“I don’t know about that,” Casey said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m Wilson’s CFO.”
Scanning the wall across from the windows, Katherine said, “I assume these are your family? And you have a beautiful German shepherd, I see.”
“They are,” Casey said, looking at the pictures, “and Spike is a great dog. Are you a dog lover?”
“I am. I have a three-year-old golden retriever, Hailey.”
“Preston tells me you went to Columbia University and just received your master’s in journalism. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. A lot is going on right now. Exciting times.”
“Well, Preston tells me he’s assisting you with your vehicle needs today. You couldn’t wish for a better adviser—or father—to help with that, I’ll tell you! Do you mind letting Judy, my secretary, get a copy of your driver’s license and information? As for meeting Austin Disley, that’ll have to wait for another day. He had to go out to one of the properties at the last minute this morning.” They walked over to Judy’s desk, where Katherine submitted her license and signed the papers she was given.
“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. I really enjoyed meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you again soon.”
“Cut out the Mr. Fitzgerald stuff. We dog lovers have to stick together. Call me Casey and give me a hug,” he said with outstretched arms.
Katherine immediately fell in love with this man, sensing intellect, warmth, and understanding. She gave him the hug he asked for. He went to his credenza, where Katherine would later learn he kept his private stash, pulled out three Snickers bars, and gave them to Katherine. “If my G2 is correct, you’ll soon be driving out to Southampton. You’ll need these along the way.”
Casey took Katherine down to the showroom, where she expected to meet Preston. Instead, they were promptly joined by a young, well-dressed salesman wearing the name plate John Riddle, who walked them over to a shiny vermillion metallic red 2012 BMW X5.
“Here she is,” Casey said. “All yours.”
“There must be a mistake, Casey, my . . . Mr. Wilson and I talked about going to look at used SUVs.”
“No mistake, Katherine, believe me. This is the car Preston wants you to have. He’s still tied up in a meeting. Once you gave Judy your information upstairs, the title and insurance were processed. Don’t screw it up. Take the car.”
Katherine struggled to find words. What finally came out was, “Yes sir, thank you, Casey.”
“Well, get in,” Casey said. “See how she feels. There is plenty of room for Hailey. John will answer all your questions.”
Katherine felt light-headed and dizzy with excitement as John opened the driver’s door and she slid into the sand beige premium leather seats. She looked at the dash, put her left hand on the leather steering wheel and her right on the leather-covered gear shift, breathing in the new car smell. She had never sat in a car like this, let alone driven one. Or owned anything remotely like it.
“Why don’t you wait in my office until the car is road ready?” Casey said. “It’ll give us a chance to talk a little more.”
“I’d love that, Casey.” They walked upstairs and back into Casey’s office. “You were in on this all along, weren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t mind admitting to a little deception—of the happy sort. Would you like anything to eat or drink, Katherine?”
“No thanks. I’m good. But I would like to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Preston told me about Joe Hart. It’s an amazing story. Especially the part about the Collectibles. I haven’t been able to forget it. I’ve heard Preston and Marcia talk about Mr. Hart. You knew him. What was he like? Did he have a major influence on Preston?”
Casey sat back in his swivel chair, hands behind the back of his head, and put his feet up on the desk. “Joe Hart. He had one hell of an influence on me. I learned so much from that man, listening to him, watching him perform, watching the way he cared for others.”
“How old was he when he died?” Katherine asked softly.
“Forty-five or so. Way too young. And his wife was killed in a drive-by shooting only a year before, and his mother and father died when he was a young boy. Joe Hart had seen more tragedy than any man deserves.”
Casey went over to a table in the corner and poured himself a cup of coffee. He looked at Katherine, but she shook her head.
“What can you tell me about these Collectibles? And what is Preston’s relationship to them?”
“I’ll leave those questions for Preston,” Casey replied. “I can tell you that I recently received some materials from one of Joe’s friends, a Mr. Thomas Greco, who is interested in buying land in Elko, Nevada, and starting a camp with Mrs. Greco for children with special needs. He and Preston have apparently talked about this. I don’t know how interested you are, but you might also check with Alice Hawkins, who was Joe’s secretary and right-hand, as you might put it. She lives in Braydon, South Carolina.” Casey wrote down Alice’s telephone number and handed it to Katherine.
Their discussion was interrupted by Casey’s intercom telling him that Miss Kelly’s car was ready. Katherine felt another jolt of excitement.
Casey put his hands in the air and said, “Let’s go get ’er.”
* * *
Katherine went over the controls and details with John one more time. He synced her cell phone, reviewed the automatic shift, the steptronic and manual sport shift options, and showed her how to work the stereo, the GPS, the Bluetooth, and countless other options. She tried to concentrate and absorb it all, but she was sure she would be reading the manual many times.
