The Other Daughter Read Free Page B

condition.
    “It's okay,” he whispered. “You're safe. Tell us your name, honey. We need to know your name.”
    Her mouth opened, her parched throat working, but no sound emerged. She looked a little more panicked.
    “Relax,” he soothed. “Take a deep breath. Everything is okay. Everything is fine. Now try it again.”
    She looked at him trustingly.
    This time she whispered, “Daddy's Girl.”
     
ONE
     
    Twenty years later
     
    SHE WAS LATE, she was late, oh, God, she was
so
late!
    Melanie Stokes came bounding up the stairs, then made the hard left turn down the hall, her long blond hair whipping around her face. Twenty minutes and counting. She hadn't even thought about what she was going to wear. Damn.
    She tore into her room with her sweatshirt half pulled over her head. A strategic kick sent the heavy mahogany door slamming shut behind her as she shed the first layer of clothes. She toed off her tennis shoes and sent them sailing beneath the pine bureau that swallowed nearly a quarter of her bedroom. A lot of things came to rest beneath the battered dresser. One of these days she meant to clean it out. But not tonight.
    Melanie hastily shimmied out of her ripped-up jeans, tossed her T-shirt onto the sleigh bed, and hurried to the closet. The wide plank floorboards felt cool against her toes, making her do a little
cha-cha-cha
along the way.
    “Come on,” she muttered, ripping back the silk curtain. “Ten years of compulsive shopping crammed into one five-by-five space. How hard can it be to locate a cocktail dress?”
    To judge by the mess, pretty hard. Melanie grimaced, then waded in fatalistically. Somewhere in there were a few decent dresses.
    At the age of twenty-nine, Melanie Stokes was petite, capable, and a born diplomat. She'd been abandoned as a child at City General Hospital with no memory of where she came from, but that had been a long time ago and she didn't think of those days much. She had an adoptive father whom she respected, an adoptive mother whom she loved, an older brother whom she worshiped, and an indulgent godfather whom she adored. Until recently she had considered her family to be very close. They were not just another rich family, they were a tight-knit family. She kept telling herself they would be like that again soon.
    Melanie had graduated from Wellesley six years earlier with her family serving as an enthusiastic cheering section. She'd returned home right afterward to help her mother through one of her “spells,” and somehow it had seemed easiest for everyone if she stayed. Now she was a professional event organizer. Mostly she did charity functions. Huge black-tie affairs that made the social elite feel social and elite while simultaneously milking them for significant sums of money. Lots of details, lots of planning, lots of work. Melanie always pulled them off. Seamless, social columnists liked to rave about the events, relaxed yet elegant. Not to mention profitable.
    Then there were the nights like tonight. Tonight was the seventh annual Donate-A-Classic for Literacy reception, held right there in her parents' house, and, apparently, cursed.
    The caterer hadn't been able to get enough ice. The parking valets had called in sick, the
Boston Globe
had printed the wrong time, and Senator Kennedy was home with a stomach virus, taking with him half the press corps. Thirty minutes ago Melanie had gotten so frustrated, tears had stung her eyes. Completely unlike her.
    But then, she was agitated tonight for reasons that had nothing to do with the reception. She was agitated, and being Melanie, she was dealing with it by keeping busy.
    Melanie was very good at keeping busy. Almost as good as her father.
    Fifteen minutes and counting. Damn. Melanie found her favorite gold-fringed flapper's dress. Encouraged, she began digging for gold pumps.
    During the first few months of Melanie's adoption, the Stokeses had been so excited about their new daughter, they'd lavished her with every