The door swings shut, its creaking hinges echoing through the empty house, and I miss Terrence already. I miss the laughing with him at the bar and holding him close all the way to the diner. God, where do I even start on all the things I miss about him in the bedroom?
This is ridiculous! One weekend—one fucking amazing weekend—and suddenly I need him with me all the time? Grow up, Irene.
I've been with Terrence for barely two weeks now and I'm already head over heels about him. What happens now? I still don't know where we stand, whether he employs me now because he needs my assistance or because he needs me in bed, and I can't let it stay like this. I can't let myself turn into my mother.
Relax, I tell myself. He's not paying you for sex. He wouldn't do that.
Or would he? I barely know him; who am I to say what he would or wouldn't do?
I shake my head at the thought. No—I don't believe that he's like that. I'm almost certain of it...
...but 'almost' isn't enough, not for something like this.
****
The morning passes in a blur of dog walking, audio recording and lunch making. My heart leaps into my throat every time Terrence texts me out of hope that maybe he wants to talk to me about... well, whatever it is that we are now, but it’s always about business.
My phone beeps again as I sit down to edit another audio book recording, this time a submission for an agency in Los Angeles. It’s Terrence again, and he wants to borrow my microphone so he can use voice recognition software for writing his own e-mails. I suppose Marcus must’ve told him about my little recording studio set-up.
="1ecoI – No problem. It kind of sucks, but all yours if you want.
No kidding it sucks, I think as I stare at the recording waveform on my screen. When I started editing this one, I intended to remove any stray vocal pops or hisses that my filter failed to prevent, but instead I’m cringing at the sound of my voice and wishing I’d never made the recording in the first place. I sound nasal and squeaky, like a mouse with a bad head cold, and it’s just awful.
It’s not my voice, though—it's my microphone. My microphone’s a piece of crap, but it’s all I could afford back during college. I’ve been putting off buying a new one for years, but now that I have a decent job, I don’t have much of an excuse anymore. The nearest decent music store is in New Haven, about an hour drive away. Maybe Cassie can drive me out there—I make a mental note to call her after I get back from the library. I’ve missed two straight reading days and Susan must be worried sick by now.
I quickly throw on an old pair of comfortable, loose-fitting jeans and my green cowl-necked sweater before heading downstairs. Just as I’m heading for the front door, Charlotte comes out of the dining room and marches straight for the laboratory. Her heels click loudly on the hardwood floors, and she’s smirking as if she’s feeling especially proud of herself today. Her law firm must have found someone new to sue this week.
"Going out for a bit?" she asks, glancing in my direction with a wide smile. Her tone is so sugary-sweet that it drives me crazy. Why the hell is she in such a good mood today?
"Just heading to the library. I’ll be back in a bit," I answer, eyeing her warily and keeping my distance. I’m not used to her acting so friendly toward me, and it’s putting me on edge.
"Oh, how lovely! It never occurred to me that you could read," she gushes with fake enthusiasm. Now there’s the Charlotte I’m used to.
The doors slam shut before I can think of a fitting retort. God, I hate her.
****
"And then, just as the Big Bad Wolf was about to gobble Little Red Riding Hood up..."
I pause dramatically as the children stare wide-eyed, waiting for me to continue the story. There are seven today, all between four and seven years old—not a bad turnout for a weekday.
"...when suddenly the brave woodsman kicked down the door, scaring the wolf so badly that Little Red’s grandma popped straight out of his mouth and went rolling across the carpet!"
A little girl sitting to my right lets out an adorable giggle, and I wink at her before continuing. The author of this particular version of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ has certainly taken a few liberties with sanitizing the plot, but the children seem to like it well enough. The story ends with its usual happily-ever-after, and then as the children scatter, I return the book to Susan at the counter.
Susan startles as I toss the book down on the counter and then gives me a quick, forced smile before looking away again. I stand there, leaning over the counter and waiting for her to say anything, but it’s clear to me that she’s trying not to talk to me.
"So... anything going on that you want to talk about?" I ask her, and she shakes her head so vehemently that the answer is clearly yes.
I cross my arms and wait. She’ll crack soon enough—she’s never been one to keep secrets and doesn’t exactly do well under pressure.
"Thanks for coming in," she says, clearing her throat and nervously twirling her long black hair around her fingers. "The kids really like it when you read to them."
I stay right where I am, drumming my fingers on the edge of the counter as I wait. She’s not getting rid of me that easily.
"You don’t close for three hours, Susan," I whisper. "I can wait that long, no problem."
She remains silent for just a moment longer, and then she takes a deep breath and finally turns to face me.
"A team of lawyers were here with our research librarian all morning," she whispers. "Do you have any idea why they wanted us to dig up information about you?"
The question hits me like a brick and my hands go cold.
"Wait, what? Me?" I stammer.
