanted you to know your true Father's love."

A guilt she didn't know she still carried took flight from Lauren's shoulders, leaving her unbalanced. Joe's arm came around her waist, holding her steady. "Thank you, Nancy," she breathed.

The old woman smiled with a kindness Lauren hadn't seen from her before. "Come see me sometime." She gave her address and telephone number. "Young man, you carry on guarding this girl's well-being. You keep her heart safe, do you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Nancy walked away.

"I need to sit down," Lauren whispered.

"Wait." Joe took off his overcoat and spread it on the ground. He held her hand, and they sat.

"I put my faith in God early on," Lauren said. "But in my teenage years, I grew angrier with Lawrence's distance. His absence. Somewhere along the way, I thought of God as remote and uninterested, too. It must have worried her that my view of God was dimmed by my view of my father."

"Your mother might not have been able to take you to church, but she showed you God's love nonetheless, didn't she?"

"Better than anyone else." Memories burst upon her with reborn clarity. When Lauren climbed the tree, pretending to be a bird while she watched for someone else, Mother had stayed, promising to be her nest when she landed. When Lauren hid beneath her father's desk, pretending to be a sleeping bear, Mother had let her, but said she would be there when Lauren woke up.

When Mother found Lauren sleeping on the hardwood floor, she forsook her own bed and came down to her.

When Lauren locked herself inside Lawrence's office with emotions too big to handle, Mother knocked on the door and even tried to climb through the window.

"I felt so alone, but I didn't have to be," she said. "Mother let me chase after something else, but she loved me unconditionally the whole time. She was there. She waited for me to reach back to her."

Joe's deep baritone rumbled as he hummed, and she recognized the tune. "Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love...."

"She wished you knew your heavenly Father," Joe said. "She modeled His love with her own."

"Yes, she did." The pansies blurred into purple smudges against the tombstone. "The love I chased after was false. The love she offered was pure."

"I'm sure she would be happy you know that now. She wouldn't want you to spend one drop of energy feeling guilty for not understanding that until..." His voice trailed away.

"Until I was sitting before her grave?" Lauren's smile wobbled.

"You were a child in an impossible situation. Your mother knew that."

He was right.

"It's never too late to feel a mother's love." She wiped the tears from her cheeks. "And it's not too late to truly grasp how wide and deep is the love of my Father."