Woman in Black (64 page)

When she reached the foot of the dais, she stopped, refusing to go any farther. She only turned and waved to the crowd, calling out, “
Gracias! Gracias por todo!
” A wave of applause broke over her, and then her moment in the spotlight was over, the crowd's attention diverted by the ribbon-cutting ceremony taking place at the entrance to the clinic. Minutes later, with the ceremony at an end and the crowd starting to disperse, she headed off in search of her husband. She hadn't gone more than a dozen steps when she was brought to a halt by a hand on her elbow. She turned to find herself face-to-face with the Señora. Her face was partially obscured from view by the wide brim of her hat, so all Concepción could see at first was her smile. White teeth and crimson lips.

“I'm glad I caught you,” the Señora said a bit breathlessly. She turned to the tall man at her side. “I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Vaughn. Vaughn, this is the very special lady I was telling you about.” The boyfriend was rugged, like a mountaineer, with blue eyes and yellow hair bleached by the sun. Handsome for a
gringo
, Concepción supposed, though no match for Jesús in her eyes. And speaking of Jesús … She glanced about in search of him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“I've heard a lot about you,” the boyfriend said to her, smiling warmly at Concepción as he shook her hand before slipping an arm around the Señora's shoulders. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Señor,” said Concepción politely. She felt awkward conversing with the Señora and her boyfriend. It was one thing to have forgiven her, another to be acting as though they were old friends.

But if she felt uncomfortable, the Señora didn't appear to notice. “It's wonderful, isn't it? I never thought I'd see this day. And here we all are, joined in celebration.” She tilted her head back to look up at the clinic, and as her face came into full view, Concepción could see her eyes, which were shining with tears of joy. “I meant what I said up there. I owe it all to you,” she said, bringing her gaze back to Concepción.

Concepción shook her head. “I did nothing.”

“That's not true. If I hadn't met you, I wouldn't have known …” The Señora faltered a bit before continuing, “You made me realize that it wasn't enough to be sorry, that I needed to give back. Not that it could ever make up for—” She broke off, visibly distressed, and Concepción saw the boyfriend's arm tighten about her shoulders.

An awkward silence ensued, in which Concepción experienced a flurry of emotions. Pity. Anger. Sorrow. Most of all sorrow—which would always be with her, she knew, like a hard nugget of amber formed of sap that had once run freely. An image of Milagros's dear face rose in her mind, bringing a wave of longing so fierce it nearly bowled her over.

Something stirred beneath her shawl just then, and the silence was broken by a tiny, mewing cry. Concepción drew back the shawl to reveal the infant in a sling across her chest: a tiny girl with a tuft of black hair and eyes like two shiny coffee beans, now blinking up at her sleepily. Concepción smiled down tenderly at her child, feeling something hard and implacable inside her melt. She stroked the baby's cheek, cooing to her.

“Oh!” Abigail's eyes widened in surprise, and she leaned in for a closer look. “I didn't realize … Is she yours?”

Concepción nodded in response. She didn't blame the Señora for looking so astonished. She, too, had been thunderstruck to learn that she was with child at the relatively advanced age of forty-five. Then to have given birth to a healthy infant, a beautiful baby girl, after so many failed pregnancies and stillbirths—it could only be described as a miracle, a gift from God.

“Her name is Esperanza,” she said. “It means ‘hope.'”

“She's beautiful,” said the boyfriend, smiling down at Esperanza.

Abigail merely stared at the infant in openmouthed wonder. When she finally tore her gaze away, she and Concepción exchanged a long look. That of two women with a shared knowledge of what it is to be a mother: the joy and the heartbreak, the wonder that never ceases, the fearsome burden of responsibility it brings and the knowing that at any given moment it can be snatched away.

“I wish …” the Señora started to say, the tears in her eyes spilling over.

Concepción nodded in understanding. The Señora wished this joy weren't colored by sorrow. But wasn't that true of most joys? Didn't they by their very nature shine in contrast to the darkness around them? Once more recalling her
abuelita
's words, she placed her hand on the Señora's. “
Está bien.
” She did a startling thing then, something that surprised her as much as it did the Señora. She leaned in to kiss the other woman's cheek. “The angels are indeed smiling,” she said.

