"Tired." Another raspy cough. "This time, she had a right to be upset. It scared the shit out of me. I was visiting a . . ." He paused, a slight flush coming to his stubble-covered cheeks. "I was visiting a friend when it happened." His face scrunched. "Wham, a wrenching pain. My left arm went numb and my chest tightened."
Alex covered her mouth.
"I couldn't catch my breath. We . . . I was able to get my service to send a car around in just a few minutes."
Ignoring the we, Alex asked, "What did the doctor say?"
"That I'm lucky to be alive." His laugh sounded strained. "I've always been lucky. But this time, if I make it, I'd better make some changes."
"I've heard this before."
"No, I gotta quit smoking like you did—slow down, simplify." He licked his lips. "Make my peace with God."
A chain-smoker since he was a teenager, her father worked seventy- to eighty-hour weeks—or at least he was gone that long. Often, after a dinner meeting, he stayed overnight in her parents' New York City apartment, unable to make it back to Bedford, an hour away by train. His law practice, focused on hedge fund managers, took him to Europe and Asia several times a year. Even when the economy struggled, his firm and confidence seemed untouchable.
"We'll all help you." Alex smoothed his sheet. "Don't worry, Daddy. Besides, it would be good if you spent more time at home."
He gave a sardonic snort.
"You always wanted to take up cooking as a hobby, now's your chance—low-fat gourmet."
His chuckle turned into a body-wracking cough. Alex waited, more afraid than she could ever remember. She handed him a tissue.
"Kitten, I need you to do me an important favor." His tone had become parental. In fact, she knew the words that would follow: I know I can count on you. How she dreaded that phrase. I'm counting on you to take care of Pigeon and Vanessa until Aunt Peggy can get here, until I can work things out.
It wasn't just her father—her mother used those words with equal weight and frequency: I'm counting on you Alexandra. Lord knows, I can't count on your worthless father. Worthless Worth, that's what my mother called him. She warned me, but did I listen? No, I was too headstrong back then. At least I know I can depend on you.
Alex felt ten again.
"I don't know if I'm going to recover from this," her father said.
"You will, don't say that."
"They're worried about the extent of the damage."
"Is it reversible?"
He shrugged. "I know I haven't been the best dad to you girls."
Alex made sounds of protest.
"You're kind to your old man. We both know I've let my girls down, your mother included." He glanced away. "That's why I need this favor before it's too late. I need you to find someone."
"Find?"
"I have to make things right." He refocused on her. "People make mistakes." His voice dropped down to almost a whisper. "I've made more than my share." As if bewildered by this state of affairs, his mouth pulled itself down and his brow furrowed.
Alex felt a powerful need to ease his pain.
CHAPTER THREE
Eight p.m.—Zach was late. Kara tried to appear at ease in the crowded Midtown bar. In spite of being jammed between an electronics store and a rundown café, Joey's still managed to look upscale. It was decorated in a retro-eighties style: cloth-covered love seats, faux Tiffany lamps, and a bookcase with battered paperbacks made a nook in one corner; toward the middle of the room, small tables lit by votive candles lined the edge of the dance floor where a vintage jukebox supplied the music.
At one end of the bar, Kara sipped a glass of the house Merlot, her unopened paperback, purchased from a street vendor, on the counter beside her. For the umpteenth time, she glanced at her cell. No text or missed call from Zach.
"This seat taken?" A short, bald man with nicotine-stained teeth grinned at her.
"I'm waiting for someone." She turned her back, making her bushy curls swing, and the man sidled a few barstools away.
This was why she didn't go to places like Joey's alone—Zach needed to show up, now. The music from the jukebox drifted into her consciousness, a ballad she recognized but couldn't name. Had something happened to Zach, an accident, trouble at the office, his children, his wife? She tried to push thoughts of his family away.
Somebody laughed just to Kara's left; she shifted her gaze toward the sound. A tall woman with strawberry-blond curls stepped up to the bar. Kara willed the woman to turn toward her, and she must have felt Kara's psychic pull because their eyes met; Kara lowered hers. She always expected every head of red-gold curls to be Alex. It never was.
