But living on eggshells was driving her insane.
“Ms.—”
“Give me a minute,” Penelope snapped. She just needed some time tothink.
For what felt like forever, she’d been waiting to hear from the son she’d given up for adoption thirty five years ago. Once he turned eighteen, she’d expected a phone call asking for an explanation, asking who his father was. It was a long time to wait...
And a long time to worry about whether her youthful, scandalous affair would come to light.
She and her lover had been guests at a beach house in the Hamptons. She’d been intrigued by the much older man, flattered. She’d felt sophisticated, so very grown-up. He’d been stunningly good-looking, funny and, as a shy girl with overprotective parents, she’d been easily charmed out of her clothes. But on leaving the Hamptons, he’d ghosted her. She’d never felt so scared, so alone in her life. Like the Ryder-Whites, her family were East Coast blue bloods...rich, wealthy, stunninglycorrect. Girls from her social standing didn’t get pregnant. Appearances had to be maintained.
Thathadn’t changed in three-plus decades. Appearances were still everything.
Gathering all her courage, she’d told her parents she was pregnant, clever enough to know that she could never name the father of her unborn child. As she expected, they assumed she’d had an affair with the pool boy or the gardener, someone much lower down the social ladder. She didn’t bother to correct them.
After they stopped shouting, they flew into action.
Tickets to England were bought, an apartment in London rented. Numb, sick, sad and overwhelmed, she allowed them to contact the Knightsbridge adoption agency, met with the officials. Her parents wanted a completely closed adoption. She refused to sign any papers until she had their agreement that her son, should he wish to do so, could contact her when he was an adult. She lived in anticipation—and dread—of receiving a call, a letter, an email... something.
She’d heard nothing.
That baby would turn thirty-five soon, in less than a month.
Eighteen months after leaving London, she ran into her lover and during a furious argument, told him she’d given his son up for adoption. She’d never, before or since, seen anyone that angry. He’d demanded to know where the baby was, vowed to track him down. She tried to explain that the adoption was completed, that he had no chance of getting the baby back but he, being who he was, refused to accept that. The best she could do was give him the name of the adoption agency in London.
That was the last time she saw him and she had no idea what plans he put in place, what measures he’d taken after that to find his son. Not knowing almost drove her mad.
And why hadn’t her son reached out? Wasn’t he curious about the circumstances of his birth? Did he know and was just ignoring her? Had he chosen not to find out? And if so, why?
She couldn’t live with uncertainty anymore, she had to find him, and when she did, she needed a private investigator who could do a deep dive into his life. Was he the type to exploit his connection to the famous family she was a part of? If yes, she needed to mitigate the fallout.
She never wondered whether he’d had a good life and a decent education, as the adoption agency they used only dealt with the extremely wealthy. And she tried not to think about whether he was happy and loved. She hoped he was, but since she couldn’t do anything to change his circumstances, she always pushed those fears away. What good did it do to worry about something she couldn’t change?
But she couldn’t help wondering about him, who he was. Was he married or did he have kids? Was she agrandmother? What did he do for a job? Was he healthy? Did he look like his birth father or her?
Penelope rubbed her forehead and rolled her shoulders. Those questions, like a million more, were unproductive and useless. Unless he got in touch with her—and with every year that passed that possibility became more remote—she’d never know.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about possible connections...and the consequences of her youthful actions. Penelope believed in having advance warning, a backup plan. And yes, if she could swing it so that she came out with her reputation intact—keeping her secrets—that would be a huge win.
“I need you to find a child I gave up for adoption a long time ago,” Penelope told KJ, pushing the paper across the table.
She ignored the PI’s raised eyebrows and the surprise flashing in her eyes. Yes, she’d had a baby when she was still a teenager, many had and many would. “It was a closed adoption, so I have no information on him.”
KJ read the document and when she lifted her eyes to Penelope’s again, she looked skeptical. “That might be difficult, especially since this adoption agency is based out of London. What’s the deadline?”
“Yesterday.”
“Of course it is,” KJ said, releasing a heavy sigh.
Penelope was done with this conversation, with wading around in the muck of her past, and with this dreadful diner. “I’ve written down everything I know about him and the circumstances of his birth. Do not bother to contact me looking for more information. There isn’t any.” Penelope tapped the table with her index finger. “Find him, and I will pay you triple your rate with a big bonus.”
KJ picked up the paper, read through the scant information again and raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to kick over this rock, Mrs. Ryder-White?”
Penelope narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t be meeting you here if I wasn’t.”
“I make a point of reminding my clients that the truth doesn’t always set them free,” KJ told her, flicking the paper with her thumbnail.
But secrets could also bury you alive, Penelope thought, before ending the meeting.