by Jamie Beck
“They’re relevant to me. And I could use someone to talk to right now. I’ve got a lot to process, you know.”
He had to put distance between them for both their sakes. “Call a friend.”
“I thought you were a friend.”
“A girlfriend.” He didn’t want to discuss another man she’d slept with. Not here and not now, anyway.
“My girlfriends bailed when I dropped out of the party scene.”
“So call your sister.”
Her green eyes narrowed to slits. She didn’t say a word, although he knew at least three snide remarks had passed through her quick mind. Then she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she sighed, circling her index finger between them. “I know this move, you know. You’re pushing me away to protect yourself, but you’ve met your match, Ian Crawford. I’m not going to take the bait. Make no mistake. We’re going to hash this out.”
“There’s nothing to hash out.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she asked, “Do you regret today?”
He wished it were that simple. “We were impulsive. In light of all the circumstances, doesn’t it seem like a mistake?”
“A mistake?”
“You know what I mean. Being a nanny was supposed to be a temporary job. I never planned to get involved with you and your family. Meanwhile, there are ransom notes and other crises going on while I’m here changing diapers and indulging . . .” He let that thought die. “The best thing I can do for both of us is pack up and move out.”
Those final words hung there between them, a challenge and an insult rolled into one. Disgusted with himself, he would’ve welcomed a kick in the groin. He braced for a rant, but her eyes were now wide with concern.
“Ransom notes?” she asked. “For the little boy whose mother was shot?”
Ian sank onto the step, keeping one hand on the banister. “Yes. A ransom demand came this afternoon.”
“What do the cops say?”
Ian scoffed. “It’s not like here. Kidnappings are sometimes negotiated by ‘lawyers.’ So far as I know, the police don’t have any leads.”
She raked her hands through her hair and tugged it. “Absolutely nuts.”
“Archer says Marie’s family is trying to come up with money, but they aren’t wealthy, and she didn’t have life insurance.”
Gentry fell silent, her gaze cutting to Colt and then back. “How much?”
“Pardon?”
Her palms flipped upward. “What’s the ransom?”
“Fifteen grand.”
“Fifteen grand? For a woman’s life and a kid’s freedom?” Astonished anew, Gentry shook her head. “So much tragedy for a measly fifteen grand.”
A measly fifteen grand?
“That’s a lot of money for most people. Especially people in a country where the average per capita income is probably less than you spend on a pair of shoes.”
Her face blanked as if it couldn’t compute what he’d said, even as he regretted the nasty barb.
Colt cried out in response to Ian’s voice, which had fired off like a machine gun. Gentry turned without a word and mollified her son, then walked to her purse, pulled out her checkbook, and wrote a check. She strode back to Ian, waving the paper. “Here.”
He didn’t take it, so she let it drop onto his lap.
“I can’t take this.” He tried to hand it back, but she tucked her hands under her armpits. “You don’t even know these people. Don’t do this to prove some point.”
“Prove a point?” Her face puckered. “I don’t need to know someone to want to save a terrified little boy who watched his mother die on the street. Take the fucking money, Ian, and send it to whomever so Timmy can come home. I might not have control over most things in my life, but this I can fix.” Spinning away, she grabbed Colt and marched into her room, slamming her door so hard it rattled the pictures on the wall.
In the stillness of the empty room, he heard his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. Solitude didn’t ease the tightness in his shoulders or back, either.
He stared at her loopy signature and all those zeros on the check. She wouldn’t even miss that money, yet the poorest people in Haiti ate mud cookies to fill their stomachs. The gap between those who had access to everything and others who struggled to survive burned in his stomach. Irrationally, he considered tearing up the gift.
But anger wasn’t fair, especially not when driven by envy of the fact that Gentry had the means to help when he could not.
She had been generous with her money and time since they’d met. Frivolous, perhaps, but she certainly didn’t owe him—or Marie—anything. Ian couldn’t let his bruised pride cost Timmy Ormont his life.
