“Yes, there is. Your salesgirl here is out of line. She’s rude and obnoxious. You might want to reconsider who you hire up in here.”
“Hannah, what’s going on?”
Hannah shrugs and shakes her head.
“You’ll see,” I say and storm out the door.
I thought I’d seen the last of that dumpy, little wench. On the drive home I try to push her words from my mind, but I can’t. At what lounge in what hotel had she seen Vaughn? He didn’t go out at night anymore, and as I jog my memory of last week, I can’t recall any evenings he’d been unaccounted for. And I definitely don’t recall any mention of a lounge in the meatpacking district. If I remember correctly, he once told me that he didn’t like that part of town because there were too many homosexuals. Yeah, now I vividly remember the conversation because I chastised him for saying that and told him that just because a man is gay doesn’t mean he wants Vaughn. So, what the hell was he doing down there?
That evening I ask him. Not directly though. We definitely haven’t evolved enough for me to question him.
“So, I heard about this new restaurant downtown,” I say. “Maybe if you’re up to it, we can go. Maybe next weekend if you’re free.”
“Okay. Have Patrick make reservations for Saturday night.”
He’d say yes to just about anything right now; he’s engrossed in an intense game of Madden Live.
“It’s in the meatpacking district.”
He grunts over a dropped flag. “Okay.”
“So you’re cool with that neighborhood now?”
“What?”
“The meatpacking district. Remember, you said you didn’t like it down there?”
“Never said that.”
“Yeah, you did. Said all the men down there were gay.”
“What? I don’t have a problem with gay men.”
“Yeah, you do. That’s what you said.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember the exact day, but I know you did.”
“You’re crazy. How would I sound saying something like that? You know what kind of fines I would’ve been charged for saying some biased shit? I’ve got a fan base to think about.”
Did he say that? Am I losing my mind? No, no he had, I remember it. Why is he denying it?
“You didn’t say it in public, it was just us.”
“Nope.” He jams his thumbs on the controller, nearly tipping over the edge of his seat, ready to jump into the screen if necessary. “What’s this all about, Blair?”
“I ran into Hannah today, and she told me she saw you at a rooftop lounge down there last week. I just found it odd.”
“Who the fuck is Hannah?”
I sigh. “The nanny.”
“I thought she was from Honduras or something?”
“No. Rosa is from Honduras. Maritza, the new nanny, is Columbian.”
“What? So Maritza saw me somewhere and didn’t even speak?”
“No, Hannah said she saw you. Hannah, the one I let go.”
He drops the controller. “Blair, what are you talking about? All this nanny shit. What does this have to do with a lounge and gays. Get to the point already.”
I come out with it. “Were you at a rooftop lounge at a hotel in the meatpacking district last week?”
“If that’s what you wanted to know, why didn’t you just ask?”
“Well, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You sure?”
“Am I sure? What do you mean, Am I sure? I’m a grown man, I know where I’ve been.”
“Just thought maybe you dropped by there for a quick drink and forgot to mention it.”
“Since when do I have to report my every move to you?”
“It’s not about reporting—”
“Are we back there again? With you not trusting me?” He sighs. “Blair, I don’t want to go there, but in light of everything, you’re really pushing it.”
I know it. I have no right to question him, but something in that girl’s voice, something in her eyes struck a nerve with me and if I didn’t ask, I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.
“No, I trust you. I just found it odd, that’s all.” I take a seat on his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Didn’t you fire her? Did it ever dawn on you that maybe she was just messing with you? You know how you women can be.”
“You’re right. I let her get in my head. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I plant a soft kiss on his lips. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, now get up so I can finish this game.” He lifts me off his lap and picks up the controller.
But I’m still not at ease. As insignificant as this seems, it’s weighing on my mind. As if I need anything else to worry about.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It’s been nearly three months since Dylan filed his petition for custody. So much has happened between then and now, but the matter is no closer to resolution. Due to a backlog in family court, Frank advised us it would be several months before we’d even see the inside of a courtroom.
This brought about mixed feelings. Both Vaughn and I were overjoyed for the extra time, yet fraught with angst, because it meant more days of living in limbo. More time for Vaughn to grow deeper in love with a child who one day might not be his. Dylan, on the other hand, was frustrated; the delay meant more time for her to grow closer to Vaughn and to lose the little memory she had of him.
It was only after several tear-filled heart-to-hearts, that Vaughn accepted the inevitable and conceded to a custody agreement. The prospect is unsettling, but there’s no way around it. Yes, we’ll have to share Morgan and yes, she’ll soon learn that Vaughn is only her stepfather, but at least the fighting is over.
After I advised Dylan’s attorney that I’m willing to share custody, he agreed to forgo the court hearing and settle the matter via arbitration, shaving months off our proposed hearing date. This one meeting will launch a new chapter in our lives. An honest one, in which we can hold our heads high, knowing that we’re doing the right thing.
Vaughn and I are seated together on one side of the conference room table. Frank is seated beside Vaughn. Directly across from him is Isaac Murphy, Dylan’s attorney. Dylan sits to his left.
