“What did he say?”
“So far—nothing. He hasn’t called me back yet.” Evan was quiet, so Miranda asked, “You don’t think it’s a good idea, do you?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. And from where I sit, that seems like a very likely possibility.”
“I’m hurting now,” she said quietly. “I’m dying, actually.”
When Evan pulled up in front of Miranda’s house, he offered to take her out to dinner. But she said that after taking her to Westchester, the very least she could do was to make a meal. It was too late to start shopping now, but she knew she could pull something together quickly, and a short while later, they were sitting down to a frittata made with cheese, red pepper, and zucchini; she had no lettuce but found carrots and red cabbage in her fridge, so she ran them through her food processor—the unexpected color combo was good—and topped them with olive oil, fresh lemon, and coarse crystals of sea salt.
“You can turn anything into a meal,” he said. “You’re a magician.”
“Not anything,” she said. “But after all these years at the magazine, I do have a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“What are the others? Can you whip up a ball gown? Knit?”
Miranda shook her head. “There are people in crafts that do that kind of thing. I can barely sew on a button, and forget about hems. Though we did all take a knitting pledge.”
“Knitting pledge?”
“The crafts editor had this idea; she made us sit in a circle and taught us to knit. We did it, oh, five or six times, and we were supposed to keep it up. We were all making scarves, and she was going to feature them on the Web site.”
“So how did it go?”
“Not too well. I hated knitting. I’m just not dexterous.”
“With needles, maybe. But in the kitchen it’s a different story.”
“I told you how it was all because of my mother. I started with soups; she could keep them down. Then when she had sugar cravings, I started baking; I’d make cookies with crushed pecans or lemon zest. . . . She’d ask for them, even at the end, when she was too sick to eat anymore.”
“So you’ve been feeding people ever since.” Evan’s plate was now clean; he’d eaten every bite.
“Habit,” she said. “It dies hard. And anyway, I’ve made a career of it.”
After they finished dinner, she washed out the food processor so she could use it to chop up the amaretto biscuits—they were a little stale—which she sprinkled over butter pecan ice cream. All the while, she kept her phone close at hand and visible.
“You’re still waiting for that Masters guy to call you back,” he said.
“I don’t understand why I haven’t heard from him. He seemed pretty eager to meet before. So I am wondering what might have changed.”
“Geneva Bales,” said Evan, using his spoon to scrape up the last of the ice cream.
“What are you talking about?”
“Maybe she said something to him, discouraged him from contacting you.”
“But why?” Miranda said, and then realized how pointless her question was. Why had Geneva written so eloquently and movingly in praise of her adopting Celeste and then done a complete reversal, championing Jared’s claim over her own? Was she just a journalist out for a story? Or was there something else going on?
“I don’t know,” said Evan. “I’m curious about her.”
Miranda set her spoon down. She had not finished her ice cream, and it had pooled into a taffy-colored puddle at the bottom of her bowl. She glanced again at the silent phone. “So am I.”
SEVENTEEN
Evan spent the night with Miranda snuggled peaceably by his side. He didn’t initiate sex; he sensed she was too preoccupied. But early the next morning—it was Saturday, and neither of them had to be at work—she surprised him by coming into the bedroom fresh from the shower and dropping her towel when she stood in front of him. “Are you in a hurry to leave?” she asked.
“No.” He reached for her; beads of water still dotted her collarbone and throat. “No hurry at all.”
Back in his own place, he sat down at his laptop and began Googling Jared Masters. He wanted to see what he could find out about the guy. Good education—private school in New England, followed by four years at Haverford and an MA in urban planning from Columbia. He now worked for a boutique real-estate company in Harlem and seemed to be on the rise professionally. He’d also been a soccer coach for some uptown youth league, and more recently, he had started some kind of internship program for high school students at the real-estate firm. Evan read about his many accolades and the citation from the principal, and there were several pictures of him with the students, one of whom was now at Princeton.
Masters was also a very social guy; Evan found plenty of pictures of him at various clubs and restaurants in the city as well as out in the Hamptons. He was inevitably with a woman—always white—of a kind that Evan did not consider especially attractive but that he knew other people did: blond, skinny, done to the nines.
After a while he switched to searching for Geneva Bales. He couldn’t help suspecting she and Jared Masters had some kind of connection, that it wasn’t journalistic objectivity that had made her take his side the way she had.
The first things that came up were, predictably, the pieces she’d written for Metro; the magazine archived them, and had he wanted, he could have gone back over the seven years’ worth of columns that were available online. There were references to other pieces as well—a bunch from the New York Times, a couple from the London Observer, one from Vogue, and another from Vanity Fair. He found photos too, pictures taken at various New York social events: galas for the New York City Ballet and the New York Public Library, a garden party held by the Central Park Conservancy.
But none of this was illuminating or even very interesting. Geneva wrote well and often. Along with her column, she plied her trade at various high-profile publications, and she had a modest presence on the New York social scene. Evan wanted more. Who was she? Where had she come from? There was no mention of a personal life—no lover or spouse, no parents or children. Surely that information had to exist somewhere; he just had to persist and he would find it.
