“Maybe you should go.” Her key was already out and she was opening her door.
“I’ll text you,” he called after her. And after he had moved his car so the driver behind him could get past, he stared at the closed door, hoping that the next time he was here, he’d be following her through it.
NINE
While Geneva Bales was speaking intently into her iPhone, Jared sat across from her in the small but neatly organized cubicle. On the desk sat a tall vase filled with long-stemmed tulips: pink, red, and white. A MacBook Air was propped open in front of her; on the wall behind her was a bulletin board covered in photos, clippings, ticket stubs, menus, and even a few scraps of fabric. Geneva shot him a look that said, Sorry to make you wait, and then launched into a low volley of um-hum, I see, of course, yes, yes, of course. When she at last concluded the call, she reached over and took the hand Jared extended in both of hers. “Finally,” she said. “I thought he would never stop talking.”
“It’s okay,” Jared said. “I appreciate your willingness to see me on such short notice.” He’d sent his e-mail only the day before, and she had responded within the hour.
“I’m fascinated by what you said, Mr. Masters. Absolutely fascinated. To think that the baby might be yours and that you made the connection because of the photographs. I mean, what are the odds?”
“The likeness was uncanny,” he said. “Here. I want you to see for yourself.” He pulled out the scrapbook along with the magazine and placed them side by side on the desk. Geneva took a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from a chain around her neck and studied the pair of images. “I can see what you mean,” she said. “The two faces are remarkably similar.”
“That’s what I thought. But it doesn’t hold up unless I have proof,” he said. “I want to do a DNA test. It’s the only way to know for sure.”
“How did you plan on doing that?”
“I could go to Child Services. Get someone to order the test. But that seems so cold. Hostile even. I think it would be better to meet her first.”
“And that’s where I come in?”
He nodded. “I know it’s a strange request, and probably not the sort of thing you’ve been asked before. But it was only because of your story that I was able to put the pieces together.” More silence. “Please? I just have to find out if she’s mine.”
“I’d like to help you,” she said finally. “But I’m not sure if I can.”
“You can introduce me to her,” Jared said.
“Introduce you?” Geneva was still wearing the glasses, and her finely arched brows rose above the frames. “To Miranda?” Jared nodded emphatically. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I just don’t know, Mr. Masters—”
“Call me Jared,” he said quickly.
“Jared.” She seemed to hold the name in her mouth like she was tasting it. “You still haven’t convinced me. For one thing, I don’t know her all that well.”
“You’ve interviewed her, haven’t you? Been to her place? Seen the baby?”
“Celeste. Yes.”
“She trusts you,” he said.
“All the more reason for me not to violate that trust. She might not want to meet you. She might find it upsetting. After all, you have no real proof. Only pictures. And a hunch.”
“What if I told you who Celeste’s mother was? Would that make a difference?”
“I’d like to know that.” She took the glasses off and replaced them on the chain. “I’d like to know that very much.”
“Her name was Caroline Highsmith. She was a beautiful girl. Beautiful—and troubled.”
“Troubled in what way?”
“I don’t know the diagnosis. Maybe she was bipolar, manic—whatever they call it. She had these swings, you know? She could be ecstatic over the smallest thing—the shape of a cloud in the sky, finding a dollar bill in the street. But then she’d be so easily crushed too, like if they were out of her favorite flavor of ice cream at the supermarket. And her temper . . .” He paused, remembering.
“When did you find out about the baby?” She had started typing something into her laptop then; at first Jared was affronted by her rudeness. Then he understood: she was taking notes.
“In September. The last night I saw her alive,” he said. “We met for drinks. I had already decided to break up with her; she told me she was pregnant and I didn’t believe her. I thought she was making it up—to trap me.” He felt ashamed, but he pressed on. “Your article said the baby was born in March. And it was in late March that I found out Carrie had drowned. I also found out that there was some evidence she’d recently given birth. So at first I thought the baby—if there had been a baby—must have drowned with her. But when I read your story and I saw the picture, it started to come together.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “The baby—my daughter—hadn’t drowned at all. She’d been left in that subway station, and Miranda Berenzweig found her.”
