In Search of a Memory (Truly Yours Digital Editions) Read online

  ISBN 978-1-60260-698-2

  IN SEARCH OF A MEMORY

  Copyright © 2010 by Pamela Griffin. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  one

  Lanville, New York, 1935

  Angel Mornay couldn’t pinpoint why she felt uneasy, but every nerve inside screamed out a warning to keep away from this man. He was definitely not the typical sort to appear at their door.

  The tall, dark stranger in the black suit continued to stare, ignoring her two cousins. “I’m pleased I could be of some assistance.” He tipped his felt fedora. “Ladies.” At once he moved away, his fluid stride a strange mix of confidence and caution.

  She remained just inside the entrance of her aunt’s New England home and watched the departing visitor close the gate to the short picket fence that enclosed their cottage. “That certainly was… peculiar,” she whispered, unable to voice a more suitable word to describe the unexpected encounter. Never had she known anyone who could make her feel in the span of seconds as if she were both floating above the earth and falling into its depths, an experience most unnerving.

  Regardless of his apparent consideration, his furtive manner disturbed her. Charming. Yes, he was that. Attractive. Quietly compelling. But she couldn’t fathom how or why his mysterious dark eyes—strangely familiar eyes—had seemed to reach into her soul. That is, if she had anything left of a soul, still tattered and bruised after her most recent quarrel with her aunt, regarding what Aunt Genevieve considered yet another of Angel’s faults. She was just glad the dark stranger had gone. He seemed… dangerous. That was the word she sought. This day had been difficult enough without adding to its troubles.

  Angel firmly closed the door on the stranger and on her thoughts.

  “You didn’t have to be such a flirt,” her cousin Faye reproved bitterly. “I saw how you all but pushed yourself in front of him. Just like you did with Charles.”

  At the ridiculous accusation, Angel turned to gape at Faye then directed her disbelieving stare toward the foot of the staircase where her other cousin, Rosemary, stood. And glared.

  “I answered the door as I always do. With courtesy. The same courtesy I would give to any visitor, whether it’s the postman or a member from the women’s society or… or our most recent guest, who was kind enough to return your parcel.”

  She wondered why her cousins never extended the same courtesies or acted maturely, for that matter. Though she was younger than Faye by two years, and Rosemary by three, when the stranger rang the bell, returning the package Faye had accidentally dropped on the sidewalk on their way home, Faye acted with all the composure of a silly goose. She had rushed to stand beside Angel and asked the young man a number of meddlesome questions, making Angel wonder if Faye’s lost package had been the accident she claimed or a ploy to gain his attention. Rosemary behaved no better, insinuating herself into every sentence when Angel stopped to take a breath in giving the man his requested directions.

  In reply to Faye’s question about the reason for his visit to their small town, he distantly admitted he came to see a friend. Before Faye could query further, he tipped his hat, expressed relief that he noticed her drop the package, and left. Faye’s behavior had been ridiculously childish. She was acting childishly now, and Angel was in no mood to argue about the afternoon’s occurrences.

  She headed for the stairs.

  Rosemary blocked her way.

  “You think you’re so high and mighty, and the fellas all flock to our door to see you just because some say you’re a doll. But that’s not enough, is it? You want all the men to notice you. Men like my Charles.”

  Angel sighed, weary of explaining herself. “I wasn’t flirting with Charles at the druggist’s, and I certainly wasn’t flirting with that stranger. I asked Charles how his mother was since her fall on the ice last winter, and with the man who was just here—well, you heard. He wanted directions to Mayfair Lane, so I gave them to him.”

  “You did more than that,” Faye interrupted. “You smiled at him!”

  “I beg your pardon? Since when is smiling considered a crime? I was being polite.”

  Angel didn’t add that the stranger had gotten a more-than-adequate view of Faye’s teeth from the many smiles she had directed his way. Such a reminder was petty; besides, it didn’t matter what she might say. She had learned long ago that what her cousins considered acceptable for them they regarded as taboo for Angel, no doubt aided by their mother’s strong opinions. “For the last time, I have no intention of trying to interest Charles. He isn’t my type.” Though she wasn’t exactly sure what sort of man was.

  “Why?” Rosemary’s face colored a shade of persimmon as she switched tactics and went to his defense. “You think you’re too good for him, is that it? Ha! A lot you know. You’re no better than Charles or me or Faye—or anyone in New York for that matter.” A cruel smirk lifted her painted red mouth, making her seem like an evil clown. “In fact, you’re worse.”

  “I haven’t the time or the desire to continue this conversation.” Angel graciously didn’t mention that Charles had shown no interest in Rosemary to cause her to become so possessive of him.

  She tried to push past, but Rosemary mirrored her action, again blocking her.

  “You’re such a stickler for the truth? Well, maybe it’s high time you had a taste of it, instead of making trouble for others.”

