disappointed? The usual loneliness she felt suddenly seemed more pronounced. She saw his lips moving, and while she was proficient at reading lips, he wasn’t looking directly at her, his head turning as if to recheck the address. And she wasn’t familiar enough with his patterns to read him from the side.
She cringed. Very few times did she need, or desire, to speak, but this was one. As a child, her older foster brother, Kenny, had told her often enough that she sounded like a “moron” when she talked. She’d refused to learn to speak after that, and now it was her normal.
“I’m sorry.” She made the sign she knew he wouldn’t understand. “I’m deaf,” she continued, making the sign out of habit.
The man pulled a business card from his jacket pocket, just as the rain intensified. She took the card, and with the next gust of wind, she let him come in out of the downpour. Granted, it was just the vestibule, but still, he was a stranger stepping into her home.
Fear made her stomach clench, but she didn’t have a choice. The white utilitarian card had clout. He was from the law firm of Joseph and Brown. Big names here. What did he want with her? Was someone in trouble?
Times like this, she hated her deafness. She knew he wouldn’t understand her, and it was doubtful he’d take the time to help her understand him.
He nodded and again his lips moved. She wished he knew sign.
Lauren waved toward the couch, hoping he’d take off his soaked coat. When he pulled it off and left it on the coat tree in the hall she sighed in relief.
While her home wasn’t fancy, it was hers, each piece of furniture hard-won and loved. He sat carefully on the edge of the couch and gently settled a soaked briefcase on the floor beside her coffee table.
She hoped whatever he was here for was important enough to destroy such an expensive case. He unzipped a compartment and pulled out a pen and legal pad.
Taking her own seat across from him, Lauren smiled the smile her foster mother had diligently taught her. The one that was acceptably mellow to hearing people, the one that gave the impression she was “normal.” She hated it, but knew it worked.
She wanted to get this over with. She waited patiently as he wrote. Shorter messages were always better. Straight and to the point.
I’m Jason Hawkins, he’d written. She glanced again at the business card, noting his name in the lower corner this time. She looked up at him. He looked like a Jason. Then he smiled at her. Oh God, he felt sorry for her. Her stomach churned around the earlier clench.
She looked back at Jason, frowning, wishing he were different.
He handed her the notepad where she wrote her single question. “Why are you here?”
He nodded, smiling like he’d uncovered the answer to some great puzzle. That gave her a drop of hope. At least he hadn’t dismissed her. He seemed willing to try.
The man’s handwriting was atrocious. She sighed again. He would be here for ages. Finally, he finished and turned the page to her. He’d written direct sentences. Easy and quick.
She looked back at the page. Then at him, confused. Estate? Her father’s estate. She didn’t even know she had a father...well, she’d known someone had to be her father, but that was it.
Again, Jason reached into the sodden briefcase and this time he pulled out an envelope. He opened it and extended a copy of a last will and testament toward her. She frowned and shook her head. What was she supposed to do with this?
He stood and came to stand over her. The damp scent of his cologne, light and warm, wrapped around her. Despite the fact that he was practically soaking wet from the rain, warmth flowed off him. He flipped the document’s pages until he reached the third page, and pointed to a paragraph in the middle.
She stared at the printed words. Then looked up at him. Then back at the page. This wasn’t possible. No.
Now? She shot to her feet. Now? I have a father? Her fingers flew. She knew the attorney didn’t understand—confusion blanketed his face. She should stop and breathe. Stop waving and crumpling the pages he’d given her. But she couldn’t stop herself. The twenty-three years since losing her mother was too much hurt to fight.
A father. Money. A house. All the things she’d dreamed of since the day her mother died. The day the social worker had shown up and packed her tiny pink princess suitcase and taken her to that first foster home. Five years old and alone. Without anyone to love her.
Where was he then? She signed the question, knowing this man couldn’t answer her.
Why would a total stranger leave her anything? Especially when they’d stayed out of her life apparently on purpose.
Jason hadn’t moved. He stood so close. Their eyes met and neither of them looked away. She dropped the papers to the coffee table.
She let her fingers form the words and concepts trapped in her mind. If only he understood. If only—
“I don’t want it,” she signed. Then, when Jason shook his head, she wrote it on the page, the pen gouging the paper. He continued to frown.
“What? Why?” She could read that response.
“Don’t need it.” The very idea scared her, angered her. “Give it to someone else.” Her fingers flew quickly, and his brow remained furrowed. After a long minute, he grabbed the notepad and dug in his briefcase again. He handed her the paper and another business card after he’d scribbled some more.
“Come to my office,” he’d written. “I’ll get an interpreter to help.”
He looked expectant.
Her hopes died. He was just doing his job, so why had she even hoped he’d try to understand her himself? Slowly, she nodded, took the card, and led him to the door. She grabbed his coat and handed it to him. He waved and forced a smile as he stepped back out into the pouring rain.
With the door finally closed behind him, Lauren slammed the dead bolt, knowing she had no intention of going to any office or ever seeing him again.
She was happy in her little world. She didn’t need him or anyone else—especially a hearing person—reminding her of what was missing in that world.
LAUREN MOUNTED THE wide stone stairs, her steps quick and lively. Determined. Not because that’s how she felt, but because Maxine was watching, she was sure of it, judging her posture, her form, and the tilt of her head. Lauren didn’t want to disappoint her mentor. Or hear the inevitable lecture.
The wide double doors opened and Maxine’s longtime butler, Hudson, stood there, a smile on his weathered face. The old man didn’t know much sign, but over the years he’d learned to make the correct gestures for hello, goodbye and a few simple niceties. Today he greeted Lauren with a warm smile and led the way to the studio.
Maxine was already there, her slim, perfectly upright frame poised at the barre. At seventy-two years old, Maxine Nightingale, once a world-renowned ballerina, looked young and lithe. Only the lines on her face gave