Geneva had not looked at him for the duration of this recitation; her fingers danced and skittered on the keyboard for several seconds, the light tap of her nails against the keys the only sound in the office. Finally, she got up and walked to the window. Outside, the Chrysler Building blazed in the sun.
“All right,” she said, turning slowly around. “I’ll phone her. Feel her out.”
“So you will help me, then?” His face broke into a wide, tremulous smile.
“I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try. I’ll contact Miranda Berenzweig for you. It has to be done with great tact and delicacy. If she says no, you’ll have to go through the court system.”
“She might say yes,” Jared said.
“She might,” Geneva agreed. She returned to the desk, sat down, and began typing again. Jared watched her for a moment. Did he or didn’t he want Celeste to be his? If he didn’t, why was he even putting himself through all this? But he didn’t think he could tolerate not knowing for the rest of his life. “I’ll be in touch when I’ve made contact with her,” Geneva said, looking up from the keypad. Jared stood and extended his hand once more. But Geneva surprised him by coming around the desk and giving him a hug. The embrace was quick and almost businesslike, but for the briefest second, he was sure he’d felt the hammering of her heart. Or was it just his own?
That was on Friday. He spent the weekend second-guessing himself. When his phone buzzed early Monday morning, he panicked. He had set this thing in motion; was he ready for the consequences?
But when he answered, it was not the cool, melodious voice of Geneva Bales on the line. It was Isabel Clarke. Jared said hello and groped for a cigarette. When he found the pack, he lit up and inhaled deeply. That first drag of the day was always the best: a little bit harsh, a little bit biting. It was the drag that reminded you that what you were doing had real consequences.
“Did I wake you?” she said, her voice soft and breathy. Jared wondered idly what she was wearing. Or not wearing.
“I was up,” he lied. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the apartment on One Hundred Seventeenth Street. You haven’t sold it, have you?”
“Not yet, though there’s been some interest. . . .” Another lie, but damn it, she had woken him and he didn’t want to be jerked around by her—again.
“Oh good! I think I persuaded Brandon. We’re going to make an offer. But I just need to see it one more time. For ten minutes. Or even five. Can you set something up? Today?”
“Sure, I can.” He sat up straight in bed, took another deep drag, and began mentally rearranging his schedule. “Let me see when I can get you in there,” he said. “Call you back?”
“Call me back,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.”
When Jared arrived at the building on 117th Street several hours later, Isabel was already there on the sidewalk. Now that was a first. “Thanks for doing this,” she said, giving his arm a little s
queeze. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he said. His skin tingled where she had touched him. “Is Brandon looking for a parking spot?” The Clarkes owned a sleek, bottle green Mercedes; he could imagine that Brandon Clarke licked it clean at night.
“Brandon’s at the office,” she said. “I’m flying solo today.”
Jared gave her a look, but she did not meet his eyes. Uh-oh, he thought. This was not good, no way, no how. This was trouble, with a capital T and underlined three times besides. But now that he was here, how to gracefully get out of it? Isabel, you need a chaperone. Or a keeper. I won’t show you the apartment until you produce one or the other. Now just turn around and take your sweet, hot little body home before I jump your bones on the living room floor. Instead he said, “Where do you want to start?”
“In the garden,” she said, and he led the way. Since he hadn’t been expecting her, he hadn’t gotten a chance to check things out back there. Fortunately, it didn’t look too bad: no trash and only a few scattered leaves. But what was that? Leaving Isabel to bury her nose in some shrub, he went over to the far end of the yard to inspect. Cat food, that’s what it was. Tiny, dry kibble in the shape of fish—like the cat knew or cared. Someone around here must have been setting it out. Cat kibble brought cats, and cats brought trouble: they howled, mated, fought, and crapped. Jared had nothing against pet cats, but he did not want strays in this yard—not when he wanted to get a million two for it.