For three people whose lives are so intricately entwined, this is only the third occasion we’re all in the same room. It’s less nerve-racking than the last time, but the air is still stretched tight with tension.
Vaughn looks defeated, and Dylan won’t make eye contact with either of us. I’m relieved the fighting is over. The stress over being found out, the fear of losing my husband and the guilt of robbing Dylan of his rights is all behind me. It’s finally over. Vaughn knows and has forgiven me. Dylan no longer hates me and is finally getting what he wants. And he even understands my need to be with Vaughn.
I can’t help but to steal glances Dylan’s way, but he won’t look up. His eyes remained glue to the notepad in front of him. He’s doodling something which I can’t make out from across the length of this large table. What I do recognize is the swirl of his handwriting, the same neat cursive as in his letter. The letter that’s tucked inside an inner pocket of my handbag, which rests in the seat beside me. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I did try. Even dipped the bottom edge into my shredder, but I pulled it back out, knowing it’s likely the last intimate words I’ll ever hear from him.
I keep it in my wallet for two reasons: so that Vaughn should never come across it and so that I can reread it whenever the urge strikes me. The urge strikes me now as I look at the top of Dylan’s head, now bent low as he leans over to pull something from his satchel. When he looks back up, our eyes cross paths, but he quickly looks away. I wonder if he’s thinking about the last time we saw each other. About what happened at his house. Recalling that day delivers a fresh dose of shame. Now, I lower my head, afraid my sins will be evident to anyone who looks at me.
I re
mind myself that my place is with Vaughn. Regardless of all we’ve been through and what we’ve done to each other, I know we have what it takes to make this work. Watching Vaughn handle this custody matter with such grace and maturity only makes me love him more. It hasn’t been at all easy for him, and I know he’s suffering inside, but he’s come to realize that sharing Morgan is the right thing to do. Not only is it plain wrong to fight Dylan, but we can’t; his parental rights are without question.
Our attorneys do all of the talking. For procedural reasons, a paternity test was administered and the details of our joint custody are to be formally drawn out today.
“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Frank retrieves a manila envelope from his briefcase. “The DNA results.”
Isaac, Dylan’s attorney, says, “I believe all of the parties have conceded to the paternity. We need only discuss the particulars of the custody.” He opens his leather binder and pulls out a short stack of papers. “Now, I’ve drafted a proposal which I believe is more than fair—”
“Isaac, c’mon now,” Frank chides. “We’ve got to follow protocol, you know that.”
Isaac looks to Dylan, shrugs and says, “If we must. Go ahead.”
Frank rips open the envelope. He slides out a single sheet of paper, scans it then looks up. First at Vaughn, then Dylan and finally Isaac. “I think we have a bit of a problem here.”
Dylan speaks for the first time. “What?”
Frank strokes his jaw. “Says here that Mr. Stewart is not the child’s father.”
“Let me see that.” Isaac extends an eager hand across the table.
Frank slides the report to him. “Here. See for yourself.”
Dylan and his attorney lower their heads to study the findings. Isaac’s face turns a bright shade of fuchsia. “But … but your clients conceded paternity. This has to be a mistake.”
Frank glances at me and then Vaughn before offering a tiny shrug. “We had, but the facts are what they are. We both know how foolproof these exams are.”
“This is a mistake!” Dylan exclaims. “The lab must have mixed up the results or … or someone recorded them wrong. We’ll have to do it again.”
“I’m afraid the margin of error is negligible,” Frank says. “They’re ninety-nine point nine-nine percent accurate.”
“Then this is that point zero one percent,” Dylan says.
Isaac slides the report back to Frank. “My client is entitled to a recalculation, pursuant to—”
“No need to start quoting case law. Not a problem. But your client is paying for it.”
“And we’ll need to use a different lab,” Isaac adds.
Frank shrugs again. “Not a problem with us.” He asks me if I have any objections. I say nothing because all words are lost to me. I’m still trying to grasp what just happened.
Dylan isn’t her father?
I walk to the car in a daze. The test is wrong. It has to be. How does that even happen? He said they were nearly one hundred percent accurate. How is this possible? She looks just like Dylan. Or does she? Is that in my mind? No, she does. She definitely does. Even Vaughn’s acknowledged it. None of this makes any sense.
We climb into the car. Before I can share any of this with Vaughn, his cell phone rings and he answers via Bluetooth.
Frank’s loud voice booms through the console. “Hey, it’s me. Am I on speaker? Can you talk?”
“I’m in the car with Blair. It’s okay though.”
Frank says, “Well, I’d say that went well, eh?”
“Indeed.”
“I just told Isaac that if this law thing doesn’t work out, he's got a career in acting.”
“I’d say so.”
“Well, he said he’ll soon be faxing a motion to dismiss. After they get that “recalculation.” Then we’ll be done with this. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks, Frank.” Vaughn ends the call.
I twist in my seat. “What’s he talking about?”
