Free I, Emma Freke by Elizabeth Atkinson Page A

when everything Penelope had said made so much sense. Now my life seemed even worse than before.
    All of a sudden, Donatella jumped up and snapped her fingers.
    â€œHold your horoscope, Emma! I do have something that just might interest you. I forgot all about it.”
    She crossed over to the giant basket in the kitchen where we stored bills and began rifling through the thick pile of papers. Then she found it—a large white envelope—and handed it to me.
    â€œThis came special delivery this morning. Funny coincidence now that I think about it.”
    I studied the fancy handwriting. It looked like it might have been written with an old-fashioned quill pen. The envelope was addressed to
The Descendants of Boris Horace Freke
.
    â€œBut we’re not descendants of Boris Horace anybody,” I said, adding, “was he really named Boris Horace?”
    Donatella nudged me. “Just open it already.”
    Inside was a piece of mint-colored stationery lined in tiny clumps of trees.
    Â 
    Please join us
for the 59th Annual
FREKE FAMILY REUNION
Friday, June 27th—Monday, June 30th
Paul Bunyan State Park and Campground
NEW THULE, Wisconsin
    I was confused.
    â€œWhat has this got to do with me other than the fact that I am forced to share Walter’s horrible last name because it’s good for business?”
    â€œThis happens to be the clan you’re looking for,” she said casually as she lifted her pocketbook from the coat rack and did one last makeup check in the mirror.
    â€œWhat is that supposed to mean?”
    â€œI mean, you take after his side of the family. I think you should go and see for yourself.”
    â€œBut you said I wasn’t related to
him
!”
    She threw her shawl dramatically across her shoulders and pursed her ruby red lips.
    â€œI never actually
said
that, Emma—I told you we got divorced a year before you were born. You decided to draw your own conclusions.”
    I stood up, shook the invitation at her, and yelled louder than I ever had in my whole life.
    â€œSo what exactly are you telling me, Donatella?!”
    My mother paused at the door before she left for her date with the lobsterman. Then she melted into one huge smile as if she were giving me the best news of my life.
    â€œThat whether you like it or not, the truth is
honey . . .
you really are a Freke.”
    When she slammed the door shut, a small burst of wind blew through the apartment. I remained standing and allowed the breeze to swirl around me and through the room.
    It’s difficult to describe what I was feeling. Other than totally stunned.
    I wasn’t exactly pleased about this shocking confession (twelve years later than it should have been). But after letting the news sink in, I did feel, I don’t know,
lighter
. Everything appeared more focused. The furniture looked less drab, and the room smelled faintly sweeter. Even the grinding noise of our old refrigerator sounded kind of comforting, no longer annoying.
    And then it occurred to me. For once in my life, I had hope . . . . hope that I might fit in somewhere and “belong.” Even if it was to a bunch of Frekes.
    The next week was a whirlwind of preparations. I had just ten days to get ready for the reunion.
    Donatella actually helped out by calling the family headquarters listed at the bottom of the letter informing them I would be traveling alone as an “unaccompanied minor.” By the end of that day, I had a reservation to fly to Milwaukee, where I would be met by the Welcome Hosts, Jim and Nancy Freke, at the baggage claim area. Already I was excited—these people were organized!
    Later, when I asked Donatella if she knew any of the Freke relatives, my mother threw her head back and chuckled extra loudly.
    â€œAre you kidding?” she yapped.
    Apparently, she had never met any of Walter’s family, other than a sister who stood as a witness at their quickie wedding (but of course, she