by Nancy Geary
Could proper treatment have saved her brother? An accident, a horrible accident—her parents had clung to that explanation, refusing to see any other interpretation. Aidan had driven his Jeep at fifty miles per hour into a parked utility truck. “It was late. It was raining. Who expected the electric company to leave their truck on the road after the close of business? Why in God’s name wasn’t the thing parked in ComElectric’s lot for the night?” her father had said, but she’d always wondered.
“I guess the esteemed Dr. Reese will have her hands full if she gets the job,” Archer said with obvious sarcasm. “Although from what I read, her specialty is children and the Center can’t be expecting too many of those. Doesn’t it take at least a decade or two to get totally screwed up?”
“I don’t know about that. I think it happened to the three of us in the O’Malley clan at about six months,” she retorted, willing to play along with his attempt at humor. It had to be agony to know his mother was just miles away yet had no interest in him. That she became a pediatric psychiatrist only added to the painful irony. “You don’t see her at all?” She reached for his hand and gave him a wink. “You have to realize it’s my instinct to pry. It’s also my profession.”
“In that case, Miss Detective, I’ll give you the short answer. I saw her here and there for a while, but it was very sporadic. We’d go six months. Then I’d see her standing on the side of a soccer field during my game, but she’d be gone before I had a chance to talk to her at the end.” He paused for a moment and then added, “You’ll get the longer version when I know you better. I don’t want to drive you away with boring details.”
“I doubt that would happen,” Lucy said as images of her own mother flashed into her mind: Mary O’Malley in a stained apron, scrubbing Lucy’s back with oatmeal when she had chicken pox; hand-stitching lace on her First Communion dress and pearls on her white gloves; driving her out to the Chestnut Hill Mall to buy her a push-up bra at Bloomingdale’s; making her hot tea with lemon and honey when her high school boyfriend stood her up for the senior prom. Since she’d moved out of the house on Washington Street, they spoke nearly every day. A motherless life seemed inconceivable.
“Anyway, suffice it to say that she broke Dad’s heart,” Archer said, obviously wanting to close the subject. “The sixth of March is the one day he still allows himself to mourn his loss.”
“Astounding,” she mumbled. “I couldn’t control my emotions that well.”
“You’re not my father. Thank God, I might add. He seems to be able to control how quickly the lawn grows. Chaos theory is his greatest nightmare.” Archer lifted his drink to his lips and drained his glass. “Let’s look around. Although I may not find it in this tropical paradise, I’m on a quest for mistletoe.”
Lucy gave him a quizzical look.
“I’ve been waiting since long before Christmas to kiss you.” He smiled and took her hand. “If I can find the perfect sprig, or even a close relative, maybe I’ll have an excuse to plant one on the finest of Philadelphia’s finest.”
9:12 p.m.
“I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation. Not here. Not now,” Tripp Nichols whispered as he glanced over Morgan Reese’s shoulder, scanning the crowd for his wife. In the distance he thought he saw the bright turquoise of her floor-length dress. Although he could safely assume she was absorbed in conversation with one of the many patrons she knew at the preview dinner, the last thing he needed was for her to notice him alone in a corner with a beautiful woman, especially one whose professional accomplishments had recently filled the media.
“If you had returned one of my calls, I wouldn’t have to hunt you down at a charity event,” Morgan said.
Tripp said nothing. He couldn’t deny that his secretary had faithfully handed him nearly a dozen messages in the last week, or that he’d heard her voice on his voice mail and felt a mixture of emotion and fear. Morgan had been out of his life for almost seventeen years, and he’d done his absolute best to forget her. Even if he’d failed at the latter, he’d kept his thoughts—and fantasies—to himself.
“I’m here with my wife,” he said, although Morgan would hardly need reminding. He’d been the adulterer. He’d removed his thick gold wedding ring and never once mentioned his wife of five years, their toddler, or their second baby who was due in a few months. She’d been a resident who, because of her relatively older age, no doubt had difficulty making friends among her peers. But her fabulous figure was impossible to overlook and he hadn’t cared if she was fifteen or fifty. He’d done everything in his power to seduce her. “If it’s that important, I’ll call you next week.”
