Bailey groaned. “You’re kidding me. I told you to call me before you did anything stupid.”
“I know you did. And you were right. I didn’t find them at Dancing Rabbit and that old hippie guy that runs the front office hit zapped with a Taser. Those electric currents really fucking sting.”
“You’re lucky hippies don’t believe in the second amendment. Those bullets really fucking kill—”
“Wait a second,” Ethan blurted. “You said they filed for a marriage license, but you didn’t say that they actually got married yet, right?”
“I’ll check their status again,” Bailey said as he logged into the Stalker site, “but does it really matter—?”
“If you use our Marital Link, it will say if a ceremony has been officiated by a rabbi, priest, Justice, Magistrate, Captain—“
“I’m looking.” Bailey got the same message as before. “Nothing else here. Nada. They just filed for a license.”
Ethan said, suddenly relieved, “The license only allows you to be married. Just having the license does not mean that you are married.”
“I thought the license means that you are married, and that all the pomp and circumstance—the vows, the dress, the cake—were just for show.”
“You need both,” Ethan explained, well versed from the research he had done when he and Jack set up the Marital Link feature. “They have ninety days to have it officiated and recorded. Point is, there’s still time.”
“To stop them? Are you serious?“
Ethan checked his watch. “Weddings are usually in the afternoon, right?”
“Depends. Was she affiliated anywhere?” Bailey asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“You didn’t even ask her about religion, did you?” Bailey huffed. “Too busy talking about real intimate things to broach that ol’ staid acid test, huh?”
“Don’t start with me, Bailey. I’m sitting in my car, in a ditch, trying to figure out why she and my brother left on the same day, why she never told me her real name, and why she’s running off to marry a guy who is also probably using a false identity. Weddings are usually announced. Just run a search—”
“My point is,” Bailey interrupted with a quiet voice, “that most people at least know how their significant others were raised, something about their family, and at the very least their religion. I know that you were raised Jewish, right? Did she spin the dreidel or deck the halls?”
“She celebrated Christmas.”
“Bravo,” Bailey said. “You know more about her than I gave you credit for. I’m taking a look in the state of California—”
“Narrow it down to Napa Valley,” Ethan said.
“Right. That’s where she filed.”
“It’s also where she often escaped to.” Ethan’s voice softened as he explained. “She left behind several paintings in her closet. A lot of them were of a place she spent summers with her family.” He just then remembered, “She once told me that she hoped to get married there one day.”
“I’m narrowing it down to local churches.”
“The church she painted overlooked a vineyard,” Ethan added.
“Doesn’t everything in Napa overlook a vineyard?”
“There was a gigantic oak tree right outside the church. And there was a big estate in the distance, like a French château. It was all green, dark blue, almost a navy, with white trims—”
“There are no wedding announcements with their names at any church in Napa Valley,” Bailey said.
“There can’t be that many churches. If you look on their websites, I’m sure they all have photos. I’ll find a picture of one of her paintings in my photo library and text it to you.”
“Okay,” Bailey agreed. “I’ll call you back if I find something.”
—
Ten minutes later, Bailey called back.
“St. Francis Church, the north end of the valley. On their website, there’s a photograph of a ridiculously happy bride and groom looking out at the vineyard at sunset. It’s rather corny, actually.”
“Is there a big oak tree?”
“Yes, the couple I’m talking about is standing in front of it with smiles so bright I think I’m going blind. And there’s some kind of castle in the distance, looks like what you described: an enormous French château with tall, narrow bushes around it—”
“Cypress Pines,” Ethan blurted. “That’s it! Thanks, Bailey, I owe you one—”
“Wait!”
“What?”
Bailey sounded frantic. “I’ll call the church the second they open and call you back.”
“Why? I could be up there in an hour or so.”
“There’s no point!” Bailey shouted. “What are you going to do?”
“Ruin a wedding. Maybe kill my brother.”
“Brilliant, Gov.”
Ethan realized how ill-considered and boorish his plan was, and he assured Bailey, as if he were still trying to convince himself, “If this is an awful betrayal, I’ll learn to live with it and move on. I’ll turn around and come right home. But I need to know.”
Ethan turned the key. The engine whined. He sighed, “If I can get my car started.”
“Maybe someone up there is trying to tell you something,” Bailey said.
Ethan cranked the ignition again. This time it turned right over. “Yeah,” Ethan said, “like I better get my ass in gear.” His wheels whirled. The Tesla plowed over the dense shrubbery and out of the dip he had landed in on the side of the road.
He was back onto Highway 1. The rain had lifted. Rays of sun splayed through Cimmerian clouds as Ethan raced up the coast—a look of dread in his gaze, a huge dent in the front end of his car, two holes in his heart.
And more time to reflect on the things he had blocked out about his brother and soon-to-be fiancée; so much of his focus had been on his work, he had been so preoccupied with Stalker, so indefatigably driven to succeed at all costs—was he now paying the price?
Or was he a victim of concurrent negligence?
