enough,” he said. “But I do know that your biological father regretted never being able to know you.”
“Did he?” She shook her head, unsure just what she felt about Donald Jarrod. What kind of man was it who slept with another man’s wife? Who created a child and then never made an attempt to acknowledge it? Had Walter’s letter really kept Don Jarrod away? Was he that easily put off? Had his affair with Danielle and Erica’s birth meant nothing to him?
As if he knew exactly where her thoughts had taken her, Christian said, “Donald’s wife, Margaret, died of cancer, leaving him with five children to raise alone when the youngest, your sister Melissa, was only two.”
“My sister,” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said, “and Melissa is eager to meet you, by the way. She’s delighted she’s not the only girl in the family anymore.”
“I’m the only girl in my family, too—” Erica laughed shortly as she looked at him. “But then, apparently I’m not.”
An icy wind blasted down the street and the sun slipped behind a bank of gray clouds. Erica shivered, but didn’t know if it was the emotional reaction or the sudden drop in temperature that caused it.
Christian said, “Don met your mother at a vulnerable point in his life—”
“And that excuses him?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he said, his features tightening even as his voice grew clipped. “I’m simply trying to explain it to you the same way Don did for me. He knew how you’d feel hearing this news.”
“I’m surprised he gave it a thought,” she said. “Not one word from him my whole life and now I’m supposed to be grateful that my biological father is popping up after his death?”
“He didn’t contact you because he thought it would make your life more difficult.”
“Putting it lightly.”
“Exactly. Don’t think you weren’t on his mind, though.” Christian folded his hands around his coffee cup. “I knew him for a lot of years and I can tell you that to him, family was most important. It must have driven him insane knowing you were here and completely out of his reach.”
“So my father’s—Walter’s—threat worked. Donald stayed away from me to avoid scandal.”
“No.” Christian smiled a little at that. “Don wasn’t worried about what other people thought of him. My guess is he stayed away out of respect for you and your father. He wasn’t the kind of man to go out looking to destroy marriages.”
“And yet …”
Christian shook his head. “Just before he died, Don talked to me about all of this because he knew I’d be the one coming to see you.”
“So even when he knew he was dying, he didn’t get in touch with me.” Erica wasn’t sure how she felt about that. If Donald Jarrod had contacted her, would she have believed him? Would she have welcomed him? She couldn’t say. Her relationship with her father had never been a good one, but she did love Walter. He was her father. The only one she’d ever known.
Didn’t she at least owe him loyalty?
Frowning, the man across from her admitted, “I argued with him about that. I thought he should talk to you. Tell you this himself. But he refused to go back on his word. He’d sworn to Walter he would stay away and he did, though I believe it cost him a great deal to keep that promise.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, won’t I?”
“I guess so.” Their waiter appeared with a coffeepot to refill Christian’s cup, but when he would have stayed to take their order, he was waved away again. “Look,” Christian continued when they were alone again. “Just do me a favor and read the last letter in that envelope before I say any more.”
She really didn’t want to. What more was there to tell? What in her life was left to shake up and rearrange? Yet, morbid curiosity had a grip on her now and Erica knew she’d have to satisfy it.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when she glanced at the bottom of the page and saw the name Donald Jarrod in a bold signature. Lifting her gaze to the top of the paper, she read,
My Dear Erica,
I know how you must be feeling right now and I can’t blame you. But please know that if I had been given the opportunity, I would have loved you as I cared for your mother.
People—even parents—aren’t perfect. We make mistakes. But if we get the chance we try to correct them. This is my chance. Come to Colorado. Meet your other family. And one day, I hope you’ll be able to think of me kindly.
Your father,
Donald Jarrod
Again her eyes misted over. She had never known her mother. She’d grown up with a stepmother, Angela, who had been as distant in her own way as Walter had. Now, it turned out, she’d never known her father, either.
“Did you read these letters?”
“No. Don gave them to me in the closed envelope and they’ve stayed sealed up until just now.”
She looked at him. “And I’m supposed to take your word for that, too?”
He met her gaze. “I’ll never lie to you, Erica. That is one thing you can depend on.”
Since she’d only just discovered that her entire life had been based on a lie, that should have been a comforting statement. On the other hand, she didn’t know if the statement itself was a lie.
A headache burst into life behind her eyes and Erica knew it was only going to get worse. So it was best if she just finished this meeting as quickly as possible. Then she could get away. Think. Plan. Try to make some sense out of this insensible situation.
Pushing her hair out of her eyes as the wind whipped it into a frenzy, she said, “All right. Say I believe you. I’m Donald Jarrod’s daughter. What now?”
He reached down for his briefcase, opened it and extracted the manila envelope he’d shown her earlier. “As a beneficiary of Don’s will, you receive an equal share of his estate.”
“What?”
He gave her a small smile. “The estate’s been split between all six of his children.”
Erica sighed and took a gulp of her iced tea. “I can imagine how news of me went over at the reading of the will.”
“As you might guess. Surprise. Shock.”
“Sounds like we’ll have a lot in common,” she said wryly, still reeling from the information overload she’d experienced.
“More than you might think,” he told her as he slid the envelope across the table toward her. “There’s a catch to your inheritance, though.”
“Of course there is,” she mused, laying her fingertips atop the will as if she needed the physical contact to assure herself that this was all for real.
“Each of you has to move to Aspen to help run the family business. If you don’t …”
“If we don’t, then no inheritance.”
“Basically.”
“Move to Aspen?” She glanced around her at the city she’d grown up in and loved. The city sidewalks were at the bottom of canyons built of steel and brick. Sly sunlight poking through gray clouds appeared and disappeared as if performing magic tricks. Crowds of pedestrians hustled along, everyone hurrying, fighting the wind and the snarls of traffic. Car horns blared, music from a street corner musician peeled out and somewhere close by, a tiny dog yapped impatiently.
The city was hers.
What did she know about Colorado?