Lucky Girl (Dear Rockstar #2)

Lucky Girl (Dear Rockstar #2) Page 13

When the children were asked where they wanted to live, Dale had chosen John, who already had a teaching job lined up in California, and Chrissy had chosen to stay in Maine with her mother. John had no idea his wife and his best friend had betrayed him—but his children knew. Dale told me Chrissy knew, although he wasn’t sure how his younger sister had found out. Dale had discovered his mother’s sordid secret because he’d walked in on them, his mother and Tyler. She’d sworn him to secrecy, but of course Dale would never tell. John was the man who raised him, and regardless of biology, was the man he would always think of as his father. He would never do anything to hurt him, and he’d told me more than once, he believed telling John the truth about Tyler Vincent would kill him.

I knew Dale resented his little sister for siding with her mother. He felt it was like condoning what she did. He thought Chrissy had stayed because she thought, like her mother had believed, rich and famous Tyler Vincent would take care of them. I guess, to some extent, he did, according to Dale. But apparently that didn’t extend to college tuition.

For that, Chrissy was turning to the man who had raised her, even though she knew full well he wasn’t her real father. I understood why Dale felt so angry and betrayed, both by his sister’s decision to stay and live in Maine with her mother—Dale made it clear he’d never talk to Chrissy again if that’s what she chose, and I think he meant it—and now her decision to come sponge off the man who had raised her, a man she’d called “Dad,” most of her life, until the truth was revealed—a man she had ultimately rejected.

“I’m sorry, baby.” I put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles tighten at my touch. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s really nothing to talk about.”

I heard the phone ringing downstairs. We had one in our room but Dale had the habit of unplugging it when he was practicing.

“Sara!” It was John, calling up the stairs. “Phone for you!”

For me? It had to be Aimee—was she calling me from St. Bart’s? I never did get a chance to talk to her after we’d made our quick exit from the wedding. I braced myself, knowing she was going to be mad. I couldn’t blame her. If my best friend’s boyfriend was a rock star and had been the sole reason a whole bunch of crazy fans crashed my wedding, I’d be mad too.

“Aimee?” Dale watched as I scrambled for the phone, having to find the cord under discarded clothes and socks, mostly mine, so I could plug it into the end.

“Most likely.” I picked up the phone, hearing that strange sort of open sound that meant John was still on the line downstairs. “I got it, John, thanks.”

John hung up and I waited, already feeling guilty, for Aimee to scold me for ruining her wedding.

“Hello?” I finally said, meeting Dale’s eyes. He was watching, curious.

“Hello, Sara Wilson?” It was a man’s voice and I blinked in surprise. My first thought was, oh no, a reporter! Why hadn’t John asked who was calling?

“Yes, this is Sara,” I replied cautiously.

Dale frowned and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking.

“I’m sorry, I told the man who answered—was that John Diamond?—I told him I was Dave. From the t-shirt shop.”

But he wasn’t Dave from the t-shirt shop.

“Who is this?” I demanded. Dale was trying to grab the phone from me and I pushed him away, turning, the cord wrapping around my legs.

It had to be a reporter. Who else?

“This is…” He cleared his throat. “Well, this is your father.”

I dropped the receiver to the floor like it was on fire.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Sara, listen to me.” Dale reached across the table and took my hand. It was clammy and trembling but I didn’t pull it away.

“I’m listening.” I was listening. But my eyes were on the door. Every time the little bell over it rang I jumped.

“I know this man says he’s your father,” Dale began.

I rolled my eyes. This again? When the man on the other end of the phone said he was my father, the image of the stepbeast, the only father I’d ever known, rose up to tower over me. My father, my real, biological father, was dead. That’s what my mother always told me.

“Dale, come on.” I met his eyes briefly over the scones we’d ordered. I loved Cuppa Joe’s hot chocolate. Dale was drinking coffee—black. “He passed every test I could think of. He knew the hospital I was born in. He knew my mother’s maiden name. He knew her middle name. He knew my middle name.”

“All things he could have looked up in public record,” he reminded me. I glared at him. “Look, I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. Really, I’m not. But this guy shows up the day after your picture is in the paper connected to me? Everyone knows rock stars are millionaires, right?”

I regretted telling him about my conversation with Josh. But I always told him everything.

“How did he know about my birthmark?” I had tears in my eyes imagining my father—my real father—holding me as a tiny baby, kissing the dark question-mark on my right shoulder. “Everything he says rings true. He’s from Florida. That’s where my mother’s family is. He knew everything about her I could think of to ask, at least from when she was younger. He even knew my grandmother’s middle name. Even I had to look that up!”