Kara dug into her Macy's-on-sale tote, her back to the crowd, and pulled out the picture of her missing family. In a once-a-day ritual, she examined the slightly faded photograph, safely encased in its plastic sheath.
First, she smiled back at her mom. Full, glossy lips, hazel eyes, just as Kara remembered her. Then she reread the words on the back: Rock Creek Park, Kara, Alex, Worth, and me. Kara turned the photo over again, examining the slim white man with violet eyes and bow-shaped lips. He towered over her mother, holding a little girl in each sun-freckled arm. At three years old, Kara had already been tall for her age. Kara studied her creamy beige skin, her amber eyes flecked with gold, her thick lashes. Three fat braids bound by green ribbons hung to her shoulders. Alex was just as tall and about the same age. Her legs dangled along Worth's right one. Blond tangles streaked with red hung down her back and framed her heart-shaped face. A crusty bruise on her right knee looked fresh.
What were they doing that day, and why were they all together? Who took the picture? Did her dad and Alex ever wonder about her?
"You doing okay, honey?" The bartender, her muscled arms decorated with several heart tattoos, lifted Kara's empty wineglass. "Can I get you anything else?" She wiped the bar down in front of Kara.
"Sure." Kara eased the photo back into her bag. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Uh-huh." The woman produced a bowl of popcorn from under the counter and placed it in front of Kara. "Merlot, right?"
Kara nodded. Zach had said he'd be there no later than seven thirty, and a check of her watch confirmed he was now forty-five minutes late. She swiveled in her chair and surveyed the bar again.
The bartender shouted to another customer, "Be right with you, handsome." She poured wine into a clean glass, slapped a cocktail napkin down, and placed the glass on top. Purple splashes stained the paper.
"Thanks." Kara stretched her neck to see the entrance. Instead of Zach, her eyes met the hard stare of a man standing just to the left of the door. She caught her breath; dark hair, average height.
"I'm so sorry I'm late."
Kara jumped.
"It's just me, sweetheart." Zach shrugged out of his London Fog, swung his overflowing Tumi briefcase up onto the bar, leaned forward, and kissed her neck. His hands traced her cheek and chin. "Were you expecting someone else? Should I be worried?" His laugh was a deep rumble.
She glanced back at the entranceway, but no one was there. Kara slipped off her eyeglasses. "I was getting worried."
He took her hands and pressed them against his cheeks. "You are beautiful." He sniffed her hair, nipped her ear, and nuzzled her neck. "You smell and taste luscious."
Kara couldn't help but grin. "Well thank you, kind sir. You're looking rather handsome yourself."
At forty, Zach's creases around his mouth made his face interesting; his clear blue eyes reflected his intelligence. He was wearing the maroon tie she had given him for his birthday, and her favorite Armani suit, tailored to accent his broad shoulders.
They'd met at the gym. She was the guest of a friend who had a nodding acquaintance with Zach. Well, Paul was sort of a friend—he taught music at the Jesuit day school at which Kara taught fourth and fifth grade reading. Ignoring Paul, Zach had helped Kara use the Universal and balance on the Bosu ball as they discussed cardio exercises and strength training. She was
intrigued. He seemed interested in her answers to his questions, laughed easily. She'd checked for a wedding ring or tan line where one might have been. To her delight, they both loved old movies, especially Hitchcock, devoured mystery novels, and preferred jazz to most other music.
Later, after Paul had left, Zach asked her out for coffee and she'd said yes without thinking or asking questions about his life. Not that she had regrets. Well, maybe a few. Besides being the most successful and handsome man Kara had ever dated, he was also the oldest. Unfortunately, he was not her first married man, as Tuesday had been quick to remind her.
Zach ordered a Stella Artois, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and shoveled it in his mouth, bits falling onto the bar and his lap. He brushed them aside as he chewed.
"You could have texted me and let me know you were running late." Kara tried not to sound as upset as she felt.
