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  Growing up without knowledge of her biological parents would have been an insurmountable obstacle for many children, but Monica had the iron-willed Lily in her corner. She had blossomed under Lily’s loving but stern parenting style. Zoomed through school with stellar grades and graduated as valedictorian of her high school. Finished summa cum laude at Spelman. Went to Duke Medical School. Came back home to ATL and did her residency in pediatrics at Emory, where Troy was also completing his residency in radiology. They had been together ever since.

  “She was all I had,” Monica said softly. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, but couldn’t stanch the steady trickle of tears.

  Troy took his handkerchief and gently brushed it across her damp cheeks. He hated to see her in pain, wished there was something he could do to alleviate her anguish, but this was one of those rare times when even his considerable powers of persuasion came up short. There was nothing to do but to allow grief to burn through her.

  “She was all I had,” Monica said again, in a broken voice.

  “You have us, baby,” Troy said, and squeezed her, but he might as well have been speaking to Monica from the bottom of the sea.

  The choir was singing at a feverish pitch:

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost but now am found,

  Was blind, but now I see . . .

  The sanctuary’s acoustics amplified the voices of the gifted choir. The three-piece band—keyboardist, drummer, and guitarist— played the old song with all the verve of touring musicians rocking at Phillips Arena in front of a crowd of thousands. He doubted there was a dry eye in the whole building.

  His cell phone vibrated in his suit jacket pocket. His secondary phone. It was in poor taste to step out, but the truth was, he needed some fresh air or else he was going to implode.

  He kissed Monica on the temple, told her he’d be right back. Immersed in grief, she barely registered his presence anyway. But as he rose from the pew, his mother gave him a questioning glance, and Junior looked as if he wanted to hop out of her lap and go with him. He ignored both of them.

  The funeral attendees favored him with sympathetic looks as he hurried down the long aisle. It was a sea of grief-stricken faces, most of them black, but many white, Hispanic, and Asian, too. Lily’s charity had known no color.

  “God bless you, Dr. Stephens,” the usher said, and opened the sanctuary doors for Troy.

  Troy went through the carpeted lobby and stepped outside onto the front walkway. It was a blustery day, and his wool Armani suit failed to protect him against the biting air. Shivering, he walked down the flagstone steps and onto an island of dormant grass, taking shelter beside the thick trunk of an immense oak tree. The branches quivered in the breeze, shedding crisp leaves dipped in autumn colors. He would have appreciated the natural beauty of the scene if he hadn’t been distracted with other thoughts.

  He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket. The caller had left a voice mail. He listened to the message with growing annoyance.

  No respect for boundaries, he thought. I’ll have to address this, but not now.

  He deleted the message. Pocketing his phone, he turned back to the church entrance.

  That was when he noticed the woman.

  She leaned against the wrought-iron railing that encircled the church’s front entrance. She wore all black: one of those big church Derby hats with the wide brims, sunglasses, pants suit, pumps. Gazing out at the parking lot, she smoked a cigarette. From a distance, he couldn’t discern her age, but she had the bearing of confidence, and sexiness, too.

  There also seemed to be something . . . familiar about her.

  Buttoning his jacket, he walked toward the church. The woman’s face tilted in his direction, and why not? He was six-two, broad-shouldered, good-looking and well-dressed; he’d heard on more than one occasion that he resembled Denzel Washington. He fully expected to catch her eye.

  As he mounted the steps, she smiled at him.

  Willowy as a tree, she was tall for a woman, perhaps five-nine without her pumps. She had full lips, lined with cherry-red lipstick. From a distance, he’d thought she might be his age, but as he drew closer he realized his estimation was way off. This woman’s face was lined with wrinkles. She was easily old enough to be his mother.

  Jarred by the realization, he lost his footing on the last step and nearly fell down.

  “Careful there, darling,” she said, in a throaty voice that reminded him of a bluesy lounge singer. “If you hurt yourself, I’d have to go inside and find you a doctor.”

