Buch lesen: «Moonlight in Paris»
Garrett cringed inwardly as the pieces fell into place.
“You and my buddy Josh work together?” Disbelief was evident in his voice, but the woman standing before him—who sported a tattoo on her neck, a pierced eyebrow and blue-tipped hair—didn’t look like any of the high school teachers he’d had. Of course, his teachers had all been Catholic nuns.
“I teach freshman English at Paducah Tilghman.” A subtle rise of one of her eyebrows seemed to add, “So there.”
Apparently the mention of Josh’s name loosened his son Dylan’s tongue. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed blatantly at her disfigurement.
“Dylan—” Garrett started to correct him.
“No, it’s okay.” Tara gave him a small smile, but then sobered when she looked back at Dylan. “Motorcycle accident.”
“Cool!” Dylan’s voice was filled with awe.
Bona fide crazy, Garrett thought.
Moonlight in Paris
Pamela Hearon
PAMELA HEARON grew up in Paducah, a small city in western Kentucky that infuses its inhabitants with Southern values, Southern hospitality and a very distinct Southern accent. There she found the inspiration for her quirky characters, the perfect backdrop for the stories she wanted to tell and the beginnings of her narrative voice. She is a 2013 RITA® Award finalist for her first Mills & Boon® Cherish™ novel, Out of the Depths. Visit Pamela at her website (www.pamelahearon.com) or on Facebook and Twitter.
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To my precious daughter, Heather … the one true masterpiece of my life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT:
Writing a book requires gleaning information from many sources and sometimes becoming annoying in the process, I’m sure. I’m always amazed by the willingness of people to share their knowledge and experiences that add authenticity to my story … and I’m filled with gratitude.
As a small show of my appreciation, I’d like to thank the following people: Coroner Phil Hileman for his expertise on accidental death and suicide; Susan Barack for her contact in Paris; Steve and Jackie Beatty for sharing the opportunity for a Paris vacation; Sandra Jones, Angela Campbell, Maggie Van Well and Cynthia D’Alba for their suggestions, ideas, plotting help and patience; Kimberly Lang for always having the time to talk me through the loopholes and gaps; Agent Jennifer Weltz for her wisdom, insight and approachability; and editor Karen Reid for her gentle guidance, fabulous editing and her innate ability to just “get me.”
Above all, I want to thank my loving husband, Dick, who stays beside me through it all and encourages me to continue following this dream.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
“I’VE ALWAYS HEARD life can change in an instant. Guess I’m living proof, huh?”
Tara O’Malley threw a glance out the window to the tangled mass of metal that had been her motorcycle. It sat on prominent display today in her parents’ front yard—a grim reminder to passing motorists that motorcycles travel at the same speed as cars. Tomorrow, it would be junked.
Her mom sat the butter dish in the middle of the table and dropped a quick kiss on the top of Tara’s head. “Living is the important word in that sentence.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tara focused her attention back to the app on her phone where she was entering all the family’s medical history. Her accident had made her aware of the need to have such information at her fingertips, but it was Taylor Grove’s blood drive in her honor today that made her finally sit down and fill in the blanks. “What was Thea’s blood type?”
“A...same as mine,” her mom answered absently. “Do you think Emma would stop and get a bag of ice on her way into town? I’m afraid we might run low.”
“I’ll call her.” Tara pulled up her favorites list and thumbed her best friend’s number.
“Hey,” Emma answered on the first ring.
“Hey, would you stop and get a bag of ice? Mama’s afraid we’ll run out. And while I’m thinking about it, would you resend that class schedule for this week? I couldn’t get the one from the office to open, and I keep forgetting when the junior high students are coming for their tours.” The last full week of school was always crammed with so many activities that it was hard to fit in a lesson.
“Sure. I’m just leaving Paducah. Does your mom need anything else? Paper plates? Paper cups?”
“Do you need anything else, Mama? Are we using paper plates?”
Faith shook her head. “No, I’m doing Memorial Day like Thanksgiving in May this year. I just need enough people to eat all the food.”
“She says to bring people.” Tara relayed the message.
