Secrets of the Harts

July, 1993

Alessandra gazed at her sleeping child and smiled sadly. She was beautiful and perfect and it was hard to imagine that she was theirs. She set her baby down on the bed, missing the child’s warmth almost immediately and whispered, “You don’t know how lovely you are. If I could-”

“Alessa,” his voice came coldly. “You promised to leave after you’ve seen her.”

Her eyes flashed towards him. “Wouldn’t you at least let me have a few words with her, Paul? I won’t ever see her after this.”

Paul Hart cringed inwardly but on the outside, he was total calm. “We had a deal—you leave after you see her.”

She stared at him, a million memories flashing through her mind. They had been happy together once, much happier than she had ever been but now things were different. She was returning to Sicily, returning to her family and returning as a wilful child who had fallen for the wrong man. And she was leaving her daughter behind. “These are the last few moments I have with her. Why can’t you understand?”

“Spare me the dramatics, Alessa.” He knew why he was behaving like a selfish child, staking his claim over something he did not understand but all the way firmly declaring mine. It made her leaving easier to withstand if it caused her as much pain as it caused him. “You could’ve fought for custody but you didn’t.”

“I never would have won anyway.” Her tone was soft, resigned. “You would’ve declared me a financially incompetent mother in court.”

Alessandra was right, of course. His pride would never have let her win.

She kissed the child lightly on the forehead and turned to her husband. Her expression morphed into one of tired anger. “We’ve could’ve been happy together, Paul. But you goddamn Harts and your secrets ruined everything.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, only to find that he had no excuses left. Instead, his throat was thick with emotion.

“Goodbye.” She exchanged one long last look with him, one filled with so many different layers of sadness that Paul felt as though he was going to sick.

Then she left.

But the moment Alessandra took a step out of the house; Kristen Hart opened her eyes and wailed for her mother.
***
November 2009

I wrapped my coat around me and sipped my coffee. Pulling a face at how cold it had turned, I watched as people rushed home from work and wondered how many of them were thinking of their children.

Shaking myself out of that of thought, I tried to relax and enjoy one of the few days of freedom I had. But then something disturbed me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a boy, around my age I would think, staring at me in the same way I had been staring at those people but with the oddest mix of amusement and curiosity. He had stopped in the middle of the road to watch me and a few people bumped into him and swore at him. When he saw that I had noticed him, he raised his hand as though he was greeting me.

I ran through my memory but couldn’t place him and with that attitude, I doubted that he was one of Sean Fuller’s men. And so, I ignored him and went back to my coffee.

I heard footsteps and then he was in front of me. “Hey.”

Raising my eyebrows, I looked up and found the boy gazing intently at me. I studied his features closely—green eyes, brown hair, tall, a stranger—and took another sip of my coffee. He watched me drain the coffee and I pretended that it was normal for a stranger to stare at me as I did so.

Then I got up and threw the empty cup into the trashcan.

“Didn’t your parents tell you it’s rude to ignore people?”

I turned around, wondering why he was so strange and shot him my coldest look.

He smiled cheerfully. “You know, you’d look hot if you don’t ignore people.” Then he added, as an afterthought, “I’m Dylan Fuller.”

Shaking my head at how persistent he was, I walked away but he followed me. “Don’t you have a name?”

I stomped on, purposefully.

“Do I have to make one up for you?”

There was a lot of dirt under my fingernails. I wondered how I never noticed it until now.

“Fiona? Kelsey? Lynette? Joy?”

The nearest station was about a block away.

“Audrey? Carrie? Clare? Anna?”

If I sprinted, I could probably make it.

“Helen? Pauline? Denise? Lily?"

I noticed a group of people leaving their office building and came to a halt.

As I expected, Dylan Fuller stopped with me, still suggesting names and I ignored him the best I could. Concentrating on timing my sprint at the moment when the group surged towards us, I timed it almost perfectly and managed to blend into the crowd.

But I could swear that I heard Dylan saying, loudly, “I got it! It’s Christina!”
***