He stuffed the check in his pocket.
His thoughts turned to his dad and their fight. To his twenty-two-year-old self that had worried the path he’d been on would turn him into someone he might not like. Today proved that prophetic concern true. Ian had become much like his father. Unable to relax, accept joy, or be playful for any length of time. Unable to accept or share intimacy. Spending most of his time surrounded by suffering and loss had taught him to detach so goodbyes wouldn’t hurt.
Gentry’s bitterness came out through sarcasm. He now realized that his appeared as judgment, which he used to convince himself he wasn’t missing out on the best parts of life. But he couldn’t hide from the feelings Gentry had roused today. He couldn’t pretend he wouldn’t miss out on her.
Reluctantly, he went to her room and knocked on the door.
“Go away,” she snapped.
“Gentry—”
“I’m pissed off, Ian. Trust me, now’s not the time to talk.”
“Okay.” He took his hand off the doorknob. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t answer or open the door, so he ordered an Uber and then texted Archer.
Only once seated in the car did Ian admit that he’d been sick with jealousy from the moment Hunter called with news of Smith. Jealousy, an ugly emotion, could fell any man, no matter how righteous.
Self-righteous was more apt, actually, and suddenly he felt very, very small.
Chapter Fourteen
Skydiving
According to Merriam-Webster: the sport of jumping from an airplane and typically executing a prolonged free fall before deploying a parachute
According to me: telling Smith he’s a father
The distinctive, heavy click of the front door echoed throughout the condo. Sitting on the edge of her mattress, Gentry fell backward and flung her arms across her eyes.
Would Ian accept her help, or would she walk into the living room to find her check turned into confetti? As a mother, the thought of any child’s terrified bewilderment provoked an urge to vomit. An unfortunate response when her stomach was already in knots because of Smith.
She propped herself up on her elbows. Wallowing wouldn’t do jack shit to help. She forced herself off her bed and checked on her son. Colt’s eyelids hovered at half-mast, heavy from exhaustion. He looked peaceful, drifting off to sleep in the bassinet he’d almost outgrown, blissfully unaware of the surrounding chaos.
Kneeling beside the bassinet, she traced his eyebrows with a featherlight touch. “Boo,” she whispered. “Stop growing, please. I’m not ready to move you upstairs to the nursery. I need to keep you close.”
He yawned before his eyelids closed. Her precious little boy amazed her every day. It was all she could do to keep from picking him up and squeezing him tight.
Whenever she decided to move Colt to his crib, she’d probably sleep in the guest room for a few weeks so she’d be nearby if he needed her. That wouldn’t have been a problem before, but now that room would remind her of Ian.
Gentry didn’t pretend to be good at personal relationships, but by God, he was worse. If she were wise, she’d walk away and not look back. But no one had ever accused Gentry of being wise. Nor did she ever back down from a fight. She wouldn’t give up on Ian. Deep down beneath all their walls, they shared a
connection. A horribly inconvenient one that terrified them both.
Colt shifted in his bassinet, drawing her attention. She’d have to wait to deal with Ian because, right now, she needed to contact Smith.
“I love you,” she whispered before leaving her room and searching for the dossier on Peter Smith.
Address. Phone number. E-mail. There it was . . . the Gmail account that gave her cold sweats.
After pouring herself a healthy glass of cabernet, she stared at the cursor pulsing on her laptop’s screen. How should she address him? Peter? Smith? Should she be businesslike or personal? Funny or serious? None of her choices sounded right.
Ian had suggested her bluntness would be best, and although she had no fondness for him or his opinions at the moment, he probably had a point. Giving herself permission to write whatever popped into her head, she let her fingers type out her stream of consciousness.
When she finished, she reread the note.
Dear Peter,
Welcome to a blast from your past. We met one evening last August in Napa. You knew me as Artemis, but my real name is Gentry Cabot.