“I haven’t eaten all day, so I’m bringing a three-meal appetite,” Emma promised. “Be there in forty-five minutes or so.”
“Okay. See you then.” Tara pressed the button to end the call, and, before she could think, reached to rub the burning itch on her right hand. As had happened so many times over the past two months since her accident, her breath caught at the empty space her pinkie and ring fingers had occupied, and she sent up a quick prayer of thanks that two fingers and a spleen were all she’d lost. She traced the bright red scar that stopped halfway up her arm. “I’m thinking I might get another tattoo. Maybe some leaves that will make this look like a vine.”
That got her mom’s attention. Faith shot her daughter a pointed look. “Your dad will disown you. He took your first one pretty well only because it’s hidden, and the second with a grain of salt, but he threatened to write you out of the will over the last one.”
Tara didn’t mention the two they knew nothing about. She grinned, remembering the aggravated look on her dad’s face when she’d shown off the Celtic symbol for life just beneath her left earlobe. When she’d explained it was in memory of Grandma O’Malley and their Irish roots, he’d held his tongue, but the hard set of his jaw had indicated his displeasure.
Tara often referred to her dad as the closest thing to a saint she’d ever known. As the preacher at the lone church in Taylor’s Grove, Kentucky, Sawyer O’Malley sought to lead a life above reproach, and for the most part, he’d been successful. A loving and faithful wife...three relatively good kids.
Thea and Trenton had both gone through some rebellious stages during their teenage years, but it was just regular teenage stuff—a little drinking, some partying. But Tara, the “good girl,” had been the surprise to everyone, including herself.
Five years ago, her fiancé, Louis, returned from a mission trip in Honduras with a brand-new wife—an event that threw Tara’s world into a tailspin. Louis, her boyfriend of eight years, had been the only guy she’d ever dated. They’d even signed pledge cards that vowed chastity until marriage. Then he’d shown up with a wife, leaving Tara as an oddity—that rare twenty-three-year-old with her virginity still intact.
She’d made quick work of making up for all the lost time.
“Are Louis and Marta bringing their brood?”
Her mom answered with an affirmative nod as she slid the giant pan of macaroni and cheese into the oven.
Tara’s ex and his wife hadn’t lost any time, either. Three children in five years. And though it had taken a couple of years, Tara was glad she and Louis were friends again. She liked his family—especially Marta and her quiet, kind ways.
Tara set her phone down, feeling guilty that her mom was so busy, and she was doing nothing of great importance. “I’m not an invalid, Mama. Can I at least set the table?”
Her mom chewed her lip for a moment. “All right, you can set the table. But I’ll get Lacy’s china myself.” She disappeared into the other room.
Tara took the hint. Grandma O’Malley’s Belleek tableware was too precious to risk being carried by someone with newly missing fingers.
Trenton came in through the back door, arms laden with cartons of soft drinks and bottled water. With the blood drive in Tara’s honor going on, the annual O’Malley Memorial Day Dinner had swelled to triple the usual number of people. The entire day had been very humbling.
“Hey, pinky.”
Tara snorted and rolled her eyes at her brother’s twisted sense of humor. He’d labeled her with the new nickname before she’d even gotten out of the hospital.
“Would you help me with the chicken?” He found an open spot on the drink-and-dessert table, and unloaded his arms. “I’ve got to get all those pieces turned and basted, and the ribs need a close eye kept on them.”
“Sure.” She eased out of her chair, still aware of the tightness from the scar where her ruptured spleen had been removed. “But I need to know your blood type first. I’m filling in an emergency app for our family.”
“AB,” he answered.
Tara keyed in the information, and then frowned as she glanced down the chart. “What’s with this?”
Her dad came in from the garage just in time to hear her question. “What’s with what, lovebug?” Slipping an arm around her shoulder, he gave her a quick hug and a peck on her temple.
She pointed to the chart. “It doesn’t make sense. Trent’s AB like you. Thea’s A like Mama. I’m the only O negative in the bunch.”
