Brian studied his hands, eyes down. “She’s a hooker, sir.”
That was about the last thing Conor expected the upright young financial analyst to say. “You slept with a hooker? And had Grayce?”
“No.” Brian clasped his hands in his lap, worked his jaw and frowned. “Chloe was an aspiring actress and dancer when we met, working for her big break. She did some off-Broadway and waited tables in the theater district, hoping to be discovered. Beautiful girl, and a pretty solid actress, too, from what I saw. I thought she was real good, actually. Then we discovered she was pregnant, and life took a downward spiral for her. She got depressed, didn’t want to work, couldn’t wait to have the baby and move on with her life. Once Grayce was born, Chloe started back to work. We put Grayce into a good daycare, but Chloe’s hours and mine made it nearly impossible to see the baby. We were both always gone. Grayce practically lived at the daycare, with no one but babysitters to read to her, talk to her, see her walk, watch her roll over and crawl.”
From the look on Brian’s face, Conor knew he didn’t have to tell the young man how absolutely, positively stupid he’d been. It was a lot like looking in a two-decades-old mirror. Brian’s profession was not unlike his in the early stages. Gone, morning, noon and night, working your way up the corporate ladder of success, hoping for a great resume and an out-of-this-world December bonus. He saw a lot of himself in the young man before him. “And?”
“We fought about it. Chloe wanted her career, I wanted mine because I thought my Harvard degree and my mushrooming financial district income gave us more stability than her waitressing job between two-bit gigs.”
Yup. That ideology brought back a memory or two as well. Hadn’t he back-burnered Alicia’s plans and goals in much the same fashion because of Kim’s untimely arrival? He’d had already been recruited by the financial district while in his second year at Georgetown. He forgot to think what might matter to her, that Leash might have had dreams of her own that weren’t totally relegated to child rearing and housework. Good going, Bozo. Mistake number one. “I can see how that would be a bone of contention.”
“And then some.” Brian flexed his jaw again, sat back and looked Conor in the eye. “She filed for divorce before Grayce was six months old, got hooked on the party circuit, then addicted to coke, and decided using her body to attract a decent income was a better livelihood than waiting tables. She’s part of one of those high-class brothels on the Upper West Side that everyone likes to ignore.”
“Does she see Grayce?”
Brian shook his head. “Never. Has never asked to see her, has never expressed interest in seeing her.”
“But Grayce misses her.” Conor thought of his conversation with the precocious girl in the kitchen. “She told me so.”
“Grayce misses the idea of her,” Brian corrected. “She has no real memory of Chloe and only wishes for a mother because everyone else in school has one.”
“Understandable.” Conor sent the younger man a frank look. “They are handy things to have around for special occasions like Mother’s Day, mother/daughter banquets, discussions on puberty and sex. You know. The usual.”
“Soon she’ll have Kim.” Brian sounded perfectly content that Grayce’s biological mother would remain a non-entity, but Conor had witnessed the resignation in the little girl’s earlier statement. Tough to sell a kid on why their mother abandoned them at six months old.
So sad. Conor dropped his head to his hands, thinking. “And you’re worried that when she finds out you’re engaged to my daughter, Chloe will come crawling out of the woodwork looking for money and connections?”
Brian’s sigh of relief told Conor he’d hit the nail on the head. “Yes, sir. Chloe loves money and freedom. We don’t communicate because I didn’t want Grayce exposed to her mother’s lifestyle. Somehow cocaine and stray men aren’t the weekend life experience I envision for my daughter.”
“I can understand that.”
“But Chloe might jump at the chance to make trouble. Blackmail. Coercion.”
“Does she have something on you?” Conor studied the young man closely and was relieved by the answer he got.
“No, sir. There’s nothing except the embarrassment she could cause me, us,” Brian waved a hand toward Conor, then around, indicating the apartment, “by coming out of the closet.”
“What last name does she go by?”
Brian sat up straighter. “Chloe Michelle Martin.”
“And her address?”
