I’m not sure what your end game is. If you’re looking for money, sympathy, or an idiot to fall for your ploys, you’re wasting your efforts. My financial generosity is nonexistent, I couldn’t care less about your counterfeit tragedies, and pussy-whipped has never been my style.
Please, do yourself a huge favor and find another jackass to fall for your scams.
I’ve got more important things to do with my time.
Not yours (and never will be),
Bennett
P.S. Thank you for bringing my predilection for cruelty to my attention—I had no idea. Will definitely be working on that from here on out.
“Mr. Schoenbach, your 9 AM is here,” Margaux’s faux-cheery voice blares over the intercom speaker on my desk phone, forcefully pulling me out of my moment. I press the orange button and tell her to send her back before hitting ‘send’ on my email.
A moment later, Jeannie with the Department of Family and Social Services strides into my office, a thick case file shoved under her arm.
“Jeannie? Bennett.” I extend my hand, but I don’t say it’s a pleasure to meet her. This isn’t some bullshit work-related meeting, and we’re not here to become friends. We’re here to sort out the mess Larissa left behind in the form of an orphaned child. “Come on in.”
She takes a seat in my guest chair, and I return to the other side of my desk.
“I appreciate your willingness to meet with me,” she says. “I understand that this must all come as a shock to you given the fact that you weren’t aware of Honor.”
She speaks slowly, choosing her words with careful tenacity. I’m not sure she believed me at first.
Still not sure she does.
But it’s beside the point.
Splaying a manila folder, she hands me a form. A quick scan and I deduce that I’m holding a copy of the child’s birth certificate.
Honor Elizabeth Smith: Born March 5th.
Birth Mother—Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach.
I hand it back. “There’s no birth father listed.”
Jeannie winces. “Correct. She refused to give a name. Said it was complicated, that the father wasn’t aware of the child and wouldn’t want to be in her life if he was.”
I release a hard breath, teeth clenched. Based on the kinds of losers Larissa was spending her time with, something like that wouldn’t be implausible.
“Smith,” I read the girl’s last name aloud.
Jeannie shrugs. “She didn’t go into details, but legally, a person can give their child any name they want. There are over two million Smiths in the United States—the most common surname in the country. I imagine she chose that to avoid giving the child the father’s last name? But of course it’s impossible to know.”
She hands me another sheet of paper—this one bearing a photocopied, black-and-white photo of the child. Grainy, but not grainy enough to deny she shares her mother’s smile—one that takes up half of her face like Larissa’s always did. Her hair is dark. I can’t tell if it’s brown or black. Larissa’s hair was so pale it was translucent in the right light, at least when she was a kid. It darkened a bit as she got older, but it was never this dark.
Appearances aside, she seems like a happy kid, for whatever that’s worth.
“Honor lives here in Worthington Heights,” Jeannie says, “in a temporary placement with a local foster family. She’s been in the system off and on most of her life. There were times Larissa was able to meet the custodial requirements given to her by the courts … but it always seemed like she’d take one step forward, only to fall ten steps back. She wasn’t always able to stay clean, wasn’t able to provide safe, acceptable housing for the child. Was in and out of jail for drug and prostitution-related—”
I lift a hand to silence her. “I’m aware of her rap sheet. The recap is unnecessary.”
Jeannie nods. “Of course. I was just trying to give you an idea of what the first five years of Honor’s life have been like.”
“Why hasn’t she been adopted?”
“It doesn’t work that way. The courts like to keep families together whenever they can and several attempts must be made. Like I said, we had a lot of progress … and then we had a few missteps. Most recently, she’d been taking court-ordered parenting classes, going into the methadone clinic regularly, and had started working at a local plastic factory full-time.”
I’m aware.
In fact, I landed her the job there (unbeknownst to her) seeing as my corporation owns the plant. HR didn’t want to hire her given her unstable work history, but I told them it wasn’t an option. The assembly line position wasn’t anything she could make a career out of, but it was honest work.
I was told she lasted all of four months.
“She was making huge strides,” Jeannie continues, wringing her hands and staring out the window behind me, eyes distant and voice tinged in sadness. I get the impression she cared for Larissa, that Larissa wasn’t just another case file in her desk drawer. “She wanted to be what Honor needed, but unfortunately—”
I lift my hand again.
No need to wallow deeper into this depressing wasteland.
I grab the rest of the case file and turn it to face me, paging through thick stacks of paperwork that mean absolutely nothing.
“I don’t understand why she would leave her child to me. I’m not qualified to raise a child, nor have I ever wanted a child. Not only that, don’t you find it odd she didn’t once mention the existence of this child to me?” I massage my temple, sinking into my seat.
Either way I slice this, none of it makes sense.
If my mother cut her off, she would have no reason to continue keeping the child a secret.
This entire situation is baffling.
Jeannie sucks in a breath, shaking her head. “People do strange things all the time. I can say that from all of my interactions with her over the years, there were times she wasn’t in a clear frame of mind. It’s hard to know what her logic was with all of this.”
