Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  “Jesus, Bris. Yes.” I sound exasperated, but I release Simon long enough to pull my sister into a long hug. There’s no way I could have got through this without these two parts of my heart.

  “Okay. Call me if you need me.” Simon pulls Bristol to his side as they walk the few buildings to get to their place. I start walking toward Fifth Avenue. Right now, all I want to do is disappear into the crowded streets of tourists.

  Blindly, I start walking past stores I’d typically enjoy. I pass by Bergdorf Goodman and Prada. I cross the street to avoid the American Girl Doll store and power past Stuart Weitzman and Cartier. Cutting around people coming up subway entrances and off buses, it isn’t until I slam into someone that I realize I’ve walked almost fifteen blocks. “Excuse me,” I murmur. The woman curses at me in three different languages; I only recognize the English.

  Shrugging, I step around her and then freeze. Someone slams into me from behind. “It says, ‘Walk.’ Freaking tourists,” a man mutters.

  I don’t bother to correct him because I’m entranced at what’s in front of me. It could be nothing, or it could be everything. Maybe some of the questions plaguing me since last night could be answered by the rainbow shining behind in the Duane Reade drugstore window.

  A DNA test.

  When they first started becoming popular, Bristol and I used to joke around we should do one to see if we were 100 percent Irish. Bristol—ever the practical mind—would roll her eyes and say, “No one is ever 100 percent anything, Linnie.”

  That’s now truer than ever. We’re certainly not 100 percent sisters.

  If we’d done it then while we were drunk and stupid, I’d have had the answers while Mom was still alive. I could have confronted her with the million questions running through my brain. Now, my questions are going to be left up to science and luck.

  Who knows if Mom really knew who my father was? Maybe she contacted him and he wanted nothing to do with me. Maybe he’s married with another family. Or maybe he has no idea there’s a woman out there who carries his blood who had no idea until last night that she was even his.

  It’d be insane. I’m not on the cover of People every day, but I am high profile enough it would be immensely stupid even to contemplate it…

  A little voice whispers, But no one would have to know who you are. How often am I recognized?

  Am I really going to do this?

  I’m practically shoved into the middle of Fifth Avenue on the wave of foot traffic. It’s pulling me across at the light at Forty-Fifth Street. My breathing accelerates as each step puts me closer to doing the crazy—the inevitable.

  I’ll figure out all the details with Bristol and Simon later, I decide. The automated door opens for me as I step inside. Making my way into the line, I get behind some guy who’s arguing the price of the two cases of water he’s buying. Impatiently, I wait my turn until I hear, “Next in line, please.”

  Pulling out my credit card, I slap it on the counter. “I’ll take one of the DNA tests.”

  “Do you have a Duane Reade card? They’re on sale for thirty dollars off…”

  “No,” I cut the clerk off. “I don’t.” I’m completely lying. I don’t want my name attached to this kit in any way.

  “That will be $195.96.” I gape at her. “That includes your New York City sales tax. You can buy the kits cheaper online if you like.”

  “No, this is fine. It’s a gift.” I stretch the truth. I guess it’s a gift when you’re trying to find out who your father is. Right?

  I stick my debit card into the machine, enter my PIN, and pull it out quickly. The long receipt prints. The clerk bags it all up and says, “Thank you for shopping with us.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, racing out of the store.

  It isn’t until I get outside that I realize what I’ve done.

  I’ve taken the first steps to find my birth father.

  Holy shit.

  Twelve

  Evangeline

  July

  “I’m still pissed you didn’t buy me one too,” Bristol bitches right before she spits into the tube.

  “Shut up and save your saliva.” I pause before doing the same.

  At first, Bristol and Simon freaked out when I got back and told them what I did. Then Bristol thought about it. She said, “It’s not like you have to use your real name, Linnie. I mean, you can be Eva Brogan, Angel Brogan, Lynn Brogan, and no one but us would ever know.”

