Chapter 4 - THE NAME MY MOTHER NEVER GAVE ME
My father had always been a blank space.
My mother, Caroline Bennett, died when I was nine.
Whenever I asked about him, Grandma said:
“Your mother made one bad choice and one perfect child.”
I stopped asking.
Now I stared at a photograph suggesting the secret involved the Moretti family.
Vincent looked at Grandma.
“Who is Daisy’s father?”
Grandma went pale.
“I promised Caroline.”
“She’s dead,” I whispered.
Grandma looked at me.
“That promise isn’t.”
“Apparently neither are half the secrets in this family.”
Tess squeezed my hand.
Grandma finally sat.
“The baby in the photo is you.”
“I figured that part out.”
“The woman is your mother.”
“And the men?”
“Your grandfather and Anthony Moretti.”
Vincent’s expression tightened.
“What were they doing together?”
Grandma rubbed her palms.
“Protecting Caroline.”
“From whom?”
She looked toward the window.
“Victor’s father.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Frank Cavallo.”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Was Frank my father?”
“No.”
Relief came too fast.
“Then who?”
Grandma looked at Vincent.
He noticed.
So did I.
“No.”
His face went still.
“No what?”
I pointed at him.
“If you say Moretti, I’m moving to Canada.”
Grandma almost smiled.
“Not Vincent’s father.”
I exhaled.
“Thank God.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“Charming.”
“You know what I mean.”
Grandma continued.
“Your father was Anthony Moretti’s youngest son.”
Silence.
Vincent looked stunned.
I stared at him.
“Your uncle?”
“Yes.”
His voice was quiet.
“Gabriel.”
I knew the name.
Gabriel Moretti died twenty-seven years ago in what newspapers called a boating accident.
“How old was he?”
“Twenty-three.”
My stomach twisted.
“And Mom?”
“Twenty-one.”
Vincent sat back.
That made us—
“What does this make us?”
“Second cousins?” Tess offered.
Vincent looked horrified.
“No.”
Grandma shook her head.
“Gabriel was Vincent’s father’s half brother.”
Vincent stared at me.
“So Daisy is my cousin.”
I stood so fast the chair scraped.
“Absolutely not.”
Vincent almost laughed despite himself.
“Relax. Distant enough that your drunken proposal is socially embarrassing, not genetically alarming.”
“That is not comforting.”
Grandma slapped the table.
“You are not related by blood.”
Silence.
Vincent’s smile disappeared.
“What?”
Grandma looked at him.
“Anthony Moretti was not Gabriel’s biological father.”
Vincent froze.
I sat again.
“Excuse me?”
“Gabriel’s mother had an affair.”
“With whom?”
Grandma hesitated.
“Henry Bennett.”
My grandfather.
Tess whispered:
“Oh, this family tree needs professional help.”
I covered my face.
So Gabriel Moretti—my father—was biologically a Bennett.
Meaning Vincent and I weren’t blood relatives.
Good.
Wonderful.
Still insane.
Then Vincent asked the important question.
“Why did everyone hide it?”
Grandma’s face hardened.
“Because Gabriel discovered something about Frank Cavallo.”
“What?”
“The ledger.”
We were back to that.
“What was in it?”
“Payments.”
“From whom?”
“Judges. Police officers. Port officials.”
Vincent’s expression darkened.
“Frank’s network.”
“Yes.”
“Where is the ledger now?”
Grandma looked toward the orchard.
“Henry buried it.”
“Under the peach tree?”
“Yes.”
We went outside with flashlights.
The oldest peach tree stood near the edge of the property.
Grandpa had planted it before I was born.
Marco began digging.
Two feet down, his shovel hit metal.
A rusted box.
Inside:
No ledger.
Only one cassette tape.
And a key.
Grandma stared.
“That’s not what Henry buried.”
Vincent examined the key.
A number was stamped into it.
I knew that number.
Room 317.
At Bennett Inn.
The room no guest had stayed in for twenty years because Grandma claimed the pipes were broken.
I looked at her.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
May you like
Grandma whispered:
“Your mother died in Room 317.”
