The Other Sister
Also by Donna Hill
If I Could
Say Yes
A House Divided
Heat Wave (with Niobia Bryant and Zuri Day)
The One That I Want (with Zuri Day and Cheris Hodges)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
THE OTHER SISTER
DONNA HILL
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
Discussion Questions
Teaser chapter
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Donna Hill
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2380-2
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: July 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2381-9 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2381-3 (ebook)
First Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2020
This novel is dedicated in loving memory to my mom, Dorothy Hill, who was my cheerleader and champion. She taught me how to love and instilled in me the importance of family. I miss you every day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to send a big thanks to my editor, Selena James, for her patience and guidance with this novel and through the years with all the projects that we have worked on together.
Without my readers, where would I be? Since 1990, when my first novel, Rooms of the Heart, was published, the most dedicated readers anywhere, romance readers, took me in and gave me a new family. Through the years, they have continued reading my work, sharing the good news of the stories that I write, and sending me uplifting letters (back in the day). To your posts on social media supporting all my “babies,” I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart!
PROLOGUE
Zoie Crawford opened the cover of her laptop. She had her story to write. Not the one that her editor, Marc, was expecting, but her version.
Her cell phone rang. She picked it up from the desk and was surprised to see it was Kimberly Maitland-Graham. The long-lost half-sister she was just thinking about. She pressed the talk icon.
“Hello, Mrs. Graham.”
“Hello. I’ve thought about . . . our conversation,” Kimberly said.
“And?”
“I need you to understand that no matter what threats you make to expose my family, no matter how I feel or what I want or believe, I can’t tell my family. It would destroy my marriage, ruin my children. My children!”
Zoie shut her eyes, heard the passionate plea in Kimberly’s voice. “Don’t you even want to know your real mother, our mother—me? Don’t your children deserve to know their grandmother, their roots?”
“I can’t. Please . . . if you have any compassion, you won’t do this. They can’t find out this way.” She paused. “At least let me do it my way in my own time. Do you have children, Zoie?”
“No.”
“Then you can never understand that a mother will do anything, anything to protect her children.”
Zoie thought about her great-grandmother, her grandmother, her own mother, and the sacrifices they’d made, the losses they’d endured, the deals and secrets they’d kept, hoping for a better life for their children.
“I think I do,” she said softly. “Good luck with whatever you decide to do, Kimberly. Maybe one day we’ll see each other again—as sisters.”
Zoie pressed the call end icon and slowly set the phone down. She turned to her laptop, opened her Word program to a blank page and began to write her article on Kimberly Maitland-Graham.
She wrote nonstop for a steady three hours before she was satisfied with the piece. After a last spell check, she hit send, and off it went to Marc. He would be disappointed to put it mildly. It wasn’t the story they’d discussed. It wasn’t even close. But it was the story seen through her new eyes. At least she would be able to sleep at night.
She went to look for her mother. They had a lot more talking to do.
The ringing phone stirred her from sleep. With one eye open, she groped for the phone on the nightstand.
“Hello?” she mumbled.
“Turn on the television. Not that local mess, a national channel,” Marc barked into the phone.
Zoie fumbled, bleary-eyed, and located the remote and turned to MSNBC. There was a Breaking News banner running across the screen.
“It was just announced at Graham campaign headquarters that Kimberly Maitland-Graham has withdrawn from the race for State Senator, citing family concerns as a reason. Graham was considered a shoo-in for the nomination and all the polls indicated that she would win by a large margin over her Democratic opponent,” the announcer said.
Zoie still held the phone as she watched in stunned silence.
“Are you hearing this?” Marc said, snapping her to attention.
“Yes. I’m watching.”
“So much for your series. Not much point now.”
“I suppose not,” she said absently.
“And what was that crap fluff piece that you sent me on Graham?”
Zoie drew her knees to her chest. “A change of heart. All that other shit isn’t as important as I thought it was.”
“I see.” He pushed out a breath. “When are you coming back to work?”
“That’s another thing, Marc. I don’t know when I’ll be coming back . . .”
CHAPTER 1
“Have you lost your mind, Kimberly?”
The fury in Rowan’s words struck her harder than a shove.
He paced the off-white carpeted bedroom floor, running his hand across his face as if he could wipe away the absurdity of what he’d heard. He whirled toward her, the ocean blue of his eyes turned dark and ominous. “You need to tell me what the hell is going on.”
Kimberly drew in a breath, tucked her strawberry blond hair behind her diamond studded ears. “I should have told you first before I made the announcement.”