Brian gave it, then leaned forward, his brows furrowed. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“You aren’t going to like...” Brian frowned, his eyes dark, “Kill her or something?”
Conor nearly choked. “What?”
“Well, I—” Brian sputtered, paused, swiped a hand to his forehead, took a breath and straightened his shoulders. “Not that I think you would, sir...”
“I should say not.” Conor stood, chin up, shoulders back. “I never do the actual killing myself. Too messy.”
Brian paled, then went slightly green. Conor slapped him on the back, then faced him. “Listen, Brian, here’s a couple of things you need to know about me. Yeah, I’m rich. Big deal. I’m a rich man who lost his wife by cheating on her after we buried our child, so I’m no father of the year material myself, but I live the straight and narrow now. Clean. Nice. No bodies. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.”
Brian’s audible sigh of relief eased his pasty expression. “You had me going there for a moment.”
“Meant to. It was fun, actually. As for Chloe, our best defense is a good offense. Instead of letting her crawl out of the closet, we’ll invite her out.”
“Sir?” Brian’s expression said he hoped Conor knew what he was doing. Frankly, so did Conor.
“The firm has contacts who could offer Chloe a hand in a very different direction. Proffer her something other than turning tricks with stupid rich New York businessmen and the occasional foreign dignitary.”
“You’re familiar with the clientele?”
Conor punched him in the arm. “Son, you live in New York long enough, it pays to be familiar with everything. Familiar doesn’t equate with partake.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I expect you do. As for you and my daughter, you have my blessing. I see you as a necessary accoutrement to gain Graycie as my granddaughter, so you’re in.”
Brian shook his hand. “If there’s anything I can do about the Chloe situation...”
“Be completely honest with my daughter. No surprises.”
Brian nodded. “She knows the whole thing, sir. Loves me anyway.”
Conor clapped a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “No accounting for taste. Let’s go see how Foster and the girls have made out with the lights for that tree.”
“Addie grabbed the old fashioned ones, said they reminded her of the trees you had when they were little.”
A flashback of the quaint brick colonial flooded Conor’s brain. The girls in footed pajamas, the tree, full and bright, Jon crawling amidst the wreckage of Fisher-Price, Playskool, Barbie dolls and wrapping slung every which way.
He couldn’t remember what he got Alicia that Christmas. Probably something he ordered over the phone from Tiffany’s, picked up wrapped, and never saw until she opened it on Christmas morning.
What a complete, unmitigated scumbag of a husband he’d been. Fawning her off with presents, putting her off with work constraints, conveniently forgetting how deliciously satisfying life had been when money was scarce and pasta loomed like white rice in Asia. Cherry blossom days and wife-filled nights. Afternoons studying at the National zoo, Kim sound asleep in her jungle print stroller, Alicia curled up against him in the grass.
He was a moron, total and unequivocal.
“Sir?”
Conor turned, startled. “Yes?”
Brian eyed him, then shrugged. “I appreciate your help. And your understanding.”
“We’re too much alike for
me to be anything less,” Conor told him as they approached the living room. “But you’re going to learn your lessons way earlier than I did.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“’Cause I’ll see to it, son.” He gave Brian’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “And I always keep my promises.”
Brian gave him a look that had Mississippi hound dog written all over it. “Sounds wonderful, sir.”
Chapter Four
“Dad!!! Where are you? Pick up the phone, already!”
Kim’s voice-mail desperation had Conor hitting his speed dial with awkward fingers on Christmas afternoon. Why had he turned the stupid thing off in the first place?
Okay, he knew why, so he could spend some peaceful time with Sarge. The old guy liked things quiet. Unpretentious. Conor understood that, and the reasoning behind the request, respected it even, but why now? Why this? Not being able to pick up Kim’s urgent Christmas morning call put him in the first-class jerk column, big time.
“Dad.” Impatience and expectation peppered the single word exclamation when she picked up his call.
“What’s up, what’s happened? Is the Kid okay? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, but where were you this morning? It’s Christmas!”
