“Was?”
“His name was Joe Hart. Unfortunately, he died a year and a half ago—an inoperable brain tumor.”
Katherine detected honest emotion in Preston’s face and body language. She had no doubt that he had strong feelings about Mr. Hart and what he had done for him.
“He obviously meant a lot to you.”
“We—my wife, Marcia, and I—have a one-year-old son named Preston Joseph Wilson. We call him P.J.”
“Mr. Hart being his namesake?”
“Yes. Some would call us sentimental, I suppose.”
“Not me. It sounds like the perfect name,” Katherine said slowly, trying to wrap her head around this newest idea of a half-brother. “How’s P.J. doing? What’s he like?”
“Oh, he’s a great little guy, full of smiles, starting to pull up now. He’s doing fine . . . except that he was born with a serious hearing impairment.”
“I’m so sorry. I hope something can be done.”
“Working on that,” Preston replied.
Katherine hoped that Preston would elaborate on P.J.’s condition and possible treatment, but she was reluctant to pry. In the awkward gap when Preston didn’t continue, it dawned on Katherine, and she hoped on Preston, that they’d not ordered their meal. She was ravenous. She needed food to quell her sour stomach, which was in knots, and she hoped not apparent to the man sitting across from her.
“Preston, could we order? I’m starving.”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” Preston said, motioning for the waiter, who quickly came to the table and asked for Katherine’s order first. She skipped the appetizers and selected the Vermont pulled pork sandwich. Preston ordered lobster and fennel salad, to be followed by the maple-glazed Long Island duck breast.
“Tell me about you, Katherine,” Preston asked his newly discovered daughter. “You’re obviously a good reporter. You’ve had me doing all the talking. I know, from a conversation with your mother, that you went to Columbia University on a scholarship, and that you’re now getting your master’s degree in journalism. I also know how proud your mother is of you.”
Katherine told Preston about growing up in the tiny town of Marion, between the Finger Lakes Region and Lake Ontario in upstate New York. She talked about her time at Columbia and adjusting to the big city, her tiny, noisy Sixteenth Street apartment off Union Square, and how much she enjoyed her master’s program. She leaned forward and told Preston in nearly a whisper about the job at the Twin Forks Press, and that after a quick trip home to see her mother, pack, and buy a used car, she planned to drive to Southampton, find a place to live, and finally, go to work as a reporter.
By then, they had finished their entrées and were indulging in desserts.
Finally, Katherine pursued what was most on her mind. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about. When and where did you meet my mother?”
Preston laid his fork on his dessert plate and complied. “A long time ago. Here in the city. I woke up with a lot of pain in my abdomen one morning and went to the hospital. Your mother was one of the nurses in the ER and later took care of me in my room. My doctors thought it might have been diverticulitis or whatever—something serious—but it turned out to just be food poisoning, and they let me go.”
Preston and Katherine ordered coffee, and he continued.
“I wanted to take your mother to dinner to thank her for taking care of me. She turned me down, but I met her when she got off her late night shift, and we went for a bite to eat. She wanted to go with me to a club, so we did that and then . . . I took her back to her apartment.”
Katherine tried to imagine the scene, her mother coming out, exhausted after a late night shift, and being talked into going to dinner. She wondered what she looked like in those days, how she wore her hair, did she change out of her uniform, what she would have worn. She forced herself to focus, catching the end of Preston’s saga: “. . . and that’s the last time I saw her.”
“But she called you?”
“Yes, a little over a month ago—out of the blue—and told me about you, and that I was . . . am . . . your father.”
“And that was the first time you had any contact with my mother, since . . . ”
“Yes. It was a complete surprise.”
“And quite a shock,” Katherine said.
“Yep,” Preston said, again with a half-smile. “I know for you, too, this must be—I don’t know the words. I’ve thought about it ever since your mother called me. I was twenty-three at the time. I never knew.”
Katherine became silent, trapped in a self-imposed prison, consumed by her thoughts. She recognized the same sincerity she felt when Preston was talking about Joe, and she was intrigued by the range and control he appeared to have over different sets of emotions. In the business and car discussions, he seemed to be one person; when talking about Joe, Marcia, and his son and now this, another, separating business and transactional issues and personal issues, and placing them in distinct boxes. She wondered if she was being overly analytical, and if so, was that her defense mechanism?
Katherine found herself listening to Preston and at the same time, replaying in her mind parts of what he’d said already, particularly the part about the attorney—Hart—who had saved Preston’s business and obviously had been an influence on him—enough for Preston to name his first child after him. A substantial influence . . . on one of the members of your family. Bingo.
“Are you all right? Have I offended you in some way?” Preston asked.
Katherine was jarred back into the universe of the table, realizing she had strayed far out and more than a little annoyed with herself for having done so, yet aware she could not have helped it.
“I’m fine, thank you. Sorry—my mind drifted off. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“I hope I can see you again soon,” Preston said, and Katherine knew he meant it. “What can I do to help? Forget buying a car, I’ll take care of that. What kind would you like?”