He started to walk away when he felt the firm grip of her slender fingers on his forearm.
“Please don’t make this more difficult than it is. I . . . I don’t know quite how to phrase this other than to be blunt. But I need you to listen.” She loosened her hold.
He took a gulp of his drink and felt the vodka burn in his throat. Given the intensity of her stare and the tremble in her voice, he had the creeping suspicion he’d need several more before this conversation ended.
“I know it’s been a long time,” she began.
Yes, he thought. And as the four months he’d shared with Morgan receded into his distant past, he’d realized how very lucky he was to have survived an affair with his marriage intact. Little escaped the notice of Sherrill Bishop Nichols, but he’d managed for that brief season to pull it off. Perhaps she’d been too absorbed with her daughter or her pregnancy with their son to question his late nights at work or his weekend travel. But such distractions had been an aberration. He couldn’t do it again.
And he didn’t want to jeopardize his current situation. Sherrill had been the winning lottery ticket for this son of a Baltimore Realtor. His father had supported a decidedly middle-class existence selling ranch-style homes and center-entrance Colonials in subdivisions with names like “Rolling Acres” and “Windy Hill.” Now Tripp lived in an eighteen-room mansion in Haverford with a full-time housekeeper and gardener. He and his wife shared a trainer twice a week. A personal assistant paid the insurance on his Infiniti, dropped off his dry cleaning, reminded him of his anniversary, and arranged for weekly floral deliveries to his wife, including larger bouquets for special occasions. He liked the comforts that came from marrying a woman with a substantial family fortune, a woman who asked for little by way of intimacy and wanted no part of intellectually or emotionally charged conversations. As long as he dressed appropriately and accompanied her to myriad social and charitable events, as long as his name appeared after hers on the photo-ready Crane’s Christmas card of their smiling children, as long as he didn’t embarrass her in any way, his life was easy.
“I never terminated my pregnancy.” Morgan now stumbled, as if the weight of her words made her lose her balance.
“What?” Instinctively, he looked around again, scanning the crowd for the telltale turquoise. Please, Sherrill, stay away, he thought, feeling sweat break out on his forehead.
“I’d told you I was pregnant. I told you at the time it was your child.”
“But . . . but . . .” he stammered, although he knew she was right. He couldn’t argue that point.
He could still picture her sitting across the Formica table at Eddie’s Diner with a cup of lukewarm peppermint tea. She’d worn a pale blue sweater and gray flannel skirt. Psychiatric journals, papers, and patient folders were piled on the banquette next to her. She’d made her announcement with what he thought was dismay. She’d spoken of how much she wanted to finish her residency, to begin her practice, that she wasn’t sure she was prepared to revisit that plan. She’d given up her domesticity once because she’d believed in what she was doing. “You told me you’d had a vasectomy,” she’d said.
And then he’d had to confess to the greatest lie of all. He’d never had surgery of any kind. She’d been so apprehensive about sleeping with him, about even the remotest possibility of getting pregnan
t, that he’d said that to reassure her while making himself sound more liberated, more egalitarian than he’d ever dreamed of being. He’d never expected the relationship to last past that first night, or ever to see her again. And the lay was worth the lie. “I have a family,” he’d said. “I can’t leave my wife. I can’t abandon my children.” Those words had sounded more pitiful than he’d intended.
That look on her face—her mouth slightly agape, her head tilted, her nostrils flared—he’d never forget that. Had it been shock? Anger? Disbelief? It had taken her a moment but then her eyes had welled with tears. “I’m sorry,” he’d said, but he didn’t have to articulate anything more. They both knew instinctively that it ultimately didn’t matter what she decided because his mind was made up.