“I think it’s safe to say there was none.” I push the file away. “What happens if I say no?”
Jeannie lifts her gray-brown brows, shoulders sinking, disappointment etched into the fine lines of her middle-aged face.
“Well. If you were to decline custody,” she says, “we would normally contact next of kin. Usually it’s other aunts or uncles, grandparents. If no one is able to care for the child, she would remain in the state’s system until she is adopted … which could take years. She could live in dozens of homes before she finds a permanent placement, and even then, there’s no guarantee.”
“Spare me the guilt trip. I’m simply gathering information.”
“Of … of course,” she stammers, hands clasped in her lap. “I know there’s a lot to think about, a lot to consider. I can tell you that Honor is a beautiful, sweet little girl. Extremely intelligent. Outgoing. Healthy. Charming. I can’t imagine it’ll be difficult finding a permanent placement for her, but of course, there’s no guarantee. I have a few more pictures, if you’d like to see … she’s such a doll.”
I snort.
As if a child’s cuteness could make or break my decision …
I’m not my damn mother.
Jeannie’s oblivious to my disdain of her suggestion, and her expression lights as she sorts through the paperwork file and produces a handful of color photos, mostly candids.
She hands me one—a wallet-sized school portrait, and it’s all I can do to keep from losing my shit when I’m met with the distinctive, icy-blue Schoenbach gaze staring back at me.
The dark hair.
The pale blue, deep set eyes and fringe of black lashes.
The creamy tan complexion.
This little girl looks nothing like Larissa—and everything like a Schoenbach.
Errol Schoenbach, if I had to guess.
My mother’s words echo in my mind, “If you only knew the things I’ve done to protect this family … to protect our name …”
A scandal like this would have demolished my mother’s prestigious reputation, shaken her social circle, made a joke out of our name, and dented our business dealings. The aftershocks of this dirty little secret would’ve been felt for years, and given the tough climate of Chicago’s high society, I can’t imagine there would’ve been any coming back from something as humiliating as this.
Your son has a lovechild with his adopted sister? That’s not something people are going to forget any time soon, if ever.
She would have been an outcast.
Unveiling this information would be social suicide for someone like my mother, a death sentence of the worst kind.
“Honor’s with a nice family for the time being,” Jeannie says. “But they aren’t looking to adopt … in fact, her foster mother just found out she’s pregnant. Not planned. Complete surprise. Twins, no less. But that means in the next several months, they’re going to have to cut back on the number of kids they take in—if they even decide to continue fostering. There’s a good chance Honor will be moved to a new placement in the coming months, and there’s no guarantee it’ll be in the same school district. She attends Starwood Academy and she’s absolutely thriving there—”
“—that’s enough.”
Jeannie sits straighter, her mouth still open but no sound emerging.
“I’ll take her.” I place the photos back in the folder—everything but the school portrait.
“A … are you sure?”
I’m hardly qualified to raise a child, but staring at the spitting image of my brother, the angelic little girl who’s been swept under rug after rug like a dirty little secret all so that my mother could brunch at the Diamond Ivy Club on Sundays and vacation with Vanderbilts, Astors, and Rothschilds—makes me feel some kind of way.
“Just give me a couple of weeks to get a few things in order.” I rise, button my suit coat, and show her out. “I’ll be in touch.”
Jeannie leaves, speechless, shuffling off in her orthopedic shoes.
I secure the door behind her and return to my desk to compose an email to my assistant telling her to drop any and all non-time sensitive projects, clear my schedule for the week, and meet me in my office when she’s done.
Reaching for my coffee, I rise from my desk and peer into the gray cityscape outside, contemplating all the ways my life is about to change from this moment on.
I’m contemplating some of those ways when wet warmth soaks through my dress shirt. The fabric sticking to my skin, and when I glance down, I discover my mug is leaking and my shirt is ruined for the day.
I grab a spare from my closet and head to my private bathroom to change.
Standing before the mirror, I unfasten each button, starting at the top. Three buttons later, my gaze settles on the year-old scar that runs down the center of my chest, the physical reminder that another man’s heart beats inside of me.
Twenty-five percent of heart transplant patients won’t live to see another five years, and for that reason alone, I’d be a fool to adopt this girl, to gamble with fate.
But if I can give her a few years of stability, set her up for a lifetime of opportunities, then all of this would’ve been worth it.
I may be a cruel bastard, but I’m no monster.
And there’s a difference.
15
Astaire
I run another coat of pink lip balm over my lips and close my compact before grabbing my purse from my bottom desk drawer Thursday.
The academy has emptied, the majority of the staff has already gone home for the day, and in thirty minutes, I’m supposed to meet Mrs. Angelino’s nephew at an Italian place called Fino for our second-chance blind date.
Keys in hand, I stroll to the parking lot, my coat unzipped.
No clouds in the sky.
No chubby rain drops peppering the sidewalk.
I inhale a crisp breath and unlock my car. I’m not exactly in the mood for a date, but I could use a couple hours of getting out of my own head, being social, enjoying a drink or two.