Katherine, who had never had an offer like that in her entire life, was caught completely off guard, still processing the influence on a family member hook.
“Oh my God,” she blurted out, her feelings comingled with her excitement at the prospect of finally seeing a path to fulfilling her last assignment required by her mentor. Katherine’s face flushed, she hoped Preston could not read the confluence of thoughts, impressions, and ideas swirling and spinning in her brain like a tilt-a-whirl at a carnival. She heard the words, “Thank you, but I can’t let you do that,” come out of her mouth, and while relevant, they didn’t seem to match all that she was thinking and feeling.
“Why not?” Preston persisted. “Please, let me help, you can’t know how much that would mean to me.”
Katherine unconsciously squeezed the fingers on her left hand with her right, feeling the pain. Preston had just made an amazing offer to give her a car, and she was struggling with an answer.
“Can I think about it?” Katherine said, not knowing what else to say.
“Of course, the offer stands,” Preston said as he signed the check. “Would you like anything else, Katherine, more coffee?”
“No, thank you. And thank you so much for meeting me, for this lunch, and especially all of our discussion. I’ve never been in this restaurant. It’s wonderful.”
“You’re welcome, Katherine, believe me,” Preston said.
They were among the few diners left in the room, and Katherine was feeling uneasy about taking so much time from Preston, from his business and his family. They got up from the table, Preston straightened his tie and sports jacket, and they walked a few steps. Katherine again marveled at the curved benches finished in red leather, the tables, red-and-white tablecloths, all the color from the pieces hanging from the ceiling, and the large, curved wooden bar.
“Do you see that table?” Preston asked, poin
ting to the table at the end of the row and closest to the bar.
Katherine followed his direction, noting the empty table for two, and said, “Yes.”
“That’s where Humphrey Bogart proposed to Lauren Bacall—number thirty.”
“Really? That’s awesome,” Katherine said.
They turned, Katherine briefly running her left hand along the edge of the bar, and walked slowly from the bar room to the entrance.
Preston lightly placed his hand on Katherine’s arm and seemed to Katherine to be locking his eyes on hers.
“You know, I’m the one who is thankful to you,” he said. “I’ve truly enjoyed every minute, and I hope you’ll call me and tell me when we can get together again, the sooner the better.”
“I’d like that, too. I’m fascinated by all you told me about the attorney who helped you, Mr. Hart. I’d really like to learn more about him. Would you mind discussing your relationship with him further, and if so, when could we do that?”
“I’ll talk with Marcia, and if you are free, we could go to dinner tomorrow night. Marcia will want to make sure P.J. is settled for the night. We live at Trump Tower. The entrance is on East Fifty-Sixth Street. You could come by our place at six. How does that sound?”
“Sounds wonderful,” Katherine said with a warm smile, returning a light touch to Preston’s left arm, and eluding his eyes.
Preston and Katherine exchanged cell phone numbers. “You can see my office when you pick up your new car. I’d recommend a BMW 325 convertible. Just let me know what kind you’d like,” Preston said with a wide grin.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Katherine said, uncomfortable with the feeling of being overwhelmed.
Preston nodded and said, “I understand.”
By then they were outside the restaurant, and again said good-bye. Katherine could sense that Preston wanted to do more than shake her hand, perhaps hug her, and she thought that maybe there should be more, and on one level wanted more, but she remained uncertain. In the end, they just stood there staring at each other for what seemed to her like a long time.
Finally, Katherine thanked Preston again, warmly offered her hand, which Preston took eagerly, and said, “Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow night,” and she briskly walked west on Fifty-Second to the nearest Starbucks, took out her pen and pad, and began to make lengthy notes.
* * *
Preston headed east to his condo, reliving the time just spent and assessing all that he was feeling. He could see Katherine was bright, energetic, and focused. Her mother was right: she wasn’t going to let anything get by her. He’d love to have her working for him. By the time he reached home he’d decided: If a man has to find out at my age that he has a daughter, this young lady’s the one to have.
* * *
Katherine finished recording everything she could think of. She ordered a café latte and called Susan.
“Hi, you. What’s happening?” Susan asked.
“Can you talk?”
“Give me a minute,” Susan said. “Okay, what?”
“I just finished lunch with my father. At 21, no less.”
“How did . . . ? What . . . ? Just tell me.”
“He e-mailed me. A good e-mail. We met, had lunch, talked.”
“And . . . ?”
“And, I learned a lot about my father and want to learn a lot more.”
“Take your work clothes off for a second. What did he look like? We know he’s rich, but is he tall, dark, and handsome? Or am I being too insensitive? Yeah, probably am . . . question withdrawn.”
“You’re just being jerky you, but I love you anyway. Actually, he is tall, trim, and handsome. If he has a dark side, it was not on display today. He was gracious and modest, and he truly seemed interested in me. He told me he wanted to get together again soon—we have a dinner date tomorrow night with his wife—at Trump Tower.”
“Wow, this is moving fast,” Susan said.
“That depends upon your perspective. Twenty-three years, no father. Two weeks, father.”