He had always worked longer hours than anyone in the company. Jack led the technical side. His team could only code so fast and he didn’t need to be looking over their shoulders. Unless they were under a deadline, Jack kept relative normal hours. Ethan oversaw everything else in the company, and there weren’t enough hours in any day. Thus, Brooke and Jack spent a lot of time together, alone. Ethan used to be grateful Brooke hadn’t been waiting for him all alone. Now he was wondering if it had been such a good idea. Awkward memories started to appear in his head, moments he hadn’t given any credence to before. And then he recalled something that had occurred just a few weeks back.
—
He had come home from work late after a brutally busy day. He was tired. The bungalow was dark and he assumed Jack had already retired to his room with his door shut and Brooke would be upstairs waiting for him in their bed. But when he walked in, he noticed that they were both on the couch in the living room, sitting rather close together in dim light, talking in hushed voices. He drew closer, more intrigued than suspicious, and they both noticed his large frame filling the doorway.
“Speak of the devil,” Jack said, separating from Brooke.
“You’re home early,” Brooke said as she stood up to greet Ethan with a kiss. “I thought you were going to check out the new office space with Bailey.”
“The realtor had to bail,” Ethan explained.
“I can make you an omelet or something if you’re hungry,” Brooke said. “We ate already.”
“I had a sandwich at the office. I’m okay.”
Jack got up and said to Brooke, “We’ll finish this conversation another time.”
Ethan sensed his irritation and joked, “If I’m interrupting, I can come back later—”
“He always does this,” Jack s
aid, as if Ethan wasn’t there. “Whenever we’re about to have a birthday, he snoops around.”
“He is a bloody stalker,” Brooke teased. “Maybe your next start-up will be called Snoop Around, for people who just need to know. It’ll be huge!”
She had ribbed Ethan about privacy issues from the day he told her what he did, and often asked him to be cognizant about all the negative ways a tracking application could be misused.
Ethan felt tickled by their surreptitious birthday plans and always enjoyed their humor together, even when they ganged up on him. “When you walk in on people and they say, ‘Speak of the devil,’” he teased back, “it begs the question: pray tell, what were you two talking about?”
“You’re impossible,” Brooke swatted him playfully, “and don’t give me the third degree. I’m not talking, not until your birthday, Comprenez vous?”
Jack chimed in. “She wanted gift ideas so I told her how badly you want the newest Transformer action figures. You could keep it on the mantel next to the Dancing Rabbit statue.”
The Dancing Rabbit statue was a running joke with the twins. Brooke had given it to them after their corporate retreat to remind them of the importance of mindfulness and transformation. They both thought it was a kitschy eyesore, but kept it above their fireplace in their living room, so they wouldn’t offend her.
Ethan played along, “I see my brother’s still asking people to buy gifts for me that he wants. Don’t they call those ‘squirrel gifts’?” Jack kissed Brooke on the cheek and then headed for his room. “G’night, kids.”
Ethan pulled Brooke down to the couch and wrapped his arms around her. “Alone at last.”
“Since we’re on the subject of the big three-oh, maybe you can weigh in on how you would like to celebrate. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Seriously,” Ethan said, “it’s not a big deal to me. Don’t go overboard.”
“Your brother said you would say that.”
“Really.”
“And that if I don’t meet expectations, you’ll pout for a week or so.”
Ethan laughed, “You just helped me decide what I’m getting him for the big day: a muzzle.”
“You’re not going to give me any hints about what you want?”
“Surprise me.”
“Okay, I will.”
Ethan smirked.
She pulled away and smacked his shoulder. “You don’t think I can, do you?”
Ethan laughed. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and so does my brother. One of you will slip.”
She headed upstairs with a cunning grin. “We’ll see about that.”
—
At the time, Ethan didn’t think it was inappropriate. It seemed like an innocent exchange, but as he stared out at the open road, he wondered if he had walked in on a more insidious conversation that evening, if the discussion about his birthday celebration had just been a cover for what they were really discussing—possibly their feelings for each other, a sordid affair, and their departure. Ethan glanced at his Stalker settings to see if there were any results yet. He hoped the high gear, balls out, by-any-means-necessary mode would help him learn the truth, as he intended the app to do when he created the company. But another question nagged at him now that he was using Stalker as a client:
Will the truth really set me free?
CHAPTER 14
Ethan searched for the exit off Highway 29, and as he came to the top of the hill, he looked down on his first glimpse of Napa Valley, a panoramic view of the exquisite countryside; filtered light through coral and carmine fall frondescence streamed across the land like gentle brushstrokes—visual eye candy that explained one of the reasons Brooke likely couldn’t get Napa out of her head.
He drove past rolling wineries, Trunbull, Peju, Grgich Hills and through Yountville, a gorgeous town peppered with artisan shops, Michelin-starred restaurants, wine-tasting inns, farmers’ markets—every angle a spectacular vantage. He wished that he could have experienced it with Brooke, at least for a visit. She had wanted to. He’d kept putting it off, too busy with Stalker, always afraid he would miss out on something if he didn’t keep his eye on the ball, and ironically, he seemed to have missed the most important thing of all.
