The Secret Daughter. Catherine Spencer

largess. It was only where her daughter and certain segments of Rosemont society were concerned that she lacked charity.

      With the checks restored to order and replaced in the desk, it took Imogen only a moment to write her note. “I’m not planning to stay in the area more than a few days,” she said, handing the folded slip of paper to the maid, “so I’d appreciate it if you’d make sure my mother receives this as soon as she comes home.”

      She was barely out the door before the maid closed it behind her. Faced with empty hours to fill, Imogen drove slowly toward the center of town, searching out familiar landmarks and, despite her best intentions, remembering too much.

      

      Banners proclaiming the town’s centennial anniversary flanked the columns fronting the courthouse, baskets of flowering plants hung from the wrought-iron lampposts on Main Street, Judge Merriweather’s house had been turned into an accountant’s office, and the old Rosemont Medical Building was now a youth center.

      Once past the railroad station, Main Street split in two, the right lane following the curve of the lakeshore and the left leading to Lister’s Meadows, where the Donnellys used to live.

      “Definitely the wrong side of the tracks,” her mother had determined when, the summer she turned fifteen, Imogen had insisted on attending a birthday party there. But Imogen had loved the friendly neighborliness of the area. Although the houses were small and close together, with long narrow gardens at the back, there were no fences separating one place from the next, no signs warning trespassers to stay away.

      The Donnelly house had been at the end of the last street, she recalled, with a creek running beside it. But whether or not they’d moved, she had no idea. She and Patsy Donnelly had lost touch when Imogen went to stay with her mother’s cousin the autumn after her eighteenth birthday and Joe...

      Oh, Joe Donnelly had not cared enough to pursue a relationship with Imogen Palmer and had left Ontario within days of his one-night stand with the richest girl in town. He did not deserve to be remembered.

      So there was no earthly reason for her to head east to where Donnelly’s Garage used to be open for business fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. Did she seriously expect to see Sean Donnelly manning the pumps or Mr. Donnelly bent over the open hood of a car? Or Joe Donnelly straddling his idling Harley-Davidson and surveying the unending parade of girls willing to show off their physical assets in the hope of luring him even further into temptation than his natural inclination had already led him?

      Apparently she did. How else to account for the wave of disappointment that washed over her when she saw that what used to be Donnelly’s Garage was now a slick, twelve-pump, self-serve gas station owned by a major oil company? She ought to have rejoiced that nothing remained to remind her.

      “Oh, grow up, Imogen!” she muttered, annoyed by what could only be described as blatant self-indulgence. “Instead of wasting time dwelling on a man who, except for one memorable occasion, never spared you a second glance, think about what you’re going to say when you see your mother again because, whatever else might happen, at least she can’t deny you ever existed!”

      Swinging the car in an illegal U-turn and consigning Joe Donnelly to that part of her past she had determined not to revisit, she headed to her hotel. It was almost six o’clock. By the time she’d showered and changed, it would be dinnertime.

      

      Imogen’s room on the second floor of the Briarwood was handsomely furnished and looked out on the lake. Preferring the flower-scented breeze to the sterile discomfort of the air conditioner, she opened the French windows and stepped out on the small balcony overhanging the gardens. Immediately below, a wedding reception was in progress, with tables set out on the lawn and a wasp-waisted bride, lovely in white organza and orange blossom, holding court beneath an arbor of roses.

      Imogen was unprepared for the envy that stabbed through her at the sight of that young woman. Not because she had a husband and Imogen had not—remaining single was, after all, her choice—but because the bride wore an air of innocence Imogen had lost when she was a teenager.

      Though only just twenty-seven, she felt suddenly old. And bitter. By most standards, she had all those things that mattered in today’s world. She was successful, she had money, and men seemed to find her attractive enough that they asked her out often. One or two had even proposed marriage.

      But inside, where it counted, she was empty. Had been empty for the better part of nine years. And it would take a lot more than a shower and a good dinner to restore her to the kind of optimism that left the bride so luminous with joy.

      If only...

      No! Grief softened with time, the sharp edge of heartbreak melted into kindly nostalgia, and only a fool dwelled on horror. She might have been born and raised in Rosemont, but her future lay half a continent away in Vancouver, and she’d do well to keep reminding herself of that.

      The courthouse clock struck seven. Too keyed up to face dinner, Imogen changed out of the smart linen suit she’d worn for the meeting with her mother and slipped into a thin cotton dress and sandals. A brisk walk would go a lot further toward relaxing her and insuring a good night’s rest than beef Wellington or lobster thermidor in the formal elegance of the hotel dining room.

      Although the air was warm, a slight breeze blew across the lake, stirring the surface of the water to dazzling ripples. Slipping on a pair of sunglasses, Imogen turned right at the foot of the hotel steps and headed west on the shoreline boardwalk, past the pier, the public beach and the band shell, then through the park, to end up some forty minutes later at what used to be the Rosemont Tea Garden.

      Like so many other places, though, this, too, had undergone change. A smart awning covered the fenced patio where faded sun umbrellas had once given shade to patrons. Wicker furniture and woven place mats had replaced the old plastic tables and chairs. And instead of scones, homemade strawberry jam and tea served in mismatched china cups, a chalkboard menu propped by the patio gate offered a selection of chilled soups, salads and trendy pasta dishes.

      Tempted by the thought of langostino salad, Imogen passed through the gate and waited to be seated. It was as she was being shown to a table that a voice exclaimed, “Imogen Palmer, is that you hiding behind those dark glasses?”

      Startled, she looked around to see Patsy Donnelly, of all people, rising from a table just inside the patio’s wrought-iron railing, her dark blue eyes and black hair so much like her brother’s that, without warning, all Imogen’s fine resolutions to stay in charge of herself and the events surrounding her wilted like roses left too long without water.

      Mistaking her stunned silence for nonrecognition, Patsy said, “It’s me, Imogen. Patsy Donnelly. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

      “Of course not,” Imogen said weakly. “I’m just surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

      But if her response was less than enthusiastic, Patsy didn’t seem to notice. Inviting Imogen to join her by pulling out one of the chairs at her table, she laughed and said, “I don’t see why. It is Rosemont’s centennial celebration, after all, not to mention Miss Duncliffe’s big retirement bash. Just about everyone we went to school with is in town, even Joe. I’m just the first of a long line of familiar faces you’ll be running into. How long are you staying?”

      “Not long at all,” Imogen said, suppressing the urge to bolt to the hotel, pack her bags, race to the airport and climb aboard the first flight headed west. Why was Joe Donnelly here when, from everything she’d ever heard, the only time he’d shown the slightest interest in school had been during basketball season?

      Patsy flagged down a waiter, asked him to bring an extra wineglass, then sat regarding Imogen expectantly. “So, tell me about yourself. Are you married? Do you have any children?”

      “No.” Her answer was brief to the point of rude, but not for the life of her could Imogen get past the fact that Joe Donnelly was in town. She couldn’t face him. It was as simple as that! Bad enough that he was resurrecting himself in her memory without