Author's Note

I've led a storied life in more ways than one. I've gone places and done things that astound me, looking back on it. Where did I ever find the courage? The willpower? Much of it I would advise against, were I to go back in time and have a heart-to-heart with my younger self. But good or bad, it was all grist for the mill, so I regret none of it. (Though I feel fortunate not to be haunted by compromising photos of myself online, having come of age in the pre-Internet era). The beauty of fiction is you can reshape past events however you please. I wasn't popular in high school but got to hang out with the cool kids when I wrote for the phenomenally successful teen series Sweet Valley High in the early years of my career. Trust me, you wouldn't have wanted to live through some of what I lived through, but hopefully you've enjoyed the novels that came of it.

If you Google my name, you will see my Cinderella story: welfare mom to millionaire. Every word is true, though the reality is I was a starving artist for a much longer period of time than I was on welfare. With two young children to support on my own, I often had to forgo purchasing the office supplies and stamps needed for submitting the articles and short stories I wrote on spec. Instead I used that money to put food on the table.

The lean years were the making of me, though. When I wrote my first adult novel,
Garden of Lies
, the story of babies switched at birth, one of whom grows up rich, the other poor, I knew what it was to go hungry. I knew what it was like for Rose putting on the skirt she wears to work every day, ironed so many times it's shiny in spots.
Garden of Lies
went on to become a
New York Times
bestseller, translated into twenty-two languages. I attribute its success in part to my having suffered.

I've also had my share of romantic ups and downs. More grist for the mill and the reason my fictional characters tend to be of the folks-this-ain't-my-first-rodeo variety. I've been married more than once. At one point, I was married to my agent. His client list boasts some notable names, and just recently I was struck by the realization that I had dined with two of the famous people depicted in the movies
The Theory of Everything
and
Selma
: professor Stephen Hawking and Coretta Scott King, respectively. How extraordinary! I witnessed history and saw it reenacted on film.

I met my current and forever husband,
Sandy Kenyon
, in a Hollywood meet-cute, which seems fitting given he's in the entertainment business, as a TV reporter and film critic. He had a radio talk show in Arizona at the time. I was a guest on his show, phoning in from New York City, where I live. He called me at home that night, at my invitation, and we talked for three hours. It became our nightly ritual, and when we finally met it was love at first sight, though we were hardly strangers. We married in 1996, and he became the inspiration for talk-show host Eric Sandstrom in
Thorns of Truth
. Though, as Sandy's fond of saying, he never killed a coanchor while driving drunk.

I have many people to thank for the support and guidance I've received along the way.

First and foremost, my husband, Sandy, who's been there every step of the way and who reads multiple drafts of my novels. He's patient, kind, and wise. He understands when I'm there in body but somewhere else in my mind, and doesn't get too upset at having to repeat himself more than once to get through to me. From him I learned the true meaning of romantic love, which has enriched my fictional love stories immeasurably. He's also partly the reason I'm still walking this earth. More than once it was his hand on my arm, pulling me to safety, that kept me from stepping into the path of a moving vehicle while in one of my preoccupied states.

To my children, Michael and Mary, for being the quirky, loving individuals they are. Whenever I beat myself up for having been a less-than-perfect parent (which pretty much describes every single parent), they tell me they couldn't love me any more than they do. They also both have a wicked sense of humor, which they get from me. When I was exploring the idea of having another child, with Sandy, I was told I'd need an egg donor. Which led to the what-if scenario that would have me giving birth to my own grandchild (and writing the bestseller that would come of it!), at which point my daughter remarked dryly, “Mom, would you like that overeasy or sunny side up?”

