Although this alter ego of Daniel’s expressed the same opinions Daniel held, Julian preferred the original, preferred “Daniel one-point-oh,” as Lynn often referred to him. Julian didn’t have a past with Ken Mattingly Ken wasn’t the life preserver he’d clung to in those first months after his mother was admitted at old Northwestern Memorial. How many nights had he sat in the den next to his grandfather, fiercely glad to be there and not in Chapel Hill, while at the same time fiercely wounded by what seemed his dad’s indifference to his having chosen to stay in Key West? Daniel, maybe sensing this, had filled his head with trivia about the islands and the currents, about pirates and developers—who were in many cases one and the same.
Though eighteen years had passed, he recalled too well the day he’d come home from baseball practice and found his mother sitting on the tub’s edge in her underwear and bra. The water was running and she held her wrists above the stream, letting her blood course down into it.
The police had been kind to him despite his angry fear, a supportive female officer sitting silently beside him in the ER until his grandparents arrived, followed an hour later by his father. The man had seemed a stranger to him, and responsible, somehow, for the razor blade and the blood.
Two days of discussion and debate among the adults had followed. The outcome: Mom needs some help. No shit. She’ll be in the hospital for a while. I’m teaching, so we think maybe you should go to Key West for the rest of the summer, then see how things are. It wasn’t until November, however, that his father said, “You’re welcome to come live with me …” leaving the next word, “but,” unsaid, yet Julian had heard it. Screw that.
Had it really been there?
While living here as a teen, he could hardly set out from the house with his grandfather without getting a history lesson. Even today, Ken wanted to talk about how World War I aviators trained at the nearby Navy base, terrorizing the residents with their daredevil antics much the way he, Ken, had, he said, in his early days at NAS Pensacola. Yes, it was Ken’s story, but it was a story just the same.
About his dad, Julian now asked, “How’d he get on the show?”
Lynn said, “It’s the funniest thing; on Wednesday night, I guess it was, we were all eating at A&B, and they decided he should be the tour guide for today’s show. Thought having an actual scholar would give the piece dimension, I think Peter said.”
“Peter?”
“Her producer.”
Her being Blue, obviously. And hadn’t they all gotten awfully friendly in a short space of time?
A sleek black cat lounged on the path near his father’s feet, tail whipping against the ground in an irregular rhythm, as if to show who was truly in charge here. If Daniel had his facts straight, more than ten thousand travelers visited Hemingway’s island home every year to see where “the iconic alcoholic,” as Daniel liked to call him, had written For Whom the Bell Tolls, as well as opened his home to polydactyl cats like this fellow. Julian admired the cats, six-toed and normal alike, and in some limited ways he admired Hemingway. The stories held up, he’d give them that. How could he not admire the work when he was named for one of Hemingway’s characters? A minor one, from “The Snows of Mount Kilimanjaro,” but legendary. A Hemingway nod to F. Scott Fitzgerald. This is what came of being born to an English professor who was himself an English teacher’s son.
He watched Blue turn to face one of the cameras and say, “When we come back: We go inside Papa’s house, and reveal the truth about what he went through while living here in this island paradise.”
She held the camera’s eye until a technician called, “We’re clear.”
“Come on.” Lynn grabbed Julian’s hand and pulled him down from the chair, then led him past the metal temp fence.
“Look what I’ve got,” she said, striding over the snaking cables without a thought. Julian kept his eyes on her feet until they’d cleared the hazards without incident, then looked up to find they were almost nose-to-nose with his father and Blue.
Quickly, Julian extended his hand to shake his dad’s, heading off any possibility of an embrace. “Good to see you,” he said, and then was immediately sorry to be so stiff.
“And you,” his dad said warmly. “Here, meet Blue Reynolds. Blue, my son Julian.” He actually sounded proud.
