and found a sign pointing to the left, showing Bellevue-sur-Lac 31 kms, panic overwhelmed her and, for a moment, she considered turning to the right and heading for Monaco and a week of reckless betting on the roulette wheel, rather than pursuing the gamble she’d undertaken.
What if Carol was right, and she was inviting nothing but heartache for everyone by chasing her dream?
“The chances of your finding this woman are slim to nonexistent, you know,” her friend had warned. “People move around a lot, in this day and age. And even if you do find her, what then? You can’t just explode onto the scene and announce yourself as her long-lost daughter. You could blow her entire life apart if she’s married and hasn’t confided in her husband.”
“I realize that. But what’s to stop me talking to her, or even to people who know her, and trying to learn a little bit about her? I might have half brothers or sisters, aunts and uncles. Grandparents, even. She was seventeen when she had me, which means she’s only forty-five now. I could have a whole slew of relatives waiting to be discovered.”
“And how will that help you, if they don’t know who you are?” Carol asked gently.
It had taken all her courage to admit, “At least I’ll know I’m connected to someone in the world.”
“You have me, Diana. We might not share the same blood, but you’re like a sister to me.”
“You’re my dearest friend, and I’d trust you with my life, which is why I’m confiding in you now,” she replied. “But first and foremost, you’re Tim’s wife and Annie’s mother.” She opened her hands, pleadingly. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Carol said, and her eyes were full of tears suddenly. “But I care too much about you to want to see you suffer another disappointment. You give your heart so willingly, Diana, and sometimes people see that as an invitation to trample all over it. Hotshot Harvey’s done enough damage. Please don’t leave yourself open to more. Don’t let anyone take advantage of your generosity. Just once, think of yourself first, and others second.”
The advice came back to her now as the car rattled around another bend in the road, and crossed a little stone bridge above a wide stream that burbled over brown rocks. Bellevue-sur-Lac 25 kms, a sign said.
What if she found her birth mother destitute? Abandoned by her family for her adolescent indiscretion? How could any decent person not lift a finger to help?
“I’ll find a way,” Diana promised herself, thumping the steering wheel with her fist. “I’ll buy her a house, clothes, food—whatever she needs—and donate them anonymously, if I must.”
It was the least she could do, if she was to live with herself, and heaven knew, she could afford it. Within reason, she could afford just about anything money could buy. In his eagerness to be rid of her and married to his mistress before the birth of their child, Harvey had been generous. Added to what she’d inherited from her parents, it added up to a very tidy sum. But would it be enough?
Probably not, she thought. When all was said and done, money never could buy the things that really mattered.
The car wheezed around another bend in the road. In the distance, she saw tidy rows of grapevines climbing a steep hillside. In the valley below, a subdued purple touched the earth. Lavender fields just bursting into bloom.
Another sign post, painted blue with white lettering. Bellevue-sur-Lac 11 kms.
Hand suddenly clammy with sweat, Diana eased the car over to the side of the road and rolled down the window. Wild-flowers grew in the ditch, filling the air with their scent.
“Let me come with you,” Carol had begged. “At least you’ll have me in your corner if things don’t go well.”
Why hadn’t she taken her up on the offer?
Because this was something she had to do by herself, that’s why.
Reaching into her travel bag, she pulled out the single sheet of stationery she’d hoarded for so long. Spreading it over her lap, she smoothed out the creases, searching as she had so often in the past for any clues she might have missed that would help her now. The ink was faded, the script elegant and distinctly European.
Aix-en-Provence
December 10
Dear Professor Christie,
I write to inform you that Mlle. Molyneux has returned to her native village of Bellevue-sur-Lac. From all accounts, she appears to have put behind her the unhappy events of this past year, the nature of which she has kept a closely guarded secret from all who know her. I hope this will ease any concern you have that she might change her mind about placing her baby with you and your wife, or in any other way jeopardize the adoption.
I trust you are well settled in your home in the United States again. Once more, I thank you for the contributions you made to our university program during your exchange year with us.
With very best wishes to you, your wife and your new daughter for a most happy Christmas,
Alexandre Castongués, Dean
Faculty of Law
University Aix-Marseille
Did Mlle. Molyneux ever regret giving up her baby? Wonder if her little girl was happy, healthy? Or was she so relieved to be rid of her that she never wanted to be reminded of her, ever again?
There was only one way to find out.
Refolding the letter and stuffing it back in the side pocket of her travel bag, Diana coaxed the car to sputtering life again, shifted into gear and resumed her journey. Seven minutes later, the silhouette of a château perched on a cliff loomed dark against the evening sky. Immediately ahead, clustered along the shores of a long, narrow lake, buildings emerged from the dusk of early evening, their reflected pinpricks of light glowing yellow in the calm surface of the water.
Passing under an ancient stone arch, she drove into the center of the little village.
Bellevue-sur-Lac, the end of her journey.
Or, if she was lucky, perhaps just the beginning?
CHAPTER TWO
CROSSING the square en route to his car, which he’d left in the inn’s rear courtyard as usual when he’d spent the day with the supervisor of his lavender operation, Anton noticed the woman immediately. Strangers who lingered in Bellevue-sur-Lac after sunset were a rarity, even during the summer months when travelers flocked to Provence. Usually they came for the day only, arriving early by the busload to tour the château, winery, lavender distillery and olive mills.
By now—it was almost half-past five o’clock—they were gone, not only because accommodation in the village was limited to what L’Auberge d’Olivier had to offer, but because they preferred the livelier nightlife in Nice or Marseille or Monaco.
This woman, though, sat at a table under the shade of the plane trees, sipping a glass of wine, and what captured his attention was not so much her delicate features and exquisite clothing, but her watchfulness. Her gaze scanned the passing scene repeatedly, taking note of every person who crossed her line of vision. At this moment, it