She hadn’t said a word. She’d just stood, gathered her papers and journals into a bundle in her arms, and walked out. Two days later, he’d received a small ivory card upon which she’d written simply: How could you think I wouldn’t find out? Or did you just not care? He’d had no answers. He hadn’t spoken to her again and hadn’t given the baby another thought. Of course it had been aborted.
“I thought about having the twins, of raising them on my own.” Her voice pulled him back into the present. “I debated so long that by the time I decided I couldn’t do it, that I couldn’t be a single mother, it was too late. I was well into my second trimester. I’d seen their hearts beating on a sonogram. I’d seen an ultrasound image where they almost appeared to be holding hands. Placing them up for adoption seemed the best course for them and for me.”
Blood rushed to his head. What was she saying? She’d given birth to twins who were his? There were now two adolescents in the world who were his offspring? What was going on? He felt completely disoriented. Ten minutes before he’d stood with a vice president of PNC Bank debating the degree of flex for a custom fairway driver. “Depends on swing speed,” he’d said. “That’s why you pay for quality. They test your swing in a wind tunnel. State-of-the-art stuff.” Next to him, Sherrill had discussed with the man’s wife, a decorator, a cranberry Brunswig & Fils pattern with coordinated two-tone cording she was considering for the armchairs in the library. All around him, permutations of similar conversations were occurring, the types of conversations he liked, conversations that didn’t alter the universe. Now he’d just learned information that changed everything.
“Our daughter lives right in Gladwyne. Her name is Avery Herbert. But . . . but . . . but her brother is dead.”
What was going on? None of this made sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glimpse of turquoise. Was another woman in the same couture color or was Sherrill approaching? The pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and purples of dresses and scarves and accents and flowers assaulted him. His heart raced. He needed to get out of here. Despite the enormity of the convention hall, he felt claustrophobic.
“What happened to the boy?”
She bit her lip. “Suicide,” she said, so softly he thought he’d misheard. But she repeated, “He killed himself.”
“This is insanity,” he blurted out.
“If you’d just returned my calls, we could have talked about this in a calmer way,” he heard Morgan saying. “I’m not trying to disrupt you or your life. But I’ve felt desperate to find Avery. To tell her about me, about us, to tell her she has biological parents, too.”
Parents. Parents! His daughter, Beth, was a senior at Pine Manor. She’d accepted a job as an intern at the Barnes Foundation. He’d provided the first and last months’ rent for her two-bedroom apartment. The lease started June 1. Tripp Jr. was at the Naval Academy, learning discipline and playing rugby. He’d be home for Easter in a few weeks. They were going together to the Volkswagen dealer to buy his first car. Those were his children. They were the two who each got $11,000 a year deposited free of gift tax into a money market account. They appeared on either side of him and his wife in the biannual family portraits. Beth and Tripp Jr.; there was no room for anyone else.
“Does the girl know who I am?” he managed to ask.
“No. She doesn’t know anything yet. There are still a few legalities to work out. I don’t want to approach her until everything is in order. But it won’t take much longer now. I feel that she has a right to know who we are.”
“Why? If you were so concerned, what’s taken you so long?”
Morgan’s face was flushed. Despite the elegance of her understated taupe gown, the long line of her neck adorned only with a small gold locket, her neatly styled hair, she looked as anxious and earnest as she’d looked that day at the diner. For a moment he felt compassion, the urge to embrace her or to make some sort of reassuring gesture, but that was out of the question. This woman is about to ruin your life, he reminded himself.
“I’ve made mistakes, many horrible mistakes. But now there’s a person, a young woman. She’s lost her brother. Maybe she’ll want nothing to do with me or you but I have to take that chance.”
Think, Tripp. But his mind couldn’t focus. He needed time, time to make a plan, time to protect himself and his assets. Having a nearly full-grown child emerge as the product of his affair, his only marital aberration in twenty years, was out of the question. Sherrill wouldn’t understand. He might as well have his bags packed before he ever uttered a word. The scandal, even more than the betrayal, would close off any possibility of reconciliation.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife. It was definitely she, not a figment of his imagination, and her stride was quickening. A few more seconds and he’d be faced with his ultimate nightmare: introducing his paramour to his wife. Morgan gave him a quizzical look, but he had neither the skill nor the inclination to interpret her expression. All he wanted was for her to quietly disappear.