Hastily, he began to scoop the kibble up with his hands and put it in his pockets; he’d dump it later. But as if summoned by his anxieties—or the promise of a handout—a large, orange cat appeared. He must have weighed fifteen pounds, with a massive, leonine head. One green eye took the measure of Jared; the other was swollen shut. Both his ears had lost their tips.
“Oh, look,” Isabel said. “Isn’t he magnificent? Here, puss.” She knelt and extended a hand.
Magnificent was not the word Jared would have chosen. The cat made him nervous, and he wanted it gone. “Isabel, be careful. He’s a stray.”
“Aren’t we all strays in one way or another?” she said. The cat padded over, and when she began to stroke him, a resonant purr rose up from the depths of his throat. “See?” She looked up at Jared. “There’s nothing to worry about; he’s a love.”
From his vantage point above her, Jared could have looked directly down the gaping front of the loose little dress she wore, but he resolutely turned away and lit a cigarette.
The sound of her cry—pained, startled—caused him to whip back around. There was Isabel, hands pressed to her mouth, blood everywhere—hands, face, dripping down her neck. With a disgusted swish of his tale, the cat bounded off.
“What the hell happened?” said Jared.
“I don’t even know!” she cried. “One minute he was purring and the next, he just flew at me! Oh, it hurts, Jared. It hurts so much!”
“Okay. Okay. Try to calm down,” he said. “Take your hands away. I want to see how bad it is.”
Isabel’s gore-smeared hands dropped to her sides. Beneath the blood that covered the lower part of her face, Jared could see where the cat’s claws had torn her upper lip; it curled away from her face in a weird, unnatural way, and he felt sick looking at it. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital.” He considered his options. Call 911 and wait for an ambulance, or try getting a taxi? She was crying harder now, and he put his arm around her shoulders and hustled her back through the house. Whatever frisson there had been between them had completely evaporated; she was freaked out, and his only thought was to get her medical attention.
A yellow cab was just pulling up to the curb to discharge a passenger when they got to the street; they got in and Jared told the driver where they were headed. There had been a hand towel in the apartment’s bathroom and he’d thought to grab it on the way out. Isabel pressed it to her face and whimpered softly beside him.
“Hey, is everything okay back there?” The driver’s gaze sought Jared’s in the rearview mirror.
“Everything’s fine,” Jared said. “We just need to get to the hospital—”
“She’s not going to OD in my cab, is she? Because if she is, I’m going to let you out right here; I don’t need that shit, man.”
“She’s not on drugs,” Jared said coldly. “A cat clawed her lip, okay? Now, can you please hurry?” The cab surged ahead and, in minutes, had pulled up to the ER entrance of St. Luke’s Hospital on Amsterdam Avenue. Jared paid the churlish driver—“I hope she didn’t drip all over the backseat, man”—and ushered Isabel inside.
She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder while they waited for her name to be called. He used the time to call Brandon but got his voice mail, so he left a message. It seemed like she might have fallen asleep, and he remained still, even though the position he was in was uncomfortable. And he was freezing too—it must have been sixty degrees in there. Jared was wishing he had a sweater or jacket when he heard Isabel say softly but distinctly, “I’m going to need stitches. Do you think they’ll have a plastic surgeon here?”
So she wasn’t asleep. “I’ll bet they do, and if not, you can see one yourself tomorrow—”
He was interrupted by a woman in scrubs holding a clipboard, calling out, “Isabel Clarke?” Trailing the towel like a bloodied security blanket, Isabel got up and followed the scrubs past a pair of double doors.
Brandon phoned right after she’d gone. “A cat clawed her? Jesus! Where were you? At the Bronx Zoo?”
“No, One Hundred Seventeenth Street.”