"Law firm of Berger and Cohen," says Susan, pulling a business card out of her pocket and handing it to me. A strange mix of anger and terror fills me as I stare at Charlotte’s card. I have one exactly like this in my room from when wanted me to sue Verta for sexual harassment.
"What were they asking about?"
"Background check, history, family, everything," she answers. "They wanted us to pull up everything we could find about you."
What could she possibly want with my background? She must be trying to dig up dirt on me, but what dirt could she possibly...
She could find Nina. She could somehow find out who I really am.
I try to quell the panic rising inside me. I tell myself that I'm being ridiculous, that there’s no way she could possibly find out about Nina. The state sealed my name change, and that stops anyone from finding it.
Or does it? Suddenly, I’m not sure anymore. It’s sealed for normal people, but what if lawyers possess extra powers that we mere mortals don't? On top of that, even if she can’t find my name change, she can still see that I didn’t exist prior to age seventeen. All she’d have to do is run a simple background check and she’d figure that part out.
I must look just as horrified as I feel right now, because Susan reaches out and comfortingly puts a hand on my shoulder from across the counter.
"I’m sorry." She says, looking regretful. "I don’t know what they wanted it for, but even if it’s nothing good, I can’t refuse to give them the info. We’re a public service."
"Don’t worry; I’m okay," I tell her, even though I’m anything but okay right now. "Just let me know if you hear anything else from Ms. Berger, okay?"
Susan nods silently and I can feel her worried eyes drilling into my back as I head for the door. It’s about three miles to my old apartment from here. The autumn leaves are nearing peak season now, and between the gorgeous, fiery leaves and the brisk weather, my mood quickly improves. Susan’s right—she has to give public information to anyone who asks. She didn’t do anything wrong, and there’s nothing incriminating in my history anyway. I’ll be just fine.
The sun is going down as I reach Cassie’s apartment complex, but as I pull bun my h out my phone to call her to buzz me into the building, I see her waiting outside the front door and pacing back and forth. She
catches sight of me and then sprints straight toward me as if she hasn’t seen me in years. The force of her hug nearly knocks me over, and she squeezes me as if her life depends on it.
I look up at her with a wide smile, expecting to see her gleeful, hyperactive face, and I’m completely taken aback instead by the stark terror in her eyes.
"Irene, who the fuck were those people? What were they doing here? I didn’t want to let them in but they said I had to because they’d..."
"Slow down, Cassie," I tell her, trying to calm her down as I lead her toward her car. "What people? What happened?"
She clutches nervously at my arm the entire way to the car, and her hands are shaking so much that she can hardly get the key into ignition. She’s breathing so quickly that I’m worried she might hyperventilate.
"Lawyers, Irene! Four of them from some law firm in Boston, and they wanted me to..."
I don’t need to hear the rest of her story; I know exactly what happened now.
"They kept asking the same things over and over again," continues Cassie as she pulls out of the parking lot, speaking so rapidly that I can hardly keep up with her. "All these questions about you, about where you grew up, things from way before we ever met, and even when I told them I didn’t know, they threatened to subpoena me! They said I’d have to tell them in court if I didn’t tell them now, but I don’t know anything!"
"There is no court case, Cassie. They were just trying to scare you into telling them," I explain, but she doesn’t seem particularly comforted by my explanation.
"I told them your family died and that you were an orphan, and they said I was lying," Cassie says. "They said you don’t exist before seventeen, that
you’re not even a real person."
Cassie babbles on and on about all the things the lawyers asked her, and all I can do is sit quietly in the passenger seat and listen. Thanks to Charlotte, all the questions Cassie herself never asked me, maybe never even thought to ask, are out in the open now. There’s no putting them back in the box now that they’re out.
Her ancient Grand Marquis sputters and pops as it pulls out onto I-95, and we start the long drive to New Haven. Cassie goes silent and starts spinning through radio channels until she hears the traffic forecast.
"... delays from exits sixty-five to fifty, adding between thirty and forty minutes to west-bound traffic..."
"Well shit," grumbles Cassie. "Sounds like we’ve got a long drive ahead of us."
I take a deep, nervous breath and slowly let it out before saying anything. Here goes nothing.
"Good... because I have a long story for you."
wi
wi
wi
Chapter XXV
I’m twenty-one and Isaac is... wherever he is.
Why am I even doing this? I wonder for probably the hundredth time during the long taxi ride north from Union Station in New Haven. I know Isaac won't be there, but somehow, I have to go anyway. I stare quietly out the backseat window and watch the falling snow fly past in a white blur. The gray of New Haven qui bun w Ickly fades into the distance, replaced by the skeletal trees north of the city—the forest overlooking Glen Lake, where Isaac used to live.
I never could stop thinking about him, never once in the five years since I last saw him. When winter break arrived this year at Connecticut College, I knew I had to come back. I had to see his old house again—less a home and more a palatial advertisement of obscene wealth—and maybe somehow find him here waiting for me. I already know he won't be here, though. I don't know how I know it, but I do.
