Hidden Seams

by Alessandra Torre

  Chapter 36

  AVERY

  The courier beats us there, and when we step into the office, he is waiting with the envelope and Marco’s attorney. I step forward and knot my hands together, twisting the knuckles until they feel close to breaking.

  “Okay.” The attorney clears his throat and gestures to the courier, who tears open the top of the envelope and pulls out the contents.

  “Your copy, Miss McKenna.” He passes me the papers, and turns, offering a second set to the attorney.

  The report is several pages long, all typed, and my eyes zero in on the words at the top of the page, highlighted with an orange marker.

  NOT A PATERNAL MATCH.

  Marco’s hand closes on my shoulder, his eyes reading the page, and I turn into him without thinking, my hands clutching at his shirt, a sob welling up from somewhere deep in my chest. I’m crying. I can’t remember the last time I cried, but it was before boarding school, and over something insignificant. Now, I feel the ache in my chest, as raw and painful as death. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? The death of a possibility. The only real possibility I’ve had so far.

  Marco’s arms wrap around me, and he’s so strong. His grip, his chest. It is a hard press of comfort, softened by the kiss he places on my head, the sweep of his arms over my back.

  “Huh.” The attorney’s voice sounds odd as if he is confused, and I turn my head, still clutched to Marco’s chest, and look at him. “Marco. Look at this.”

  I step toward him, my eyes trying to follow the point of the man’s finger, but keep flitting to the top. NOT A PATERNAL MATCH. Will those words ever stop repeating in my head?

  “It says…” Marco takes the page and looks at me. “It says that Vince isn’t your father, but that eleven of the fifteen markers match.”

  “Which means, what? The test is wrong?” Hope sparks, and I fight like hell to keep it under control.

  “No. There’s a note here, referencing the markers.” He moves closer to me and points.

  The high number of matched markers indicates that the tested individual is likely a close relative of the actual father, and most likely a father or brother.

  I don’t understand.

  Marco glances at the attorney. “Could you give us some privacy?”

  “Certainly.”

  I sit down in the closest seat, the paper held in both hands, and reread the sentence. The door closes and Marco leans against the edge of the desk. “Avery.”

  “I don’t— I don’t—”

  “Avery.” He leans forward. “Listen to me.”

  I look up from the paper.

  “I think that Vince’s brother may be your father.”

  That hope flares again, tempered only by the expression on his face, one of regret.

  “Do you have that photo?”

  I glance back at the paper, most likely a father or brother, then numbly reach for my bag and move around the contents until I find the photo. I hold it out.

  “Look.” He holds up the photo, his finger pinned to the man’s chest. “Look at the ring on his finger.”

  I look, see the ring, then shrug. “Yeah. So?”

  “I have that ring. Vince used to wear it at times. He told me it was his brother’s.”

  “Who is his brother?”

  He sighs. “His name was James, and he died about twenty years ago, hit by a drunk driver when he was jogging.”

  Died. I have expected it, knew that there was something wrong with Marco’s delivery of the news but still… I still feel a bit of peace at this news. “So…” I point to the photo. “That isn’t Vince? It’s James?”

  He nods. “I think so. He’s wearing the ring, and the photos I’ve seen of him—they had a very strong resemblance to each other —James was just a couple of years older.”

  Yes. I suddenly remember the book, the photo of the two boys next to each other, their likeness uncanny. Other than that photo, and a few isolated mentions, there had been little else on his brother. “So, Vince wasn’t at LiveAid. James was.”

  Marco says nothing.

  “Right?” I press.

  “Well—Vince was at LiveAid. I guess they both were. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think there was a way that he could have slept with a woman.” He grimaces. “I didn’t think, and I didn’t want—”

  “You didn’t want to risk your fortune.” I finish. “Not until I agreed to give it all up.” I look back down at the photo. “And the ring? You noticed it in the picture before?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “I recognized it the first time I saw the photo. And I didn’t tell you then, because I was a greedy and self-serving bastard, and giving your idea credibility didn’t work for me.”

