Less than fifteen minutes later, instead of eating the prosciutto-wrapped chicken, I plug my housekeeper’s freshly cleaned earbuds into the blue iPod Shuffle and push play. Even though I am pretty certain what I will find. One of my old playlists. Probably one I won’t even remember making—
My thoughts cut off when the haunting melody to that Jill Scott song Sylvie introduced me to last week starts to play. What had she called it? About a minute into the song, the singer answers my question with, “Jahraymecofasola.”
I am completely entranced. And then another song starts to play. One I recognize as “Two Weeks” by FKA Twigs, because I bought the album back in 2014. Then comes “Royals” by Lorde, a song I remember hitting the radio hard in 2013. I don’t recognize the next song. It’s a reggae tune, but I’m betting if I look it up, the release date would be 2012. Then comes, “Somebody That I Used To Know” by Goyte…2011. The songs continue, cycling back to the year Sylvie and I met and fell apart. When I reach that first year, there are two more songs from the past two years, including a Mexican hit that crossed over into the American market despite being in Spanish.
Ten songs. Ten year’s worth of songs that somehow sum up every thought and feeling I have ever had about Sylvie during the last decade with and without her.
The meal Lucynka brought me never gets eaten. I listen to those songs, all ten of them. And I might have pushed play again if not for Wes’s sudden appearance in my open doorway.
He has a game controller in his hand and his face is puffy like he’s been crying.
And I take out the earbuds because I suddenly remember how Wes and Ender promised to see each other when they were first separated back in Ixtapa: via a videogame.
Wes hasn’t been playing videogames alone in his room this past week because he misses Ender. He’s been doing it because it’s the only way he has left to communicate with the boy he considers his best friend.
And as if to confirm my sudden realization, Wes sobs, “Is it true? Is it true Ender is my brother?”
Chapter Forty-Two
SYLVIE
I don’t end up meeting Prin’s boss, Amber, in person until the day we are due for arbitration at the offices of a neutral law firm in Stamford.
“It’s not necessary to do a face-to-face since she can’t see you anyway,” Prin explained a few weeks earlier. “Most of our communication is via phone or adapted technology. But you can bet if she takes you on as a client, she is going to work her ass off for you.”
I hope so. I trust Prin, but her boss’s plan feels risky. Even Amber told me she wasn’t sure it would work. But she likes our chances in arbitration better than she likes our chances in the Connecticut court system.
“At least we both get a say on the arbitrator overseeing the case,” she explained when she first pitched the idea of arbitration to me during our initial phone meeting. “And guys like Holt Calson can get very ugly when women like us force them to expose their dirt in public. Better to do everything behind closed doors.”
“Women like us?” I repeated, noticing the bitter tone in her voice. “Do you…know Holt?”
A beat passes, then there is a heavy sigh before she says, “It’s a long story that begins and ends with Luca Ferraro. He’s my ex-husband and one of Holt’s best friends.”
It has been so long since I have heard Luca’s name, but my eyebrows pop up like the fistfight between him and Holt happened yesterday. “You were married to Luca Ferraro???”
“Yeah, he was my ‘somethin’ stupid’ when I was younger. But not anymore,” she answers.
And that was it for personal conversation. We quickly returned to my case. But a few days after agreeing to let her send an arbitration letter to Holt’s lawyers, I found myself digging out a blue rectangular device I’d carried around with me for ten years. But not anymore…
I don’t hear anything from Holt after I send the letter. Not that I expect to. But to my surprise, Holt’s lawyer not only accepts Amber’s proposal for arbitration, he also works with Amber to get a date on the docket, right after Thanksgiving.
“Okay, this’ll work as a sort of emergency custody hearing with a temporary custody agreement put in place until we can hash out a permanent one,” Amber tells me when she calls to let me know about the court date. “But trust me when I say we want to show up swinging. So, how much do you hate this guy?”
I blink, taken aback by her question. “I don’t… I don’t hate him.”