A red gift bag sits beside me, almost bursting at its seams with festive, glittery tissue paper. The bag's way more exciting than its contents, but it was all I had in my dorm room when the idea struck me about ten minutes before my train.
Isaac hid Christmas presents in my locker every year when we were young, but I never had enough money to do anything for him in return. I glance inside the bag at my meager offering, and the idea suddenly seems so stupid. Why would he want these? It's... the whole idea was idiotic.
He won't be there anyway, I tell myself, but it's not much of a consolation.
The taxi lets me out at the curb in front of Isaac's mansion, and the first thing I notice is the sign sticking out of the mountain of snow left behind by the plows. I can only see the top left corner, but I know exactly what it says: Sotheby's Auctions.
I shake my head in a mix of bemusement and disgust as I slog through the deep snow. The rich don't even sell their homes the same way as us mere mortals, do they? I bet this place isn't listed in any public buyer's guide.
"Wait for me, please," I tell the taxi driver. "I won't be long."
The once decorative topiary bushes that lined either side of the house’s front are overgrown and misshapen, the trees lining the long driveway are long-neglected, and even the once elegant ivy that covered the facade is withering now. In my mind, I try to reconcile my memory of the gorgeous palace of my childhood with the stark, depressing reality that lies crumbling before me. I can't—it's like a different place all together.
As I hurry down the long, icy driveway, I catch the heel of my boot on a loose cobblestone, dislodging it as I fall flat on my face. I hastily shove it back in place—that one little stone probably costs as much as my winter coat—and then notice a second and a third. Whole portions of the driveway's ornate cobblestones are loose or even missing. Nobody's going to notice one more among this mess, I suppose.
Nobody's bothered to salt the front stoop either, and I cling precariously to the railing as I claw my way up to the front door. You’d think, with all the money Isaac's mother has, that she'd pay someone to come out and take care of this damned place before someone breaks her neck and sues the hell out of her. I briefly entertain the thought of carelessly slipping on the ice, savor the feeling of cruel satisfaction and then immediately shove it out of my mind. It's a nice fantasy, but I'm not like that.
I don't remember the wide, wood-paneled double doors being quite so small or quite so fake looking. I remember it being a huge, imposing front entrance that towered over me when I came to Isaac's birthday party. I'm almost certain that it wasn't like this when I was younger. Everything's different and wrong... coming here was a terrible idea.
Maybe I should go back to the cab.
"No," I whisper. "I came here for Isaac. I have to find hhavumbim."
I take a deep breath, ignore the nagging voice in my head begging me to sprint for the taxi, and then finally push the doorbell.
Silence.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, tightening my grip around the raffia handle of the gift bag. The wind rustles the tissue paper and makes an uncomfortably loud crackle against the snowy hush.
I shouldn't have come back. This was a mistake.
Just as I'm about to listen to my doubts, turn away and head for the taxi, a deadbolt turns and the door creaks open a few inches. A worn, unhappy-looking face peers out of the darkness, squinting against the blinding white of the snow.
"Yes? Can I help you?" Her tone is impatient and annoyed, brimming with barely-concealed arrogance. I'd recognize that voice anywhere—I still remember the tone from when I was humiliated at Isaac's party.
"Um... hello, Mrs. Preston. Sorry to bother you," I say, my voice coming out weaker than I expected it to as I fiddle. It's hard to maintain eye contact with her even after all these years. Something about the her disdainful stare makes me suddenly feel as if I'm not important enough to be here, as if I'm some pathetic gnat unworthy of even thinking of interrupting whatever she was doing.
"Well, you are bothering me, so get on with it," she answers, opening the door a little wider and glaring at me.
Isaac's mother is much smaller than I remembered her being now that I can see her better, and even though it's been only five years, time has not been kind to her. Her hair is dry and unkempt, and judging by the salt and pepper roots, she's long overdue for a re-dye. She's not wearing any makeup—
not that it would do her any good at this point with all the wrinkles—but she's still wearing those same, enormous pearl earrings from Isaac's party. I wonder if she knows how ridiculous... no, how pitiful they look paired with her frumpy, gray cotton robe.
"Well?" she snaps, looking me up and down dismissively as if she has any right to judge my wardrobe. "I'm not going to stand here and heat the whole neighborhood!"
"Sorry," I stammer, pulling myself together. "I'm just wondering if Isaac came home for winter break. We went to high school at Woodbridge together but lost touch after graduation. My name's Skylar."
Skylar? Why the hell did I pick that name? It sounds just like the sort of name one of Sarah's snickering hyena friends would've had. Maybe that's why it came to me—it's the perfect pseudonym for someone like Mrs. Preston.
Chasing Wishes Page 23