  Angel sighed. “This is really about what happened the other night, isn’t it? I had no idea when your mother came home early and asked where you were that you would be about to cut your hair and she would catch you. You can hardly blame me for what happened.”

  Her aunt detested the fashionable short bobs for her daughters and had an iron will that Angel’s cousins preferred not to cross. Aunt Genevieve didn’t care what Angel did. Nor did she bat an eyelash in disapproval when, in an act of self-defiance two years before, Angel cut her easily tangled, waist-length curls into a short, crimped style that stars like Myrna Loy had made popular. Aunt Genevieve even smiled when she noticed the uneven ends of Angel’s pathetic attempt.

  Rosemary narrowed her eyes. “This is about so much more than Mother taking away my privileges. It has to do with your past. The past you know nothing about.”

  “Rosemary, don’t.” Faye’s initial malice shifted to abrupt anxiety, as often was the case when she was instantly sorry for her rash words and behavior. “Mama wouldn’t like it.”

  “Mama’s not here now, is she? And I think it’s time Miss High-and-Mighty was put in her place. What I have to say is the truth. And that’s something of which our dear, darling Angel is a strong advocate.” She turned cold eyes on Angel. “Isn’t that right, Cousin? It’s the truth or nothing with you.” Her tone gave the pretense of sweetness, while underneath lay something ugly.

  “I prefer the truth to a lie.” Angel swallowed over the lump of worry clotting her throat. Something odd was going on—her cousins fighting a battle of w
ills over a hidden disclosure Angel wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. “There are also times when it’s better to say nothing at all.”

  “Really?” Rosemary sneered. “Well, too bad for you this isn’t one of them. You could have done the same—chosen not to say a word—but you didn’t. Now I won’t get to dance with Charles at Sharon’s party because I won’t be able to go!”

  Faye stepped forward. “Maybe you should calm down before you say more, Rosemary. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “On the contrary, I’m thinking very clearly, Faye. I only wish to give our dear, blue-eyed Angel all she deserves and desires—the absolute truth. She’s almost eighteen and has a right to know just what a grand lie her life has been.”

  Disgusted with Rosemary and more than a little nervous about her revelation, Angel turned away. Rosemary grabbed her arm in a grip that made Angel wince. “Oh no, Cousin dear. Don’t go just yet.” Her words came deceitfully sweet. “Wouldn’t you like to know the truth of who you are? Of who your mother was—or rather, who she is? Of the freak she turned out to be?”

  Faye gasped. “Rosemary, don’t!”

  “You’re lying, as usual.” Angel worked to keep her face bland and her voice emotionless, not wanting either of her cousins to see how Rosemary’s words tore into her orphaned heart. “My mother is dead. She died when I was three.”

  “Died? Oh no. Our mother lied to you, Angel. Your mother didn’t die, as Mother led you to believe. She gave you to our mother, that much is true. Because she didn’t want you. And do you know why?”

  Her voice rose in pitch as she stepped closer, her hate-filled eyes burning into Angel’s wary ones. Faye grabbed her sister’s arm.

  “Rosemary, stop it!”

  Rosemary shook off her sister’s hold, her attention never wavering from Angel.

  “She didn’t want you with her because she’s a sideshow freak in a traveling carnival. You’ve heard of the bearded lady, haven’t you? Well, if I were you, I’d check the mirror daily, because it might be hereditary. Your mother has a beard thicker than Dr. Meeker’s. I know; I’ve seen pictures. She’s nothing but a freak, and she’s still very much alive. She sent a letter to Mother two years ago.”

  “I—I don’t believe you.” Angel felt her world begin to tilt and grabbed the banister in a white-knuckled grip. Rosemary noticed and bared her teeth in another cruel smile.

  “It’s true. I saw the letter. Uncle Bruce kept clippings of his years at the carnival. Mother keeps his albums in her room. He worked there as a strong man. He married your mother, likely because he pitied the creature since no other sane man would go near her—she was half a man after all, a bearded lady, and who knows what your true father was. Likely some other monstrous freak. You’re no relation to our uncle, no relation to anyone in our family—and you know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Rosemary, that’s enough!” Faye’s warning shriek hurt Angel’s ears. Worry glinted in Faye’s eyes as she pulled on her sister’s arm with both hands. Rosemary ignored Faye, struggling to remain in place.

  “You’re nothing but a nameless foundling! Without a true father. With a freak of a mother who never wanted you. You’re an illegitimate piece of garbage. A nobody. Hardly normal. And would you like to know the truth of how you came into being?”

  Faye jerked Rosemary hard enough to pull her away from Angel and slapped her. Rosemary rubbed her reddened cheek and looked with shock at her sister.

  “You know what Mama said would happen if we told. You’ve said too much already.”

  Feeling like a witness to a slowly evolving nightmare, Angel watched the usually cowed Faye stand up to her sister. Rosemary sneered at her. “We’re not children anymore. It’s time someone set the record straight. Mother should have told her ages ago.”