He avoids my eyes and stares straight ahead.
“Vaughn?”
“Do I really need to say it, Blair?”
“Vaughn, what did you do?”
“I told you I’d handle it.”
“Did you have something to do with the results of that test?”
His silence confirms my fear.
“You did, didn’t you? How did you even do that?”
“There’s a way around everything.”
“Who did you pay off?”
“I didn’t pay anybody. Frank handled everything.”
“So you paid Frank and he made the pay-off. It’s all the same thing, Vaughn. And it’s a crime! I don't know which one, but it’s some kind of crime. You can’t do this.”
He turns and looks at me. “Why can’t I?”
“Because! Because it’s wrong.”
“I think we’re way past wrong by now. We left “wrong” miles and miles back.”
“And you really think Dylan is going to fall for this?”
“Fall for what? It’s a test from an official lab. He can’t contest that.”
“You heard his attorney, they’ll just take the test over.”
“And he’ll get the same result.”
“And what if he goes to another facility? You ever think about that?”
“Blair, do you really think I’ve left any stone unturned? How long have you known me?” He turns the key in the ignition. “Look, you know as much as you need to, so stop asking questions.”
“But she looks just like him!”
“First of all, that’s just a matter of opinion, and do you really think that’s going to hold up in court? This is not ‘Jerry Springer.’ The facts are undisputed. Now just let it be.”
I shake my head. “We can’t do this.”
“It’s already done.”
“I don't want to be a part of it.”
“You already are.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It won’t, but if it ever did come to light, do you think that you’re above this? You’re just as involved as I am.”
“Vaughn—”
“Look, you asked me for a second chance, didn’t you?”
I nod.
“And I gave it to you. Now, don’t make me believe that was a mistake.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was there. I witnessed everything. I know for certain that I heard Vaughn and Frank’s conversation in the car and I’m positive that Vaughn admitted to me what he’d done. But I still can’t believe it.
As Frank predicted, two further exams were performed. Each with the same result … that the protocol of the genetic marker testing shows a zero for the probability that the alleged father, Dylan Stewart, contributed to the genetic pool of the child Morgan Elizabeth Hill.
While my spirits remain in flux, Vaughn’s are high. He no longer stares off into space, no longer punishes me with angry glares. He’s bearing a resemblance to the old Vaughn, post-Morgan and pre-Dylan.
It’s his 34th birthday, and he’s been celebrating all week. First there was dinner with his parents, then a private party for about two hundred friends and associates at a loft on the upper west side. Tonight, he’s hosting a dinner party at home, just for close friends and family. Fortunately, Elle is in town this week. Her company will help keep me sane.
I can’t bring myself to tell her what happened. As far as she knows, we’re still awaiting the court date. I’ve divulged some awful things to Elle over the years, and she’s always handled my admissions with an unconditional crutch of friendship, but this I just can’t confess. At my core I know it’s reprehensible, but I don’t know how to even begin to unring this bell. I wonder, other than Vaughn’s, Frank’s and Isaac’s, how many other dirty hands are involved? How much money has been passed beneath tables and deposited into bank accounts for such a sham to be possible? I’m not certain what crime it is or what the punishment would be, but most heavy on my mind is how complicit I am. And what this would mea
n for Morgan if it were ever discovered. We could both lose her. For these reasons and the obvious shame of it all, I don’t reveal any of this to Elle. She would not give me a pass. She’d insist I tell Dylan the truth, then alert the authorities and deal with the consequences. She’s way too much of a straight-shooter to look past this, too. And I can’t suffer through her judgment. I need more time to work through this on my own.
All evening Vaughn’s friends drizzle in. Every half-hour or so the doorbell rings. Rosa finds me in the pantry retrieving more red wine.
“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Your mother. She’s here.”
I nearly drop the bottles. “What?”
“She says Vaughn invited her.”
This bitch! She knows damn well that she’s not welcome here. Although I never told him why, Vaughn knows she and I are not on good terms. I didn’t think I had to tell him she wasn’t invited.
“Is she alone?” I ask. She better not have brought Norah.
“No, she brought the boyfriend.”
Kenny. Smart move, Mom. She figures there’s safety in numbers.
“Where are they?” No sooner than the words leave my mouth, they enter the kitchen, hand-in-hand.
“Ah, my step-daughter.” Kenny approaches then hugs me, kissing me on both cheeks. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that (A) even if he does marry my mother he’ll never be my stepfather (B) he can’t marry her until he divorces his so-called “estranged wife” and (C) I want him out of my house.
I suffer through his wet kisses while my mother stands near the door, shifting on her feet, tugging at her earring. She’s made no effort to contact me since Thanksgiving. A fact that both pleases and upsets me. I expected her to call and say she was sorry, to try and explain herself, to tell me something that would have me forgive her, but there’s been no word, and now she shows up as if nothing happened.
Kenny holds up a bottle of Patrón. “For Vaughn. If I remember correctly, he’s a fan of Añejo, yes?”
A Delicate Truth Page 19