His beer arrived. "Don't be mad." He gulped, wiped his mouth with the cocktail napkin, and took Kara's arm. "Come dance with me." They weaved between the tables onto the miniature dance floor.
It was a love song. He held her at the small of her back with his left arm, her right hand in his, pressed against his heart. As they swayed to the music, she could feel him getting hard against her groin. One song ended and another began. Little tugs pulsed deep inside of her. His thighs trembled.
"I do miss you, sweetheart." He breathed into her hair, his voice heavy, his breath hot against her scalp and face. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me—do you know how much I love you?"
Although he said it often, Kara didn't really know.
He pulled back. "You do know I love you?"
Kara burrowed her face into his shoulder.
The song wasn't finished but Zach stopped dancing. "That's why it kills me that I have to leave in a few minutes."
Kara stared at him; her face stiffened into her fake I'm fine expression.
"Don't look at me like that."
Although they had been dating for less than five months, he'd already figured out a lot about her.
"You know I wouldn't do this unless I absolutely had to—it's a work thing."
"But it's almost eight thirty."
He guided her back to their spot at the bar. "Remember the favor you did for me last month? This deal is even bigger." He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "I can't go into the details here, but I'll explain everything in a few days."
"We planned this; it's been over a week since we've been together."
"I know, baby. I'll make it up to you." He tapped her chin. "Please don't be sad."
"I'm disappointed, that's all." The lie slid off her tongue. "Of course I understand."
Zach reached into his briefcase and brought out a large manila envelope, holding it low. "Put this in your bag. I need you to drop it off at the same address as last time—Sam Westin's office. You remember, right?"
She slid it deep into her bag. The last time had made her feel uneasy, as if she were doing something wrong.
"I wouldn't ask you, baby, but there's drama at the office—backstabbing stuff."
"Isn't there someone on your staff who could do this confidentially?"
"You're the only person I trust." He slid both hands along her thighs. "We'll celebrate when it comes through—maybe go away for a weekend, just you and me."
They'd never had a whole weekend together. What a magnificent thought: waking up next to Zach, smelling his sleep scent, having a leisurely breakfast, spending a whole day as a couple.
"Where would you like to go? We'll find a bed-and-breakfast somewhere upstate, or maybe go south, catch some sun."
"Sun sounds good."
"So you'll do this for me? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't crucial."
"Okay. And you'll explain everything soon?"
"Excellent."
"Can you give me a hint?"
Zach leaned in. "You have to keep this between us." He scanned the crowd. "Sam and I are going to be ahead of the curve again. This could be a homerun for me, baby." He cupped her face in his hands, brushed her lips with his, and kissed the tip of her nose.
It felt so good being with him—warm and safe, but exciting at the same time. She closed her eyes and kissed him, her tongue circling his lips and then slipping into his mouth. He kissed her back.
Eventually they broke their embrace. Zach grabbed his beer and finished it in a quick pull. He swept up his raincoat. "You make it mighty hard to leave you, but I gotta go."
"Don't worry about it," she said, this time meaning it. "I'll stay and finish my wine." She patted her tote. "I'll deliver this first thing in the morning."
Zach dragged on his coat, pulled her close, and kissed her again. "You're so beautiful. I'd better stop or I'll never get out of here." He picked up his briefcase and placed a handful of bills from his wallet on the bar. Then he offered her a twenty. "Take a cab home."
"No thank you, I'm fine."
"Okay, my stubborn princess. But promise me you'll take a taxi."
She didn't.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alex was trying to understand. A love child, like in some sleazy romance novel? "Tell me."
Her father shifted, the bedsheets caught between his legs. "It was years ago. Your mother didn't like to travel and traveling was all I did. I mean, there were no kids, she wasn't working."
He sounded accusatory, the way he often did when he spoke about her mother.
"Anyway, in those days DC was one of my regular stops."
His cough came back full force. Alex searched for something to help him, locating a cup of water with a straw and placing the tip against his lower lip. Several sips later, the coughing subsided, but a sour smell took its place.
He mopped his eyes. "The long and short of it is, I met someone and we fell in love."
