Hope House

by Tracy L Carbone

  Inside her walk-in closet, Gloria scanned the shelves and racks. Business clothes, and jeans for casual Fridays. A couple of fun outfits for nights out with the girls. That snazzy little black crepe dress she’d worn too many times to formal functions. But nothing sexy to wear around the house.

  She dug through her drawers. Slips. They would almost substitute for lingerie, but no. It was too cold to wear those without an accompanying satin robe, which she didn’t own. Been lonely too long. Words from a song wafted through her mind.

  She finally decided on jeans and a gray sports bra with a black tank top over it. Goosebumps covered her arms and despite rubbing, they weren’t budging. February in Massachusetts wasn’t tank top weather no matter how cute she looked. Oh hell. She had casual blazers but for around the house, first thing in the morning? She had three baggy hooded sweatshirts. Warm for sure but they were just more comfy clothes to wear in the house alone. Not very attractive but she was freezing.

  “What are you doing in there?” Kurt called to her.

  “Just throwing some clothes on.”

  She reached for a zip-up hooded light blue sweatshirt. No need for him to see her bumpy arms.

  “You look cute.” He yawned and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Thanks. So do you.” Why was it men could just roll out of bed, throw on last night’s boxer briefs, and look adorable?

  “Mind if I take a shower?”

  “Of course not. Want me to throw your clothes in the wash?”

  “I can do it.”

  “No that’s okay. Let me have all your stuff and I’ll wash it. Then you’ll be good to go for a few more days.” Kurt had a duffle bag of clothes, and he’d told her he always had a few changes of clothes because in his line of work he had to be “prepared for every eventuality.” Unlike him, Gloria hadn’t been prepared and had been in the same clothes for two days. She wondered when she could ever get her stuff back from Kurt’s apartment in Miami. At least now she was showered and fresh. Wherever they were going next, she was packing for every contingency.

  “I’ll do my laundry after I shower. I feel kind of funny having you handle my underwear.”

  Gloria raised an eyebrow. “I handled what was in the underwear and you had no problem with that. Come on, hand them over.” She put out her hand.

  He took them off and gave her the shorts. “Will you handle what was in my underwear later?”

  “You know it. But for now I’ll just do laundry and go make us some breakfast.”

  He got in the shower and Gloria loaded the washer. She’d wait until he was out before turning the machine on. Much as he might need a cold shower right now, robbing him of hot water as the washer filled would be cruel.

  On the way downstairs to the kitchen she paused at the door to her office. She didn’t want to go in there. The ultrasound picture was tucked in the file drawer. It had been a year since she’d looked at it. Every February 10th she looked at the picture. She knew it was a self-destructive ritual but on her due date annually she opened the drawer, took out the ultrasound picture and cried. That today was February 11th, merely a day from her yearly meltdown, was just a sick coincidence.

  Today wasn’t about sadness though. Today was about closure. Or the path to it at least. She pushed the door open, stepped inside, and went to the desk. As she opened the drawer, she sighed. The brown envelope peeked at her from the hanging green folder. She pulled it out and opened it. There she was.

  A glob of gray with fingers and toes, and a bowling ball head with a gumdrop for a nose. She sat on the floor and stared at the picture. Tears sprung to her eyes.

  Maybe it would have been easier to accept her daughter’s death if she could have had another child. It wouldn’t have replaced the baby, but it would have eased the hollowness.

  “You okay?”

  She wiped her eyes and looked up to find Kurt—standing beside her in a towel, body still glistening wet. “The ultrasound—” She sniffed and handed it to him. “I-I always get a little torn up when I look at it.”

  “I should expect you would.” He studied the photo. “Age of fetus is sixteen weeks, just like you said.” He counted on his fingers. “Dated six weeks before your miscarriage. It proves they’re lying.”

  “So we can add tampering with medical records to the list.”

  He nodded. “Why don’t you put that away now. Come on, let’s get something to eat. You must have a breakfast joint around here or something.”

  “I can make us something.”

  “I want to see your town. We’ve got a busy day but I’d like to see what you see every day. Your grocery store, the library, where you go for coffee . . .”

  She got up from the floor. “Part of your investigation?”

  He laughed and kissed her cheek. “I’ve only seen you in Miami running for your life, trying to defend your story, interacting with your scheming ex-husband. I’d like to see the other Gloria, the happy, relaxed one. I don’t know her yet but I want to. I want to know all about her.”

  More tears. God, I’m turning into such a sap.

  She pointed out the window. “In the warm weather, over there by the duck pond, sometimes I bring a blanket out and have a picnic. I feed the ducks and pick myself daisies from the meadow behind that building. You can’t see it from here.”

  “Daisies huh?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Nothing. Sounds like a great place to go.”

  “It is. I really love living here. With all the hours I work, coming home and going outside is my retreat. I know that’s silly. It’s just in my backyard but it’s my peaceful place.”

  Kurt hugged her. “Maybe in the spring I can go on a picnic with you out there.”

  He was sticking around. He’d be here in the warm weather. She hugged him back then wiped her eyes.

  He laughed. “I thought that would make you happy.”

