Wish I Might by Coleen Murtagh Paratore Read Free Book Online Page A

side-glance at his face.
    He looks nervous. Why should he be nervous? It’s me who should be nervous. My whole life may be about to change.
    “Just blurt it out,” I say.
    Will laughs, a big, long, satisfying laugh.
    “What’s so funny?” I say.
    “You,” he says. “You’re a plucky one. I knew you’d be. From all those stories about your famous mum on the Internet, I had a feeling she was a tad too tightly strung, a bit too full of herself. But you? Nah. When I read that newspaper story about how you saved that old library, I thought—”
    “You read about that?” I say. “All the way over in England?”
    Will bursts out laughing again. “Welcome to the World Wide Web, sister.”
    My heart skips at the word
sister.
    “Haven’t you ever done a search of your name online?” Will says.
    “No,” I say. “It never occurred to me.”
    “Well, try it when you get home,” he says. “You’re making quite a name for yourself, taking on causes like Princess Diana or Mother Teresa, standing up on your little soapbox spouting your opinions and dashing off letters to the editor like you’re the prime minister himself. You’d love Speaker’s Corner in London.”
    “What’s wrong with having opinions?” I say, standing up.
    “Not a pitty thing,” Will says. “I think it’s adorable.”
    Ugh. I hate that word,
adorable.
    “All right,” I say. “Enough about my life. Tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here.”
    “Straight out, then,” Will says. “I like that.”
    My heart is pounding.
Careful what you ask for, Willa.
    “Sit down,” Will says. I do.
    He stands up. “Okay, then.” He clears his throat. “How much do you know about your father, Billy Havisham?”
    “Not much,” I say. “Just that he died in a hot-air balloon crash the day after he and my mother weremarried. It turned out I was a wedding-night baby. He never even knew I existed.”
    “That’s funny,” Will says. “He never knew about me, either.”
    “Tell me,” I say.
    “Okay, well, about three years or so before your mother married Billy Havisham, he had been in love with another woman, my mum, Annie Bolton. She was the only daughter of the Kensington Boltons, maybe you’ve heard of them. They’re one of the richest families in the UK, bigwigs, banks and Thoroughbred horses mostly. Her parents, my grandparents—hopefully you’ll never have to meet them—they’re a wicked cold lot, those two, they hated Billy Havisham. They thought he was an irresponsible, reckless, foolish American, not good enough for Bolton blood. Any man trying to make a living writing little advertising ditties and jingles couldn’t possibly be good enough for their daughter.”
    “He ran an advertising agency,” I say, remembering one of the few things Nana told me about my birthfather. My mother always refused to talk about him. “His company was called ‘What’s the Big Idea?’”
    Will nods. “Clever title.”
    “Yes,” I say. “I guess he had quite a way with words.”
    “Back to the story,” Will says. “My grandparents had my mum pegged to marry another bloke, Russell Denwood, of the Denwood furniture fortune. My mother was a weak bird and couldn’t defy her parents. She spent her whole life trying to please them and couldn’t change course then. She broke it off with Billy Havisham, broke his heart, she said, and he left London the following day. Shortly after, my mum realized she was carrying Billy’s baby.”
    “You?” I say.
    Will nods. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says.
    We’re silent for a minute.
So it’s true. We had the same father. Will is my brother. I have a brother. Wow.
    A red bird flits by and perches on a headstone. A breeze cools my face.
    “So did your mother marry that Denwood guy?” I ask.
    “No,” Will says, shaking his head. “When the Denwoods discovered my mum was pregnant with another man’s child, they called the whole thing off. They threatened to disinherit their