Chapter 2 - The Missing Heir Serving The Dinner
One more plate.
That was all I needed to put on the dining table.
But Bianca Voss was standing three feet away, watching my every move.
And the elderly woman beside me had been holding the same folded napkin for nearly ten minutes.
“Emily, I told you to remove that setting.”
Bianca didn't bother lowering her voice.
Twenty-four guests were seated beneath the chandeliers of Matteo DeLuca's Boston mansion.
The silverware was polished.
The candles were burning.
And every guest had heard her.
“I'm sorry, ma'am,” I whispered. “Mrs. Whitmore said she knew Mr. DeLuca's mother.”
Bianca gave a little laugh.
“His mother has been dead for twenty-eight years. Do you honestly expect us to entertain every stranger who claims to have known her?”
The elderly woman looked down.
Her blue dress was neatly pressed, although the cuffs had been mended.
She wore a small pearl brooch.
And her hands were trembling.
“I don't want to cause trouble,” she said quietly. “I only need five minutes with Mr. DeLuca.”
Bianca stepped closer.
“Then you should have made an appointment.”
Before I could answer, a man's voice came from the head of the table.
“What's going on?”
Matteo DeLuca had risen from his chair.
And he wasn't looking at the empty plate.
He was looking at the elderly woman.
My name is Emily Parker.
I was twenty-eight, worked as a housemaid at the DeLuca estate, and had spent the last eleven months learning when to keep my mouth shut.
Normally, I wouldn't have questioned Bianca.
She was Matteo's fiancée.
Beautiful.
Well-connected.
And perfectly capable of making someone's employment disappear with a single conversation.
My rent was due Monday.
My car needed repairs.
And I had exactly two hundred and thirteen dollars in my checking account.
Losing this job wasn't an option.
But something about Mrs. Whitmore made it impossible for me to send her away.
She'd arrived just before dinner carrying a small cloth-wrapped package.
She hadn't demanded anything.
Hadn't raised her voice.
She'd simply asked whether Matteo DeLuca still lived in the house where his mother once played the piano.
When I told her he did, she'd started crying.
Now Matteo was standing beside his chair.
Forty-one.
Black suit.
White shirt.
The kind of man who could remember a conversation from six months earlier and notice when someone changed a single detail.
Beside him stood Bianca.
Champagne-colored gown.
Diamond necklace.
A beautiful smile that had returned the moment he looked at her.
“Darling,” she said, “this woman came here asking for money. Emily misunderstood and decided to seat her with our guests.”
My stomach tightened.
Matteo looked at Mrs. Whitmore.
“Did you ask my staff for money?”
The elderly woman shook her head.
“No, sir.”
Bianca sighed.
“She was talking about your family's generosity.”
Matteo slowly turned toward her.
“That's not what I asked.”
Bianca's smile faltered.
He looked back at the woman.
“What's your name?”
“Evelyn Whitmore.”
Something changed in his expression.
“Whitmore?”
“Yes, Mr. DeLuca.”
“Were you a friend of my mother's?”
The woman pressed the folded napkin against her chest.
“I was her nurse.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Matteo pulled out the empty chair.
“Then please sit down.”
Bianca immediately stepped forward.
“Matteo, we have twenty-four guests waiting for dinner.”
“And now we have twenty-five.”
He looked at me.
“Emily, bring Mrs. Whitmore some water.”
“Yes, sir.”
I helped the elderly woman into her chair.
As I leaned forward to straighten her napkin, the silver locket around my neck slipped outside my uniform.
Mrs. Whitmore caught her breath.
“Child.”
I stopped.
She was staring at my necklace.
“Where did you get that?”
I touched the little oval pendant.
“My mother gave it to me.”
Her eyes filled.
“May I see it?”
I hesitated.
It was the only thing I owned from my earliest childhood.
The woman who raised me had given it to me on my eighteenth birthday.
She'd told me it belonged to my birth mother.
I'd never taken it off for more than a few hours.
Before I could answer, Bianca spoke.
“Emily, the water.”
I quickly tucked the necklace back beneath my collar.
“Of course, ma'am.”
