Family Tree Part 9

Monica stared. "Make fun of me if you want, but I think David is in love with your wife."

"I'm sure he is," Hugh said, sounding calmer than he felt, "but that doesn't mean he'd ever get her in bed. My wife loves me, Monica."

"But there's love-s.e.x and there's s.e.x-s.e.x. David is one s.e.xy guy."

"Ah. That explains your keeping track of his comings and goings. Have the hots for him, do you?"

She stared up at him for another minute, then said, "Forget I mentioned it."

Tugging at the dogs, she let them pull her back home, and just in time. Had she stayed a minute longer, she would have seen the black sedan that came down the street. Hugh's brother, Robert, emerged and turned back to help his uncle climb out.

Bradley Clarke was five years older than Eaton, which put him at seventy-four, give or take. He wasn't as tall or good-looking as his brother, though the Clarke jaw and broad brow were marked, but what he lacked in physical stature he made up for in business ac.u.men. There were older living Clarkes, a cl.u.s.ter of cousins in their nineties, but Bradley was the one who feathered the family nest and, in so doing, was perceived as being the patriarch.

Hugh admired his uncle. He was grateful that the family interests were in such capable hands.

That said, he had never liked the man. He found him arrogant, curt, and devoid of warmth. Robert, who worked with him on a regular basis-and who now went on into the house while Bradley stood with Hugh at the curb-claimed to have seen the warmth many times. Hugh had to take it on faith.

That faith was tested the minute the older man opened his mouth. "What in the h.e.l.l did you say to your father? He's in a lousy mood."

"I'm sorry if he's taken it out on you," Hugh said with due deference, though he refused to cower. "He said some ugly things about my child."

"Is it yours?"

"Yes."

"Did you figure out yet where its coloring is from?"

"It's a she, and we a.s.sume one of Dana's ancestors was African American."

"Then Dana is black."

"So's your chauffeur," Hugh said lightly, and ducked his head to smile at Caleb. Hugh had pa.s.sed many an otherwise unbearably boring family event standing outside on the drive by the car, talking with Caleb. "Maybe he'd like to come take a look at my daughter?"

Bradley said, "No need for that, but I would." He was halfway up the stairs when David came from the house and innocently extended his hand.

"Mr. Clarke. David Johnson. Good to see you again."

Bradley's face was stony. His hand met David's in a perfunctory shake. Then he went on inside.

Hugh swore softly and rubbed the aching back of his neck.

"Trouble?" David asked.

Hugh snorted. "At least he didn't see you sprawled all over her."

David made a face. "Huh?"

"Oh, come on. I can only laugh up to a point."

"Can you explain that?"

"They think you're the father."

David drew in his chin. "They do? Wow. I'm flattered."

"Yeah, and while you're flattered, I'm humiliated. Dana's my wife. It's all well and good that you think she's great, but do you have to march into my house like you own the place?"

David took a step back and held up a hand. "No harm meant."

But the dike had burst. Hugh couldn't stop. "Where's your common sense, man? h.e.l.l, we can pretend we don't see her coloring, but there's this baby who looks like you, and there you are, head over heels in love with my wife-"

"Hold it, Hugh. Your wife is my friend."

"You knew her before I did," Hugh realized with some discomfort. "Was there something going on between you two back then? A secret you agreed not to share?"

"No."

"But you date white women all the time. You were married to one. In my field, that's called precedent."

"You're outta line."

"Don't tell me I'm outta line," Hugh shouted, "she's my wife!"

"Hugh," said Robert, opening the screen.

Hugh turned and glared at his brother and uncle. He felt like he was being cornered, pushed toward something he loathed but was helpless to stop.

Eyes on Hugh, David held up a cautioning hand. Then he turned and went down the stairs.

"What was that about?" Bradley asked in an imperial tone.

Hugh lashed out, "Did you see my daughter?"

"Yes."

"Do you think she's my daughter?"

"She's definitely a Joseph baby."

"And the father?" Hugh asked. "Who do you think that is?"

"Who do you think?" Bradley shot back.

"I thought it was me, until you all started looking at him," he said, nodding toward David's house, "but there's a way to find out. Know how many DNA tests I've arranged for my clients? I know how it's done and who does it best." He strode past them and into the house.

Dana was tired. Her bottom ached and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were starting to harden. She loved seeing friends, loved seeing David, but she could have done without Hugh's brother and uncle. Robert had made a brief show of affection; his uncle hadn't even tried. And now Hugh, saying...what?

"I want DNA tests done. There's been one remark too many."

"DNA tests?" she asked, unable to grasp it.

"To prove I'm Lizzie's father."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking," he said grimly, "about David. His name keeps coming up. I want it decided."

Dana was incredulous. "Decided?"

The baby started to cry. Pushing herself up from the sofa, Dana retrieved Lizzie from the ba.s.sinet. She rocked her from side to side, but she kept crying. So Dana propped herself on the cushions, raised her tee shirt, opened her bra, and brushed the baby's mouth with her nipple. Lizzie didn't latch on at first. She rooted and searched and cried. Dana was starting to think that something had to be wrong, because hadn't Tara said babies were born knowing how to suck, and Lizzie had done this now-what-ten, twenty, thirty times?-when it finally worked.

"Decided," Hugh said.

Dana's eyes met his and stayed only long enough to see that he was serious, before focusing on the baby again. "If you actually believe, for one instant, that this is David's child-if you actually believe I would be interested in any man but you-if you actually believe I would be with someone other than my husband-something's wrong with us, worse, with our marriage." Her voice shook. "I thought you trusted me."

"I do."