  He laughed, self-consciously, and smoothed down the front of his jacket.

  “I am a doctor, actually,” he said.

  “That so?” She exhaled a wispy column of smoke, and he noticed it was a hand-rolled cigarette; the smoke smelled of a bracing, spicy fragrance, as if she were smoking some odd blend of herbs. “Then you must take issue with my smoking, hmm?”

  “To each his own.” He shrugged. “We all have our vices.”

  Offering a polite chuckle, she glanced away. Her hat shifted slightly. He noticed thick curls of white hair peeking out from underneath.

  Why did she seem so familiar? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the thought wouldn’t go away.

  The wind swirled around them. It flapped the brim of her hat and carried her fragrance to his nostrils. She smelled of rosemary and summer flowers, and a deeper, musky odor that made his heart skip a beat.

  Some of the sexiest women he had ever seen had ten or more years on him, and he was forty-one. This woman may have been in her sixties or even older, and damned if he didn’t find her irresistibly compelling.

  The front doors burst open, and a woman stumbled outside, sobbing, accompanied by a man who was struggling to console her. The couple went to the other edge of the platform and huddled together.

  Troy’s heart twisted. What was he doing out here, thinking of making the moves on a woman while his wife grieved inside? He had few scruples when it came to his sexual exploits, but this was beneath him.

  He felt the woman in black watching him closely, her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses, lips curved in a faint smile.

  “I better get back inside,” he said. “Lily Worthy was my wife’s grandmother. I need to be there for her.”

  “Of course.” She flicked ashes away from her cigarette. “Family is important, isn’t it? The ties that bind, dear.”

  Troy started to turn away, but a gut feeling kept him rooted in place. “Are you a family friend? Or relative? I’ve got this nagging sense that I’ve met you before.”

  “I’m a relative of your wife,” she said. “We go way back, honey.”

  “Who are you?”

  Smiling, the woman removed her sunglasses. She had large, beautiful hazel eyes.

  Just like Monica, he thought, and his stomach suddenly felt as if it had plunged to the ground, because he realized what was coming next.

  “I’m her mother.”

  2

  It was, unquestionably, the worst day of Monica’s life.

  Prior to that Saturday, the worst day of her life had been the morning that she had learned that her grandmother, Lily, had died at home, alone, the victim of a something as random as a tragic fall down the stairs. She didn’t think it was possible to feel any more hopeless, lost, or shocked.

  But at the funeral, the full spectrum of emotions hit her with the force of a sledgehammer upside the head.

  Lily had an open-casket funeral, per the instructions in her will. Monica had forced herself to get up and view the body, though every atom in her wanted to stay away. When she finally looked inside, she was jarred by the sight of the stout, dark-skinned woman that lay nestled within the starchy folds of the navy-blue dress. The mortician had done a superb job of concealing Lily’s injuries; she hadn’t looked this good even in life. But to Monica, something was missing. The ineffable quality of her grandmother was gone, and the body within the coffin was merely a beautiful but empty vessel, like a crystal vase void of the rose that had once bloomed within it.

  She’s in a better place, Monica thought, and believed it.

  But she felt hollow, as if her heart had been cored like an apple.

  At some point during the service, Troy had walked out. She didn’t remember him leaving. She had turned to say something to him, and discovered that his spot beside her on the pew was empty. Her mother-in-law, Pat, took her hand, whispered words of encouragement and love.

  Troy returned some time later as the pastor was delivering the eulogy. Troy’s eyes were afire. He clasped her close to him and lowered his lips to her ear.

  “After the service, there’s someone that you must meet,” he whispered.

  She nodded. All she wanted to do after the funeral was go home, collapse in bed, and wake only after this nightmare had ended. The prospect of meeting anyone, of holding a coherent conversation, seemed an impossible burden to bear. Then there was still the burial at the cemetery, and the repast.