  Simon was incredulous. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging this. The smart way to do this would be to hire a private investigations firm. Marco knows one who would do a fabulous job.”

  “With what?” I demanded. “We only know a name, and we don’t even know if that was his real name or if Mom gave him her real name.”

  Abashed, he agreed. “True. Okay. So, we do the crazy first, and then if you get any hits, maybe we have him checked out through the firm?”

  I acquiesced. “Maybe. If I end up meeting him and if—that’s a big if—I feel something wonky.”

  “You’re wonky,” he griped. I merely smiled beatifically.

  “Aren’t you glad your baby only has a quarter of a chance of inheriting these genes?”

  He threw the sealed test kit at me.

  Now, it’s a week later, and Bristol and I are spitting into tubes. “I don’t think they’d appreciate if I hocked a loogie, do you?” I laugh. It’s either laugh or cry, and I’ve decided to go with the former.

  I spend too much time at night crying.

  We all decided the best course of action was to wait until we wrapped the final show in our contract on Miss Me. I needed my head free and clear of anything but this. I have the recording of the children’s album to do in LA, but I’m not leaving until the week after next for that.

  Next week is reserved for all things Bristol. She and Simon are quietly getting married to avoid the media fanfare so close to our mother’s death. Since it’s just the three of us plus Marco who will be in attendance, it’s mainly finding her the perfect outfit, reminding Simon to buy flowers, and deciding on a lavish place for all of us to go to dinner on such short notice. She wants it to be a quiet event, just family. It’s going to be beautiful—a perfect memory to take with me when I leave for Los Angeles.

  “Shut up and keep going,” Bristol tells me. I realize she’s almost all the way done with her tube.

  “You know, the last time you had spit running down your face like this, you were blowing bubbles at me. I think you were around one and you were teething. You should get used to that.”

  We grin at each other before resuming our respective spppt sounds. Fiercely, I realize I don’t care what a DNA test says. Bristol could have no blood relation to me and she’d still be my sister.

  “How long does it take to get a match?” Bristol, not one to do things halfway, got me a second brand of DNA kit so we could compare results. “After all, what if your father only is on one site?” So, we’ve had to set up two profiles and expunge our DNA into a tube two times. We decided for an alias; I should go with Lynn since I’m so used to being called Linnie by my closest family. I agreed because I’m more likely to react to it should I hear it. She even listed her office as the address for both of our kits. “Just in case some schmuck decides to try to find you.”

  She’s seriously crafty.

  “I have no idea,” I say in response to how fast it takes to get a match. “Hell, I may never know. I may be getting dry mouth for nothing. But if nothing else, I’ll at least get information about the medical stuff since now we can’t be sure about that.”

  Bristol is already capping off her sample. “With Dad dying of cancer and Mom of a heart attack, I’m right there with you.”

  Holding the now filled tube away, I reach for her hand. “You know I love you for doing this for me. I just wish we didn’t have to.”

  “Stop looking at it like that, Linnie. This changes nothing between us. I only wish Mom would have told you while she was alive.” />
  “You and me both, sister. You and me both.”

  Thirteen

  Evangeline

  Being in LA to record the album was a break I desperately needed. I was in the studio for what seemed like every waking moment trying to record twelve songs in three weeks. It kept me from constantly checking the email account Bristol set up for me. Night after night I’d get notices like, “Your DNA is being processed,” or “We’re excited for you to get your results! Just a little bit longer now.”

  I’m in line to board the plane in LA to head back to New York. I want to be with my family and give up on this half-assed idea to find a father who likely doesn’t care he has a daughter anyways. It was so stupid. I’m not going to find out a damn thing. All I’m going to be left with are more questions, I think despondently.

  “We now welcome our first-class passengers to board the aircraft at this time,” the sunny voice of the gate attendant says.