“You think!” he snapped.
Kimberly inwardly flinched. “I’ve been . . . struggling with this decision for weeks.”
Rowan started to speak.
“Please let me finish.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Running for office. Having a higher calling. It all sounds so wonderful. Altruistic.” She forced a half smile. “But it’s not what I want. The life of a politician . . . what that kind of life that would mean for the girls.” She crossed the room and stood right in front of him. She clasped his shoulders. “Our lives would be t urned upside down,” she pleaded.
Rowan’s sleek brows drew together, cinching his eyes into stormy slits. “Kim. We talked about this for nearly a year before you announced that you were running for State Senate.” He pulled away from her and threaded his fingers through his sandy brown hair. “What about the staff, the lease on the campaign office, the donors! I put my fucking name on the line to get them to dig in their pockets.” He jabbed his finger in her direction. “For you! What do you plan to tell them? What am I supposed to tell them?” He shook his head and resumed his pacing.
The knot in Kimberly’s throat grew. “I’ll find a way to handle it. I will.”
Rowan peered at her as if seeing her through a veil of fog. “Oh . . . you will. Like how you handled it by sending out a fucking press release instead of talking to me! That’s what you mean by you’ll handle it?” He snorted a laugh of disgust then blew out a breath. He snatched up his jacket from the chaise where he’d tossed it. “I’m going out.”
The bedroom door slammed shut, vibrating through her veins. Her heart thudded. She dropped down to the side of the king-sized bed and lowered her face into her hands. Tears squeezed out from between her fingers. She sucked in air. In all their years of marriage she’d never seen Rowan that angry. He had every right. She should have talked to him first, but she knew that she couldn’t. He would have used every logical and emotional tool in his toolbox to get her to stay in the race. Worse, he may have gotten her to admit the real truth and she was not ready for that. Not yet, maybe never, which is why she had no choice except to pull out.
Slowly she pushed herself to her feet, crossed the room, and stood in front of her dressing table mirror. Same soft pale skin that tanned perfectly in the sun, thick hair that tumbled in waves to her shoulders, dissolving into a riot of strawberry blond curls in damp weather, and gray-green eyes that changed color with the season. What stared back at her was the same reflection she’d seen for her entire thirty-eight years. But she wasn’t the same. All the little quirks about her complexion, her hair, even the slight flare of her nose looked different now. Made sense now.
If Rowan lost his mind over her dropping out of the race, what would he do if she told him the real reason?
She turned away from the damning image.
“Mom?”
Kimberly blinked, turned toward the door.
Her twin daughters, Alexis and Alexandra, stood in the threshold. Their identical doe-brown eyes were wide with concern.
Kimberly forced a smile. Sniffed. “Hey. My girls.”
“I heard you and Daddy yelling,” Alexis said softly.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She crossed the room, bent down and put her arms around her daughters. “Grown people argue. Just like you two do,” she added, looking from one to the other.
“You and Daddy never yell,” Alexandria insisted.
Kimberly tucked her lips in before she spoke. “After you and your sister fuss and fight don’t things always go back to the way they were? You make up. You forgive. Right?”
They nodded, their chestnut ponytails bobbing.
She kissed each one in turn on the cheek. “Everything is fine. You’ll see. Now, who wants pizza?”
“I do!” they chorused in perfect harmony.
“Great.” She rose to her feet. “You ladies go wash up and I’ll put in the order.”
“Extra pepperoni!” Alexis called out as the sisters darted out of the room.
Kimberly sighed heavily, turned around, and crossed to her nightstand and picked up the phone. She opened the drawer and took out the small collection of menus, found the one for their local pizzeria, called and placed her order. Forty minutes. Maybe Rowan would be back by then. She tossed he phone aside.
This was all Zoie Crawford’s fault. Every damned bit of it! She’d made a name for herself for her investigative series following the World Trade Center attack a year earlier. Now she’d set her sights on digging through her life with the same tenacity.
When she’d been approached with a phone call from Zoie months earlier to do an feature piece on her run for senate, she’d been very hesitant. But Zoie had insisted that it would highlight her career as an attorney, while also being the wife of one of New York’s biggest tech giants, and a mother to twin girls. A story of a young girl from the south, growing up to become a New York powerhouse. Women everywhere would love an empowerment story like hers, she’d said. Ironically, it was Rowan who ultimately convinced her to agree to the profile, insisting that it would be great publicity.