Her mom came in from the dining room with Grandma O’Malley’s china stacked to just below her chin. Sawyer moved quickly in her direction, ready to alleviate her of the load as Tara continued voicing her thoughts to no one particular. “Is that even possible? Can an A and an AB produce an O?” She laughed. “Maybe we need a paternity test, Dad, to see if I’m really yours.”
Faith’s loud intake of breath drew everyone’s attention. Her eyes went wide with a horrific look of mingled shock, pain and undeniable guilt an instant before twelve of Grandma O’Malley’s treasured china plates crashed to the floor.
* * *
FAITH ISABEL FRANKLIN O’Malley had never wanted to die before, but the past seven hours had convinced her that death would be preferable to the excruciating pain she was presently feeling. It was as if she was dangling from a cord attached through her heart and the organ was being ripped slowly from her body. She’d been aware of every second of every minute of every hour that had brought her closer to this time when it would be just the immediate family.
Time for her confession.
People had started arriving before the broken china could be disposed of, so the mess and loss of family heirlooms made a convenient cover for the tears she couldn’t bring under control. Sawyer, Tara and Trenton watched her with guarded expressions throughout the afternoon, and even Thea, soon after her arrival, began questioning the family quietly about what was going on.
Their looks of pain had been almost more than Faith could bear, but Sawyer’s blessing for the food had been her major undoing. She’d lost it completely when he gave his thanks for the spared life of Tara, his beloved daughter. His voice had cracked at the words, and Faith and the rest of her family knew the reason behind the falter.
She knew that he knew. They all knew.
She also knew the next few minutes could bring her family crashing down around her. The china had served as a warning.
Her hands lay on the table in front of her. She clenched and unclenched them, twisted her fingers, then her rings. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the way for the words, knowing in her heart there were no “right” ones—none that could ever make this anything but what it was.
“His name was Jacques Martin,” she said at last, finding no preamble that could ease her into the subject. “He was from France. Paris.”
Tara’s eyes widened at the news. She sat up straighter in her chair and rubbed the side of her hand vigorously—a common gesture for her since the accident.
Faith shifted her eyes to her husband. “We spent one night together. Graduation. He left to go back to Paris the next day.”
Sawyer rubbed his temples as his eyes squeezed closed, and she felt the squeeze in her heart. Was he praying? No. More likely he was running through the timeline, letting all the pieces fall into place.
Their college graduations had been on the same day, hundreds of miles apart. He’d been in Texas while she’d remained in Kentucky. By the time he moved back home ten days later, the pregnancy test had already read positive. Another test ten days after that had been all it took to convince him they were going to have a baby—together. They’d eloped, to no one’s surprise after four long years apart.
Deception had been easy. But twenty-eight years had woven the lie tightly into the center of the fabric of their lives. Now, it was starting to unravel.
No one said anything. Everyone was avoiding eye contact with her except Tara, who sat staring with tear-filled eyes, pulling at her bottom lip. That gesture was unadulterated Sawyer, but Tara’s wide, curvy mouth was the spitting image of her biological father’s. Faith had always found it ironic that Tara’s mouth served as the constant reminder of the lie that remained a secret.
Until seven hours ago.
Trenton stood up quickly, the force sending his chair backward across the wood floor. “I don’t think I want to hear this,” he announced. “Whatever happened back then is between you two.” He folded both arms around Tara’s neck and rested his chin on her head. “Pinky’s my sister. Wholly and completely with none of that half stuff. Nothing’s ever going to change that.” He clapped his dad on the back and planted a quick kiss to the top of Faith’s head before strolling casually from the room.
Thea scooted over into the seat Trenton had vacated, weaving her hand under Tara’s thick mane of red hair until she located her sister’s shoulder. She pulled her close—cheeks touching, tears mingling—as she shot Faith a “how could you?” look. “I feel the same way,” she said. “We’ve never been just sisters. We’ve always been closer than that. There’s no way anything can make us any different than what we are.”
Tara’s chin quivered as she nodded.
Faith’s spirit lightened momentarily at the show of solidarity. Maybe things were going to be okay after all. But one glance at Sawyer told her that wasn’t so. Her husband was a preacher. A man who made his living talking. He’d counseled hundreds of couples with marital problems through the years, always knowing exactly what to say to clear the air of the fallout from unfaithfulness.