Finally cleared to go, and with her GPS set for Southampton, she drove her new SUV slowly away from the dealership into Manhattan traffic and headed back toward Long Island. The luxury SUV drove like a dream. Once off the freeway, and more comfortable with its features, she accessed her communication system and directed it to call Preston’s cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Preston. This is Katherine. Am I getting you at a bad time?”
“Actually, I’m just going into a meeting. Is everything all right? Can I call you back?”
“Everything’s fine. You don’t need to call me back. I just wanted to tell you how much I’m enjoying driving my new car and how much I appreciate your giving it to me. It’s awesome and I wanted to thank you.”
“So you’ve wrapped up your little surprise meeting with Casey and John? You’re quite welcome. It’s my pleasure. I’ll talk to you soon. Thanks for the call,” Preston said.
* * *
An hour later, Katherine was enjoying a midafternoon coffee at the Princess Diner, going through the real estate ads in Newsday. Lots of expensive homes for sale, scads of vacation rentals. Apartments were harder to locate, especially in her budget range. But soon she spotted one that seemed to fit her needs: an 800-square-foot, one-bedroom, one-bath furnished apartment for lease just off Post Crossing in Southampton Village with parking and pets okay. Twelve hundred dollars per month. She called the number listed, and within twenty minutes, was doing a walk-through with the rental agent. It was small but clean and efficient, and the furniture was in good shape.
Katherine called Sol to ask his take on the apartment, valuing a local’s opinion. He liked the location, recognized and felt good about the rental agency, thought the price was right, and encouraged her to take it. She gave Mr. Kaplowitz and the Twin Forks Press as a reference, signed the one-year lease, and told the agent she would send in the deposit in the morning.
As the sun began to set over Long Island Sound, Katherine contemplated her good fortune. How many lucky people would end up with a diploma, a job, a new car, and an apartment all in the same month—not to mention a father in the deal?
Time to call Susan. She gave instructions via the car’s hands-free input and heard Susan’s voic
e, crystal-clear, over the speaker system.
“Hi, you,” Susan said. “What’s happening? Where are you?”
“I’m sitting in my new BMW SUV, driving back from Southampton, having just spoken with my new employer, Mr. Kaplowitz, owner of The Twin Forks Press . . . ”
“Oh, my God,” Susan said. “Unbelievable. Knowing you, there’s more. Keep going.”
Katherine did, for two straight hours. It was late by the time she got back to the city. Afraid to park on the street, she found a garage close by where she could put her new BMW overnight, deciding to pay the twenty-five bucks for peace of mind.
Katherine dined on an inglorious dinner of leftovers, cleaned out her refrigerator, packed her belongings, took a hot bath, and fell into bed. Hailey, thrilled to see her, lay down at her feet. It had been a most productive day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Katherine awoke at 6:00 a.m., dressed, grabbed a quick breakfast at the coffee shop, retrieved her vehicle, parked in front of her apartment, gathered her few portable belongings, lugged them down the steep stairs for the last time, packed them in the car, said good-bye to the noisy dumpsters in the alley next door, and set her GPS for her mother’s address in Marion. At last she and Hailey were headed home.
As soon as she was through the Holland Tunnel, and the traffic had thinned a bit as she headed west on I-80, she told her communication system to dial Susan again.
“Hey, you,” Susan answered.
“Hey back. Got time for a question?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think I should tell my mother?”
“Let’s see, ‘Hi, Mom, I met your lover’s wife.’ ”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel better.”
“Are you messing with my mind?”
“That, too.”
“So you’re not drinking?”
“I am drinking.”
“Can I help?”
“No.”
“Why are you messing . . . ”
“Because you’re full of yourself.”
“How?”
“You’ve gone a lifetime without a father. Now you have one, he’s rich, gave you a new car, and you’re worried about what to tell your mother? Get over yourself. But, I’ll help you move into your apartment anyway.”
Never in all their years of friendship had Susan talked to her in that manner. It scared her to hear Susan slur her words.
“This is not a good conversation,” Katherine said. “Do I need to turn around and come back?”
“No, this is good for me, and I think it’s good for you, too.”
Katherine went quiet for a while and then said, “Maybe I’ll become an alcoholic.”
“Not a good idea,” Susan said.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t hate yourself.”
“I hate the way I look. Does that count?”
“A little.”
“Do you hate yourself?” Katherine asked.
“At times.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Could be I’m too tall . . . or could be that my mother and father are drunks . . . and so am I.”
Katherine could hear the pain in Susan’s voice but felt inadequate and powerless.
More silence. “Why didn’t you want me at your graduation?” Susan said. Katherine knew Susan comment was rhetorical and could feel the hostility in her tone.
“Because I didn’t . . . ”
“Exactly,” Susan said.
“This conversation sucks.”
“I knew we could agree,” Susan said.
* * *
After thinking—worrying—for an hour about Susan and her parents, Katherine decided it was time to call her own mother.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Honey. How are you doing? Where are you?”
