Jamie Quinn Cozy Mysteries Collection

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

I don't remember driving to my aunt's house. For all I know, the car drove itself there. On the way, I kept wondering why I'd never asked Aunt Peg about my father, considering that she and my mother had been so close. My mom had always been protective of her younger sister, especially later, when Peg's divorce left her completely devastated and caring for an autistic son on her own. I'm sure Peg also helped my mom through some rough times, but I was too young to remember. I suppose when you know someone your whole life, it never occurs to you to ask them questions about their past. It would feel weird, like you were interviewing them for a magazine, or like you were just being nosy. Mostly, you assume you already know everything about them. But, as I'm learning, everyone has their secrets.

Aunt Peg greeted me at the door with a hug and invited me into her cozy living room where we sat down together on the overstuffed sofa.

"Jamie, I made a promise to your mom and I've kept it, although it was difficult. She wanted you to know who your father is, but not until you were ready."

"That's ridiculous! So, you were never going to tell me anything unless I asked?"

She looked down at her hands folded in her lap and didn't say anything.

I jumped up and started pacing. "What am I, a child? I'm thirty-three years old, Aunt Peg! I think I can handle whatever it is. What's the story? Is he a drug dealer? A war criminal? I mean--what the hell?"

I sat down again. "I'm sorry, it's not your fault and I shouldn't take it out on you."

My aunt gave me a little smile. "It's alright, Jamie. I would've done the same--or worse. But I'm glad I can finally give you this. It's a letter from your mom."

I was not expecting that. It had been hard enough to listen to my mom's voice on my answering machine after she died; how could I possibly read a letter from her? I carefully unfolded the letter and made myself read slowly, fighting the urge to race through it and devour every word. Seeing her beautiful handwriting tore me up almost as much as her words did.

May 8, 2012

My dearest Jamie,

It feels so strange to be writing you a letter when you're right here, sleeping in the next room. I just realized that I've never written to you before and I'm sorry that this will be my first and last letter to you; it's like a sappy movie on the Lifetime channel.

We've always been able to talk to each other about anything, with one exception, and that's my fault. Jamie, I can't tell you how sorry I am that I never told you about your father. I still can't bring myself to do it in person--even now that time is running out. It's selfish of me, I know, but I never wanted to hurt you, and I still don't.

When you were little, you used to ask about your father constantly. It was painful for me to have to lie to you. Eventually, you stopped asking, and that caused me pain, too, but for a different reason. I always planned to talk to you about him, but it never seemed like the right time. I'm sure your mind is racing now, imagining all kinds of things, so let me put you at ease, your father is a good man and I regret every day that he can't be a part of your life.

His name is Guillermo Franco, but he used to go by Bill Frank. We met in 1978 at a political rally in Miami that my friend Carmen convinced me to go to. Carmen is Cuban and still had family over there. She was very passionate about their cause. Things were bad for Cubans, both at home and in the U.S., where they had fled to take refuge from Castro's regime. That was the year Cuban exiles In New York bombed the Cuban Mission to the United Nations. It was a tense time.

The minute I got to the rally, I wanted to leave. It was total chaos and it didn't help that I couldn't speak Spanish. When I lost Carmen in the crowd, I panicked. I was getting pushed and shoved from every direction until someone stepped in and started pushing people away from me. I turned around and found myself looking into the kindest eyes I'd ever seen. He was only twenty, like me, but he seemed so sure of himself. He told me to stay close, that he'd keep me safe, and I believed him. Bill was a stranger, but I trusted him immediately. Even when the police came and we were arrested, he was still looking out for me.

After we were released the next day, Bill and I started spending a lot of time together. Our relationship was all the more intense because of the political upheaval and Bill's involvement in the Cuban cause. We were together for a year and we were incredibly happy, but then, on June 11, 1979, everything fell apart. Several Cubans tried to force their way into the Venezuelan Embassy and the police opened fire. One person was wounded and the others were arrested, including Bill. They deported him and I never saw him again. A month later, I found out I was pregnant with you.

All these years, I kept hoping to hear from him, but I never did. I can only assume he's dead or in prison. So, you see, that's not a nice story to tell a little girl about her daddy. I couldn't even invent a happy ending, so I kept it to myself.

Bill was (is?) a wonderful person and you would've loved him, as he would've loved you. I know that you always wished you had a dad and I'm sorry I couldn't give you yours. I see a lot of him in you: his kindness, his sense of humor and his ability to relate to all kinds of people. And he liked to read science fiction, just like you do.

I hope you can forgive me, Jamie. I wish things could've been different, but that's how it goes. You are the most important person in my life and I'm so grateful to have you for a daughter. I think you already know that.

All my love,

Mom