  “You made me feel stupid,” I whisper, my fingers tracing over my father’s face. James Horace. I have a name. A name I can use to find out more.

  “I have a way that might, in some small way, make up for that.” He picks up my bag and passes it to me. “Come back to the house with me. I can’t bring your father back, but there’s something I can show you.”

  * * *

  I step back into the house a different woman. Without realizing it, I had given myself some sort of mental ownership of the house, had envisioned myself living in it, lording over it. Now, I’m in my rightful and permanent role—just a guest, a relative of the man who once owned it.

  Marco takes me to a service elevator in the rear of the home and the doors creak open with a shudder. We step on, and it’s crowded in the space, our shoulders brushing against each other. “This isn’t a tomb you’re taking me to, is it?”

  “Not exactly.” He presses the button labeled B. “I’m taking you to the archive room.”

  The archive room. I perk up, and the doors open to a concrete hall, the air cooler down here. Marco waits for me to step off, then gestures to a set of black jackets hung on hooks before us. “Grab a jacket. It gets chilly down here.”

  I don one, the size a little big and zip it up, appreciating the warmth it provides. Marco opens the top drawer of a desk and pauses, looking down at the contents.

  “What?”

  “I—”his words break off and he lifts out a pair of red gloves, holding them in his palm. “I always thought it was stupid, his insistence that we wear gloves down here. I told him that these items would outlive all of us. And now… fuck me if I can’t not put them on.” He returns the red gloves to the drawer, reaching down and withdrawing two white pairs—one pair which he passes to me and one pair which he dons.

  He closes the drawer carefully, then looks at me, his face tight. “Come on.”

  We are stopped by a large steel door, a keypad set into the wall beside it. “The code is 87224.” He presses the number in, then hesitates before turning the handle. “No one knows that code, other than you, I, and the archivist.”

  I nod, and when he swings open the door, I step up and into the room.

  It’s beautiful, like every room in the house I’ve seen. There’s a long wooden table to the left, one with overhead lights that shine down on its surface. Two club chairs to the right, set in front of a projection screen. Bookcases line the walls, and each one is filled with binders, their labels perfectly aligned with one another. There must be a thousand of them and I step to the closest, a light illuminating the shelves, and read through the first few titles.

  January 1981 - March 1981

  April 1981 - May 1981

  June 1981

  July 1981

  August 1981 - September 1981

  I pull the last binder out and open it, each page dedicated to a photo, an explanation typed beneath the image. I look at a young Vince, standing with a model, and lean in, examining his face, allowing myself to see the minute differences between his face and the image in my bag. I look at the caption.

  Vince Horace with 19-year-old model Candace Whitmore, in Miami. This photo was taken before the Candelabra show at Lux platform on South Beach. The design she is wearing is from hi
s 1981 Fall collection, and was titled ‘White Tunic’.

  I look over to Marco. “Where’s the album from LiveAid? Have you looked at it?”

  “I haven’t looked at it yet.” His features twist in a handsome wince. “To be honest, prior to this point, I was afraid of what I might find.” He steps forward, his chin lifting, eyes scrolling over the shelves. “What was the date?”

  “Mid-July. 1985.”

  “Here.” He rises on his toes and pulls at a binder I would have had trouble getting to. He passes it to me and I take a deep breath to clear my chest.

  “Take it to the table.” He points, and I move, my thin gloves tightening on the ornate leather cover, the book heavy, my anticipation—and fear—tight. What if there are no photos? What if there are only photos of Vince? Or what if Marco is wrong, Vince wasn’t there, and there aren’t any photos from Live Aid?

  I set the book down on the table and Marco reaches up, adjusting the overhead light. It shines down on the book and I open it up, then hold my breath.