"But you're accusing me of having an affair with David," she said, keeping her eyes on Lizzie so that she wouldn't lose it completely, "and don't tell me you're playing devil's advocate, because that doesn't work in this case. This is about trust." Tears threatened. She managed to hold them off, but her voice shrank in the process. She did raise her eyes then. "What's happening to us, Hugh?"

Hugh pushed a forearm over his brow, then put his hands on his hips.

Dana's heart was breaking. This was her husband, her husband, so distant from her now. Quietly, she asked, "Do you honestly think she's David's?"

"She doesn't have my coloring."

"Or mine, but neither one of us knows for sure about the coloring of every single one of our ancestors." She quickly nodded. "Okay. Uh-huh. You do. So one of my relatives came from Africa. I don't have a problem with that. Do you? I mean, what's the big deal here? You're not a bigot, Hugh."

"Don't confuse the issues. Infidelity has nothing to do with bigotry."

She was beside herself with-what? Disbelief? Anger? Hurt? "You do think I've had an affair. If you'd been honest with your geneticist, she might have rea.s.sured you. Shouldn't we be looking for my father?"

Hugh raised his eyes to the window and looked out at the sea. When he looked back, her heart sank. She needed warmth, but there was none. He was the lawyer on a quest.

"First a DNA test," he said. "That'll prove I'm the father."

Dana bowed her head over the baby and began to cry. She would have never, never, never in a million years imagined it would come to this.

"Prove, Dana," he said. "This is about damage control. You don't care what other people say-we've established that-but I do. You're not up to searching for your father yet and that could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. This is the quickest way to rule out one possibility."

In a burst of fury, she looked up. "While you're at it, why not ask David to take the test?"

"If we ask David, we offend him. If we call my geneticist, who then tells me to do the test, we embarra.s.s me."

"What about me?" Dana whispered into the baby's short curls.

"I can't hear you."

Obviously, she thought, rocking gently.

"And there's another thing," Hugh charged, forceful again. "You feed the baby. Ellie Jo rocks the baby. Gillian or Tara or Juliette changes the baby. If I'm the father, what's my job?"

He was feeling left out. Dana wondered if that was what this was about. It would be a bizarre explanation, but at least it would be something. The rest didn't make sense.

So she finished feeding Lizzie and handed her to Hugh, then slowly went up the stairs, showered, and, needing an escape, picked up her knitting. Only it was suddenly all wrong-yarn, pattern, everything. In a fit of dissatisfaction, she pulled the st.i.tches off the needles and ripped out her work, which dissolved like nothing more than another illusion when she gave it a tug. Stuffing the mess of yarn into her bag, she opened the window, eased into bed, and listened to the surf, desperate to hear her mother's voice. But there were no words of comfort coming in on the tide, only this great lump in her throat. Bizarre explanations notwithstanding, Hugh had said things that cut to the core.

Dropped st.i.tches could be picked up, an ill-fitting sweater could be reknit, a bad skein of yarn exchanged. Words were something else. Once said, they couldn't be taken back.

Chapter 8.

Dana knew what a DNA test entailed. She also knew that there were different kinds of DNA tests, ranging from those that used blood, hair, or bone marrow, to those that a.n.a.lyzed the saliva in a wad of chewing gum. Hugh had used DNA evidence increasingly when trying cases, and had spoken often of it with her. She knew that for the results of a DNA test to be admissible in court, strict standards were required. But she flat-out rejected anything invasive, such as drawing blood from the baby. She had told Hugh-dead serious-that he would have to take her to court for that.

He was satisfied using buccal swabs, a method in which small applicators collected cells from the inside of the cheek. And he wasted no time. On Thursday morning, a courier arrived at the house with the three test kits.

"Three?" Dana asked, eyeing the kits with distaste.

"One for each of us," Hugh replied patiently.

"Why me? We know I'm her mother," she said with a glimmer of challenge.

"You're our baseline," he explained. "Since the maternity of the baby isn't in doubt, the lab starts by comparing your DNA to Lizzie's. Whatever genetic components don't match up between you two have to come from the father. They then test my DNA for those components."

Dana glanced at the courier, who stood in the kitchen waiting. "Is he your witness that I won't try to switch your sample with a sample from David?"

Hugh asked the courier to wait outside. When the man had left, he said, "That was unnecessary."

"Why? It's all a matter of trust."

"You're not making this any easier on me."

Dana was livid. "The last forty-eight hours should have been the happiest of my life, but you've made them miserable. Truly, Hugh, in my world right now, it's not all about you." She shot a resentful look at the kits. "Can we get this done, please?"

It didn't take long. Hugh swabbed the baby's cheek, then Dana's. She forced herself to watch while he did his own, then sealed the kits and delivered them to the courier. By the time he returned to the house, she was upstairs, showering again herself, then sponging the baby head-to-toe on the changing table. She felt dirty after the procedure. She had to clean them both.

Dressing Lizzie in a new onesie, she put her in her crib and covered her with the blanket Gram Ellie had knit. For a few minutes, while the baby settled in to sleep, she watched, astonished, still, at her daughter's perfection. Then she looked around the nursery. It was to have embodied contentment and joy. As idylls went, it was perfect in every physical regard, which went to show how deceptive appearances could be.

Dana might have cried at the unfairness of it had she not been so tired. Curling sideways in the rocker, she closed her eyes and dozed. The doorbell rang; she ignored it. Same with the phone.

Shortly before noon, she tried feeding Lizzie again. Her milk was coming in, and her swollen b.r.e.a.s.t.s made it hard for Lizzie to nurse. Or maybe it was the milk. Dana went through all the possibilities until Lizzie finally latched on, but it was one more thing to worry about.

"Want me to burp her?" Hugh asked from the door.

Startled, Dana looked up. "You're still here."