Chapter 2 - THE WILL HER MOTHER LEFT BEHIND
“Take the plate away. Now.”
Bianca Voss stood beside the dining table in a champagne-colored silk gown, staring at the extra place setting I'd carefully arranged.
Twenty-two guests were seated beneath the crystal chandeliers of Matteo DeLuca's Boston mansion.
And every single one of them had stopped talking.
“I'm sorry, ma'am,” I whispered. “Mrs. Whitmore said she was invited.”
Bianca gave a sharp little laugh.
“Mrs. Whitmore is seventy-six years old. She probably doesn't remember what she had for breakfast.”
A few guests exchanged uncomfortable glances.
At the far end of the dining room, an elderly woman stood beside a carved mahogany chair.
Her gray hair was neatly pinned.
Her pale blue dress was old-fashioned but beautifully pressed.
And in her hands, she held a small cloth-covered package.
She hadn't complained once.
That somehow made everything worse.
“Please,” the woman said softly. “I only wanted to speak with Mr. DeLuca.”
Bianca turned toward her.
“And I told you this is a private family gathering.”
The elderly woman's fingers tightened around the package.
“I knew his mother.”
Bianca's smile vanished.
“For heaven's sake. Everyone claims to have known his mother.”
My name is Emily Parker.
I'm twenty-eight years old, and I've worked as a housemaid at the DeLuca estate for eleven months.
I knew better than to challenge Bianca.
Three weeks earlier, she'd dismissed a waitress for spilling water near her designer handbag.
And I couldn't afford to lose my job.
The woman who raised me had passed away two years earlier, leaving behind medical bills I'd only recently finished paying.
This job was the first financial stability I'd had in years.
So I reached for the extra plate.
But before I could lift it, a deep voice interrupted us.
“Why is everyone standing?”
Matteo DeLuca had entered the dining room.
Forty-three years old.
Dark suit.
Silver at his temples.
The kind of man who could silence a room without raising his voice.
Bianca immediately slipped her arm through his.
“Darling, nothing important. Emily accidentally seated someone who wasn't on our guest list.”
Matteo looked toward the elderly woman.
“Who are you, ma'am?”
Her eyes filled.
“Evelyn Whitmore.”
For the first time that evening, Matteo looked genuinely surprised.
“Whitmore?”
She nodded.
“I worked with your mother many years ago.”
Something changed in his expression.
“My mother passed away twenty-eight years ago.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
The word hung in the air.
Nobody called Matteo DeLuca sweetheart.
Nobody.
Except, according to the older housekeepers, his mother once had.
Bianca tightened her grip on his arm.
“Matteo, please. We have important guests.”
He gently moved her hand aside.
“Mrs. Whitmore, would you care to sit down?”
The woman's lips trembled.
“I'd be grateful.”
“Emily, bring her a chair.”
Bianca's expression hardened.
“Matteo, you're not seriously—”
“She was a friend of my mother's.”
That ended the discussion.
I pulled out the chair and helped Mrs. Whitmore sit.
As I leaned forward to straighten her napkin, something slipped from beneath my uniform collar.
My silver locket.
It was small, oval-shaped, and scratched along the edges.
I'd worn it almost every day since I was eighteen.
The woman who raised me had given it to me, explaining that it was the only possession I'd had when she adopted me.
Mrs. Whitmore suddenly caught my wrist.
Not roughly.
Just enough to stop me.
“Child,” she whispered. “Where did you get that necklace?”
I glanced down.
“My mother gave it to me.”
Her face went pale.
“Your mother?”
“The woman who raised me.”
Mrs. Whitmore stared at the locket.
Then she reached toward it with trembling fingers.
“May I?”
I hesitated.
Before I could answer, Bianca's voice cut across the table.
“Emily! Stop bothering our guests and serve dinner!”
Mrs. Whitmore withdrew her hand.
But she continued staring at my necklace.
And for reasons I couldn't explain, she looked as though she were struggling not to cry.
I hurried toward the serving cart.
For the next twenty minutes, I poured water, collected dishes, and tried to avoid Bianca's eyes.
But every time I passed Mrs. Whitmore, she watched me.