Up close, Blue practically hummed with energy. “Hi, Julian, I’m very glad to meet you,” she said. Her dark eyes were wide, sincere, welcoming. She had a slightly raised mole on her cheekbone that might or might not have been made flesh-toned by makeup. A pretty woman, but not a knockout. Not, looking only at the powdered, lipsticked surface, that remarkable, really.
Right.
He shook her extended hand. A firm clasp. Strong. Woman in a man’s world and all that. “Yeah,” he said, wanting to keep hold of her hand. Fool. “Same here.”
Lynn patted Blue on the arm. “I just wanted him to say hello. We’ll get out of your way now.”
Blue smiled at him, her eyes curious and somehow vulnerable. His stomach dropped, a strange and not altogether pleasant sensation in the way it was a betrayal of his better judgment. She looked away, saying, “All right. Will you two be joining us when we’ve wrapped things up here? Mitch, you and Brenda are going down to Mallory Square with some of the crew, to start with, yes?”
“We are. She hasn’t seen the spectacle yet.”
“Right,” Blue said, “and then some of us are going to grab dinner and drinks someplace where we won’t be mobbed.”
“Join us,” his father said.
His grandmother answered for both of them: “I can’t, but I’m sure Julian will.” Then she grabbed his hand to lead him back to where the crowd waited.
He would have given a different answer, but in an odd, probably masochistic way, he didn’t mind.
What he’d intended to do, needed to do, was sleep. Sleep, however, was a need he was accustomed to ignoring. It was obvious that if he wanted to get any time with his father in the next forty-eight hours, he would have to do what Alec had advised him at the beginning of their first assignment together in Bosnia: “As you’ll learn quick enough, you have to go along to get along.” He’d figured it out, trial and error, losing only the one finger in all these years, instead of his life. A lot to be said for that.
Whatever was unfolding here, he knew he could handle it once he got over his jet lag. Blue Reynolds did not have to be a trip wire, not if he didn’t allow her to be. Caution. Patience. Determination. He possessed these traits, even if they didn’t seem to be quite as accessible at the moment as he’d like them to be.
The other thing he’d learned to do was divest himself of expectations. He and his father weren’t going to undo a lifetime of mistakes and misapprehensions in a weekend, or a week, or a month. Success sometimes had to be measured in small increments. It hid, very often, in the small gains: a pinky lost but a thumb saved, a father’s white-flag offer accepted, a cold beer on the waterfront at sunset. What was his life about, if not proving that much could be made from little?
14
e seems pleasant enough,” Blue told Mitch as they waited out the last thirty seconds of the commercial break. More telling was what she didn’t say: that she thought Julian Forrester was beautiful. Startlingly, disturbingly beautiful. Thick dark hair, strong forearms, long fingers she couldn’t help but envision stroking a woman’s face—her face, in fact, before she caught herself.
And his eyes. They were darker than Mitch’s. Violet, almost. Deep, unreadable, magnetic …
Enough. There was no time, no space for such a distraction right now. It was nothing. A chemical reaction. Meaningless.
Even so, she felt a flush creeping upward from her neck, and prayed her makeup would hide it. Good that Mitch was watching Julian and Lynn as they left the grounds.
“Julian’s great,” he said. “And really talented—you saw some of his stuff.” His expression turned worried, and he sighed as he faced her again. “I hope everything goes well th
is weekend.”
“It will,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
“I see you’re still an optimist.” Mitch’s smile returned, and in his eyes—his familiar, friendly eyes—she saw again what she suspected she’d been seeing throughout the week: a spark, if not an outright flame. A bit of light and energy she feared Brenda had seen as well. Even so, his being attracted was a nice thought, a satisfying thought, like fate coming around full circle and rewarding her—in a small way, yes—for the heartache he’d caused her in the past.
She got the cue that they were down to the break’s final ten seconds. “All right, ready? From here we head inside and all you have to do is answer those questions we scripted. Good?”
He nodded, and they were back on-air.