  She didn’t think she could handle any more of it. But she would do it for her grandmother. That was one lesson Lily had taught her well: how to keep moving forward when life tried to knock you down. She had been emotionally flattened all day, but she was going to see it through, the service and everything else that followed. She owed that to her grandmother. It was her duty.

  Pastor Roger Hammond delivered the eulogy. A tall, gray-haired man in his sixties who had known Lily for decades, he was an eloquent speaker. He called Lily one of the “pillars” of the church community who had been gifted by God with the power to inspire, encourage, and nurture, and Monica noticed that nearly every head in the audience was nodding. It brought forth a fresh round of tears from her.

  The service felt as though it was never going to end, but Monica eventually realized, as if slipping out of a trance, that people had lined up to greet her. She was Lily’s only surviving immediate family; all of Lily’s four siblings had passed on, and the children of those brothers and sisters were scattered to the wind. Lily had formed her closest bonds with the church, and Monica and her family.

  Monica tried to get to her feet to meet the crush of people, but when her knees wobbled, the well-wishers insisted that she remain sitting. She greeted them all and accepted their embraces, kisses, and supportive words. A few of them even pressed envelopes into her hands that she dimly understood contained money, and she made a mental note to donate the funds to Lily’s favored charities.

  Troy remained at her side throughout the greetings, but he kept fidgeting and glancing over his shoulder to the back of the church. As the line finally dispersed, he helped her to stand.

  “I want you to meet someone, sweetheart,” he said.

  “I’m exhausted, Troy. Who is it?”

  “It’s a surprise.” His brown eyes glimmered.

  “I need a few minutes.” A spell of vertigo had hit her. She gripped the edge of the pew for balance. Looking around, she saw a stream of people filtering out of the sanctuary, but didn’t see her children. “Wait, where are the kids?”

  “Mom took them outside. They were restless.”

  She hadn’t realized they had already left. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “I’ve got to visit the ladies room,” she said.

  “Sure, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  In the restroom, Monica examined herself in the mirror. Predictably, her makeup was ruined from the tears she had shed, her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair looked as if it had been used as a crow’s nest.

  She switched on the faucet, allowed cold water to fill her cupped palms, and splashed them against her face.

  Although Lily had raised her since her birth and treated her like a blood grandchild, she had sensed at an early age that she and Lily didn’t share a genetic bond. They looked so different. Lily was short and heavy-boned, with an oak complexion and copper-brown eyes; Monica was slim, had always been taller than most of her female classmates, had a complexion the color of fresh honey, and striking hazel eyes. When Monica was nine, Lily had told her the hard facts of their relationship: she had adopted her at Monica’s birth, loved her like her own biological grandchild, and was going to be there for her no matter what.

  Although Lily’s love for her never faltered, Monica wondered about her birth parents. Her father’s identity was a mystery, but she wondered, especially, about her mother. As a mother herself to two children, she struggled to understand how a woman could give up a child she had carried in her belly for nine months, walk away, and never look back. Logically, she understood that depending upon the circumstances, putting a child up for adoption could be a good decision. But emotionally? It seemed incalculably difficult.

  Where was her mother? Was she still alive? Did she ever think about Monica? Did she regret what she had done?

  Those questions had haunted Monica for as long as she could remember. Lily had been her link to her mother, the only person in Monica’s life who had ever known her, and in typical Lily fashion, she had declined to ever share much about her, pressing Monica to focus on the present. Monica had sensed that her biological mother and Lily hadn’t been on the best of terms, but she had still felt a right to know.

  Troy had even suggested hiring a detective to investigate birth records and piece together the story. Out of respect for Lily, Monica had turned down the idea. She respected her grandmother too much to go behind her back. If Lily had kept the details vague, Monica assumed it had to be for a good reason, as Lily had always had her best interests at heart.

  But now, with Lily gone, Monica felt as if she had been cut off from everything that was and might have been.