“That’s too bad. I mean we can go with the ‘bad father ripping his son away from his mother just so he can hand him over to a nanny’ angle. But total monster would be even better.”
“But he is not a monster,” I say, despite my earlier opinion on the matter. “He was very kind when we were dating. He just had…problems.”
“Problems,” Amber repeats, like a bloodhound that has scented something potentially delicious.
I think about telling her about my history with Holt, including the major drug problems his PR people managed to keep under wraps when presenting him as a completely trustworthy CEO, but then I decide against it.
“I do not believe in judging people on their youthful indiscretions. We both made mistakes. Obviously. But I don’t want anything from him other than the custody agreement that works best for Barron.”
“Wow, that’s a lovely worldview you’ve got there,” Amber answers. Then she says, “Fifty bucks on five.”
“Excuse me?” I say, not understanding her comment.
“Fifty bucks says he comes into the arbitration with at least five lawyers—like, a rapper’s entourage worth of lawyers who are prepared to dredge up every bad thing you have ever done until the arbitrator gives into his entire list of custody demands. Meanwhile, you’re worried about him not being judged for what I am guessing must be some real interesting ‘problems’ if you ran away from one of the ten richest boys in America and didn’t ask him for so much as a penny of child support.”
I swallow, hating that I can’t unequivocally tell Amber she is wrong. Because while I would never throw all my missiles at Holt, I know he will most certainly throw his entire arsenal at me.
But there’s fighting back and blowing someone up. One tactic feels fair, and the other…like something I wouldn’t, couldn’t do—at least not without becoming the duplicitous person Holt accused me of being.
“Yeah, I can hear you still thinking about that one. But I bet you will be on board with my monster plan by the first break,” Amber predicted.
When Amber and I finally meet in person for the first time at the Greenwich Train Station terminal, I understand why Luca fell for her.
She’s the kind of pretty that hurts to look at, and at the same time makes it hard not to stare even though she does nothing to adorn her natural gifts. Amber wears a simple long sleeved dress, and her hair is super short with nothing but a pair of studs in her ears and a little foundation and mascara on her face.
“Hi,” I say sticking out my left hand awkwardly, since her right hand is wrapped around a pink-and-black walking stick. “I’m Sylvie—”
“Oh, no need to introduce yourself,” Amber replies flashing what I suspect may be a permanently cynical grin. “I mean, how often do I get a ten-year-old secret baby case across my desk? But please tell me you aren’t waiting for me to shake your hand.”
“Not anymore,” I answer with an apologetic wince as I withdraw my hand.
With a knowing chuckle, Amber shows me how to guide her and we begin to make our way out of the station.
“You driving?” Amber asks, releasing my arm and grabbing onto a rail as we walk down the platform stairs. Her cane moves swiftly, tracking the stairs with an easy efficiency. I don’t have to wait long for her when I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“No, I never learned,” I admit, taking her hand and placing it toward the back of her arm like she showed me. “Though I’ve been thinking I may have to since I came back here with my son.”
Amber’s
tone thins. “So this asshole ripped you out of your life in Mexico and made you come here to take care of his kid so he wouldn’t have to. And now he’s trying to take your son away from you?”
“Our story is more complex than that,” I assure her.
“Mmm-hmm, sure,” Amber replies. “That’s what I told myself, too. Luca wasn’t completely fucked up, he just had issues. Lots and lots of issues.”
Not for the first time, I wonder what happened between her and Luca. What their relationship entailed and how they made it all the way to the altar before flaming out. I bet it’s quite a story.
But before I can ask any questions, I freeze and come to a complete stop.
“Relax,” Amber says as we walk toward a ten-story glass building. “Everything will be all right. I’ve got a Plan A, and a Plan B if that doesn’t work.”
I do trust her, but that’s not why I stopped. “That reporter I told you about from the Arkansas Sun? He’s here on the sidewalk and coming straight toward us!”