The Hemingway home was as interesting as all such places are. Pieces of legend that capture the imagination. She’d been in Anne Frank’s Amsterdam hiding place, she’d walked the Vatican’s halls, she’d spent three nights in the Playboy mansion—alone in her suite, except when Marcy was there; they’d watched Sleepless in Seattle one of those nights, something romantic, sweet, a palate-cleanser of a movie.
The more you revered the legendary resident whose home you were in, the more awed you were by being in the same space where they’d once stood, slept, cried, loved. As she and Mitch moved from room to room, up to the writing loft and then into the garden, she felt the house become the theater of drama that Mitch saw. Saw the author as a brilliant, conflicted man who sat in that chair, drinking scotch, three glasses before dinner every night. A four-time husband who, despite the bouts of depression that grew worse as time wore on, ascended the wrought iron stairs—a curved staircase originally, Mitch said, as they climbed the straight, tourist-friendly risers—and wrote stories showing the salvation love could bring. Might bring, if character or fate allowed. She listened to Mitch talk about how the author had strolled along the garden pathways here, pondering Robert Jordan’s path in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Right here under the waving palms and towering bamboo, a story, a literary classic, had grown and bloomed along with Pauline Hemingway’s plants.
And then they were up to the show’s close. Blue stepped away from Mitch (they always closed with only her in the frame) and outlined their schedule for next week.
“Thank you all for spending this week with us here in the islands. Hasn’t it been amazing? I’ve had a terrific time and can’t wait to visit again.” Sooner than she would reveal on-air. All she needed was for thirty million people to know she’d just bought a house here. Word would trickle out soon enough, despite her request for Lila Shefford’s discretion, despite the purchase being in her holding company’s name rather than her own.
“Don’t forget to join us back in Chicago on Monday, when we’ll be talking to Dr. Dean Ornish about heart health, and then Tuesday, Carrie Ann Inaba will show us some calorie-burning dance steps that will not only tone your tush but jazz up your love life, too.”
She read her thank-yous from the prompter so that no one was forgotten, and with that, one more episode of TBRS, one lovely, surprising week’s work in Key West, wrapped.
The crew cheered. They were eager to get back to the things they’d come here for, to the diversions, thoughts of which had preoccupied most of them for the months leading up to this week. There was always so much stress over location broadcasts, so many things that could go wrong. This trip, though, had been a breeze—an ocean breeze. She felt the corners of her mouth curl upward at the thought. In addition to having gotten full cooperation from local officials, a hearty welcome from locals in general, steadily ideal weather, and the surprises of a new house and old friends, she’d felt her optimism returning. Like the beans her first-grade class had grown in clear plastic cups set on classroom windowsills, it seemed all she’d needed was fresh soil and sunshine. She smiled at this thought, too. Instead of a green bean, she was a Blue bean—and Julian was nothing more than a passing cloud.
Instead of mature and professional, she was silly.
As Mitch came up to her, she glanced at Marcy, expecting a thumbs-up for the show and getting a concerned look instead. What? Blue mouthed, and Marcy gestured for her to come over to the porch.
Blue told Mitch, “Hey, there are some things I need to take care of before we get the party underway, so I’ll have to catch up with you later, all right?” Maybe they’d get lucky and Julian would decide not to join them. Her initial reaction to him suggested that would be best.
Mitch fidgeted with his wristwatch, twisting it as he said, “Oh, absolutely. Of course.”
“You were fabulous,” Blue assured him. “Really. More than we bargained for by far.” He was so easy to be around, so accommodating. “A real pro,” she said.
“I’m delighted to hear it,” he said, and looked it.
The spark again. It wasn’t right to fan it, not here and not yet—if at all. She’d watched Brenda sticking close to him all week; her attachment was obvious. That Mitch was less attached was apparent too. Still, the call was his to make. All she would do was try to let him see that she would welcome his attention.
So she smiled warmly. “I’m delighted to say it.” She looked past him, to where Marcy waited, frowning. “Marcy’s getting impatient, so I’ll say so long.” She left him there, certain he was watching her go. Pleased that he was watching her go. Sorry, just a little, that he was watching her go. She liked Brenda.