Around one o’clock, he got up and went into the kitchen for lunch. The refrigerator yielded a can of Coke, a desiccated lemon, and some leftovers from a Chinese take-out meal that had been none too appetizing even in its original incarnation. He pitched the sorry remains in the trash and sighed dramatically. In the past, he would have eaten the Chinese food without question or complaint. But spending time with Miranda had spoiled him.
Forget lunch. He popped the top on the soda can and reached for a bag of potato chips. Potatoes were vegetables, right? Back at the computer, he studied the Wikipedia entry for Geneva Bales.
She was born in 1971, raised in Asheville, North Carolina, graduated from Randolph Macon Woman’s College in Virginia, and came to New York in the early 1990s. No mention of her family, but knowing her hometown was a useful start, and Randolph Macon might be a source too. Easy enough to calculate the year she graduated; there must be old yearbooks or other school publications. But he’d done enough for today. He needed to get out.
He brought his bike down and hopped on; he had no particular destination or goal. His only imperative was about speed: if he went too fast, he couldn’t see what was around him. And seeing was what it was all about. He loved this time of year, this time of day. The shadows stretching and expanding and the sky taking on its warm, predusk glow. He’d ride for a while, stop to photograph some little incident, some bit of urban drama—street theater was his term for it—before getting back on the bike and pedaling on.
That night, he had dinner at the Tribeca loft Audrey shared with Gwen and Gwen’s three kids. While both of them were lawyers, when it came to earning power, they were
at opposite ends of the spectrum. Audrey counseled rape victims, and it seemed like half her work was pro bono; Gwen had made partner in a white-shoe firm on Park Avenue. It was Gwen’s money that paid for the high-gloss loft on North Moore Street, with its seeming acres of highly polished wooden floors across which the kids ran, cartwheeled, and in the case of one of them, skateboarded.
“Dylan! Put that thing away before I take it away,” Gwen scolded.
Dylan, an impish child with a halo of blond curls and pale blue eyes, said, “Okay, Mom,” and then proceeded to skate down a long hall, out of his mother’s range. Not that she would have noticed. Three kids were quite a handful, and dinner was an unruly, noisy affair. Gwen had ordered in—“I hope you like Japanese,” she said—and somehow, amid the giggles, tossed napkins, and spilled juice, the food managed to make it to the table and everyone did eat. After they finished dessert—a store-bought, elaborate tiramisu for the adults, cannoli for the kids—the youngest of them, Emma, decided she liked Evan and climbed into his lap.
“Would you read me a story?” she said. “Please?”
“Sure,” he said, shifting to accommodate her weight. She was as golden and curly haired as her brother, but her eyes were a darker, more somber shade of blue.
“You don’t have to do that,” Gwen said. “She can go play with her brothers.”
“No, I want to,” said Evan. He looked at Emma. “What story would you like?” She produced a book that seemed to be mostly about fairies and unicorns; pink and sparkles were the operative design elements. While he read, she relaxed against him and began to suck her thumb; when he finished—the fairies and the unicorns had retired to some magical, fairy-and-unicorn never-never land—she took her thumb out of her mouth and said simply, “Again.” So Evan read it again, and then a third time. She was asleep before the fairies made their final flight home; Gwen came to lift her from his lap and take her to bed.
Audrey flopped down on the couch beside him; it was long, streamlined, and white, which seemed like a puzzling choice for a three-kid household, but it looked pristine, as if it had just been delivered from some very high-end showroom.
Audrey had told him Gwen had a housekeeper in several times a week and that no one was allowed to eat on it—ever.
“Thanks for being so sweet with her.”
“She’s adorable,” he said. “A real doll.”
“I can tell you miss that baby,” said Audrey.
“I do, actually.” His smile was slow and rueful. “Who’d have thought, right? I mean me, wanting a kid so much?”
Audrey leaned over to touch his cheek. “It’ll happen for you, Ev,” she said. “You wait and see. If not with Miranda, then with someone else.”
“I don’t want it to be with someone else; I think I love her.” He had not actually said this out loud, and once he did, it seemed indisputably true.
“And does she think she loves you?”
When Evan did not reply, Audrey sighed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.
“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” she said. “Is that so bad?”
“There’s always a chance of getting hurt,” he said. “No matter how it plays out.”
“You seem more prone to it than most. Heart on your sleeve and all that.”
“I like keeping it handy,” he quipped. “You never know when you’ll need it.”
* * *
When Evan got home, he was restless and unable to wind down, so he settled in with his laptop. Audrey and Gwen had sent him off with a cannoli-filled bag, and he absentmindedly chewed on one as he continued his Google search, this time back through archives from the Asheville local newspapers. He stopped when he got to the wedding announcement for one Geneva Highsmith; Geneva was not what you would call a common name. The groom’s name was Preston Bales.
Okay, Bales he got. But what was it about the name Highsmith? He felt like he’d heard it before. As he continued to sift through the newspaper archives, looking for additional references, it hit him. Highsmith was the last name of the woman who had drowned—the woman who was Celeste’s biological mother. Miranda had learned a little about her when Jared Masters first came on the scene. Was it just some crazy coincidence, or was there a connection between Geneva Bales—Geneva Highsmith Bales—and the woman who had died?