  Excellent. I pull up my mobile boarding pass and make my way to the short line. Just as the scanner is about to process the code, my cell goes off with Bristol’s distinctive ring. MAGIC! screams out on full blast. Quickly pressing Silent, I start blushing furiously. I send my sister to voicemail. “I am so sorry. So embarrassing.”

  The gate agent smiles as my boarding pass scans successfully. “It happens more than you think. Don’t worry about it. Have a safe flight.”

  I give her a huge smile. “Thanks. Have a terrific day.” Moving past her, I dial Bristol’s number. My long legs eat the jetway at a fast clip. By the time the call connects, I’m already nodding at the first-class cabin steward. “What’s up?”

  “Check your email. My results are back!”

  I freeze in place.

  “That doesn’t mean mine are,” I say slowly. I’m afraid to get my hopes up at this point.

  “Well, either they are, or we have another half sibling somewhere because it already told me I have a close match.”

  Holy crap. Excitement begins to pour through my veins.

  “Bris, I’m on the plane to come home.” I drop my bag in the seat. Shifting my cell to my ear, I lift my larger carry-on to the overhead compartment. My oversized purse easily slides beneath the seat in front of me. Dropping into my chair, I lean my head back. “There’s no way I can process this right now.” Though, in reality, I want to jump off the plane and spend hours looking over my results.

  “Then don’t,” she replies swiftly. “Go accept my connection and shut off your phone. I won’t look at anything else until you come home.”

  My heart is pounding furiously in my chest. “I can do that.”

  “Then do it before they close the cabin doors.”

  “I will if you let me off my phone,” I shoot back.

  “Oh, yeah.” She giggles. “It might work, Linnie.”

  “Yeah. It’s better odds than lotto at least,” I laugh.

  “Hey, what happened to this being a great idea when we were swapping spit?”

  “We didn’t swap spit. We spat together but separately,” I correct her. The man in the seat next to me begins choking. “Well, that didn’t come out right,” I mutter.

  Bristol is gone laughing. “Are your employees looking at you oddly? Because the man sitting next to me is questioning my sanity,” I say with a great deal of amusement. The gentleman in question flushes at so blatantly listening to my conversation. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “We’re talking about a DNA kit.”

  “My wife and I did one of those. She found out she was part American Indian when she thought her whole life she was Hawaiian. Coolest thing ever.” He shakes his head. “One of the craziest things will be if you find out if you like cilantro or not.”

  “Bris,” I whisper. “Did you hear…”

  “Yes! It might be genetic?”

  We both break up laughing. “Now I can’t wait,” I admit.

  “Me neither. Have a safe flight, honey. Call when you land.”

  “Will do.” We both hang up. I immediately pull up my alternate email account, and sure enough, my results are in there. I log in and accept Bristol’s connection. She called it—she’s my close match. Not a shock there. As she said, the real shock would have been if there was someone else. Then I immediately shut the site down. I want to dissect the information when I have more time and not more questions.

  When the cabin doors are secured, I put my phone into airplane mode and slip my headphones on to watch the in-flight movie.

  As the plane taxis down the runway and we take off, so do my hopes. It’s way too soon, I know, but something tells me that I’m not only going to get my answers, they might just heal me.

  Fourteen

  Montague

  I jerk awake with my heart pounding. I gasp, trying to inhale hard enough to get enough air. “Christ.” I scrub my fingers through my hair. The nightmare I just woke up from has never really gone away—the last case I was involved with before I was encouraged to leave NCIS. It still haunts me, since it wrapped up right before I got the call about Ev’s illness.

  Knowing it’s the only way I’ll be able to get back to sleep, I swing out of bed and head over to the wet bar near the bathroom. Grabbing the nearest decanter, I throw a few healthy fingers in a heavy crystal glass and toss it back. The liquid etching its way down toward my stomach helps ease the burn in my heart. Refilling it quickly, I begin to pace back and forth, my mind unable to relax.