But as I walked toward the serving cart, I saw Bianca looking at Mrs. Whitmore.
Her smile was gone.
And for the first time since I'd worked in that house, she looked frightened.
Dinner continued.
At least, everyone pretended it did.
The guests discussed business.
Bianca talked about the wedding in December.
Matteo listened politely.
But I noticed he kept glancing toward Mrs. Whitmore.
She barely touched her food.
And whenever Bianca looked in her direction, she lowered her eyes.
By the time I brought out dessert, Matteo finally spoke.
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
The woman looked up.
“Yes?”
“You said you were my mother's nurse.”
“I was.”
“For how long?”
“Nearly four years.”
“Until she died?”
The woman nodded.
Matteo placed his fork down.
“Then you must remember when my sister was born.”
My hands stopped moving.
Sister?
Bianca went very still.
Mrs. Whitmore looked at Matteo.
“Yes, sweetheart. I remember.”
He leaned back.
“My father told me she died shortly after delivery.”
The elderly woman's eyes filled.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then Bianca reached for her wineglass.
“Matteo, perhaps this isn't an appropriate dinner conversation.”
He ignored her.
“Mrs. Whitmore, is something wrong?”
The woman looked at me.
Then at the silver locket visible just above my collar.
“I believe I made a terrible mistake by waiting so long to come here.”
Bianca set down her glass.
“That's enough.”
Everyone turned.
She gave an uncomfortable laugh.
“I'm sorry, but this is clearly upsetting Matteo. We shouldn't allow a stranger to reopen painful family memories.”
Matteo looked at her.
“Why are you so concerned about what she might say?”
“Because I care about you.”
“Then let her answer my question.”
Bianca stopped smiling.
Mrs. Whitmore folded her hands.
“Mr. DeLuca, may I ask Emily to open her necklace?”
My heart started pounding.
Matteo looked toward me.
“Emily?”
I could feel Bianca watching.
“It's just an old locket, sir.”
“Would you mind showing her?”
I slipped the chain over my head.
Slowly, I opened the little silver clasp.
Inside were two faded photographs.
One showed a young woman with dark hair.
The other showed a newborn baby wrapped in a white blanket.
Mrs. Whitmore immediately covered her mouth.
“Oh, Margaret.”
Matteo stood.
“What did you say?”
She looked up at him.
“Margaret.”
His face changed.
“That was my mother's name.”
I stared at the photograph.
I'd looked at it hundreds of times.
But suddenly, I couldn't breathe.
Matteo came around the table.
“May I see that?”
I handed him the locket.
He studied the woman's face.
Then turned toward the large oil portrait hanging above the fireplace.
His mother.
Same dark hair.
Same eyes.
Same small smile.
He looked back at me.
“Emily, where did you get this?”
“My adoptive mother gave it to me.”
“Adoptive?”
I nodded.
“She adopted me when I was a baby.”
Matteo glanced toward Mrs. Whitmore.
The elderly woman was crying now.
“Your mother had that locket made before her daughter was born,” she whispered.
Matteo stared at her.
“That's impossible.”
“No, sweetheart.”
She reached into her handbag.
And removed a small, yellowed envelope.
“Your mother asked me to keep this if anything happened to her.”
Matteo didn't move.
Mrs. Whitmore placed the envelope beside his dinner plate.
On the front, written in faded blue ink, were five words.
FOR MY DAUGHTER, WHEN SHE'S FOUND.
My knees felt weak.
Bianca suddenly stood.
“Matteo, please. This woman could have brought that from anywhere.”
He turned toward her.
“How would she know about the locket?”
Bianca hesitated.
“Perhaps Emily told her.”
I shook my head.
“I've never met Mrs. Whitmore before tonight.”
Matteo looked directly at Bianca.
“Then why are you trying so hard to explain something neither of them has explained yet?”
She said nothing.
He returned his attention to the elderly woman.
“Tell me what happened.”
Mrs. Whitmore took a shaky breath.
“Your mother gave birth to a healthy little girl twenty-eight years ago.”
Matteo gripped the back of a chair.
“My father said she didn't survive.”
