“Your father wanted to tell you. I asked him to wait.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“You were twenty-three. You had just joined the company. Your grandfather had died. You were trying desperately to prove yourself. Your father thought honesty was more important than timing.”
“And you disagreed.”
“Yes.”
“Then he died.”
“Six years later.”
“And during those six years?”
“We kept waiting for the perfect moment.”
Her eyes filled.
“There is no perfect moment, Bennett. That is one of the stupidest lessons life teaches us.”
I sat again.
“Did Clara know you knew?”
“Not when she came.”
“How did you recognize her?”
“I didn’t.”
For the first time that day, Mother smiled faintly.
“She was cleaning my sitting room. I asked where she grew up. She said Connecticut. I asked about her parents. She mentioned Miriam Reed.”
“That was enough?”
“No.”
Mother reached toward her nightstand and opened the top drawer.