“All right, spill it,” she told Marcy as she stepped onto the porch.
Marcy handed over Blue’s phone. Making sure no one was within earshot, Marcy said, “It’s Branford—I mean, he’s not on the phone this second, but he says he needs to talk to you ASAP.”
Blue’s breath caught, and she coughed. “Did he say why?” As the words left her mouth, she knew how stupid they were. He was forbidden to tell anyone anything, would not even tell her anything until she’d repeated their agreed-upon code of authenticity, which changed after each conversation. He’d created a master list in the guise of a fifty-question geography worksheet, which she glanced at each morning. If not for the weight of their business, she would find the whole system ridiculous—found it ridiculous anyway, something right out of an old B-movie thriller. Still, it worked.
Marcy said, “You don’t think he—?”
Blue raised one shoulder, a half-shrug, her voice trapped by the pressure in her chest. If this was the call she’d been waiting for all this time, if her son was suddenly found, she had some choices to make. Knowing where he was would lead to needing to know how he was, who he was beyond name and occupation. Would he be open to meeting his birth mother? Did he even know he had a mother other than the one who’d raised him? If he knew, or when he found out, would he want to know who she was, how she was, where she was?
Did she have any right to put the questions to him?
Her chest felt tight. Was she breathing? She didn’t feel like she was breathing. “I’ll call when we’re back at the hotel.”
“Just so you know? He sounded—that is, he said it’s urgent.”
“Urgent? But…” But she wasn’t ready for urgent, didn’t have her answers yet.
As often as she had imagined her lost son, she’d imagined his parents reaching out to her, wanting her to meet him again. An innocent play-date drop-in. This nice lady’s name is Blue, honey, say hello. Or face-to-face at the Field Museum, maybe, when his family visited on vacation. A short introduction in front of dinosaur Sue, followed by an ice-cream cone on the outside steps. Or maybe the two of them would meet in his parents’ front room—those well-off adopting parents would be the sort to have a front room, impeccable pale carpeting, antique pianoforte with Grandma’s oval portrait framed in cherry hanging above—and if all went well they’d move to the less formal family room, because of course she was part of his family, and wasn’t that wonderful?
The more successful she’d become, the more difficult the scenario became. A Chicago news-reporter moth
er was not the same as a syndicated-talk-show mother, was not the same as an international TV personality multimillionaire mother. The absurdity of the situation paralyzed her; how could she go to him as Blue Reynolds? Honey, it’s time for you to meet your birth mother, say hello to Blue Reynolds. Ms. Reynolds, my son Collin. Or Ray. Or Brice. Or Benjamin. Or Sean. The absurdity of not knowing her own son’s name paralyzed her. He was not, of course, hers, except that he would always be hers, she could not help her possessiveness. He was of her. Nonsensical did not begin to describe the pathways of her thoughts.
What she was conscious of in the thirty minutes it took to divest herself of assistants and officials and get driven back to the hotel, was the way her heart raced. Her urge to lean forward in the car as though that would make it go faster. Her sweaty palms. And yet when she was finally alone in her suite, she stared at her phone’s keypad for agonizing minutes before she could press the buttons.
The line rang and she waited, one hand pressed to her belly, her eyes on a single dark-green leaf of a plant too shiny to be real. If Branford had found him, she didn’t have to do anything right away. Once found, he was not likely to be lost again. She could wait a day or two. A week, even. She didn’t have to do anything at all. It should be enough to simply know.
She heard a click, a pause—a canned voice advising her to leave a message.
15
he Green Parrot was full of salty types, locals. They looked like illiterates, many of them: uncombed, unshaved, probably also unwashed. Mitch, wearing the same pressed slacks and golf shirt he’d worn for the show, drew not the looks of recognition he thought he might get after having just been on live TV a few hours earlier, but suspicious stares. Maybe they thought he was a cop.
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