"Not yet. He's probably just arrived at the hospital."

Eaton nodded. He wasn't sure exactly how to broach the subject.

Dorothy was watching him, waiting.

"I'm glad Hugh is with Dana," he said. "There may be decisions to make. A husband should be with his wife at times like this."

"Do you have decisions to make with regard to your book?" Dorothy asked directly.

She was a bright woman. She did deserve the truth. "Definitely," he said.

"What kinds of decisions?"

"Whether to go back and correct the things that are wrong."

"But you can't do it, not in this edition. Is the problem so severe that it can't wait for the paperback release?" The phone rang. Frowning in frustration, she held up a finger to say she'd be back, and hurried from the room.

Calling himself every kind of coward, and, in that, more his mother's son than he had ever thought, Eaton followed, but only to the hall. He saw that the ba.s.sinet in the family room was empty. Quietly, he climbed the stairs and went down to the baby's room. Hugh and Dana had shown it off the last time he and Dorothy had visited. Typical of children, they had been proud and wanted approval.

Personally, Eaton found the painted meadow cloying. Clean walls with a bright picture or two was more his style.

But then, clean walls with a bright picture or two was the way Dorothy had decorated their children's rooms, and Eaton was a creature of habit.

He wondered if Hugh had a point, that he had deliberately written One Man's Line to make real what he most feared was not. He wondered if he had spent a lifetime immersing himself in the protective cloak of ancestry so that he wouldn't have to consider the truth.

He approached the crib. Elizabeth Ames Clarke was asleep on her back. She was wearing a little pink onesie, like those Robert's baby girls had worn, but there the similarity ended. Her arms were bare, and her legs a lovely soft brown. What caught him most, though, was her face. Surrounded by wispy curls that he remembered from the day of her birth, her face was a soft bronze, with the smoothest, most unblemished of cheeks, a tiny b.u.mp of a chin, a b.u.t.ton nose. Her lashes were dark and long, her eyelids a burnished gold.

She was quite beautiful.

The image blurred. He didn't know whether it was fear of what his granddaughter faced, fear of telling Dorothy, fear of telling Robert, fear of telling friends, fear of losing his public's respect.

But, looking at this child through tears, he didn't see the difference between her skin and his. He only saw her innocence.

Chapter 24.

Dana was grateful Hugh was with her. She didn't ask herself why she hadn't called Gillian or Tara. She simply needed Hugh there. He was clearheaded. He listened to the doctor's explanation of what they had found and what they could do. He filled in the blanks for Dana when she was confused, and asked the questions she couldn't. When it came to making decisions, he boiled the choices down to two, explained them both, listened to her thoughts, then supported her conclusion.

Ellie Jo had a blockage in an artery. Her best hope of recovery was surgery, which entailed its own risks. The alternatives, while less risky, raised serious quality of life issues.

It was an awesome responsibility, having to make a choice that could kill someone she loved. Dana hated it.

She held Ellie Jo's hand before they wheeled her away, told her she loved her, that everything would be fine, and not to worry because she was totally on top of things at the shop. She kissed her grandmother's cheek and lingered for a moment. The scent of apples had been diluted by a medicinal smell, but still she treasured the familiar feel of Ellie Jo's soft skin. When the stretcher finally moved and Hugh drew her back, she pressed a hand to her mouth.

Ellie Jo wasn't young. Dana knew she wouldn't live forever, but she was terrified by the thought of losing her so soon.

Since the hospital cafeteria had closed, Hugh carried coffee from a vending machine back to the room where Dana sat. It was a small room, done in soft grays and mauves that he a.s.sumed were meant to be calming. He couldn't say that it worked. He remained nervous.

Ellie Jo had been in surgery for two hours. It could be another two before the surgeon emerged, and still longer before they knew whether the paralysis was permanent, and that was a.s.suming she survived the operation. There was a chance she would not. The doctor had been blunt about that.

Hugh set the coffee on a table to Dana's left, and settled next to her on the sofa. "Doin' okay?"

She shot him a worried look and nodded. After a minute, she said, "Are you?"

"I've been better."

She turned to pick up the coffee and sipped carefully. Then she cradled the cup in both hands and leaned back. Finally she glanced at him. "I didn't know where you'd gone this afternoon. Were you at the office?"

Hugh hadn't thought about the office. He hadn't thought about Stan Hutchinson, Crystal Kostas, or her son. Since late morning, he had thought about nothing but where he'd come from and who he really was.

"I had to talk with my father," he said.

She took that in. Another frown appeared. At length, she asked, "Did you?"

He wasn't sure it was the right time or place. But they were alone in the room, and this discussion would keep her from worry about her grandmother. In any case, he needed to talk. And he had a captive audience. The chance that she would get up and leave if he said something she didn't like was slim.

So he told her about the lawyer on the Vineyard, the rumors Eaton had lived with, the argument they had just had-and though Hugh thought his anger had abated, it revived with the retelling. Sitting forward, elbows on knees, hands clenched increasingly tighter, he was bitter. "He claims he didn't knowingly lie, but couldn't he have checked it out? He's built a career learning intimate details about the subjects of his books. He knows how to dig up dirt."

"He didn't want to dig up this particular dirt."

"Correct. And that would be fine if no one else was affected. But even before Lizzie was born, there was you. He treated you and your family like second-cla.s.s citizens."

She didn't argue with that.

Hugh stared at the opposite wall. A picture hung there, something in ocean colors, vaguely modern and flowing. He knew the ocean. He looked at it out his window at home. The real thing soothed. This print did not.