Kimberly had looked up Zoie’s writing credits to discover that she’d done an extensive series on the World Trade Center disaster. The writing was vivid, insightful, and compassionate, but a stark reminder of a day, the remnants of which were still visible and visceral a year later. So, she’d finally agreed, thinking at the time “little paper, little coverage,” but every negative thing that she’d ever heard about journalists, Zoie proved to be true.
It was no wonder that those in politics had such an adversarial relationship with the press. Zoie Crawford epitomized all that was reviled in journalists; the unshakeable tenacity to shovel up every ugliness, misstep, secret, and pain, without regard for their prey or the upheaval that it may cause in their lives.
Perhaps Zoie felt that she was being magnanimous by sending her an early copy of the story that she’d intended to send to her newspaper publisher.
She still experienced the visceral shock that accelerated her heart and swirled her thoughts, the morning the draft of the article popped up on her computer screen. The words were knifelike, stabbed her with precision, and opened wounds she didn’t know she had. All those months of “friendly” phone calls and follow-up visits, even showing up at her campaign gala, was all part of Zoie’s ruse to seep into her life and infect every aspect of it.
What choice did she have? She did the only thing she could to protect her marriage and her family. Family! She didn’t even know what that meant anymore. Whatever she’d believed family to be had been shattered. Her parents weren’t her parents. Her father was not her father. And her real mother had been the housekeeper’s daughter. She couldn’t wrap her own mind around it. How could she ever tell that to Rowan? Rowan Graham was the poster child for nouveau money and east coast elitism, who quietly embraced the ideologies of white privilege, from which she’d passively benefited. Until now.
The printing of Zoie’s proposed story “The Rise of Kimberly Maitland-Graham—The Other Side of Politics,” would have exposed innocent people to the Maitland family secret that had remained hidden for decades, and the inevitable fallout that would come with its unearthing. She couldn’t let that happen, especially to her children.
That last phone call between her and Zoie, she’d practically begged Zoie not to go through with submitting the exposé. “I need you to understand that no matter what threats you make to expose my family, no matter how I feel, or what I want or believe, I can’t tell my family. It would destroy my marriage, ruin my children. My children!”
“Don’t you even want to know your real mother, our mother—me? Don’t your children deserve to know their grandmother, their roots?”
“I can’t. Please . . . if you have any compassion, you won’t do this. They can’t find out this way.” She paused. “At least let me do it my way in my own time. Do you have children, Zoie?”
“No.”
“Then you can never understand that a mother will do anything, anything to protect her children.”
The very idea that she and Zoie Crawford were related by blood sickened her to her stomach.
It was after midnight when she heard the front door open and close. Her body stiffened beneath the soft, pale peach sheets. She heard her own heartbeat thump against the pillow that she gripped against her body. Minutes passed, but Rowan didn’t come into the bedroom. She strained her ears for any sounds coming from the front of the penthouse apartment.
Tossing the covers aside, she got out of bed, grabbed he r robe, and slipped it on. When she opened the bedroom door, she was taken aback to see the entire front of the apartment was settled in darkness. Goosebumps rose along her arms. Was she going to be like one of those women from television that walks into the dark room while the audience screams for her not to go in there?
She eased out into the hallway that led to the living room. She was certain she’d heard Rowan come in. With a flick of the switch, the room was bathed in soft light. She was alone.
“I am not going crazy,” she muttered. “Rowan,” she called out, barely above a whisper. She walked in the opposite direction toward the formal dining room that led to their respective home offices.
A sliver of light peeked out from under Rowan’s office door. The thudding of her heart slowed. She walked toward the office, knocked once and opened the door.
Rowan’s back was to her. He stood facing the window that looked out onto the Manhattan skyline. His silhouette cut an impressive sight against the dark sky and twinkling lights. That was Rowan—impressive. So much about who he was as a person was tied to creating impressions. She remembered how awestruck she’d been by him that very first time they’d met.
It was a fundraising event for the rehabilitation of the famed James Theater. She couldn’t remember why she was even there. Those kinds of events she generally steered clear of. She’d been groomed and nurtured on fundraisers, attended more than she could count. As an adult, she avoided them as often as she could. As an attorney whose client roster resembled the who’s who of the marginalized, her work didn’t lend itself to fancy galas. But she’d gone to that one. She was seated at the table with one of her colleagues from the legal clinic where she worked. Something drew her attention to the door, and there he was—standing there, framed in the archway. She remembered that she couldn’t breathe. Her throat had grown dry and her heart raced as if she’d been chased. She watched him cross the room and the waves of well-heeled guests parted like the Red Sea then closed in around him.