He Didn't Know She Was the Heiress novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: My Husband Said She Was His
Lena's best friend says Maisie's father is finally introducing her to his family, and Lena's husband says he is the father. Lena leaves and plays the first of twenty-six voicemails, which say she owns Fairbanks Hotels and the board votes tomorrow.
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, my best friend came into my kitchen with a pumpkin pie and the news I had waited five years to hear.
"He called," she said. "My daughter's father. He wants her at his family's Thanksgiving this Thursday, so everyone can finally meet her."
I put down my keys and hugged her so hard the pie box bent.
"That's wonderful, Becca."
"I know."
"You'll tell me his name now?"
"You'll hear it Thursday," she said, and squeezed my hand. "I tell you everything, Lena. You know that."
I did know that.
She had been my best friend for eleven years.
She had a key to my apartment, and she knew which drawer held the good scissors.
She poured my husband's coffee from the pot on the counter without asking, two sugars, and carried it to the table where he sat eating leftover pasta.
Ethan worked from home on Tuesdays.
He nodded his thanks and did not look up from his laptop.
In the living room, Becca's little girl lay on the rug with a box of crayons.
Maisie was five years old, and she grinned up at me when I leaned in the doorway.
She had a dimple in her left cheek and none in her right.
"Aunt Lena, I'm drawing a turkey with a hat."
"It's the best turkey I've ever seen."
My phone buzzed on the counter.
The screen said Chicago, the same number that had called me every Sunday since May.
I declined it again.
"Telemarketers?" Ethan asked, still scrolling.
"Probably."
I turned back to Becca, so happy I felt light.
"For five years I've called that man a coward," I said. "Now I get to see him do the right thing."
I tapped Ethan's shoulder on my way past.
"Babe, did you hear? Becca's finally getting her moment. Maisie's dad is taking her home for Thanksgiving."
Ethan chewed and swallowed.
"I know," he said. "She's my daughter, Lena. I'm bringing her to Grandmother's on Thursday."
The kitchen was quiet.
The refrigerator hummed.
I laughed, because it had to be a joke.
Ethan finally lifted his eyes from the screen, and they were bored.
"Becca and I have been together since before Maisie was born," he said. "Grandmother gives the company to the first grandson with a child. It's time."
Becca set the pie down on my counter.
"Lena, I wanted to tell you gently."
"Don't," I said.
My voice came out very even.
From the rug, Maisie called, "Mommy, is Uncle Ethan going to be my daddy on Thursday?"
Becca closed her eyes.
Ethan took a bite of pasta.
"Don't make this a scene," he said. "You don't have family, Lena. You don't have money, and you don't have anywhere to go. Stay in the spare room until spring and I'll make sure you're fine."
He said it kindly, and he thought it was a favor.
Seven years I had been Mrs. Ethan Sorrell.
For five of them I had listened to Becca cry about a man who wouldn't claim his baby, and I had held her hand through every holiday.
I had called that man names at this very table, while he passed me the salt.
I looked at Becca.
She looked at the floor.
I twisted my wedding ring over my knuckle and dropped it into the pasta bowl, in front of him.
It made a small wet sound.
"Thursday is going to be a big day for you," I said. "Enjoy it."
Ethan stared at the ring.
"Lena. Sit down."
I took my coat from the hook.
In the doorway of the living room I knelt in front of Maisie, and made my face soft for her.
"Aunt Lena has to go to work, sweet pea. Keep drawing."
"Will you be back for dinner?"
"I'll see you soon," I said, and I meant it, because none of this was hers.
Becca whispered, "Lena, please," but I was already at the door.
So I walked out.
I sat in my old Honda in the parking lot with both hands on the wheel, and I did not cry.
I picked up my phone and opened the voicemail folder.
There were twenty-six messages from Chicago.
I had never played one.
I had told myself it was a scam, or my father's people, and I had not wanted to hear either.
I pressed the newest.
"Ms. Fairbanks, this is your father's attorney," said a tired man's voice. "I will keep calling until you answer."
"Your father left you every share of Fairbanks Hotels. All forty-one properties are yours."
"The board meets tomorrow at nine to vote on selling the company, and only you can stop it. The buyer is Sorrell Hospitality."
I read the name on the screen.
Sorrell.
It was my husband's name.
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