Picturing Sarge’s request for quiet after the early morning church service, Conor started to answer, but Kim left no leeway.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter because you’re there now and everything is so, so right! I’m engaged.” She stuttered, stopped, laughed and corrected herself. “We’re engaged. Brian asked me this morning in front of everybody and I said yes. We’ve got a wedding to plan!”
Conor breathed a huge sigh of relief that Kim’s rampant exclamations were of a positive variety, sent Foster a silent ‘all’s well’ look, nodded and peeled off his coat, then handed it to the devoted houseman. “That’s wonderful, honey. Congratulations.”
“Oh, I know you knew all about it.” Kim gushed and Kim never gushed about anything, ever, but at this point in time, gush was the word of the day. “Brian told me he checked with you first because he wanted to stay on the right side of the checkbook.”
Conor smiled. “Smart boy. He’s going places. Probably with my money.”
“And we’re ever grateful, sir.” Brian’s voice came through. “Kim put us on speaker so we could both talk.”
“And the Kid?”
“How does the term ‘Grandpa’ sound?”
“Better than wonderful. Put her on. She’s the primary reason I said yes in the first place.”
Conor heard some shuffling and murmured voices, then Grayce hailed him from New Jersey. “I get to call you Grandpa. Is that okay? Do you want to be my Grandpa?”
Conor laughed. “It’s way okay. And I’ll make you hot chocolate just like ‘Licia does, and we can go to the park and act silly and pretend we’re animals in the zoo trying to get out of our cages.”
“I love going to the zoo with you,” Grayce exclaimed. “You walk like the best penguin ever, and you make really good monkey sounds.”
“My job offers me lots of practice,” Conor quipped with humor slightly above the six-year-old’s level. He pictured her there, in Alicia’s great room, the sprawl of Christmas surrounding the child, the hope and cheer in her voice a blessing of the season. “Hey, listen, I’ll let you go back to your new Grandma and Aunt Addie, but I want you to know that I’m real happy to be your Grandpa. Super happy.”
“Super Duper happy with sprinkles and nuts and chocolate sauce?”
“Double sprinkles, nuts and chocolate sauce with a cherry on top.”
“Triple sprinkles, nuts and chocolate stuff with a cherry on top and lots of whipped cream?”
The joy in Grayce’s voice shifted Conor’s heart upwards in Grinch-growing fashion, a good thing. “You got it, Kid.”
Grayce’s voice came through once more. “I love you.”
Conor held the phone closer. Tighter. “I love you, too, honey. Merry Christmas.”
Kim got back on the line. “So, Dad, we’ll be up there tomorrow to celebrate with you, okay?”
Conor eyed the presents beneath the tree, unopened and undisturbed in his quiet, empty, upscale Manhattan apartment and worked to avoid the comparison with Alicia’s fun-filled home this Christmas day. “I’m looking forward to it. Love you all. I’ll see you tomorrow. And congratulations again.”
Her voice went soft and mushy. Total girl. Total not Kim, his quiet, focused, earnest, plan-ahead daughter. “Thank you, Daddy.”
Her words made him feel a little mushy himself. Maybe it wasn’t a total girl thing. Maybe it was just a love thing. He drew a breath and leaned back in his chair. “You’re welcome, Kimber.”
*
“You’re up?” Conor glanced at his watch, arched a brow and sent Addie a look of surprise two mornings later. “I didn’t figure I’d see you ‘til tonight.”
Addie stifled a yawn, tugged her robe more snugly around the middle and shook her head. “I wanted to say good-bye before you went to work.”
Conor sent her a teasing grin. “While I appreciate the thought, I do manage to get to work on my own most days.”
Foster cleared his throat as he filled Addie’s favorite mug, the sound mild yet quite deliberate.
“On my own with Foster’s help,” Conor corrected himself.
“Thank you, sir.” Foster noted the exception with his practiced countenance, calm and serene, his dry humor Dickens-friendly. He handed Addie her mug and a small pitcher of vanilla cream before disappearing into the pantry.