There is no easy way to say why I’ve tracked you down, so I’ll just lay it out (you might want to sit down).
You have a son (I’ve attached his picture, and you can see many more on this link: www.apronstringsandmommythings.com). His name is Colton Cabot, and he’s got great lungs despite being born a few weeks prematurely, on April 15th.
As you can see, he looks like your mini-me. If you want more proof, I’ll provide whatever DNA sample you need.
She paused for a moment, wondering if she’d been too cutesy about Colt’s colic. Deleting that line, she revised it to read that he was healthy despite his premature birth. Satisfied with that correction, she continued reading.
To be clear, I’m not looking for financial support. In fact, I have no expectations or demands. I only sought you out because I realized that Colt would eventually have questions about his father. I wanted those answers for him, so I hired an investigator.
I’m sorry for the shock, which I remember reeling from when I discovered I was pregnant. For a brief time, I’d considered giving Colt up for adoption, but, ultimately, I couldn’t do it.
While his conception was far from ideal, I’m a proud and happy single mom of the planet’s most beautiful baby boy. I am also aware that, by not finding you sooner, you’ve missed precious months of his life.
I’m sorry for that and invite you to meet your son, if you wish. We live outside of Portland, Oregon, in Lake Sandy.
Please write back to me if you are interested in any further involvement. If I don’t hear from you, I will not contact you again. When Colt asks about you, however, I will tell him what I know. I’ve made a vow to never lie to him, which I hope you understand.
Sincerely,
Gentry Cabot
How perfectly ridiculous that sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts despite the air conditioning being set at a brisk sixty-eight degrees. She chugged the rest of her wine and hit “Send,” then snapped the laptop closed.
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.
She rocked herself, arms crossed over her stomach, bile fighting its way up her throat.
It was done. She rocked faster, tears pooling, frantic. She closed her eyes and conjured up Hunter, the ultimate control freak. If he’d read anything troubling, he would’ve told her not to contact Smith, right? Then she remembered the connection Smith might have to Alec.
She grabbed for her phone and dialed her sister. While the phone rang, she curled her body into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest beneath a hand-knit throw. When her sister answered, Gentry barked, “Colby, I need to talk to Alec.”
“What’s wrong? You sound panicked.”
“I am! I need to know if he ever met a Peter Smith at the culinary school in New York.” She grabbed a nearby throw pillow and tucked it between her thighs and her chest.
“What?”
“Peter Smith.” Gentry then remembered that Hunter hadn’t shared the fact that they’d found Peter with the family. “Smith, Colby. Colt’s father is Peter Smith. He’s a Master Sommelier in San Francisco. He’s only thirty-two, but Hunter says he went to the same school as Alec.”
“Holy Moses, that’s a coincidence. Hang on!” Her sister must’ve dropped the phone, because Gentry couldn’t hear her talking.
A minute later, Alec’s voice came through the line. “Gentry?”
“Alec, please tell me you have good news.”
“Would you settle for the fact that I’ve got nothing bad to share?”
Since when did Alec speak in riddles? “What’s that mean?”
“I don’t remember him well. You know I’ve never been extroverted.” There was a brief pause, as if Alec was trying to remember something to ease her mind. “He seemed like a decent guy, but I can’t recall more than that cursory impression. He had friends. I never heard anything negative about him.”
Basically, nothing that the PI report hadn’t essentially revealed. “I suppose that’s good news, then.”
“Small world, right?”
“Very.” Suddenly she sat upright, letting the pillow and blanket fall away. Could Smith be googling her this very minute? Scouring his own contacts and, in this “small world,” finding someone who knew her—or worse, knew of her?
Given her antics and indiscriminate past, he might get the impression that his son deserved a better woman as a mother. Maybe Smith had a perfect girlfriend or wife . . . a Lilly Pulitzer to his Brooks Brothers.
Someone like Sara.
Another cramp gripped her midsection.
“Gentry?” Alec asked.