  She shuddered. Lowering her head, she pulled in several deep, stabilizing breaths.

  Time to move forward. Ever forward, as Lily had always advised her.

  Finally, she dried her face with a paper towel from the dispenser. She did a quick touch up of her makeup, and tried to do something to tame her hair.

  As she stepped outside the restroom, an elderly gentleman waved at her from across the corridor. She didn’t recognize him, but out of reflex, she returned the wave. He shuffled toward her, using a cane to support himself.

  Is this the person Troy had wanted me to meet? She had never met this man before, and Troy wasn’t around to confirm his identity.

  “Young lady,” the man said. He coughed into a handkerchief. He was about her height, but old age had given him a stoop that cut several inches from his stature. He was mostly bald, with a few wisps of brittle white hair clinging to his skull. He wore gold-rimmed bifocals.

  “Sir?” Monica said.

  He reached out and clasped her hand. His fingers were fragile as matchsticks and cool to the touch, but his chocolate-brown eyes radiated warmth and intelligence.

  “I’m Reverend McBride.” He smiled, displaying a set of dentures. “Miss Lily was a dear, dear friend of mine from way back. She went to my church before she joined Riverside.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know about that.”

  “Young lady, the Lord has welcomed a new angel, yes, he has.”

  “Thank you, Reverend.”

  His bespectacled gaze searched her face. “Are you holding up okay, dear?”

  “Lily was all I had.”

  He nodded. “I’m praying for you, child. And know this: when the good Lord closes one door, He opens another.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.” She smiled tightly.

  The old reverend hesitated, his gaze locked on her. Monica had the distinct impression that he wanted to say something else but was unsure how to begin. A heartbeat later, the moment was broken when Troy slipped up to them and gently grasped Monica by the arm.

  “Everything okay, baby?” he asked.

  “This is Reverend McBride, a friend of Lily’s from back in the day,” Monica said. “She used to go to his church.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Troy shook the reverend’s hand. The reverend muttered a greeting and stepped back, seeming reluctant to turn away from Monica.

  Troy steered Monica in the opposite direction. “Ready?”

  Monica glanced over her shoulder. The pastor had turned and was shuffling down the hallway.

  “I take it the reverend wasn’t the mystery person you wanted me to meet?” she asked.

  “Of course not. Come on.”

  “All right. Let’s get this over with then.”

  Troy guided her down the corridor, through the thinning crowd, and back into the sanctuary.

  “Up front there,” Troy said.

  Monica looked toward the front of the chamber, where Lily’s gleaming casket still lay, flanked by several large and beautiful flower arrangements; the pallbearers had yet to cart it to the hearse waiting out front. A tall, slender woman dressed in black stood beside the coffin, her back to them, a solitary mourner paying her last respects.

  As they approached, Troy cleared his throat. The woman turned.

  When she revealed her identity, Monica passed out.

  3

  Troy caught Monica before she hit the floor. He eased her onto a nearby pew.

  Monica’s mouth lolled open, her eyelids fluttering. A low moan slipped out of her.

  “Jesus, this really knocked her out,” Troy muttered to himself. He felt a stab of guilt at how he’d handled the situation. Monica had been forced through an emotional wringer that day, and while the reveal of her birth mother could only be a good thing, it was too much for her to take right then. She was in a fragile state, and he needed to protect her, and probably should have done more to prepare her for this revelation.

  But it was too late for that now.

  Monica’s mother had come to her daughter’s side, too. She dabbed at Monica’s brow with a green silk handkerchief.

  “Mama’s here, darling,” she said. “Mama’s finally here with you, yes she is.”

  Sounds good, but where the hell have you been all this time? Troy almost asked. He hadn’t asked this woman much of anything after she’d revealed herself to him outside the church. He had been too surprised to know what to ask. He’d only agreed to bring Monica to her after the memorial service had concluded and before everyone left for the burial.