  Photos. So many, but none that I want. Photos of Vince by mannequins. Vince by fabric. Sketches cut from design books and inserted into the book. There is as much focus on the clothing as the memories, and I flip through the pages faster, my panic rising.

  “Wait.” Marco stops me, right before I flip past a photo of Vince, by a Volkswagen bus. He points. “That’s James’ car. Or, was his car.”

  I stop, leaning forward and examining the photo first, looking for anyone else in the frame, any hint as to the van’s owner. Then I move to the caption.

  Vince Horace, just before leaving with brother James Horace, to travel to Philadelphia for the LiveAid concert. The concert was a dual-venue benefit for famine in Ethiopia.

  I stare at the words until they blur. It’s right here. Black and white. James was there and so was Vince, though that part no longer matters, in terms of my paternity. I turn the page. Vince, in a small town, some stop along the way. Vince, in a thrift store, pulling out garments from a discount rack. Vince, eating a hamburger on the hood of the van. There are no photos of James and I growl in frustration.

  “Be patient.” Marco’s hand settles on my shoulder. “There will be more. In this room, there’s always more.”

  I try. I flip slower, read more captions, and a dozen photos later, am rewarded with a single photo of James—by himself—leaning against the van, a gas pump in hand. He’s looking at the camera and smiling. He’s long and lean, wearing tight jeans and a sweatshirt, one with a logo on the front. He looks just like my photo—the same tan skin, scruffy chin, and wild hair. I pull on the end of my hair, now sleek and straight, thanks to Marco’s beauty team. In the photo, he’s got one hand tucked in his pocket, his shoulders a little hunched, as if shielding himself from the wind.

  “What did he do? For a job?”

  Marco shakes his head. “I don’t know. Vince said he always found a way to make money. Plus…” he turns to me as if suddenly remembering something. “He owned part of the company.”

  “Part of what company?”

  “Holy shit.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone, making a face when he sees the screen. “The service sucks down here. Just a minute.” He moves to the wall and lifts a phone receiver, looking at his cell phone and punching in a number.

  “This is Marco Lent. Can you grab John for me?”

  He waits, and his eyes meet mine. He says nothing, and I glance back down at the photo.

  “John. How much did James own of the company?” He nods. “Okay. No, I understand. Verify it for me, will you? I’ll tell Avery.” He hung up the phone and a smile stretches over his face.

  “What?” I’m following enough of the conversation to understand that I’ve probably inherited something.

  “James, before he died, owned five percent—best John can remember—of Vince Horace. When he died, he left that, and his house, to Vince, seeing as he didn’t have any other family or—” he nods to me. “Children.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that you have a right to that five percent, which is worth somewhere around thirty-five million dollars when you exclude all of Vince’s personal assets from the estate. Plus the house.”

  That last part, even more than the money, catches my attention. “You still own his house?”

  “Yep.” He grins. “And you’ve already been to it. Spring Lake.”

  “Shut up.”

  He raises one palm. “Swear to God.”

  “The house in Spring Lake, that was James’ house?”

  “Yep. You can get rid of the naked statue in front if you want.”

  I look down at the album, moving my gloved hands over the image. “You don’t have to give me anything. I signed that contract and—”

  “That contract involved the possibility of Vince being your father, not James.”

  “It doesn’t matter. That isn’t what I came here for.” In my peripheral vision, I see him approach, feel the heat of him as he stops next to me, his hands on his hips.

  “I know it isn’t.”

  “This.” I turn to the next page, don’t see James, and flip back, pressing a finger on the photo. “This is all I need. An answer. A history.”

  “I know.”

  He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it feels like to not have a family or to have two adoptive parents who regretted their decision. He wraps one arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer to his side, and I accept it.

  He doesn’t know, but he’s trying to.