I squint my eyes, wondering if I’m mistaken, or if the guy approaching us really does look exactly like the image of him that I found on line after his initial call.
But then Amber says, “Perfect. He’s right on time. That means we can ride with him to the Stamford law offices. And by the way, he doesn’t work for the Sun anymore. A certain rich bitch scion got him canned after he got a little too close to a story involving the soon-to-be CEO of the paper’s biggest advertiser.”
My eyes widen. “Holt had him fired?”
“Yes, of course he did. That is how these people operate,” Amber answers as if I should have expected this dastardly move from Holt. Then just as Kyle reaches us, Amber says, “Hey, Kyle, how’s it going? We need a ride to the Stamford offices. Can we catch one with you? You can debrief me about all the new stuff you dug up on the way over.”
“Sure thing,” Kyle calls back. He tips his head toward me and says, “Good to see you again. Ms. Pinnock.”
But I am too shocked for polite exchanges. “He is your plan B?” I ask, turning on Amber.
“No…” Amber answers as if I am crazy to think such a thing.
Before I can release a breath of relief, she says, “Kyle is my plan A. I’m bringing him into the arbitration as a character witness.”
“What, now? He’s the reason I’m in this mess!” I remind her.
“Yeah, right. He’s the reason you are in this mess,” Amber says with a snort. “Because men like Luca and Holt just go from wanting to marry you to letting you go, kumbaya, no questions asked.”
Kyle nods in agreement before pointing out, “She’s right. All I did was ask some questions. Holt Calson is the reason you’re in this mess, and right now, I’m your best chance of getting out of it.”
Amber sucks on her teeth and adds, “Look, since you refuse to talk about what a monster this guy who wants to take your kid from you is, I decided to bring in someone who will. Sorry, not sorry for being good at my job.”
“But this is not right,” I insist, extending a hand at Kyle. “This man does not want to report the truth. He wants to do a hatchet job because he does not like Holt. Because he thinks we are something lurid to tell his readers.”
“Uh, this man is also standing right here,” Kyle answers in an offended tone. “So, whenever you want to start thanking me for coming all the way up here to help you keep your son, you can go right ahead.”
“Remember, Kyle’s a big gun,” Amber points out before I can respond to Kyle’s invitation. “The biggest gun we have in what will essentially be a missile fight. And I am good, but not that good. This is the only way two little people like us are going to win against a juggernaut like Holt Calson. So, what’s it going to be? Present what he knows to an arbitrator who won’t be able to ignore the overwhelming evidence no matter how many lawyers Holt brings to bear witness, or get decimated by Holt’s multi-billion-dollar law firm?”
It is a fair question. But before I get the chance to respond, a voice yells, “Give me your wallets!”
I look up to see a slender man standing in front of us. He is wearing a ski mask…and has a shiny black gun in his hand—a gun he points directly at Kyle.
“Hold on…hold on…I’ll give it to you,” Kyle says, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit.
But to my horror, before Kyle can do anything else, the mugger pulls the trigger anyway.
Chapter Forty-Three
HOLT
“Where the hell is she?” I whisper to my lawyer, Gil, with another glance at the empty side of the table.
Calling him my lawyer is an understatement. Today, it’s more like he is the head of a fleet of lawyers, all six of whom I am paying a small fortune to make sure I walk out of this room with full custody of the boy who has been kept from me for the last ten years.
Ten years… That number won’t stop looping over and over in my head.
But neither will the melody from “Jahraymecofasola,” the first song on the playlist Sylvie sent me.
“How long do we have until failure to appear?” Gil asks the retired judge seated at the end of the long conference table.
“I’ll give her another fifteen minutes,” the judge decides after glancing at her watch.
Gil nods agreeably, but then presents the judge with a petition for full custody for her to review while we wait.
“This may be over with in less than twenty minutes,” I hear one of the dark-suited lawyers sitting on my other side whisper to another.
But I’m not so sure. As the clock ticks down and there’s still no sign of Sylvie, a new fear sets in.