Finally, as the dessert plates were being brought out, Matteo noticed.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
She looked up.
“Are you feeling all right?”
The elderly woman swallowed.
“Mr. DeLuca, may I ask your housemaid something?”
Bianca immediately interrupted.
“She's working, Evelyn.”
Matteo turned toward her.
“Let the woman speak.”
Mrs. Whitmore looked directly at me.
“Emily, does your necklace open?”
My hand instinctively covered it.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Would you mind opening it?”
I glanced at Matteo.
He nodded gently.
“Only if you're comfortable.”
Slowly, I unclasped the little silver locket.
Inside were two tiny photographs.
One showed a young woman with dark hair and warm brown eyes.
The other showed a baby wrapped in a white knitted blanket.
Mrs. Whitmore pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Margaret.”
Matteo went completely still.
“What did you say?”
The elderly woman looked up.
“Margaret.”
His voice dropped.
“That was my mother's name.”
A terrible silence settled over the table.
Bianca suddenly stood.
“This is ridiculous. She's clearly confused.”
But Mrs. Whitmore wasn't looking at her.
She was looking at Matteo.
“Your mother wore that locket when she was expecting her second child.”
My fingers went cold.
Second child?
Matteo stared at her.
“My mother only had me.”
Mrs. Whitmore shook her head.
“No, sweetheart.”
Bianca stepped away from the table.
“Matteo, I really think we should continue this conversation privately.”
He didn't move.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” he said slowly, “what second child?”
The elderly woman opened the cloth-covered package she'd carried into the dining room.
Inside was a small, yellowed baby blanket.
White wool.
Pale blue stitching.
And in one corner, embroidered in delicate cursive letters, was a single name.
Emily.
I stopped breathing.
Because I recognized that blanket.
I had another one exactly like it in the cedar chest beside my bed.
The woman who raised me had kept it for twenty-eight years.
Mrs. Whitmore looked at me.
“Your adoptive mother was a good woman, Emily. She loved you very much.”
My eyes filled.
“How do you know about my mother?”
“Because I was there the day she took you home.”
Matteo gripped the back of his chair.
“What is she talking about?”
Mrs. Whitmore turned toward him.
“Your mother gave birth to a little girl six weeks before she passed away.”
Matteo shook his head.
“No. My father told me the baby didn't survive.”
“I know what your father told you.”
Her voice trembled.
“But your sister was alive.”
Nobody moved.
Not even the servers.
Matteo slowly looked at me.
Then at the photograph inside my locket.
Then back at Mrs. Whitmore.
“Are you telling me...”
The elderly woman nodded.
“Yes, Matteo.”
She reached across the table and gently touched my hand.
“The girl standing beside you is your little sister.”
I could barely hear the room around me.
Matteo stared at me as though he were seeing my face for the first time.
And then Bianca spoke.
“That's enough. This woman needs to leave.”
Mrs. Whitmore turned toward her.
“No, Bianca. I think I've been quiet long enough.”
Matteo's expression changed.
He looked from the elderly woman to his fiancée.
“Why did you say her name wasn't on the guest list?”
Bianca's lips parted.
“I already explained—”
“Why were you so determined to keep her away from me?”
Mrs. Whitmore slowly reached into her handbag.
She removed a folded letter.
Then placed it on the white tablecloth.
“I wrote to your fiancée six months ago, Mr. DeLuca. I explained everything about Emily.”
Matteo looked at Bianca.
She had gone completely pale.
“And what did Bianca say?” he asked.
Mrs. Whitmore's eyes filled again.
“She offered me one hundred thousand dollars to never contact you.”
Matteo didn't say a word.
Then Mrs. Whitmore unfolded the letter and pointed to a handwritten note at the bottom.
“But that isn't the worst part.”
She looked directly at me.
“Emily, there's something else you need to know about how you got this job.”
My heart started pounding.
Matteo's voice was barely above a whisper.
“What are you saying?”
Mrs. Whitmore looked toward Bianca.
“Your fiancée didn't discover your sister after she started working here.”
May you like
She took a shaky breath.
“Bianca knew exactly who Emily was before she ever hired her. And the reason she wanted your sister inside this house has everything to do with the will your mother left behind.”