Fueled by his desire to find out, Evan kept looking. The papers yielded nothing more, but then he found an entry for a country club in North Carolina. The country club had a newsletter, and some patient, devoted club member had digitized all the old issues going back to 1952. He checked the date of the wedding announcement again and then went back to the issues that corresponded. Bingo. There, on page seven, was a wedding photograph of Geneva Highsmith and Preston Bales, each flanked by family members. To Geneva’s left was Eloise Highsmith—Geneva’s mother. And next to her was a slender, delicate-looking figure in an ice blue dress that seemed way too big on her. Her straight blond hair hung down past her shoulders. Caroline Alexa Highsmith. This twig of a girl was Geneva’s sister—and Celeste’s mother.
Evan stared at the screen. There it was, irrefutable proof of the connection between Geneva, Caroline, and the abandoned baby. Is this why Geneva had contacted Miranda in the first place? Did she know all along that the baby was her niece? Although it was after one a.m., he knew he would not be able to sleep until he got to the bottom of this, so he went into the kitchen to make himself coffee. He brought the steaming mug back to the computer and settled in. Then he began a new search—Geneva Highsmith—and felt a small, electric jolt when the results began to load.
* * *
Miranda was surprised to hear from Evan early Sunday morning. He said he had something important to tell her. He couldn’t do it over the phone, and it couldn’t wait. He needed to see her immediately.
“All right, then,” she said. “Just come over now.” She decided to make a batch of scones for him. They were his favorite.
He seemed agitated when he arrived, and he didn’t even react to the aroma wafting from the oven. Instead he reached into his backpack and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “It’s Geneva Bales,” he said. “Geneva Highsmith Bales. I found out who she is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Highsmith, don’t you remember? Celeste’s—I mean Lily’s—mother was Caroline Highsmith, and Geneva is her older sister. Which means that Geneva is the baby’s aunt.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I didn’t at first either. But I did a complete search and I found everything—all the documentation.” He thrust the papers at her. “Here. Read for yourself.”
Miranda’s eyes traveled over what Evan had given her: printouts of newspaper clippings, photos, and a wedding announcement. She looked up at Evan. “Can it be true?”
“I know it is,” he said. “But here’s what I don’t know. Was she aware of the connection? And if she was aware, how the hell did she ever figure it out?”
Miranda spent several seconds staring at the photograph. Yes, that was Geneva; she could recognize her easily. Her hair was even styled the same way, though she wasn’t wearing a headband. Finally, she looked up at Evan. “Why did she come after me to do that story? And what did she want from me?” But of course Evan had no answer for that.
EIGHTEEN
Jared sat at his office desk, straightening the already-straightened piles of papers, relocating his stapler and tape dispenser. The pencils in the pencil holder seemed a little dull; maybe he’d even sharpen a few before he left. And how about some filing? There was always something that needed to be filed, wasn’t there? But he did neither of these things and instead sat there, hands open and still on the orderly surface.
He knew it was time to go home, but Jared was procrastinating. Tonight, he was the last one here; even Athena had gone, and the evening sky, glimpsed through the wide wind
ows on the office’s far wall, was turning lilac as it darkened. He’d called Supah to tell her he was going to be late, but still, this was really pushing it. He’d better leave—now.
Fortunately, the heat had abated a little bit and his walk home was not so bad. It had been years since Jared had been in the city in August for such a long, unbroken stretch. He’d always managed to get away—to the Hamptons, of course, but also to the Cape or the Vineyard, where some of his prep school and college friends had places. But this year he’d canceled his plans because he thought the disruption—new surroundings, new babysitters—might not be good for Lily. Now that he was stuck here in the dog days, though, he was regretting his decision. He felt trapped and resentful.
* * *
Back at his apartment, he was relieved to find that Supah had already put Lily to bed. Having to deal with the baby as soon as he walked through the door could be stressful. Sometimes she was cranky, or she needed to be changed. Once, she’d thrown up on a really expensive Hermès tie; the stain had not come out.
“Thanks for staying,” he said as Supah slung her bag over her shoulder.
“You welcome.” She had her hand on the doorknob. “I take Lily to the sprinkler today. She no like.”
“No?” Jared was surprised; didn’t kids love sprinklers? He sure had when he was little.
“Water get in face. She cry.”
“Okay, no sprinklers, then.” Jared reached for his wallet. Usually he paid Supah on Friday, but tonight he slipped her a twenty. “Thanks. I know I’ve been keeping you a lot lately.” She looked down at the crisp bill, surprised but clearly pleased too. Then she said good night and left.
Jared tiptoed in to peek at Lily. Asleep, though who knew for how long? She was teething now, and the pain would wake her—and therefore him—suddenly and jarringly. Those teething screams were something else. Just anticipating the next few hours, he poured himself a glass of wine. He remembered how he’d been afraid to have so much as a sip of the grape that first night; by now he’d realized that a little booze helped take the edge off, and, man, did he ever need that. He wished he could have a cigarette too, but he’d given up smoking—at least at home, and where else could you smoke these days?—in deference to Lily’s little lungs.
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