With his peripheral vision, he peered at Alex, who was trying hard to keep her expression neutral. This was not the sort of thing a child, even a grown one, should hear.
"I didn't go looking, kitten. It just kinda happened."
She gave him an understanding smile—it was fake, but it did the job.
"She was young and not sophisticated, not well-traveled, I guess I mean. But she was also smart, funny, the kind of pretty that grew on you. We laughed all the time . . ." He trailed off. "Not that I didn't love your mother. I did. I do."
Alex squirmed and plucked the corners of the sheet.
"She got pregnant, and she wouldn't have an abortion."
Again, he peered at Alex out of the corner of his eye, but she lowered hers.
"I begged her, but she was adamant—a church-going woman." A mini shrug. "Adoption seemed like the next best choice."
The silence felt awkward.
"Find her for me, Alex."
She finally looked up. "Who, exactly?" The woman? Both of them?
"The girl." His voice dropped an octave. "My other daughter."
An unintended groan escaped.
"I know this is a lot to ask." He made it sound as if it weren't, as if he were waiting for her to deny the craziness of the request. "The last address I have is her grandmother's in the Bronx."
Find some kid he conceived while cheating on her mother? A childhood rage welled up. What she couldn't understand then, and still couldn't, was why her parents did this to her. What about her needs? What about Vanessa and Pigeon? How was he going to make it right for them? She pushed these thoughts down, swallowing an all-too-familiar bitter brew. New thought: her mother would go apeshit if she knew. If Alex helped him, she would have to keep it under her mother's exceptional radar.
Her father sank back and closed his eyes. Alex contemplated what she'd just heard. Her mother had accused him of cheating with the regularity of the seasons, and apparently she was right.
* * *
Alex vividly remembered the first time her mother had threatened to kill herself. How old was Alex then, ten? Vanessa must have been six and Monica—known as Pigeon—would have been three.
>
A trip to France had stretched into weeks, and her mother was sure there was another woman . . . again. Wrapped in an old terry-cloth robe, her small hands peeked out of oversized sleeves.
Screaming into the phone, she held a serrated knife to her wrist. "I'll do it right in front of your precious daughters—don't think I won't." Blood oozed from beneath the knife's teeth. "I know you're with some whore. You think your girls don't know? You think Alexandra is too young to understand your mongrel ways? Tell him, Alex." She thrust the phone in her daughter's face. "Tell him you're with me and that I've cut myself."
With shaking hands, Alex had taken the phone. "Mommy's hurt," she whispered tearfully. "Please come home, Daddy."
"Don't cry, kitten." His voice sounded tired and sad. "I'm on my way. Mommy's going to be fine."
"She's bleeding."
"Call Aunt Peggy, and take care of the girls until she gets there. Okay, kitten? Can you be a brave girl for Daddy?"
Alex said yes and gave the phone back to her mother.
With a dish towel, her mother staunched the blood flow. Tears creased her makeup. She slipped to the floor, stringy hair damp with perspiration falling into her eyes, the knife and phone clattering on the tiles. That's when Pigeon walked in.
"Why's Mommy crying?" Her teddy bear tucked under her arm, she pulled a frayed blanket behind her.
"Everything's okay, baby girl," ten-year-old Alex had said. She gave Pigeon a hug, picked up the phone, and dialed Aunt Peggy.
Aunty Peggy and Alex were a tag team.
Almost a year later, Vanessa, who even back then seemed weary of the family dramas, had interrupted Alex studying in her room: "Mommy's using bad words and littering."
Alex composed her calmest expression and strode into her parents' bedroom. The scene was comical today, but not at the time. Her mother stood in her silk nightgown with Pigeon by her side, frosty air rippling the curtains. Mouth agape, Alex watched her mother tear through her husband's suits with a butcher knife, cutting off the arms of the jackets, slicing the legs and crotches of the pants, and then launching them out the window. Between each thrust, her mother lifted her thumb-sucking youngest daughter, and together they watched the garments sail down to the lawn below.
Getting It Right Page 2