I try to focus on the positives and ignore the nagging voice in my head pleading with me to check my damn email. I’ve done so well this week, not having logged in since Monday. If Bennett has written back, I’m none the wiser. I thought it’d get easier with each passing day, but if anything, my curiosity has intensified.
Tonight’s date should be a good distraction.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I pass a minivan crammed full of vivacious kids of varying ages and a makeup-free mama with a messy bun and a metallic teal coffee mug in her hand.
It makes me think of Honor’s foster mom, who was late picking her up again today, only this time she stayed and chatted for a few minutes, whispering as she informed me that she and her husband are expecting twins this summer and then blindsiding me with an even bigger bombshell—that Honor’s case worker has found a permanent placement for her.
Lucy doesn’t know when Honor will move or where she’ll move to—just that she’s definitely leaving at some point.
There’s a squeeze in my chest when I picture her skipping into my classroom with her contagious little grin and crooked ponytails, but I’m happy for her.
I wish her the most amazing, incredible childhood—one filled with love and memories and a place to forever call home.
* * *
Within ten minutes, I’m parked outside Fino—which happens to be down the street from Ophelia’s.
My used gray Volvo stands out amongst the myriad of glossy Porsches and polished Maseratis, and judging by the elegant lettering on the white awning before me, there’s a chance I’m a hair underdressed, but whatever.
I’m here.
I’m doing this.
Enveloped by the restaurant’s warmth a moment later, I’m greeted by a young hostess who doesn’t smile. Her hips sway in her bodycon dress as she escorts me to a U-shaped booth next to the front windows.
I slide into the wine-colored leather and run my hands along the pristine linen tablecloths.
A cluster of votive candles dance around a small vase of pale pink roses in the centerpiece.
Garrett isn’t here yet, which is fine. I deliberately arrived early this time.
A young man in a crisp button down and lint-free pants pours me a water before handing me the drink menu.
“Pino noir would be great,” I say without glancing at the selections.
He nods, heading toward the bar, and it’s then that I spot a tall, dark, and indisputably handsome man coming my way. Our eyes catch. He smiles. I smile.
“Astaire?” he asks when he’s closer.
“You must be Garrett.” I stand and he greets me with a hug. A hug. Already he’s warm and personable—everything Bennett Schoenbach isn’t, not that it matters.
“Hope you haven’t been waiting too long.” He removes his black suit coat and hangs it on a hook between our booth and the next before scooting in.
“A minute if that.” I’m smiling so big my cheeks ache, so I dial it back. I’ve no idea why I’m so giddy all of a sudden.
Am I nervous?
Excited?
Relieved that he isn’t a cruel-hearted prick?
“Listen, I’m sorry about last week.” His gaze softens, his expression apologetic as he places his hand over mine. “Waited ten, fifteen minutes then got to thinking that I’d mixed up the dates or times. And of course Aunt Jane forgot to give me your number. Anyway, I feel awful about the mix-up.”
He half-smiles when he talks, and his words are sweet and unrushed, milk and honey.
“Don’t even worry about it.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
Our server appears with an uncorked bottle of pinot and two wine glasses. I didn’t realize I’d ordered a by-the-bottle only selection.
I pray that this bill fits my schoolteacher’s salary …
“You drink pinot?” I point to the second glass as the waiter uncorks and pours the red liquid courage into my waiting chalice.
The server nods before leaving.
“So your aunt tells me you work in the finance industry?” I sip my wine and try not to let my stare linger on his broad shoulders or his perfect, snow-white smile.
Garrett’s eyes sparkle in harmony with the flickering candlelight, and the way he looks at me makes me lose my train of thought for a second, much like the first time I ever laid eyes on Trevor.
“Hedge fund manager at Gainey-Hodge downtown,” he says. “Started out as a day trader fresh out of college, networked, made some connections, put in a few years working eighty-hour weeks and … yeah. Here I am. Aunt Jane says I need to divorce my job and marry a real woman.”
He laughs through his nose, and I imagine his relationship with Mrs. Angelino to be wholesome and loving.
I don’t know much about stock brokers or anything in that arena, but I know that hedge fund managers tend to be extremely intelligent, driven, and successful—definitely admirable qualities in the right person.
“Aunt Jane told me you’re a kindergarten teacher?”
I nod. “I am.”
“That’s adorable.” He smiles, flashing two dimples, and I swear my heart somersaults. “You even look like a kindergarten teacher.”
“And what do kindergarten teachers look like?”
“They’ve got this air of sweetness about them. This gentleness. Kind eyes. Pretty smile.”
Our stares hold, but the moment is interrupted once our server delivers his drink.
“Would we care to hear the night’s specials?” The young man hands us leather-bound dinner menus before prattling off an array of expensive-sounding options.
“If you could give us a minute, that’d be great.” Garrett looks at me when he speaks to him. “We’ve got all night. No need to speed things along, right?”
I’m seconds from agreeing when something catches my eye from the bar.
The Cruelest Stranger Page 7