"But who am I to criticize?" he asked. "I was just as bad. I ordered a paternity test." He looked back at her. "So, okay, I didn't know about the guy on the Vineyard, and I bought into the family myth hook, line, and sinker. That was arrogance, Dana, and I'm ashamed of it. But I knew you hadn't cheated on me." He studied his coffee cup and said in disgust, "This isn't even what I wanted to discuss."

"What is?" Dana asked.

"Me. What I am."

When she was silent, he glanced at her and saw she was frowning. It struck him that frowns clashed with freckles. The latter were pale against her even paler skin, but he knew they were there. They were part of the lighthearted personality he had been drawn to from the first.

"Do you feel different?" she finally asked.

He wanted to feel different. He thought he ought to feel different. But he didn't. "No. Does that mean I'm comfortable pa.s.sing?"

"Pa.s.sing."

"That's what I've done."

"Pa.s.sing has a negative connotation. It implies you knew the truth and deliberately paraded as someone else. But where was the intent? That's what you ask a jury when you try a case. So did you know you were black and intentionally hide it?"

"No. But I ought to feel different," he reasoned. "Maybe I'm just numb."

"Maybe it isn't that big a thing."

"In my family it is," he warned. "My uncle is apt to accuse my father of deliberately hiding it for the sake of preserving his share in the family business. He'll argue that technically Eaton isn't a Clarke."

"But he is. His mother is a Clarke by marriage. And she was your uncle Brad's mother, too."

A door opened down the hall. In an instant, Dana was on her feet and tensed. When a woman in scrubs appeared and went off in the opposite direction, she made a helpless sound.

Hugh was standing beside her. "She doesn't look rushed," he said. "That's good."

Dana stood for a minute with her head bowed. Taking a breath, she turned and sat. "I wish I had my knitting," she murmured. "How could I be without it, at a time like this?"

"I would have brought some if you'd asked."

"I didn't think. My mind is totally off."

Rejoining her on the sofa, Hugh said, "Ellie Jo will be okay."

Dana shot him a worried look. "What about Robert?"

Hugh had to admire her. He suspected Robert was the last thing on her mind. "Robert won't be happy. He would disown Dad if he felt it would keep him in good standing with Brad."

"That won't change what Robert is."

"Or what I am." Hugh leaned forward again. "Do you care?"

Dana frowned at the floor. "About Robert? No. I'm not sure I'll ever feel as warmly toward him as I used to. I can't trust whose side he's on."

"Are we taking sides?"

Her eyes met his. "Yes."

"What's your side?"

"Lizzie's."

"Am I on that side, too?"

She retrieved her coffee and took a long drink. When she was done, she returned the cup to the table and wiped her upper lip with a finger. Then she looked at him. "I don't know. Are you?"

"Seeing as Lizzie's genetic makeup comes from me, isn't it obvious?"

"No. Skin color is physical. It isn't an emotion."

"I'm on Lizzie's side. Are you on mine?"

"You're my husband."

"A husband's a thing, too." He rephrased the thought. "A while back you asked how I felt being married to a woman of African-American descent. Now I'm asking you. How do you feel being married to a man of African-American descent?"

She didn't blink. "The same way I felt yesterday being married to you. I don't care who your grandfather was. I never did care who your grandfather was."

"But back in the pediatrician's office when we got the results of the sickle-cell tests and the meaning of it dawned on you, didn't you feel just that little bit pleased that the sn.o.b got his comeuppance?"

She was quiet for a time, studying the carpet. When she looked at him, her expression was gentle. "I felt relieved. This makes you more human. It makes me feel less inferior."

"Inferior?" That surprised him. "Did you really feel that?"

"Yes."

"That was in your own mind," he said. "But weren't you relieved to be proven white?"

"I wasn't found to be white," she said in reproach. "I was simply found not to be carrying the sickle-cell trait. I may have all sorts of traits buried in my family tree. I have no idea who my grandfather Earl was."

Hugh tried a final time, half teasing. "But didn't you feel any sense of justice?"

"No. I'm sorry, Hugh. I'm not into revenge."

"You're a saint."

She smiled, but sadly. "If I was a saint, I'd understand why you needed to do that DNA test. If I was a saint, I'd have picked up the phone when Jack Kettyle called this morning." She held up a hand. "Don't ask. I didn't pick up. I'm no saint." Her voice softened. "I can understand what you're feeling, because I've been there. But the main pleasure I get from this twist is knowing it guarantees you'll love Lizzie."

"I've always loved Lizzie."

She drew up her knees. "What about me?"

"I do love you," he said. "I need you to love me."

She rested her head on her knees. After a minute, she tipped it sideways to look at him. "Why? Because you're feeling lost and uprooted and need something to cling to? Because you know color doesn't bother me, but you can't say the same for your friends?"

"My friends will be fine."

"Then there's no problem. When'll you tell them?"

She had him. He couldn't answer.

Relenting, she reached out for the first time in seventeen days and wrapped her hand around his arm. "It's what David's been saying. People are fine with minorities until one moves in next door. We know your partners won't be fazed. Work will be fine. The problem may be with some of the people you've known all your life. Like the Cunninghams. By the way, I'm out of the Designers' Showhouse, too."

"Since when?" Hugh asked.

"The beginning of the week."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What was the point?" She relented. "Maybe it's a coincidence, you know, the two jobs."

One job maybe, Hugh conceded. Not two. Dana was exactly the kind of designer the North Sh.o.r.e branch liked to promote. Besides, it strained credibility to talk of coincidence when the Cunninghams underwrote the Showhouse each year.