  How do I make it all go away? There’s nothing that comes to mind in the inky darkness. I can help. My words from that night echo in my head, making it pound harder. It doesn’t matter what miracle mind exercises you’re given when you’re running from the truth. That boy died because I wasn’t enough. There’s not enough ways to erase the bruises and scars from taking residence in your brain. It fucking kills and I keep reliving it over and over. And compounded with Ev… I take another slug of the bourbon I’ve managed to not spill in my anxious pacing.

  One of the aching pains is the hole I left in my team. By not being able to hack it, I abandoned them to deal with the aftermath of what happened: the negative press, the media, the accusations of mishandling of the case. Everyone’s reassured me they don’t feel that way, but I can’t help but feel like somewhere along the way I’ve made a mistake that cost so much to so many people.

  Finishing my drink, I plunk down the glass on the edge of my nightstand. The sheets get a quick snap to right them before I crawl between them again. Not knowing if trying to get a few extra hours of sleep is even worth the effort, I flip onto my stomach. I punch the pillow, then stare out the wall of windows overlooking the back of the property. Even after all this time, it still takes me forever to fall asleep as I’m still unused to the eery quiet. There’s no noise from the streets below. If I listen hard, I might be able to hear a horse in their stall. I brace for another night of loneliness, regrets, and sadness.

  It isn’t until the sky starts to lighten that I drift back off to sleep.

  * * *

  I’m startled awake by my alarm hours later. Standing in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, I walk over to the Keurig on the bar in my suite and pop in a cup so I can get the first hit of caffeine down before I start my day. Then I’m finally conscious enough to thank God that it isn’t raining. Spring in Northern Virginia is either exquisite or it’s trying to bitch-slap you like an errant schoolboy. There is no in-between. Some of the locals joke that we’re beginning to turn into our version of Florida going straight from winter into summer. I hope that’s not the case; there’s something about spring that offers hope around here.

  When Ev bought this place, I thought he was insane. What the hell was he going to do with a working horse farm? The man knew software, knew numbers. What I didn’t factor in was his enormous heart plus his love for the damn beasts. By opening a small equestrian center that offers riding classes, boarding, and grooming services, he can do what he really wanted to do, which is to fund riding classes for underprivileged children in the area. Gr
owing up in a small Southern town, he taught me what he already knew: working with horses is a soothing balm to a soul that’s exhausted by pain.

  He could—and still does—wander out from his office to the picket fence surrounding the property and stare at them for hours while figuring things out in his head. It’s just now the management of the farm has fallen to my shoulders while he deals with something infinitely harder.

  As I slide into jeans, I have to admit my time away from the DC grind has been good for me. Sure, I’m still using a well-trained eye on everything that goes on around me. I might question everyone’s moves a little more closely. I’m perhaps just a tad more invasive in the day-to-day operations than Ev was, but I’m pretty confident the men aren’t thinking of asking my partner for the names of the criminals I put away to place a hit out on me. I’m damned sure not waking up pulling my gun from under my pillow at the slightest noise. Yeah, I’m still battling a hell of a lot of demons, but one of them isn’t the respect of the people I now work with. I’m not just the owner’s son anymore. I proved my worth on the farm with hard work months ago.

  Tossing back the dregs of my first cup, I quickly wash up and tug on a T-shirt without looking in the mirror. I’m tired of seeing the tattered and droopy look around my eyes first thing in the morning. Snagging a ball cap to pull low over my unruly dark hair, I grab my mug and the glass from last night, then dump the used K-Cup into it before heading down to get something to eat.

  “Good morning, my darling.” My mother glances up from her copy of Middleburg Life, the high-end monthly magazine.

  “Morning, Mom. Anything interesting?”

  “Well, don’t be surprised to see the painted foxes popping up in town again,” she laughs as I groan aloud. The painted cow thing was cute when I was a kid. Now, everything is coming up painted. In my travels, I’ve seen painted bulls, painted cats, painted armadillos, and now in Middleburg, painted foxes for charity.