“Why were you on One Hundred Seventeenth Street?” Brandon sounded suspicious. Or was Jared projecting?
“Isabel wanted to take another look at that apartment. She said you were ready to make an offer.”
“An offer? On that overpriced dump? Hell no!” Brandon made a peculiar noise that Jared realized was laughter. He’d never heard the guy laugh before; he thought maybe he didn’t know how. “What made you think that?”
Your scheming little wife, Jared wished he could say. So they weren’t going to make an offer; she just wanted to play patty-cake with him—first in the garden and then the bedroom. Jesus, but he was a total and complete idiot not to have seen this one coming. “Listen, she’s in with the ER doctor now. How soon can you get here?”
“On my way,” Brandon said.
Jared waited until Brandon arrived and he knew that Isabel was going to be all right. Turned out there was a plastic surgeon available, and the woman promised there would be almost no scarring at all. Jared was relieved to hear this; he somehow couldn’t stand to think of Isabel’s delicate features being marred.
He left the hospital and slowly walked back home. His Thomas Pink shirt—very expensive, and of course not on sale—was smeared with blood and there was blood on his hands and probably his face too. He wasn’t going to risk an encounter with another potentially snotty cabdriver; the next one might see the gore and think he was a criminal, a murderer. Besides, he needed the air. It would help him decompress after the adrenaline-fueled trip to St. Luke’s and the meat-locker chill of the waiting room. Brandon, when he arrived, had been his predictably entitled, asshole self. “That cat is a menace; I want it euthanized,” he said. “And I want to sue.”
“The cat is a stray; good luck finding it,” Jared said. “And who are you planning on suing? The city of New York for hosting a killer feline?” Brandon had ignored him, looking around for a nurse he could bully. What was it with these guys? Did they think there was always someone to blame? That they were exempted from the kind of plain old bad luck that dogged most of the people on the planet?
It was after four when he finally got home. He shucked his clothes and left them in a sorry heap on the bedroom floor, then did forty quick chin-ups on the bar he’d installed in the doorway before heading for the shower. He was bloody, sweat
y, and above all, burned; he wanted to scrub the whole it-sucked-from-the-start day from his skin. But the buzzing of his phone halted him in his tracks, and he answered with a quick “S’up?” sounding just like the kids he heard on the street.
“Jared?” asked Geneva Bales. “Miranda Berenzweig has agreed to meet you, but she’s asking to have a lawyer present.”
“Tell her I’ll meet her anywhere, anytime,” he said. “And she can have anyone there she likes—lawyer, judge, the mayor, hell, the governor if that helps. There’s only one thing I want.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Tell her I want her to bring Celeste. I need to see her.”
When Jared got off the phone, he walked over to the mirror and stared at himself. A baby, for Christ’s sake. What the hell was he doing? Then he heard his mother’s voice in his head, as clear as if she’d been standing next to him. You’re a man who was raised to do what’s right, she would have said. You know what that is; now it’s up to you to do it.
TEN
Miranda’s hands were shaking—really, truly shaking—when she put down her phone. Geneva’s words—that someone claiming to be Celeste’s biological father had surfaced and wanted to meet them both—were so staggering and so awful that her whole body picked up the cue and began to shake along with her hands. This was exactly what she had feared when Geneva first proposed the idea of the profile; why had she let herself be seduced into allowing it?
Abruptly, she stood. There was a mountain of work awaiting her attention before she left the office: an article that needed a final edit, two layouts that needed her approval, an in-box brimming with e-mail she needed to read. But she couldn’t deal with any of those things now; she had to escape, if only for a few minutes.
She was just about to head to the ladies’ room when Marvin, the art director, came storming in. “Did you see this?” he hissed, waving something in her direction. Miranda reached out to take whatever “this” was. It turned out to be a glossy, high-res photograph of some very elaborate Christmas cakes—bûche de Noël was the proper term—made by a celebrity pastry chef whose work Domestic Goddess had featured in the past.
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