To friends and family who have made their vacation homes available to me through the years. Their generosity has allowed me to go away for extended periods of time to write in solitude amid serene settings. Bill and Valerie Anders. Frank Cassata and Thomas Rosamilia. Miles and Karen Potter. Jon Giswold. Thanks to my friend Jon, I was introduced to the scenic wonders of northern Wisconsin and be friended by the good people of Grantsburg, which I now consider my home away from home.

To my friends and author pals, who are my cheering section. Whenever I'm at a low point or feeling blue, they're always there to offer a hug, a pat on the back, or a word of encouragement. I wouldn't be where I am today if not for them.

I smile, and brush away a tear, whenever I think of my oldest friend, Kay Terzian, who had every single one of my titles, in multiple editions, when she passed away. She would always say she was my biggest fan. I never doubted it.

I am also blessed to have many loyal readers. They range in age from fourteen to ninety-four and come from all walks of life and all parts of the globe. One, a prisoner doing time on a drug offense, sent letters commenting intelligently on my novels, which I was happy to know were available in prison libraries. Shortly before his release, he sent me a Mother's Day card. I had written a few times in response to his letters, but would hardly describe myself as a pen pal, let alone a surrogate mom. I think he regarded me fondly because he felt he knew what was in my heart, which I pour into the pages of my novels. That is the greatest compliment of all and the best part of what I do for a living, worth more to me than fame or fortune.

Thank you for taking this journey with me. If you've enjoyed what you've read, leave a comment on Amazon or Goodreads to help spread the word, so I can keep doing what I do.

Eileen Goudge

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First off, a big kiss to my publisher, Roger Cooper, and his trusty crew at Vanguard Press. I've never met anyone in publishing who works harder than Roger. He's my not-so-secret weapon, a true Energizer Bunny when it comes to encouraging, promoting, and most of all believing in what I do. Any risks I've taken with him have been amply rewarded.

I'd also like to thank the following people, who were so generous in sharing with me their time and expertise. Bob Poole, cameraman par excellence and world traveler, who, in addition to reminding me of just
how
sedentary my job is, gave me a glimpse of the world through his lens, so to speak, by taking me on a guided verbal tour of some of his adventures in documenting wildlife and the various efforts to preserve it. Katie Carpenter, for putting me in touch with Bob, and also for her work as a documentary filmmaker, from which the planet has benefited as well as I. Dr. George Lombardi, my doctor and medical adviser, who gave me the information I needed to create what I hope is an authentic portrait of a cancer patient and who gave up his lunch hour to do so. My new friend, Thomas Rosamilia, a cancer patient himself, provided some insight into the emotional aspect of that journey.

Thank you to my dear husband, Sandy Kenyon, and my agent (and friend), Susan Ginsburg, who have been with me every step of the way; also to Francine LaSala, for a respectful and thorough job in editing the manuscript.

A special thanks, as well, to two people who gave me what is perhaps the greatest gift of all to a writer: solitude. By allowing me to hole up again in their guesthouse for more than a month, Valerie Anders and her husband, Bill, provided me with the freedom in which to write uninterrupted. I wish every author could have such generous patrons as they. This work wouldn't have been nearly as good (or finished nearly on time) without their support.

Last but not least, I'd like to thank my readers, many of whom validate my efforts on a daily basis through e-mails. For anyone wishing to contact me, my address is
[email protected]
. You can also visit my website at
www.eileengoudge.com
. I'd love to hear from you.

A Biography of Eileen Goudge

Eileen Goudge (b. 1950) is one of the nation's most successful authors of women's fiction, beginning with the acclaimed six-million-copy bestseller
Garden of Lies
.

Goudge is one of six children, and the joys and strife that come with a large family have informed her fiction, much of which centers on issues of sisterhood and family. At eighteen she quit college to get married, a whirlwind experience that two years later left her divorced, broke, and responsible for her first child. It was then that she started writing in earnest.

On a typewriter borrowed from a neighbor, Goudge began turning out short stories and articles. For years she had limited success—selling work to
McCall's
,
Reader's Digest
, and the
San Francisco Chronicle
—but in the early eighties she took a job writing for a new young adult series that would become the phenomenally successful
Sweet Valley High
.