His silence grated her heart into tiny slivers like lemon zest.
“So whatever became of this...Jacques Martin?” Tara’s voice held the same strained edge it had when she realized her two fingers were gone.
“I never saw, never heard from him again,” Faith answered, then added, “I never wanted to. I had all I needed and wanted with you all.” Blood pounded in her temples. How could she make them understand? “Jacques was...” Someone she’d had too much alcohol with that night. Someone she’d gotten carried away celebrating with. Someone who’d helped her bear the loneliness of not being with the person she loved on one of the most important days of her life. “He was someone I barely knew.”
Sawyer swerved around to face Tara and gathered her partial hand into both of his. “You’re my daughter, lovebug. The daughter of my heart. Like Trenton said, nothing’s ever going to change that.” He pressed their knotted hands against his chest. “I hold you right here, and nothing will ever break that grip.”
Faith watched the tears overflow from her daughter’s eyes, unaware of her own until she felt a drop on her arm.
Tara nodded. “I love you, Dad.” She paused and Faith held her breath and prayed that those words would be repeated to her.
They weren’t. Instead, Tara stood, pulling her hand from Sawyer’s grip. “I really, really need to go home. I need time alone to process this.”
Thea followed her to her feet.
A different fear gripped Faith’s insides, a familiar one since Tara’s accident. It recurred every time one of her children left her house to drive back to their own homes. “Will you be okay making the drive back to Paducah? You want me to call Emma?”
“I’m leaving, too. I’ll take you home,” Thea offered.
Tara shook her head. “I don’t want to be with anyone. I’ll be okay.”
Faith stood and reached for her, and her daughter hugged her then, but her arms felt limp and lifeless with no emotion behind them. Her parting hug with her dad had a bit more vitality, but not much.
Faith’s breathing grew shallow when Thea didn’t hug her or Sawyer, but she did take Tara’s hand to lead the way out.
As Tara slid the patio door closed behind her, Faith turned her attention back to her husband. They stood beside the table where their family had shared thousands of happy mealtimes. Would those be enough to blot out the anguish of today?
She took Sawyer’s hand and tilted her head in silent question.
“It’s not the action, Faith. It’s the deception. The betrayal.”
He pulled his hand away and headed for his study, locking the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWO
“BUT HOW ARE YOU HANDLING it, really? And none of that ‘I’m okay’ stuff. I held your hair when you threw up your first beer, so I’ve seen you at your worst.” Emma blew on her spoonful of tomato soup, waiting for an answer.
Tara reached behind her chair to shut the door to Emma’s office, pondering how to put her feelings into words. “You remember that weird, uneasy feeling inside you the first Christmas you no longer believed in Santa Claus? It’s kind of like that. I remember knowing the presents were still downstairs, waiting to be opened. But the magical quality was gone forever. That’s the way I feel. Like some kind of wonderful something has slipped away, and I’ll never be able to get it back.”
Emma’s eyebrows knitted. “But you haven’t really lost anything. Your dad is still your dad....”
“But I’ve lost who I thought I was. Everything I accounted to my Irish heritage—my red hair, my fair complexion, my love of Guinness. I’ve only talked myself into believing they had significance.” Tara popped a grape into her mouth. “And that makes me wonder what other things I’ve believed in that were actually of no significance.”
“Well, maybe you need to talk to somebody.” Emma tore open a package of oyster crackers and sprinkled them over the top of her soup. “You know—” she shrugged as she stirred them in “—a professional.”
“You’re a professional guidance counselor with a master’s in counseling. I’m talking to you.”
Tara watched her friend’s eyebrows disappear beneath her wispy bangs. “Doctors don’t operate on family members, and counselors don’t counsel family.”
“But we’re not—”
“We’re just as close.”
“Who I really want to talk to is Jacques Martin.” Tara blurted out the idea that had kept her awake most of the night. “I just want to take off for Paris and find my birth father.”
“And what good would that do?”
Tara thought about that question while she nibbled on a carrot. What good would it do? “Mostly it would satisfy my curiosity,” she admitted. “I can’t stop wondering what he looks like, what his personality is like. Do I have his nose? His laugh?”
