Read Online My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer - Free Book Online Page A

cheer herself as she had ever since she was twelve and Papa had installed the ostentatious light fixture.
    With the thought of Papa came a rush of sorrow so intense tears spurted into her eyes, making the miniature rainbows swim. Closing her eyes, she brought up her hand to cover her mouth and stifled a pained moan. Oh, how she missed Papa and Mama!
    “Isabelle?”
    Randolph’s query straightened her in the seat. “I’m in here,” she called in a weary voice, watching as her older brother strode through the wide doorway and crossed the carpeted floor to stand in front of her. He had not yet removed his mourning armband for the evening, and the black crepe band seemed to shout the reminder of what she’d lost. She forced herself to look into her brother’s face, and a chill went down her spine. Randolph’s expression was stern, as always, but today it seemed particularly grim.
    “There you are.” His tone indicated he believed she’d deliberately hidden from him. “We need to talk.”
    “All right.” She linked her hands in her lap. “What is it?”
    Randolph perched on a wing-back chair near the settee, his dark brows pulled into a frown. “As you know, Father made me executor of his will.”
    Pain stabbed. Isabelle swallowed, staring at her hands. How pale her skin appeared against the black of her full skirt. She knew they needed to discuss Papa’s will, but she wished it could be delayed. The longer they waited, the more she could pretend it was all a dream—that Mama and Papa were simply away for their annual New Year’s celebration and would be coming home with smiles and hugs and presents, as they had every year for as far back as Isabelle could remember.
    “I know,” she contributed in a strained voice, raising her face to meet his gaze again. “Papa believed it was your responsibility as firstborn, and I trust his judgment.”
    Randolph’s scowl deepened. “I’m more than the firstborn.”
    Isabelle pinched her brow at his harsh tone, but she offered a nod of agreement. “You’re also the only son. Of course, I—”
    “I mean ,” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing to mere slits of snapping black, “that I’m the firstborn and the only true heir to the Standler fortune.”
    Isabelle bit her lower lip. Although she’d longed for a close relationship with her brother her entire life, she had come to accept he wished to remain distant. His resentment of her was as familiar as Mama’s tender care and Papa’s gentle guidance, but she wished he could set it aside. “Randolph, I don’t understand why—”
    Without warning he thrust something at her. A book. A small leather-bound volume, with a worn cover and curled pages. “This should help you understand. Open it.”
    Isabelle’s heart jumped into her throat. “W-what is it?”
    “I said open it.” Her brother’s icy glare demanded obedience.
    With trembling fingers, Isabelle turned the first page, bringing into view a record of births and deaths. Randolph leaned forward, pointing to the third name in a list. “This, my dear little sister ”—the disdain in his tone made her scalp prickle—“is your true heritage. Molly Gallagher, born of Irish descent in County Meath, Ireland. You aren’t a Standler. And you’ll be receiving no inheritance.”
    Isabelle shook her head, a new sorrow striking. How could Randolph’s resentment carry him to the extreme of purchasing a used Bible and trying to convince her she had been born to some other family? She closed the book and held it out to him. “It won’t work, Randolph.” When he made no move to take it from her, she went on in a soft, pleading tone. “I’m sorry I’ve never pleased you—heaven knows I’ve tried—but this is cruel. Please . . . can’t we set aside our past differences? We’re all the family we have left.”
    “I have no family left.” Randolph grated out his harsh words through clenched teeth. Rising, he paced to the fireplace, where he stood, his back