“I know what your father said.”
“Then where is she?”
Mrs. Whitmore looked at me.
And suddenly, I understood why she'd been staring at my necklace.
“No,” I whispered.
She held out her hand.
“Emily, sweetheart.”
I couldn't move.
The dining room had gone completely silent.
The elderly woman looked at Matteo.
“Your sister was placed with another family after your mother passed away. I was told it was what your father wanted.”
Matteo stared at me.
Then at the locket.
Then back at Mrs. Whitmore.
“Are you telling me Emily is my sister?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
My eyes filled.
I'd spent twenty-eight years believing I had no living relatives who wanted to know me.
And now I was standing in the dining room of the man I'd been calling my employer for almost a year.
Matteo slowly approached me.
“Emily.”
I couldn't answer.
He looked at the locket in his hand.
Then quietly asked, “Did your adoptive mother ever tell you where you were born?”
“Boston.”
“What hospital?”
“St. Catherine's.”
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, he looked nothing like the powerful man everyone feared.
He looked like someone who had just found something he'd been missing for most of his life.
Mrs. Whitmore reached for her water.
But Bianca suddenly spoke.
“This proves nothing.”
Matteo turned.
“What?”
“A necklace and an old woman's memory are hardly proof of anything.”
He studied her.
“You're right. We'll verify everything properly.”
Bianca relaxed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
Then Matteo added, “And until we do, Emily isn't serving another plate tonight.”
I shook my head.
“Mr. DeLuca, please. I need the hours.”
“You'll be paid for the entire evening.”
“But—”
“Emily.”
His voice softened.
“Sit down.”
He pulled out the empty chair beside his own.
For the first time in my life, I sat at a dining table I'd spent months serving.
And Matteo DeLuca poured me a glass of water himself.
Bianca stared at us.
Then quietly said she needed to make a phone call.
Matteo watched her leave.
He waited until the dining room doors closed.
Then turned toward Mrs. Whitmore.
“There's something else, isn't there?”
The elderly woman nodded.
“I didn't come here tonight because I suddenly found Emily.”
My heart tightened.
“What do you mean?”
She looked toward the doorway Bianca had just passed through.
“I've known where Emily was for six months.”
Matteo leaned forward.
“Then why didn't you contact me?”
“I tried.”
She opened her handbag again.
Inside were three folded letters.
All addressed to Matteo DeLuca.
All dated months earlier.
And all marked RETURN TO SENDER.
“I wrote to your office. Then I called the estate.”
Matteo frowned.
“Who did you speak with?”
Mrs. Whitmore looked down.
“Miss Voss.”
My stomach dropped.
Matteo went completely still.
“Bianca?”
The woman nodded.
“She told me you already knew about Emily. She said you wanted nothing to do with her.”
I stared at my hands.
Matteo slowly set down his glass.
“That isn't true.”
“I know that now.”
He looked toward the closed dining room doors.
Then asked the question I hadn't dared to ask.
“Why would Bianca keep my sister from me?”
Mrs. Whitmore hesitated.
She reached into the cloth-covered package she'd carried all evening.
Beneath the folded baby blanket was a second envelope.
Thicker.
Sealed.
With the name MARGARET DELUCA printed across the front.
“Because your mother left something for both of her children,” Mrs. Whitmore whispered.
Matteo stared at it.
“What is that?”
“A copy of her final will.”
He looked confused.
“My father handled my mother's estate.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “But there was a separate provision for your sister.”
I could hear my heartbeat.
Matteo looked at the envelope.
Then back at her.
“How does any of this involve Bianca?”
Mrs. Whitmore's eyes filled.
“Mr. DeLuca, six months ago, your fiancée came to my home with a copy of that will.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then she looked directly at me.
“Emily, there's something you need to understand about how you got your job here.”
My mouth went dry.
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Whitmore took my hand.
“Bianca didn't hire you because she needed another housemaid.”
Matteo slowly stood.
May you like
The elderly woman's voice trembled.
“She hired you because she knew exactly who you were. And three days before your first shift, she had already asked her attorney how to make sure you never received what your mother left you.”