“Your mom can tell you that.”
Tara’s throat tightened around a bite of carrot. She dropped the rest of it back into the plastic container, her appetite suddenly gone. “I can’t talk to her any more about him. At least, not yet.”
“I understand.” The sympathy in her friend’s voice made Tara’s throat tighten again. “So what difference would it make if you found out those things about him?” Emma gave a quick nod in Tara’s direction. “You rub your lip when you’re thinking about something just like Sawyer does. No matter where those little things come from, they make up you.”
Self-consciously, Tara dropped her hand from her mouth. “I just want to look Jacques Martin in the eye and say ‘I’m your daughter’ and see his reaction.”
Emma eyed her warily. “Can’t you just let your imagination play out that scene for you? Paris is way too big a city to find somebody with only a name to go on. And it’s very expensive from what I hear.”
Tara shrugged and glanced out the window to avoid eye contact. “I have my inheritance from Grandma.” She cringed at Emma’s outraged gasp.
“You’re serious! You’ve actually given this some thought...and have a plan. It’s a crazy idea, Tara—one you need to get out of your head right now.”
Emma’s gray eyes bored into her, causing Tara’s cheeks to burn. “Thought you weren’t going to counsel.”
“I’m not counseling. I’m giving my best friend a verbal shake to wake her up.” Emma ran her fingertips through her short bob, fluffing the soft, chestnut ends. “Finding him would take a feat of magic. He might’ve moved. Might not want to be found. Some people don’t. Or...or he might be dead. Have you thought about that?”
“That’s another thing. Family medical history is important.” Tara held up her half hand. “Emergencies happen. Diseases strike. It would be great to at least have a hint of what else I might come up against in the future. Mama’s family doesn’t have any heart disease, but what if it’s in his genes?”
“Then you do all the right things to keep your heart healthy no matter what.”
Tara looked at her friend in earnest. “Even if I didn’t find him, I could learn about my French heritage. The Irish thing I’ve always been so proud of has been jerked away from me, and now I want to replace it with something. I want to find out who I am.”
Emma looked at her long and hard, the steel in her gaze softening to a down-gray. “Know what?” She reached across the desk to place her hand on top of Tara’s. “I’m wrong. If it means that much to you, I think you should do it.”
“Really?” Tara jolted at Emma’s change of heart. “Because I’m thinking I want to do it soon. Like as soon as school is out.”
“That’s short notice. Can you make all the arrangements that quickly?”
Tara shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe through a travel agent.”
“That will run the cost up even more. Do you know anyone who might know somebody over there?” Emma drummed the desk with her spoon. “What about Josh Essex?”
Tara hadn’t gotten far enough in her planning to consider that the French teacher might have connections in Paris, but it was a good idea—he did usually take students to Paris during the summer.
“He was eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge when I got my soda.” Emma got up quickly, abandoning her soup and crackers. “Let’s go talk to him now.”
* * *
“CAN WE PLAY SOME CATCH, Dad?”
Dylan had disappeared a couple of minutes earlier, and now stood in the doorway of the flat holding a ball and wearing the St. Louis Cardinals ball cap, jersey and glove that had arrived from his grandmother that day.
Like I could refuse. Garrett gave a wry smile. “Sure. Just let me get the dishwasher loaded.”
Dylan set the ball and glove in the chair he’d vacated earlier and picked up his plate to help clear the table, something he rarely did. No doubt he was anxious to try out his new equipment.
“Watch your step,” Garrett warned as the six-year-old caught his toe on the frame of the sliding patio door.
When the Paris weather permitted, they ate every meal possible out here on the terrace. The wide expanse of concrete wasn’t anywhere near as large as their backyard had been in St. Louis, but life had its trade-offs. For a second-story flat, the extra living space the terrace afforded was well worth the small amount of extra rent. Although several other flats had windows that looked out on it, only one other had a door leading to it. And that one had been empty for over a year, so Garrett and his son had gotten used to having the entire space to themselves.
They made quick work of loading the dishwasher, and then Garrett grabbed his own glove as they headed back out to their makeshift practice field.