I’d gone out of my way to make sure she couldn’t buy so much as an international plane ticket before this hearing. And her one lawyer versus my fleet of lawyers…well, I’m not worried about that, even if her lawyer is Luca’s ex-wife.
But what if knowing she wouldn’t win, Sylvie decided to take Ender somewhere like Canada where they could blend into the immigrant population. Somewhere I couldn’t easily hunt them down—
“No, no, boys, get back here!”
My paranoid thoughts are cut off by the sound of Yahto’s raised voice outside the conference room. But despite his angry command, the door to the conference room flies open, hitting the back wall with a bang. And my eyes widen when I see who has run into the room followed by my exasperated guard.
“Wes? Ender?” I call out. “Why aren’t you two in school?”
Ender ignores my question and instead addresses the judge at the other end of the table, “Ms. Judge, we’ve drafted up an alternate custody agreement and would like to speak before the proceeding,” he says, raising what looks like a few sheets of handwritten papers in the air.
My lawyers burst into agitated chatter before Gil comes back with, “This is a custodial matter to be decided between the two parties,” he points out to the arbitrator. “And you two should be at school,” he adds, waggling a finger at the boys. My lawyer turns agitated eyes toward Yahto. “And you there—close the door! This meeting is supposed to be confidential.”
Yahto does as he’s told, then comes to a stiff stance right beside the door.
But Ender glares mutinously at all my lawyers before saying, “Actually, I can cite several precedents where minors were allowed to present their sides of the case during a custody dispute.”
Before Gil can respond, the judge peers over her reading glasses at the two boys, “Barron Pinnock, I presume.”
Ender nods his head once before sticking his stubborn chin back in the air.
“And you are?” the arbitrator asks Wes with more than a little amusement in her voice.
To my surprise, instead of answering with a whining snap as he is so often prone to doing, Wes says, “I’m Wesley Calson. Barron’s half-brother. We would have been here sooner, but we had to wait until second period to sneak out.”
“Judge Wallins, this is highly irregular,” Gil says, standing up. “Both these boys are truant from school, and this is
meant to be a closed hearing without the custodial party present.”
“Hmm, apparently no one made these boys aware of those conditions,” the arbitrator answers before turning her amused gaze back to Ender and Wes. “Well, come on over and let me see what you’ve got, boys.”
After exchanging a look, the two boys approach the arbitrator together, walking around the unoccupied side of the table. And though I am furious they’ve come here like this, I can’t help but be a little impressed by how resolute they look, standing side by side when they stop in front of the judge. A team for everyone to see as Ender hands the papers over.
Judge Wallins pushes her reading glasses back up her nose and reads over the words written out in pencil on the lined sulphite paper kids typically use for handwriting practice. “Not bad legal language,” the arbitrator says as she flips through it. “Which one of you wrote this up?”
“We both did, Ms. Judge,” Ender answers. “I came up with the language, but my handwriting is really bad and I couldn’t ask my mom to type it up like I usually do. Plus, dictation software isn’t where it needs to be to capture a voice at my register. So, Wes wrote it up. His handwriting is really good.”
Judge Wallins peers over her glasses at Wes. “You know and understand the contents of this proposed parenting plan?” she asks the younger boy.
Wes nods and Holt is surprised to hear no whining whatsoever in his voice as he answers, “We want to stay with Vee—” Ender nudges him and Wes self-edits, “With Sylvia Pinnock on school nights and all major holidays, and every other weekend with Holt Calson as long as the weekend doesn’t fall on a major holiday.”
“Both of you?” Judge Wallins clarifies. “Even though, from what I understand, Sylvia Pinnock is of no blood relation to you, Mr. Calson?”
“Yeah. She’s my brother’s mom, and I love her like a mother,” Wes answers. “She’s nice and she helps me with my homework and she talks to me a lot and she’s also—what’s that word you taught me?” he asks Ender. Ender whispers in his ear and Wes finishes with, “Naturing.”
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