“My, my, the famous Dr. Reese,” Sherrill cooed as she joined them. “I had no idea my husband’s company would appeal to such an esteemed psychiatrist.”
Tripp knew this act: The stalking tigress who makes her prey feel comfortable just before she’s ready to go in for the kill. He could recognize her fake smile anywhere, her squinted eyes, curled lips, and big teeth protruding from pink gums. He held his breath.
“Please call me Morgan,” she said, graciously extending her hand. “It’s been my pleasure.”
Was she going to betray him right here and now?
“Morgan’s been kind enough to update me on the comings and goings of a mutual friend,” he offered before she could say anything further. Did he sound adequately dismissive, uninterested? “Hard to believe we know someone in common. The only doctors I know are my own, and I do everything possible to avoid them.” He forced a laugh. Tripp as the witty master of small talk; it was a role he knew well.
“Six degrees of separation, isn’t that how the expression goes?” Sherrill asked rhetorically as she linked her arm through Tripp’s, establishing her territory.
“And so much can happen to all of us,” Morgan added, clasping her hands.
He watched Sherrill’s eyes dart to Morgan’s bare fingers, immediately registering the lack of either an engagement ring or a wedding band. She could home in on marital status within seconds. Thinking back, he’d been lucky it wasn’t a skill Morgan shared.
The three of them stood without saying a word.
After what seemed an eternity, Sherrill finally broke the silence. “I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt whatever catching up you were doing on your friend.” She lingered over the last word, as if suspicious of such a person’s existence.
Tripp felt sick. This triangle had to end. He put his arm around his wife’s waist, feeling the thickness of her middle, the roll underneath her body-contouring control-top pantyhose. “Have you looked around?” he offered meekly. “It’s a wonderful show this year. The best I can remember.”
Morgan took the hint. With a slight bow in Tripp’s direction, she excused herself. “We’ll have a chance to talk again soon.”
Not if I can possibly help it, Tripp though
t as he watched her walk away into the crowd. He removed his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He felt as if he’d awoken from a nightmare and now faced the task of coming to terms with whatever demons had emerged from his subconscious. Revealing his identity, making his daughter aware of his existence, was out of the question. But his brief encounter with Morgan had been enough to convince him that her mind was set. No amount of arguing or even begging would persuade her otherwise. Could anything? How could he keep his past at bay and protect his cherished existence? He needed an answer. And he needed it fast.
10:44 p.m.
“We’ve been friends a long time, is that fair to say?” Dixon Burlingame asked in a deep, slightly hoarse voice.
They sat together on three steps leading to the peach-colored facade of a set-designed Puerto Rican home. Dixon, a heavyset man in his late fifties with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, had loosened his tie. He’d lost one of his shirt studs during the course of the long evening, and David could see his white undershirt protruding through the opening. In the background, salsa music still pulsed although many of the patrons had left.
“Indeed we have. I dare say, I’ve known you longer than anyone,” David replied. They’d been friends since the fifth form at St. Mark’s and then roommates at Haverford College. As bachelors, they’d shared an apartment on South 37th. David had been the best man at Dixon’s wedding, then a godparent to Dixon’s eldest son, and, since his divorce, he had been going to the Burlingame home for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Do you remember that redhead freshman year? Ramsey Whitmore.”
“The one who wore shorts so short her derriere was ever-so-teasingly visible?” David laughed, remembering.
“That’s the one,” Dixon said, smiling. “Do you remember the advice you gave me about her? I’ll never forget what you said. You told me not to ask her out. That she was too hot for a pudgy guy from Pennsylvania who hadn’t made the cut for even a club sport. You told me that it was better to preserve my ego and not put myself in the position of being turned down. That it was better in the long run to focus on the girls who might say yes. Some of the best advice you’ve ever given me.”