Dylan punched the new leather with his fist. “I’m ready for a fastball.”
That drew a laugh. “One fastball comin’ up.” Garrett made a wild show of winding up, watching his son’s eyes grow huge in anticipation. At the last second, he slowed down enough to toss the ball toward the boy’s padded palm.
Dylan kept his eye on the ball, stretching his arm out to full length and spreading his glove open as far as his short fingers would allow.
The ball landed with a thump, and a pleased grin split Dylan’s face as he hoisted the glove and ball over his head in a triumphant gesture. “Freese makes the play!” he yelled.
“How ’bout we send a picture of you and your new stuff to Nana and Papa?”
“And Gram and Grandpa, too.”
Garrett snapped the picture and messaged it to both his parents and Angela’s. Then he laid the phone down within easy reach to listen for the calls that were sure to come.
His mom and his deceased wife’s mother called every time he sent a picture of Dylan, which was often. The distance was hard for them.
They’d all done their damnedest to talk Garrett out of the voluntary move to Paris three years ago when the brewery he worked for was bought out by a Belgian company. Only his dad had fully understood his need to escape from the constant reminder of his wife’s suicide. And his guilt.
No matter how they felt about it, the move hadn’t been a mistake.
Dylan mimicked Garrett’s windup, minus the slow down at the end. The ball he released sailed wide past his father, who broke into a run to catch it on the bounce. His timing was off. He missed and wasn’t able to catch up to it until it hit the back wall.
“Dad! Your phone’s ringing,” Dylan called.
By the time Garrett got back to answer it, he was winded. “Allô.” He breathed heavily into the phone. “C’est Garrett.”
“Well, your French has definitely gotten better, but the creepy heavy breathing makes me wonder if I’ve caught you at a bad time. My math says it should be around dinner time there.”
Garrett laughed, recognizing the voice of his teammate from college Josh Essex. “Actually, it’s pitch-and-catch after dinner, Josh.”
“Is that the new French phrase for hooking up? ’Cause, if it is, my seniors will want to know.”
“By the time I get around to...” Dylan was within hearing distance, so Garrett veered away from what he’d been about to say. “To needing that information, the deed will probably be obsolete.”
“I can’t even bear that thought.” Josh chuckled. “How’s Dylan doing?”
“Growing too fast for me to keep him in jeans. We’ve resorted to rolled cuffs and belts.”
“Well, let’s hope cuffs, belts and, of course, the deed never go out of style.”
“I hear you,” Garrett agreed. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Monsieur Essex? Especially in the middle of your work day.”
“I have a friend—a colleague—who’s wanting to come to Paris in a couple of weeks and plans to stay a month. Does your building have any short-term rentals?”
Garrett’s eyes cut to the flat across the way, and then wandered on around the terrace to the window boxes devoid of flowers—a dead giveaway in spring and summer that spaces were empty. “Yeah, probably. Hold on.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbed through the cards until he found the one he wanted. “You have a pen handy?”
“I’m just waiting on you.”
“Here’s the number to call.” Garrett read it off slowly. “That’s the main office of the company that owns my building. They’ll have listings of what’s available.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“Will we be seeing you this summer?” For the past three years, Josh had brought groups of his students for ten-day tours of the City of Lights. The visits had certainly been the highlight of the summer for Garrett, who tried to deny to himself how much he missed the U.S.
Josh’s sigh was fraught with frustration. “I don’t have too many interested, and a couple who were had to drop out. June 20 is the cutoff, and I’m still not sure.”
Garrett didn’t know who was more disappointed, he or Josh. “That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, well, it’s the damn economy. How about you? You and Dylan planning a trip stateside any time soon?”
Garrett had been thinking this might be the year to go home for Christmas, but he was keeping mum on it in case he backed out. “Economy here’s just as bad. I might have to hock Dylan to buy tickets.”
Dylan perked up at the mention of his name, but not enough to tear his concentration away from his task. The ball he was bouncing off the wall shot back at him. He missed it, but not for lack of trying. Garrett took that as a sure sign his boy was meant for the big leagues, and the thought made him smile.
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