Edward Alcott Taft had died when my mom was twelve and Aunt Olivia was closing in on eighteen. I was fairly certain that if he had been alive during my mom’s Deb year, she probably wouldn’t have “turned up” pregnant in the first place. The fact that she had made a pregnancy pact with two of her friends didn’t exactly scream “well-adjusted.” But the fact that she’d chosen her own brother-in-law to knock her up?

That had Daddy Issues written all over it.

“Have you talked to her?” Lillian asked me. “Your mama?”

That put me on high alert. If Lillian had brought me here in hopes of inspiring a little family forgiveness, she was going to be sorely disappointed.

“If by talk you mean steadfastly ignore, then yes,” I said flatly. “Otherwise, no.”

My mom had lied to me. She’d let me believe that my father was former-senator, now-convict Sterling Ames. I’d believed the senator’s kids were my half-siblings. They—and his wife—believed it still. The senator’s son was Lily’s boyfriend. Walker and Lily had just gotten back together. I couldn’t tell him the truth without telling her.

And if I told Lily who my father was, what my mother and her beloved daddy had done… I’d lose her.

“I can’t help but notice you’ve been awfully quiet these past six weeks, sweetheart.” Lillian spoke gently, but I recognized a Southern inquisition when I heard one. “Not talking to your mama. Not talking to anyone, really, about things that matter.”

I read between the lines of what she was saying. “Are we having this conversation because you want me to come clean to Lily and Aunt Olivia about the baby-daddy situation or because you want my word that I won’t?”

Lillian Taft, grande dame of society, philanthropist, guardian of the family fortune and reputation, was not impressed with my choice of words. “I would consider it a great favor if you would refrain from using the term baby daddy.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

“It’s not mine to answer.” Lillian glanced down at her husband’s grave. “My time to speak up was years ago. As much as I might regret my choice, I’m not about to take this one away from you now. This is your life, Sawyer. If you want to live it with your head in the sand, I’m not going to stop you.”

When it came to the art of making her opinion known while explicitly declining to share an opinion, my grandmother was an artist.

After all these years, she was tired of secrets.

Like I’m not, I thought.