“Well, don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

“Now he knows too much instead of not enough?” I had been holding back tears but now they slipped down my face.

“Sweetheart.” Dale wiped my tears. “I love you. I’m here for you, no matter what. It’s me. Dale.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I just…”He sighed. “I should probably just shut up.”

“No, say it.”

“It just seems like a pretty weird coincidence that he happened to be in New York, saw your name in the paper, wondered if you might be the same Sara Wilson and decided to try to find you. And how did he find you, considering we had a whole city full of reporters who were trying and they failed?”

“You know, I told you.” I sighed. “He said he tried finding me but I wasn’t listed. So he looked up you—and found out John taught at Rutgers. He said after that it was easy because so much of John’s information was public. He called up USC in California where he worked before you moved here. He talked to some professor… Lane Murdoch?”

“Yeah he and my dad were friends.”

“So when he called Rutgers looking for John, he found out about faculty housing and knew that was a dead end. He tried calling the university and asking for John. He got John’s assistant, Carol.”

“And then?”

“Then he pretended to be this Lane Murdoch fellow, said he would be in NY on a layover for just a few hours and wanted to see him. Could he possibly have his home number?”

“And she gave it to him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “He said… he said he charmed her into it.”

“Exactly,” Dale replied. “And what did he say when you first talked to him on the phone? Who did he tell your dad he was?”

I hesitated. “Dave… from the print shop.”

“But how did he know you worked there?”

“I don’t know.”

“I just don’t like it.” Dale said. “It feels wrong to me.”

“Everything involving me and another man feels wrong to you,” I snapped.

“I’m just trying to be rational,” he said softly.

“Fine, why don’t I just tell him up front I’m going to require a blood sample, so we can do some DNA testing?” I rolled my eyes.

“Those take weeks. By the time we had the results, if he is what I think he is, he’ll be long gone.”

“You’re impossible.” I felt the corners of my mouth twitching, ready to smile.

“And you’re incredibly sweet and trusting and I love you.” He leaned over and kissed me. “But maybe you should ask for that blood test.”

“Dale!” I punched his shoulder.

“Damn, remind me not to get in the ring with you.”

“Oh my God that’s him.” My mouth went instantly dry. I couldn’t even swallow. He was tall and lean, wearing khakis and a button-down light blue chambray shirt, just like he said he would be. He had short, sandy blond hair, not quite a military cut but close. I searched his face for any resemblance as he scanned the room, hesitating in the doorway.

His gaze skipped over me to Dale and then back to me. Our eyes met and he smiled, lifting his hand in a wave. I waved back, hoping I didn’t look overeager. I felt overeager and had for weeks. I’d been ready to get in my car and drive to LaGuardia, where he first called me from. He was heading back to Florida—he’d only been in New York for a few days on business, he said. But he promised he would be back in a month.

And here he was, keeping that promise.

He’d given me his Florida phone number and we’d talked on the phone several times. He assured me I could ask him anything I wanted. Dale had woken up a few times in the middle of the night to find me sitting next to the bed on the floor with a notebook and a flashlight, writing down all the things I wanted to know, things my mother had never told me. A lifetime of questions crammed into two weeks.

And now that he was here, I didn’t know what to say.

He strode over to our table and Dale stood, reaching his hand out.

“Benjamin Barnes.” Ben shook Dale’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Dale Diamond.” He looked over at me. “I’m going to take my coffee over there and let you two talk.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that.” Ben’s smile widened when he glanced at me and I smiled back. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

“That’s okay, I need to catch up on my reading.” Dale held up a copy of the New York Daily News. I didn’t realize he’d brought it along, but then I saw the picture of us that had been printed two weeks ago. He’d folded it so Ben could see it clearly when he held it up. I rolled my eyes at the posturing—did he really think someone would make up a story so elaborate?

Dale leaned over and his lips brushed my cheek and he whispered, “I love you.”

“Take a seat,” I said to Ben, nodding at the chair across from mine. I still didn’t know what to call him. Ben seemed so formal and calling him “Dad” didn’t feel quite right yet either so I tried to avoid calling him anything.

Dale took a step back, letting Ben pull out the chair.

“Sara, I’ll be right over there if you need me,” Dale said again, pointing to an empty table near the window. I just nodded.

“Do you want something?” I asked, looking down at my hot chocolate that was, by now, not hot at all. Dale had taken his coffee and scone.