“How do you feel about it? Did you like him?”
“Yes, I have to say, I did. This has not been easy for him either. He has a wife, a one-year-old son, and, out of the blue, a twenty-three-year-old daughter. As I said, I think he really is trying.”
“Are you trying, too?” Susan asked.
“I am. I’m trying to get to know him better.”
“Did you hug him?”
“That’s enough, Susan. How are you doing? Are you drinking?”
“Not at the moment. I’ve been clean. I’m okay. Stop asking. You’re not my sponsor.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Do you need me? Need anything?”
“It’ll be okay.”
“If you’re sure . . . I’ll call you the day after tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’m happy for you, Kat,” Susan said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Katherine called Gerry to ask if she might be able to see him later in the day for a few minutes. They agreed on 3:00 p.m., and she arrived at his office on time.
“Hey, Katherine. How goes the battle?” Simpson said, motioning for her to sit down.
“I’m here to report. I answered an ad on ire.org from a small weekly in the Hamptons.”
“Twin Forks Press?”
“No way. How do you know that?”
“Sol Kaplowitz called me. You didn’t think he’d pass on checking references, did you? We worked together a few years back on a Gannett paper in Rochester. He knew that I joined Fletcher Thomas after I left Columbia, and he called to ask about you.”
“And you committed perjury?”
“Of course,” he said.
“I should have known; it seemed too good to be true when Mr. Kaplowitz offered me the job on the spot.”
“Cut it out. He’s excited about you, and he should be. You’ve worked hard, and you’ve done well. He knows a good thing when he sees it. What drove your decision?”
“Well, it would have been tough to make the internship route work out. More importantly, as you know, I would never get the chance to report the way I want to unless I freelance or find the right editor with deep pockets who owns a weekly.”
“I agree. Congratulations. You look great, by the way. You have a boyfriend or something?”
Katherine hesitated and then dropped the bomb. “I have a father.”
Gerry sat quietly, then put his feet upon his desk and waited.
“As you know, my father died in the Air Force before I was born. At least, that’s what I was told by my mother, and, of course, what I believed but I have always longed for more information about my father. I felt incomplete in some way, and I always wanted to know more. I pestered my mother for details of his death but never received them, which just made the hole deeper. Recently I saw a documentary on a military mission in Central America involving Noriega—with U.S. Air Force support. I wondered whether the air support could have been from the same unit my father served in.”
Katherine explained how she discovered that Airman Manning could not have been her father—and how she discovered who was.
Gerry put his feet on the floor, walked around his desk, and put his hand on Katherine’s shoulder. “I guess I can’t know how much you have missed having a father all these years, and now discovering that you have one. What must that be like? Where do you go from here? Have you talked to him? Have you met him?”
“He e-mailed me. I was moved by what he said and how he said it. We had lunch yesterday, and I’m going to have dinner with him and his wife tonight. Stay tuned.” The moisture in Katherine’s eyes contradicted the flippant tone of her last remark.
Gerry nodded and returned to his desk. “Would you like some coffee? Some whiskey?”
Katherine ros
e from her chair, reached for her briefcase out of habit, and laughed at the realization that this was the first trip to her mentor’s office without it. She looked at Simpson with an expression of deep gratitude.
“I’ll pass on both, although the whiskey sounds good. I have to go. You’ve been a great teacher and a wonderful friend. By the way, I have not forgotten the last assignment. In addition to finding a father, I think I have found the person of influence. I’ll get you the paper.”
“That’s great, Katherine. Remember, the paper’s for you, not for me.”
Katherine gave Gerry a big hug. “Thanks for always being there for me, Gerry.”
“Get out of here. This is getting too mushy,” Gerry said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Katherine walked back to her apartment and tried to figure out what to wear for dinner. Preston had not told her where they were going, but she guessed it would be heavy upscale. Unfortunately, her clothing selections in that department were slim, and it would be quite a while before she would have the money to build them. Finally, she decided to wear her burgundy mock-wrap jersey dress accessorized with a gold serpentine necklace, small gold earrings, and black pumps.
Dressed up more than usual, Katherine took a cab from Union Station to Fifty-Sixth Street. She had been in the lobby of Trump Tower a couple of times, window-shopping the expensive stores. She had marveled at its over-the-top, pink-white vein marble, its brass and mirrored entrance, its seven-story retail atrium and the waterfall. But she had never until now had reason to enter one of the exclusive condominiums.
In accord with Preston’s instructions, she walked to the private entrance on East Fifty-Sixth Street, where a tall doorman in his late thirties dressed in tails and a top hat peered through the glass door wearing on his face what could only be called a “what-do-you-want?” expression. He opened the door slightly, as if to protect the lobby against even the eyes of anyone without the right to be there, and unkindly asked Katherine what she wanted. She explained that she was a guest of Mr. Preston Wilson and that he was expecting her. He told her to wait outside, and in a minute or two, returned, this time with a broad, insincere smile, he opened the door with considerable ceremony and ushered her in and to the elevators, which she took to the thirty-seventh floor.
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