Page 137 of Whispers

ff. Oftentimes he smelled of cigarettes and beer, though she’d never caught him red-handed or drunk.

He was heading up the stairs to his room.

“What?” Belligerent, he turned on her, then noticed her cream-colored dress. “Oh, shit. You think I’m going to that damned party, don’t you?”

“It’s Grandpa’s big night.”

“Grandpa can go suck pondwater for all I care. He’s a manipulative bastard.”

“Sean!”

“Well, he is. Besides, I’ve got plans.”

“With whom?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course. But this party isn’t something you can ditch out of.”

“Sure I can. Grandpa doesn’t care if I’m there. He doesn’t like me anyway.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I can tell by the way he looks at me.”

“You’re paranoid,” Samantha said as she skipped down the stairs in her new dress. Made of rose-colored silk, it swished as she passed.

“Yeah and you’re a—”

“Let’s not get into this now, okay? We don’t have time. Come into the kitchen, Sean, there’s something we’ve got to talk about.” It’s now or never, she told herself. Too many people knew that Sean wasn’t Paul’s son. It was time for him to know the truth.

“If anyone says I’ve been swiping things, it’s a big lie—”

“Samantha, we need to be alone for a few minutes,” Claire said, and Sam nodded as she flitted outside to the front porch. “Don’t get dirty.”

“I won’t. Don’t worry.” The screen door slammed behind her.

Claire followed her son into the kitchen and watched as he rummaged in the refrigerator before plopping onto a stool at the counter with a can of Coke and a piece of cold chicken. His eyes were distrustful, his hair hung in his face, his expression was one of irritation, and yet she loved this boy with all her heart. “There’s something I want you to know. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

“Yeah?” He popped the tab of his soda. “What?”

“It’s about your father.”

“He’s a pervert.” He took a long swallow of Coke.

“No, Sean, I’m not talking about Paul.”

“Shit, then what—?” He looked up sharply.

She laid her fingers across his forearm and felt his muscles tense. “Paul St. John isn’t your biological father.”

“What the fu—?” He drew away from her as if he’d been burned. “What do you mean—not my biological father?”

“Just that. Listen to me. I wasn’t married when I conceived you. I was involved with someone, and he went into the army and didn’t know about you.”

“What?” He jumped off his stool and it scooted across the floor to bang into the wall. “What? For Christ’s sake, Mom, is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No joke.”