  Angel felt as if she’d been sucked into a void; she could scarcely think. Could barely believe what Rosemary said was true. Faye’s uncharacteristic behavior seemed to make it all the more horribly real and not some hurtful prank for which Rosemary was known.

  “Come upstairs,” Rosemary invited with another hateful smirk. “The albums don’t lie.”

  Dread made Angel hold back.

  “What?” Rosemary taunted. “Afraid to see the truth with your own eyes? You can spout it about everyone else, but when it’s turned around on you, you run away like a coward!”

  Angel clamped her lips and straightened her spine, refusing to sink to the stairs in tearful self-pity, as Rosemary no doubt wished. It had been years since she’d shed a tear. She had learned at a young age that crying never helped and often made things worse.

  “Very well,” she agreed. “Lead the way, Cousin.”

  Faye eyed Angel with unease while Rosemary regarded her in triumph.

  Determined not to bolt, Angel directed her attention to the stairs, trying to ignore her cousins, who might not be cousins at all; they certainly had never treated her as family, though Faye at least seemed to have a conscience. Angel felt surprised her legs could move—they’d begun to tremble so—but she led the sisters to their mother’s bedroom. Momentary unease made her hang back on the threshold while they brushed past.

  As a child, she’d been forbidden to enter her aunt’s personal domain, and not since Rosemary’s malicious trick in childhood to lure Angel there and lock her inside to get her in trouble had she ever attempted it. But the sight of the worn leather album her cousin pulled from beneath the bed captured her curiosity… and released a wave of foreboding.

  Against her better judgment, she moved closer.

  Rosemary opened the album’s wide pages. A letter fell to the floor. Angel caught the town’s name—Coventry—before Faye snatched it up and held it to her breast, as if the envelope contained secret government documents. In the album, newspaper clippings had been pasted on the heavy black pages, along with old photographs.

  Rosemary thrust the book under Angel’s nose, her index finger pointing to a photograph. “There she is—your mother, Lila! Look and see if you don’t believe me. And the brat Uncle Bruce is holding must be you.”

  With her heart pounding madly, Angel eyed the images, worn and faded from the years. The candid shot showed a group of carnival performers clustered near an erected tent; few acknowledged the camera. The little girl in the bald, heavyset strongman’s arms was one of three people posing. Her eyes and smile sparkled as she tilted her head and modeled for whoever held the camera. Surely that couldn’t be her! The dark-haired child with the long, tight ringlets seemed much too lighthearted and happy to be Angel.

  Stunned, she tore her gaze from the ebullient child and stared at the solemn, dark-haired woman standing at the man’s elbow. Young and slender, she wore a veil, Arabian style, hooked across her nose and extending over the lower part of her face. Huge dark eyes, shaped like Angel’s, were the only feature clearly seen.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  At their mother’s forbidding words, Faye scrambled off the bed. Rosemary dropped the book. Numb from so many revelations in so short a time, Angel didn’t jump in guilty shock like the others, didn’t do anything but blink and stare.

  A scowl darkened Aunt Genevieve’s features. Her gaze dropped to the open album on the floor. Immediately her snapping dark eyes lifted and ensnared Angel’s.

  “M–mother,” Rosemary gasped, “we didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “The meeting ended early.” Her eyes glittered. “Girls, go to your room. I’ll deal with you later.”

  Angel snapped out of her trance and moved after them, also hoping for escape.

  “Angelica, you will remain. I must speak with you.”

  With a heart that furiously pounded and sank deeper each moment that passed, Angel stood, rooted, and awaited her fate.

  Five long hours later, when all was dark and the occupants of the house lay sleeping, Angel tiptoed downstairs, clutching a train case and one bigger satchel—all she could carry with all she owned in the world. In the larger ca
se rested her uncle’s album, which her aunt practically shoved at her when Angel quietly asked if she might look at it. She felt no remorse in taking the album, one of three, since it contained only clippings of her mother and husband and their life at the carnival. As much as she hated Angel’s mother, Aunt Genevieve would have no wish to keep the memento and likely had forgotten she owned it.

  All that Rosemary said was true; Aunt Genevieve verified it in cutting, concise words. Equally distressing, her aunt informed Angel that she owed it to her to marry the man of her choosing, and her aunt’s choice made Angel shiver with revulsion: Benjamin Crane, one of the meanest, oldest, and richest misers in all of Lanville, who’d often leered at Angel. According to her aunt, Angel, being nameless, would never make a better match or find another man who’d want her, and Angel should consider it an honor to be presented with such an “auspicious opportunity.” Auspicious for her aunt, maybe, but not for Angel. Her aunt went on to say that the Depression had hit all of them hard, but she’d provided for Angel, who should consider herself fortunate not to have been kicked out on the street to fend for herself.