“I’m headed home and should be in Marion in time for dinner. How’s your shift?”
“Good. Timing’s perfect. You know where the key is if you get to the house before I do. I can’t wait to see you.”
At that moment, Katherine’s sound system began making a faint beeping sound. Was it an alarm? Something malfunctioning? She ended the conversation with her mother and looked for a chance to pull over.
The beeping didn’t stop, and it seemed like it was taking too long for her to pass the eighteen-wheeler to her right. She fumbled with the dials and pushed a few buttons until the beeping stopped, and she could see the truck in her rearview mirror. She heard a voice through her speaker system.
“Kat? Are you there?”
“Yes . . . Hello . . . I’m here. Who is this, please?
“6A.”
“Really? Sean? Is it really you?”
“Affirmative. Can you talk?”
“Absolutely. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”
“I’m good. What are you up to?”
“I got a job at a great weekly in Southampton. At the moment, I’m driving to upstate New York to see my mom and grandpa. After that I’ll move into my new place and take a brief vacation before I start work.”
“Cool. Where’re you going?”
“Well, it’s a long story, but I’m going to drive to Braydon, South Carolina, talk to a woman there—don’t know for how long—and then make my way back up the coast.”
“Unreal. This could be good. Any idea when you’d be making this trip?”
“Probably spend two days in Marion, then a day to get to Southampton and unload my stuff . . . so I’d say I’ll start next Monday, assuming I can confirm the arrangements. I’m guessing it’s fourteen, maybe fifteen hours to Braydon. Why?”
“I’m traveling a lot these days myself. You won’t believe this, but I’m going to be working in the southeastern part of North Carolina about that time. I’ve been trying to figure out how we could get together, after you couldn’t make it to Washington. So, maybe on your way back might work out. Have you ever been to Wrightsville Beach?”
“I’ve never heard of it. Is it nice?”
“More than nice. Check out Wilmington, North Carolina, and Wrightsville Beach. As your personal travel representative, I strongly recommend that you secretly meet a certain agent there so that you and he can finish a conversation that was started in April in the Berkshires.”
Katherine could feel her heart pounding. She tried to sound casual, but she knew her success would be limited.
“I certainly would like to get to know that agent better, and I love the beach. I should warn you that I’ll have Hailey with me.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“Yes—my four-legged girlfriend.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Sean said. “I’ll set you up in a condo on Shell Island, the north end of Wrightsville Beach, if you don’t mind. I’ll text or call to give you the arrangements.”
“I’m on a tight budget, Sean.”
“I’ll handle the lodging,” Sean offered.
“Not sure I want you to do that. We’re just having a conversation, right?”
“Relax, Katherine.”
“Will you protect me?”
“There’s nothing I’d like better,” Sean said. “See you soon.”
Katherine could see on her dash that the call was over, all too soon as far as she was concerned. Her conversation with Sean was settling over her, caressing her like a warm summer breeze. She pictured him the way she saw him in the mountains after the race, mud on his face, sweaty, clear-eyed, and adorable. Suddenly she was hungry. She pulled off at the next exit, refueled her
SUV, freshened up, and bought a sandwich and a diet Coke.
Katherine’s conversation with Sean was toggling between the right and left hemispheres of her brain, with the analytical quadrant getting the most attention. She felt like a worried director examining dialogue in a screenplay for unintended meaning. One thought survived with clarity: if she intended to follow through with the idea of a trip to Braydon—the first vacation she’d taken in four years, and likely the last she’d get for a while—she needed to make the arrangements with Alice.
Katherine looked up the number Casey had given her. She scanned the BMW’s telephone section, found it, and made the call. A female voice, soft and Southern, answered.
“Hello,” said Katherine, and introduced herself. “Casey Fitzgerald gave me this number. I’m trying to reach Alice Hawkins. Are you Alice?”
“I sure hope so. I’ve been using that name for a lot of years. If Mr. Casey gave you my number, it must have been for a pretty good reason. What a dear man. How may I help you, young lady?”
“May I call you Alice?”
“Of course.”
“Am I interrupting you?”
“Not at all. It’s a good time. I just finished planting my beautiful impatiens, and I’m sitting on my front porch having some sweet tea.”
“It’s a long story, Alice . . . and the reason I’m calling. I’m twenty-three years old, on the cusp of becoming a reporter, and . . . this is going to sound strange . . . I recently discovered that Preston Wilson is my father.”
“Oh, my dear. Preston Wilson, the automobile dealer from New York?”
“Yes. And he told me about Joe Hart, and that you were Mr. Hart’s secretary.”
“I know your father. He visited me in Braydon and helped a friend here named Johnny. How is Mr. Wilson?”
“He seems to be doing well. He and Mrs. Wilson have a one-year-old son named Preston Joseph. They call him P.J. He was named after Mr. Hart.”
“I didn’t know any of that. I wish I had.”
The Concealers Page 14