“I’m here.” She held her forehead with her palm. “Thanks for sharing what you could remember.”
“Sorry I can’t be more helpful. Here, your sister’s grabbing for the phone.”
Gentry heard the sound of a kiss before Colby got back on the line. “I can’t believe you found Smith.”
“Peter. Maybe I should call him Peter.” She slunk back into the sofa cushions, weary. “Or Pete. Petey?”
“I doubt that one.” Colby hesitated. “Did you call him?”
“No. I chickened out and wrote him an e-mail instead. Sent a photo of Colt.”
“Has he responded?”
Gentry stared at the computer, which now resembled a weapon of mass destruction. “I don’t know. I shut my laptop as soon as I sent it and then called you. I’m afraid to look.”
“Do you want me to come over and wait with you? I can. The restaurant’s closed on Sunday nights.”
Gentry smiled at the offer. It was nice to hear the support and was surely more than she’d get from her mother. “No. I’ve got my big-girl pants handy.”
“And you’ve got Ian.”
Gentry glanced at the door that Ian had yet to come back through. “Yeah. He’s . . . helpful.”
“Take a deep breath. It’s going to be okay. You’re doing the brave thing for your son, Gentry. Be proud.”
“Proud? Nope. Can’t say that’s how I feel. Sick. Doubtful. Frantic. But not proud.”
“You should feel proud. These are tough decisions. You’ve got a lot on your plate, and you’re managing it all.”
Was she? The ChariTea work she’d planned on doing this evening would clearly not get done tonight. Her son might or might not have reflux, not that she’d even come up with that theory. She’d slept with a man who consistently promised to leave town. All she seemed to be managing well was digging her own grave.
“If you call alienating coworkers, fighting with my mom, and letting a stranger into my son’s life ‘managing well’ . . . who am I to argue?” She laughed, and it felt good. Loosened the tightness in her chest so she could draw some oxygen.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come sit with you?”
“No. I think I’ll do some googling of my own now and see what else I can learn.” Of course, she should be working on t
hose memes and media games for ChariTea, not surfing the web.
“Okay. Call me if you change your mind.”
“I will.” Gentry hit “Off,” feeling energized by her new mission. A one-day delay on social media wouldn’t make or break the campaign. She needed to prepare for meeting Smith. Needed to gain insight to handle the man who had the power to change her whole world.
She opened up her laptop and, without checking e-mail, googled “Peter Smith Master Sommelier San Francisco.” That search returned dozens of mentions and a few blog posts written by Peter. Apparently, being a Master Sommelier was a BFD. Only 229 of them in the whole world? This was good. This meant he had discipline and ambition and passion. Three excellent traits that he might’ve passed on to Colt.
And . . . wine! Who didn’t love wine?
With that reminder, she refilled her glass to prep for a long night of reading. An hour later, she’d scoured interviews, blog posts, and social media pages. He never referred to a wife, although she did see photos of him with a woman and a child. Could that be his sister and niece? Or did he have a family of his own already?
A family of his own would keep him occupied and less apt to glom on to her and Colt. Then again, that situation would make Colt be like her, having half siblings and a part-time family, which wasn’t ideal, either.
She supposed she should take heart in the fact that everything she’d read reassured her that Smith could be a good role model. A modern man with a normal life, unlike Ian Crawford.
She stared at the Google search bar. With one finger, she tapped out “Ian Crawford Portland Oregon” and hit return.
Surprisingly, there were several Ian Crawfords in the area. Her Ian, however, left a nearly invisible digital footprint. A single years-old mention in a local paper for something connected to a prior EMT job. No active social media account that she could find. His father’s obituary.
That got her attention.
She pulled up the post, which featured a prominent photograph of Brian Crawford.
As she’d suspected, Ian physically resembled his father, although more handsome. She read the obituary, noting phrases like “restoring community one person at a time” and “endless energy” and “service on community boards” and on and on. She suspected the funeral service must’ve filled an entire chapel.