Pamela Hearon - Moonlight in Paris

Five years ago, her fiancé, Louis, returned from a mission trip in Honduras with a brand-new wife—an event that threw Tara’s world into a tailspin. Louis, her boyfriend of eight years, had been the only guy she’d ever dated. They’d even signed pledge cards that vowed chastity until marriage. Then he’d shown up with a wife, leaving Tara as an oddity—that rare twenty-three-year-old with her virginity still intact.

She’d made quick work of making up for all the lost time.

“Are Louis and Marta bringing their brood?”

Her mom answered with an affirmative nod as she slid the giant pan of macaroni and cheese into the oven.

Tara’s ex and his wife hadn’t lost any time, either. Three children in five years. And though it had taken a couple of years, Tara was glad she and Louis were friends again. She liked his family—especially Marta and her quiet, kind ways.

Tara set her phone down, feeling guilty that her mom was so busy, and she was doing nothing of great importance. “I’m not an invalid, Mama. Can I at least set the table?”

Her mom chewed her lip for a moment. “All right, you can set the table. But I’ll get Lacy’s china myself.” She disappeared into the other room.

Tara took the hint. Grandma O’Malley’s Belleek tableware was too precious to risk being carried by someone with newly missing fingers.

Trenton came in through the back door, arms laden with cartons of soft drinks and bottled water. With the blood drive in Tara’s honor going on, the annual O’Malley Memorial Day Dinner had swelled to triple the usual number of people. The entire day had been very humbling.

“Hey, pinky.”

Tara snorted and rolled her eyes at her brother’s twisted sense of humor. He’d labeled her with the new nickname before she’d even gotten out of the hospital.

“Would you help me with the chicken?” He found an open spot on the drink-and-dessert table, and unloaded his arms. “I’ve got to get all those pieces turned and basted, and the ribs need a close eye kept on them.”

“Sure.” She eased out of her chair, still aware of the tightness from the scar where her ruptured spleen had been removed. “But I need to know your blood type first. I’m filling in an emergency app for our family.”

“AB,” he answered.

Tara keyed in the information, and then frowned as she glanced down the chart. “What’s with this?”

Her dad came in from the garage just in time to hear her question. “What’s with what, lovebug?” Slipping an arm around her shoulder, he gave her a quick hug and a peck on her temple.

She pointed to the chart. “It doesn’t make sense. Trent’s AB like you. Thea’s A like Mama. I’m the only O negative in the bunch.”

Her mom came in from the dining room with Grandma O’Malley’s china stacked to just below her chin. Sawyer moved quickly in her direction, ready to alleviate her of the load as Tara continued voicing her thoughts to no one particular. “Is that even possible? Can an A and an AB produce an O?” She laughed. “Maybe we need a paternity test, Dad, to see if I’m really yours.”

Faith’s loud intake of breath drew everyone’s attention. Her eyes went wide with a horrific look of mingled shock, pain and undeniable guilt an instant before twelve of Grandma O’Malley’s treasured china plates crashed to the floor.

* * *

FAITH ISABEL FRANKLIN O’Malley had never wanted to die before, but the past seven hours had convinced her that death would be preferable to the excruciating pain she was presently feeling. It was as if she was dangling from a cord attached through her heart and the organ was being ripped slowly from her body. She’d been aware of every second of every minute of every hour that had brought her closer to this time when it would be just the immediate family.

Time for her confession.

People had started arriving before the broken china could be disposed of, so the mess and loss of family heirlooms made a convenient cover for the tears she couldn’t bring under control. Sawyer, Tara and Trenton watched her with guarded expressions throughout the afternoon, and even Thea, soon after her arrival, began questioning the family quietly about what was going on.

Their looks of pain had been almost more than Faith could bear, but Sawyer’s blessing for the food had been her major undoing. She’d lost it completely when he gave his thanks for the spared life of Tara, his beloved daughter. His voice had cracked at the words, and Faith and the rest of her family knew the reason behind the falter.

She knew that he knew. They all knew.

She also knew the next few minutes could bring her family crashing down around her. The china had served as a warning.

Her hands lay on the table in front of her. She clenched and unclenched them, twisted her fingers, then her rings. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the way for the words, knowing in her heart there were no “right” ones—none that could ever make this anything but what it was.

“His name was Jacques Martin,” she said at last, finding no preamble that could ease her into the subject. “He was from France. Paris.”

Tara’s eyes widened at the news. She sat up straighter in her chair and rubbed the side of her hand vigorously—a common gesture for her since the accident.

Faith shifted her eyes to her husband. “We spent one night together. Graduation. He left to go back to Paris the next day.”

Sawyer rubbed his temples as his eyes squeezed closed, and she felt the squeeze in her heart. Was he praying? No. More likely he was running through the timeline, letting all the pieces fall into place.

Their college graduations had been on the same day, hundreds of miles apart. He’d been in Texas while she’d remained in Kentucky. By the time he moved back home ten days later, the pregnancy test had already read positive. Another test ten days after that had been all it took to convince him they were going to have a baby—together. They’d eloped, to no one’s surprise after four long years apart.

Deception had been easy. But twenty-eight years had woven the lie tightly into the center of the fabric of their lives. Now, it was starting to unravel.

No one said anything. Everyone was avoiding eye contact with her except Tara, who sat staring with tear-filled eyes, pulling at her bottom lip. That gesture was unadulterated Sawyer, but Tara’s wide, curvy mouth was the spitting image of her biological father’s. Faith had always found it ironic that Tara’s mouth served as the constant reminder of the lie that remained a secret.

Until seven hours ago.

Trenton stood up quickly, the force sending his chair backward across the wood floor. “I don’t think I want to hear this,” he announced. “Whatever happened back then is between you two.” He folded both arms around Tara’s neck and rested his chin on her head. “Pinky’s my sister. Wholly and completely with none of that half stuff. Nothing’s ever going to change that.” He clapped his dad on the back and planted a quick kiss to the top of Faith’s head before strolling casually from the room.

Thea scooted over into the seat Trenton had vacated, weaving her hand under Tara’s thick mane of red hair until she located her sister’s shoulder. She pulled her close—cheeks touching, tears mingling—as she shot Faith a “how could you?” look. “I feel the same way,” she said. “We’ve never been just sisters. We’ve always been closer than that. There’s no way anything can make us any different than what we are.”

Tara’s chin quivered as she nodded.

Faith’s spirit lightened momentarily at the show of solidarity. Maybe things were going to be okay after all. But one glance at Sawyer told her that wasn’t so. Her husband was a preacher. A man who made his living talking. He’d counseled hundreds of couples with marital problems through the years, always knowing exactly what to say to clear the air of the fallout from unfaithfulness.