Eaton regarded him warily. "Yes."

"She inherited it from one of her parents," Hugh went on in that same restrained tone, "and, naturally, we a.s.sumed it was Dana, because from the start we a.s.sumed that the African gene came from her side, since my side of the family is lily-white. Funny thing, though, Dad. Dana tested negative. So I thought to myself, What the h.e.l.l, I'll take the test myself, because of course it'll come out negative too, then they'll retest Dana. Only my test came back positive."

Eaton's face lost all its color. He didn't speak, just stared at Hugh-which infuriated his son all the more.

"So suddenly," Hugh said, "I started thinking about the way you attacked my wife the day Lizzie was born-the way you were so quick to accuse her of having an affair. I started thinking about the way you didn't want to see my child"-he still smarted from that-"even after I'd demeaned Dana by doing a paternity test to prove to you that this baby was mine. So I start wondering why you didn't want to see this innocent brown-skinned baby-you, who have always been respectful of people of color."

Eaton stood rigidly silent.

Hugh braced a shaky hand on the counter. "When I was driving over here, I remembered the last time we talked on the phone. You were fixated on your book, saying that the timing of this was bad, like it was deliberate sabotage on Dana's and my part. Then I thought about the book itself," he continued, "which is nothing if not a testimony to our aristocratic family. I began wondering if you knew your book, your life was a fraud."

"I don't know it."

"And the great white liberal your books portray you to be," Hugh raged, "is he real? Or have you been pandering to minorities all these years out of guilt that you were pa.s.sing for white?"

"I did not write anything with that in mind," Eaton stated.

"Are you truly unprejudiced, or was it all for show?"

"Does it matter?" his father shot back. "Doesn't the end justify the means?"

"No. Motive counts. It's what's here," Hugh said, touching his chest, a gesture Dana had made not so long ago.

"Not always," Eaton argued.

"Even if it makes you a fraud?"

Eaton blinked at the word and the fight went out of him. He looked suddenly defenseless. "The sickle-cell business is the first concrete evidence I've heard."

"The first concrete evidence? What about non-concrete evidence?"

"There was none," Eaton insisted. "No evidence at all."

"But did you know there was a possibility our family isn't what we thought?"

Eaton stared at him. After a long moment, he nodded and looked away.

"When?" Hugh asked. "How far back?"

"Not too far."

"Are we talking Reconstruction?"

"Less. Not even seventy-five years ago." His gaze slid to Hugh's face. "I heard rumor when I was a boy. And again when you and Robert were born. We were spending our summers on the Vineyard." He frowned and pressed his lips together.

"Don't stop now," Hugh warned.

His father looked up. "Hugh. I don't know what I know."

"Start with the rumors." He had never pressed his father this way. He had too much respect. But all that had changed.

Eaton leaned against the sink and looked out over the pool to the wrought-iron table and his wife. He was silent a minute longer. Then he sighed. "Rumor said my mother had an affair with someone on the island."

"An African American."

"Yes. He was a lawyer in D.C., but he summered in Oak Bluffs. My mother used to see him around town."

"See him?"

Eaton's eyes flew to his son-dark eyes, Hugh realized, so like his own, so like Lizzie's. "I don't know for sure that there was an affair."

"Dad," Hugh snapped, "I carry the sickle-cell trait. Think I got it from Mom?"

Eaton didn't reply.

"Does she know about any of this?"

"No."

Hugh pressed the throbbing pulse at his brow. "Did your father know that his wife had an affair?"

"I don't know what he knew," Eaton answered.

"Did he ever say anything to you?"

"No."

"What else do you know about the guy? Do you know his name?"

"Yes."

"Is he still alive?"

"No."

"Does he have family?"

"A sister. He was from a racially mixed family-one parent black, one white. He was light-skinned himself."

Hugh focused on the genetics. "So, if he had a child with a white woman, that child stood a chance of being even lighter-skinned."

Eaton hesitated. "Maybe yes, maybe no. I gather that when I was born the rumors died down. They rose again when I turned up on the Vineyard with my pregnant wife. The same gossipmongers began to speculate that my child might resemble its grandfather. When you were born, the rumors died again. Same with Robert."

"Robert," Hugh breathed. This raised another issue. "You stopped after Robert. That's two children. Most Clarkes have three or four. Did you figure you couldn't keep pushing your luck?"

"No. Your mother had a difficult pregnancy with Robert. She was told not to have another child."

Hugh accepted that.

"Robert was proof for me," Eaton said. "When his children were born looking Caucasian, I decided that anything I'd heard at the Vineyard had been idle gossip."

Hugh didn't want excuses. "But you knew the truth the instant you saw Lizzie."

"No. I didn't. Too much time had pa.s.sed. And there were other possibilities," he said in a reference to Dana's family.

"But this was one of the possibilities," Hugh argued, "and still you didn't say a word. Instead, you accused my wife of cheating on me. How could you?"

"It was a possibility."

Hugh was livid. "Like your mother cheating on your father? Did you ever ask her about it?"

"I couldn't do that," Eaton said and started toward the hall.

Hugh raised his voice. "Because it would have been an insult to even suggest she'd been unfaithful. Didn't you think the same applied to Dana? She may not have the pedigree we do-" He stopped short with a bitter laugh. "Hah. But we don't have the pedigree we thought, do we?"