“But it’s Christmas time so I wanted today to be special.” Addie leaned in, breathed deep, smiled and added, “I love my new coat, by the way. Have I mentioned that often enough?”
“Not going to have me arrested or harangued for buying something made of fur-trimmed leather?”
“Are you kidding? The thing is gorgeous and total fun. And it’ll keep me warm when I hit the Metro.”
“D.C. has cabs,” he reminded her, thinking of how open and exposed the Washington Metro could be, then felt ashamed at his snobbishness. Protecting daughters in big city venues was no easy task, nothing to be taken lightly, but from the look on Addie’s face, he’d keep that to himself.
“Too surreal, Dad. Please. I like the Metro. Makes me feel normal. And the coat is perfect. It looks great on me, and it is, after all, all about the look, right?” She sparkled up at him, teasing, her grin a reflection of his.
Conor laughed. “I can’t disagree, but don’t let any of your more liberal professors hear you say that. They’ll drop your grade.”
“Do you realize how true that is?” Addie wondered out loud.
Foster re-appeared. He nodded to the several small, white boxes he carried. “I’ve got fresh baked goods from Sweet Things.”
“You’re serious?” Addie eyed the boxes like an anorexic runway model. “Foster, I love you thiiiis much.”
He smiled, slit the string and lifted the lid. “Your father ordered them delivered today with you and your sister in mind.”
“Awesome, Dad.”
Conor sipped his coffee, thought hard, and decided to dive in with his question of the hour since Addie was awake and cognizant. “So. How was Christmas? How’s your mother? Everything okay?”
The look Addie shot him said something to the effect of ‘call her yourself and find out’, but she kept that fairly obvious opinion quiet with no small amount of effort, probably fearing he’d send the pastries back. “She’s good. A little riled over this bookstore thing, but nothing she can’t handle.”
“Mr. Pearson’s overseeing things for her?”
Addie nodded, sent Foster a smile as she wrapped one set of fingers around the handle of her thick, ironstone mug, while the other accepted a flaky French pastry stuffed with cheese and pineapple. Addie waved the sweet into the air, took a deep whiff of the cheesy/buttery essence and smiled. “You spoil me.”
“Only because you’re smart. I
f you messed up law school, I’d be serving corn flakes. Generic ones.” Conor stepped closer, sat in the chair next to her and cocked a brow once more. “Your mother?”
Addie nodded, back on task. “Ah, yes. Mr. Pearson is helping but he doesn’t see much hope because the town board is set in their ways. Sandy McGovern is checking out other possible sites, but Mom really likes this one.”
“And where is this one, exactly?”
“Poole Street, just around the corner from Nassau, near the church.”
Not far from their first house in Princeton, and their only real home. Teaberry Street had been his very own Primrose Lane, with the small park at the end, the peace and quiet of being several blocks removed from the hustle and bustle of the esteemed university and Nassau Street. Close to everything, including the train, but nestled on a quiet road reminiscent of a New England village. Oh, Princeton knew how to do it, all right, and they’d be foolish to allow rampant growth to interfere with the value-enhancing ambiance the town enjoyed.
Despite that, he couldn’t imagine why a bookstore on Poole, near Nassau, would pose a problem. He made a note to call Bill Pearson himself and investigate the problem. Between the two of them, they might be able to lawyer Alicia’s way into her shop without too much fuss and nonsense.
He noticed Addie’s raised awareness, her brain working overtime. Time to change subjects and appear disinterested.
“You should call Mom.” Addie advised, her pastry untouched. “Talk to her yourself.”
Oops. Too late. Conor stood. “Call me crazy, but I’m willing to bet that wouldn’t rank in the top ten list of things Alicia Bradstreet would love to have happen today.”
Addie kept her gaze level, firm and trained on him.
Conor twitched his jaw. Shook his head. Despite some major leaps forward in the past eight years, invading Alicia’s domain was the one venue he avoided. Guilt? Remorse? Shame?
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