  He flips the page forward. Does it again. Again. I lean against his shoulder and watch shots of the entrance to the event. Photos of the crowds. A shot of Vince as he walked through the crowd and turned back to the camera, gesturing him forward. I linger over a photo of five topless girls, paint smeared over their chests, flashing peace signs to the camera. There are more photos, one of Vince holding a joint and laughing, and Marco stays on that one for a long moment. “This.” He taps the picture. “This is the man I knew.”

  We finally get to a photo of the two of them, their arms around each other, cups in hand, raised in a salute. Side by side, I can see the differences in the men. James is bigger, more developed, his face fuller, gaze more confident. Vince is the trendier of the two and is looking up at his big brother with a grin, his hand tightly gripped to his shoulder. I remember now, a scene from the book—one where Vince had told his brother first, before anyone else, about his homosexuality. In this photo, I see how close they were. It hurts to see, the sibling connection that I never had, the love between them. I might have had that love with him if he’d known I existed.

  “I’ll get you copies of all of these.”

  I nod, too overwhelmed to respond. I turn the page and there, in full color and glory, is my mother.

  She is dancing, her arms swinging, her skirt flaring, a crowd around her, their hands raised as if about to clap. She looks beautiful and wild, her hair spinning through the air, her mouth open in a laugh. On the edge of the crowd is James, and he is smiling, his focus on her.

  “That’s my mom,” I say quietly.

  Marco leans closer. “I can see it. She’s got your fire.”

  She’s got your fire. I think of the woman I met and how different she had appeared from this woman. I think of her small home, the child tugging on her arm, the stress and weariness she had exhibited. She had seemed so ordinary. She had been so disappointing, and I feel a pang of guilt at how quickly I had judged and discarded her. I look down at the caption.

  Unidentified woman, dancing at the 1985 LiveAid concert, just before a bonfire.

  Unidentified woman. My mother.

  And look—” he points out James. “He can’t keep his eyes off her. Just like me, with you.”

  I blush. “Oh please.”

  “I can’t.” He leans forward, and the fingers of his hand tighten around my back, pulling me forward. He kisses me, and warmth spreads through my chest from the contact. When he pulls away
, he’s smiling. “I’ve got something else you’re going to love.”

  Chapter 37

  MARCO

  “Okay, I’m done.” She reaches over and pulls the remote from my hand, pausing the screen. “Let me have something else to watch later.”

  “You sure?” I turn and glance over the boxes, the hundreds of DVD cases glimmering under the theater’s discreet lights.

  “I’m sure. I’m gorged.” She crawls along the couch and into my lap, curling into my chest, her arms sliding around my neck. “Thank you.”

  I’m not sure what she’s thanking me for, but I’ll take it. I pull her tighter to me and lean forward to kiss her. “You’re welcome, Miss Horace.” I pause. “Hmmm. I’m going to have to get used to that name.”

  She laughs. “Yeah. Me too.” Her phone beeps and she picks it up, glancing at the screen, then tosses it down. “Ugh.”

  “Work?” I slide one hand along her bare legs, from ankle to knee, and dip slightly under the hem of her skirt. “Someone’s funds need to be managed?”

  “Something like that.” She looks at me. “I need to go back home.”

  I hate that sentence, hate the idea of her leaving and us losing this moment of connection. What if I forget how to be human? What if she forgets whatever it is, about me, that causes her to smile? What if she comes back, and we are strangers again? I move my hand higher, passing it over her knee, and maybe I can distract her with sex. “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.” She studies me, and I wonder if she can see my fear. “I’ve got to figure things out.”

  Shit. I hate that sentence even more. Figuring things out sounds bad. I slide my hand down the slope of her legs, the skin warm beneath the wool skirt, and stop when my fingers hit silk. Her legs part, just a hands width, and I take advantage of the opening. I watch her face, and fuck, she’s beautiful. Her eyes soften when my fingers gently roll over the silk. Her mouth hangs a little, a sigh of breath escaping, and I watch her body flex. “The thing is…” I say carefully, watching her closely. “I have some of my own things to figure out. Things that involve you.”