Eaton put a hand on the doorjamb. "What in the h.e.l.l am I going to do? My book's coming out a week from Tuesday."

"Your book?" Hugh asked. "What about my wife?"

Eaton didn't seem to hear. "We have a full tour scheduled. I'm booked for newspaper interviews and TV appearances." He returned haunted eyes to Hugh. "I've presented my life in this book as fact. If it's a lie, I'm done as a writer. Can you imagine the scandal it would cause if this comes out? The tabloids would have a field day." His eyes narrowed. "Forget the tabloids. The Times would have a field day. And...and my students? How do I explain it to them? Or to the provost?"

Hugh felt no sympathy. "What was it you and Mom always said-don't lie, because it'll come back to haunt you?"

"I didn't knowingly lie."

"But you're a researcher. You know how to dig into the past and get the facts. You've done it for Woodrow Wilson. You've done it for Grover Cleveland. Why couldn't you do it for Eaton Clarke?"

His father drew himself up. "For the same reason you a.s.sumed your wife was the source of your daughter's color. I was raised on certain beliefs. It was preferable to cling to those than to entertain other possibilities."

"Preferable," Hugh said.

"Yes, preferable. Don't we all want to think of ourselves as purebred?"

"But we're not. And you knew that"-he held up a hand when he saw his father preparing to argue-"on some level you did. What ever possessed you to write One Man's Line?"

"I'm an historian. One Man's Line is history. Clarkes have always played a role in my books."

"Walk-ons. Never the lead before. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking it would work," Eaton shot back. "We've been business leaders, politicians, diplomats. We've been at every crossroads in the history of this country, and we've done it through good, honest hard work. I'm proud of my family." He stopped short and put a hand on his chest. "What do I tell my agent? My publisher?"

"What do you tell Mom?" Hugh added, knowing the worst of it was right here at home. "What do I tell my wife? She'll remember how badly she was treated by this family-by you and Uncle Brad-does he know, by the way?" Then it hit Hugh. "Who's his father?"

"The man I thought was mine."

Chapter 22.

Dana tended to Lizzie, trying not to think at all. After she put the baby down, she concentrated on finishing the Faroese shawl. She wanted it done for fall sales.

The shawl took all her attention. Even with the lace pattern done, with selvages on either side, and two main sections divided by a gusset in back, there were st.i.tches to count, markers to move, and a chart to follow over hundreds of st.i.tches. Each row took ten minutes to complete.

She couldn't worry about the call from Albany, couldn't worry about Hugh or Eaton or Ellie Jo. She had to focus on what she was doing. It was therapeutic. She felt relaxed by the time Lizzie woke up to nurse again.

Halfway through the feeding, Ali showed up at the door. She was carrying both of her dolls-Cream, with the red scarf looped once around her neck, and Cocoa, with the dark green one wound so many times that the doll's face was almost completely obscured. When Dana pulled the scarf down, Ali pulled it back up.

"Don't you want to free her nose so she can breathe?" Dana asked.

"She doesn't need to breathe. She likes being covered up."

"Why?"

"This way," Ali explained, "she can see what's happening without people seeing her." Hugging both dolls, she looked up. "Are we going to the shop?"

They were indeed. Ali chatted the entire way about anything that caught her eye, and though Dana wanted to discuss the school issue, she didn't know where to start. Ali was out of the car the minute it stopped, and running into the shop.

Dana followed with Lizzie in her arms. Once inside, she talked with Tara about an order that had been misbilled by the vendor, checked with Olivia about the status of enrollment in fall cla.s.ses, and questioned Saundra about Ellie Jo's spirits. Hearing that her grandmother was still depressed, she left Lizzie and Ali under Saundra's watchful eye and went back to the house.

Ellie Jo wasn't in the kitchen.

"Gram?" Dana called, and searched the rest of the first floor. "Gram?" she called louder, and went up the stairs.

Ellie Jo wasn't in her bedroom or her bathroom, but Dana heard Veronica.

Fearing a repeat of the scene two weeks before, she hurried down the hall to her mother's bedroom. Ellie Jo wasn't there, but the closet door was open and the ladder down, as they had been that other day. Veronica meowed from the attic.

"Gram?" Dana called, and hurriedly climbed up.

She didn't see Ellie Jo at first. It was only when Veronica meowed again that Dana spotted them. They sat together in a low, shadowed corner of the eaves. Ellie Jo's casted foot was stretched out in front. A dislodged piece of pink insulation lay to the right of her hip. Spread on the floor beneath that was a group of papers.

"What are you doing here, Gram?" Dana cried, because the stuffy heat had to be bad for the older woman. She scrambled to join her. "What are these?"

When Ellie Jo didn't reply, Dana began gathering the papers. There were several official forms, a newspaper clipping, and a handwritten note.

With a quick, questioning look at Ellie Jo, Dana looked at the clipping. It was dated the day after her grandfather died and described a freak accident in a motel room involving a fall and the discovery of the body twelve hours later. She skimmed the rest. Three words on the last line jumped out: Long-estranged wife.

"What is this?" Dana asked, looking at Ellie Jo.

Ellie Jo's eyes were anguished, and something was wrong with her mouth. It was off-kilter, slightly ajar but not moving.

"Gram?"

Her hands hadn't moved, either.