A winding road led up to St. Francis Church. The parking lot was nearly full. Ethan found a space in the last row and headed for the large glass doors that led into the chapel. Butterflies in his belly fluttered, anticipating the train wreck he was about to walk into. He imagined seeing Brooke at the altar with his brother, both preparing to say “I do” to a lifetime of love, looking up as he pounded on the glass windows, like Dustin Hoffman did at the end of The Graduate. He and Brooke would escape together on a yellow bus, leaving everyone behind as they headed into the unknown.
Then he slapped his face to prepare for reality; “Come what may,” as Brooke would so often say.
He went inside the church and followed a long hallway leading to the sanctuary. He could see through the large glass doors that it was a full house. He took a deep breath and went inside. Several people glanced back at him. The morning light through stained glass windows above the altar beamed colorful rays over Father Oliver, an impassioned priest with an arresting shock of white hair, expressive hands, and a heavy Parisian accent; a master French showman performing.
But he was not performing a wedding.
It was a Sunday morning service and the priest was in the midst of a fiery sermon. “‘And the Lord said, two nations are in thy womb; two people from within you shall be separated; and the one people shall be stronger than the other; and the elder shall serve the younger…’”
Ethan moved down the aisle and spotted a seat near the front. The priest paused as Ethan slid into a pew, then continued, “The passage in Genesis twenty-five: twenty-six begins with Jacob seemingly trying to pull Esau back into their mother’s womb. The grasping of the heel is a reference to deceptive behavior. Esau was the first to be born with Jacob following, holding his heel, pulling him down. Jacob was the second son, and we think of him as a headstrong person who acts impulsively without sufficient thought…”
Ethan’s mind drifted. Hearing Father Oliver run on about biblical twins only made Ethan feel bad about assuming the worst about his brother before knowing the truth. He felt guilty about living with blinders, letting so much resentment build up. He missed Jack terribly just then.
When the service was over, Ethan waited near the back door until Father Oliver finished greeting his congregation. Then he approached.
“I’m in from out of town, and I came as soon as I could. What time will the wedding start?”
“What wedding is that, son?”
“Brooke Shaw’s wedding. She didn’t give me a time.”
“Brooke Shaw?” The priest’s ruddy skin blushed a redder hue. Ethan thought it was because the man did not have a poker face, didn’t want to lie, or he was afraid of something, perhaps being unable to keep a secret, or worse. Ethan noticed him glance at the exit. There was a large man with a shaved head and tattoos running down his arms standing in the doorway watching them, and it made the priest even more uneasy. “I’m sorry,” the priest told Ethan, “but you’re a day late. She got married last evening.”
Disappointment engulfed him, and it must have shown on his face.
“Come with me,” the priest said. “Let us have a little chat in private.”
Ethan followed him back down the long hallway. Neither said a word until they entered a large study with overstuffed bookshelves on two walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows behind a cluttered desk.
“Have a seat.” Father Oliver gestured to two French leather club chairs.
Ethan’s eyes were drawn to the windows behind the desk, and he was awestruck. It was unmistakably the view that Brooke so often painted beyond the cathedral: the castle-like estate surrounded by tall Cyp
ress Pines, an equestrian ranch and vineyard in the distance. Brooke must have wanted him to come there, the reason she had left her paintings in his bedroom.
But why?
“Is this where they got married?” Ethan asked the priest, his voice unable to hide his reverence.
“Out there, under the big oak tree,” Father Oliver confirmed. “It was a lovely sunset, just beautiful.”
At least her fairytale came true.
“I must have misinterpreted the invitation,” Ethan said as his imagination ran wild again, envisioning everyone he knew being there, the entire Stalker staff cheering them on, throwing rice, as Brooke and Jack tucked into a Bentley chauffeured by Bailey. “Were there a lot of guests?”
“It was a private ceremony,” the priest told him.
“How private?”
The priest peeked over his bifocals with a curious grin. “How did you say you knew her?”
“I didn’t.”
Father Oliver waited for him to elaborate.
“She was my girlfriend,” Ethan finally confessed.
“I thought as much,” the priest said. “She made her choice, son. Sometimes acceptance is our only option.”
“I realize that. I just…I need to know who the groom is. Just tell me, please…did he look like me?”
“That’s a strange question.”
“I’m a twin,” Ethan explained. “An identical twin.”
“The betrayal you are imagining…” the priest shook his head wittingly. “She didn’t marry your brother.”
Ethan stared back, unconvinced.
“I can see that you won’t be at peace until you know for certain,” the priest said, “so hopefully this will put your mind at ease.” The priest pulled a Samsung Galaxy from his pocket, opened up a photo, and turned it to show Ethan. The groom, Benjamin Carver, or whoever the man in the picture really was, was a thirty-five-year-old clean-cut man wearing a navy suit and an awkward grimace, a smile for the camera almost as forced as Brooke’s.
The blood rushed back to Ethan’s face. At least the groom was not Jack.
“I can understand the betrayal you must have imagined,” Father Oliver said. “I know a little something about twins. If you were listening, my sermon was about the most famous twins…” He looked up and pointed at a painting above Ethan’s head, of Jacob’s dream, a ladder ascending to heaven, and he smiled. “You can now heal the wounds between you and your brother, perhaps?”
The Second Son Page 8