Free Crossroads by Belva Plain

carols.”
    “Oh, yes. She is very pretty.”
    “She’s breathtaking. And Gwen is worth ten of her. Make that twenty.”
    “And Gwen will figure that out eventually.”
    “I’m not so sure.”
    “Of course you’re not; you’re her mother. Hovering is a part of the job description.”
    But that was the problem. Because there had been those times when she hadn’t hovered . . . when she had pulled back. And she would always be afraid that she had hurt Gwen during those times. “In the beginning,” she said softly, “when I first brought her home, it was a bad time . . . and she looked so much like her father . . . I wasn’t always . . .”
    “The perfect mother? I wonder how many women are.”
    “But I knew how much she needed and I . . .”
    “Did you love her?”
    That was the hard question. The one that could still flash through a troubled dream. But it had to be answered honestly. “I always felt there was something that made me take her. Some reason that I couldn’t understand . . .” The next part was the hardest. “I learned to love her. It grew—the love did. I’m not sure it was there at first.”
    “It would be surprising if it had been, given the circumstances. Don’t you think?”
    “But Gwen deserved better.”
    “Yes. So did you.”
    “But I was the adult. And now I don’t know how to . . . well, to fix it.” He didn’t answer. “Say something.”
    “I think you know what I want to say,” he said.
    “I should tell Gwen about her father.”
    “I think she’d be able to understand a lot of things she can’t now. And it is a part of her history—”
    “I know.” She cut him off. “You’ve told me all of that. Repeatedly.” But then guilt—an emotion she tried to avoid at all costs—overcame her. “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry for snapping.”
    She drew in a deep breath. “The truth is, I’ve been wrong about that. And you’re right.”
    He put his arms around her. “It’s not a contest, you know.”
    “I’m afraid it can get to be one with me. I hate being wrong.”
    He grinned. “I’ve noticed.”
    “And I hate being told when I’m wrong.”
    “Fortunately, it doesn’t happen very often.”
    “Flatterer.”
    “It’s working, isn’t it? See, you’re smiling again.”
    She was, but then she pulled away from him. “I know I have to tell Gwen—all of it. But it isn’t going to be easy.”
    “No.”
    “I’ve decided I’ll do it when we’re in Paris. It’ll just be the two of us—no interruptions or distractions. I thought about waiting until we get back home because she’d be on more familiar ground . . . but that would be procrastinating.” She paused. “All those years when I kept it from her—the truth about her father—I was trying to do what was best for her.”
    “I know.”
    “As long as she’s happy, I really don’t care about anything else.”
    But that wasn’t altogether true. There was a picture in Cassandra’s mind that was too private even to share with Walter: a picture of Gwen taking her place someday as the owner of the glassworks. She could see Gwen as the mistress of this house, see her standing in a garden behind the red maples, see her following the path that the Wrights had laid out for their own for generations. With her fine mind and her deep appreciation of all that was beautiful in art and in nature, Gwen would be such a worthy heir to follow Father and Grandfather and all the Wrights who had come before them. If only Gwen could just . . .
    “I want Gwen to believe in herself,” she cried to both Walter and herself. “Is that wrong?”
    “Did you believe in yourself when you were her age?”
    “No. And I paid for that.”
    I nearly lost everything—the glassworks, this house, the gardens,
the lawn edged with my red maples and the hill where Gwen runs
when she needs peace.
    “And look at you now,” he said.
    She knew what he was saying, and there was no arguing with it. Gwen would have to find her own way, as