  She laughed too, still dabbing at her eyes. “I am happy. This is how I show it.”

  “So how about breakfast? I’ve got one more change of clothes in my bag. I don’t want to trek through the snow to the duck pond in a towel.”

  She took his hand and led him down the hall. “I know the perfect place. It’s a bakery that has some amazing breakfasts. Just give me time to dry my hair and throw on some makeup, and then I’ll start the washer.”

  “You don’t need makeup. You’re beautiful.”

  “Maybe I don’t but it makes me feel better.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll wait in the living room—catch up on the news of the day.”

  She watched him walk down the hall. This guy was a keeper, she thought as she headed for the bathroom to spruce up. Maybe she didn’t know enough about him but she liked what she did know. How could a guy with this much character have done anything really bad? He couldn’t. It must have been some kind of mix up he couldn’t explain his way out of. A misunderstanding. Or maybe he hadn’t done anything and someone wanted to kill him for no good reason and he was just an innocent refugee.

  Unlikely or not, that’s what she was going with. Innocent refugee.

  Until he told her otherwise, that’s what wished to believe.

  “Innocent refugee with a damn cute butt,” she whispered at her reflection. She put on some lipstick, blush, and eye makeup plus a little concealer to mask her lack of sleep since she met Kurt.

  She smiled at herself as she did every morning. They were going to New York today to see another of the families from the files. She was grateful they were willing to see her and felt guilty feeding them the “I’m writing a book” line. But maybe this family would tell them something new. Something that would answer the questions once and for all, and perhaps it would be enough to take to the police. Then they could jump-start a formal investigation with the help of the District Attorney’s office.

  If not, Kurt said they were going to Maison D’Espoir. The last thing she wanted to do was go to Haiti. It wasn’t a safe country under the best of circums
tances; walking uninvited into a business there run by the Mafia was insane. What possible chance of success had they? What kind of fools were they?

  “But a girl has to do what a girl has to do,” she told her reflection. She opened the drawer of her vanity and grabbed a bottle of sunscreen. “Prepare for every eventuality.”

  2.

  New Age Adoption Agency, Miami, afternoon

  Mick carried the three-week-old infant girl toward the large conference room. She was the last of the batch in Miami. The rest were in Windy Key.

  He had already decided he’d wait until tomorrow to fly to New York to chase down those interlopers, Gloria and Kurt. That moron Tommy said Gloria was off track but Angela proved otherwise once she went through the files. There were five charts missing all told and Gloria and Kurt had already gone to see a family in Maine. New York was the next rational choice. The other three were on the West Coast. Angela made an appointment for Mick to meet with the Clarkson family late tomorrow morning. Hopefully he’d get there before Gloria did, before she could get information from them or poison their minds with her suspicions or convince others that her years’ long paranoia was justified after all.

  Mick planned to pack his weapon. The first chance he got he’d gun those two pains in the asses down.

  But not today. And not tonight.

  He wanted to be with his kids this evening. Wizard of Oz was on and Mick wanted to watch it, wanted to shut off the phones and just watch TV. He could just buy the movie but there was something special and nostalgic about watching a movie when it aired on TV and having to sit through commercials. Mick had a black and white TV in his room with a UHF and VHF dial and no cable hook up. He only got four stations but it made him happy to watch TV in there.

  Of course he also had a plasma TV in the room with digital cable and surround sound. No need to dwell in the past all the time.

  Anyway, he wasn’t up to the long round trip drive to Windy Key tomorrow and was in no mood to see his meddlesome mother and hear her blather on about her loneliness. She should be thanking her lucky stars that Daddy hadn’t killed her after she’d cheated with the old man’s best friend. But did she consider herself lucky? No way. She floated around that big house probably telling the infants how unfair it was that she was sequestered there on the island, not allowed to talk to anyone outside the family, not permitted to leave Windy Key. “Oh, I used to be so pretty,” she probably told them, “before he did this to me.”

  Yeah well, what goes around comes around, Mick thought. The baby moaned and he released his arms a little. “Sorry, cutie. Bad thoughts.” He kissed her forehead and opened the conference room door.

  The Milners were waiting at the table. A dumpy forty-two-year-old woman, with acne skin covered by too much blush, leapt up when he came in. She was too skinny but had on a nice outfit. Her husband, a stockbroker with a plum position on Wall Street, stood up too. Mick noticed Mr. Milner’s Rolex catch the light as the man extended his hand to shake.

  Mick required that the parents submit a statement of assets as part of the adoption process. He claimed this was so he knew the child would be taken care of. In truth it was so he knew how many extra medical expenses he could get away with. This couple paid for five straight months of bed rest plus extra surgical time to remove the woman’s spleen because it was damaged in the delivery. Plus the standard C-section of course. He always charged for that. It was rare one of Maison’s girls ever had a C-section but that was neither here nor there. Maison D’Espoir didn’t incur any extra costs. Tad got paid a flat rate no matter what procedure he must follow to get the babies out.

  Mick handed the baby to Mrs. Milner and shook the husband’s hand.

  “Oh, she’s just gorgeous!” the wife said.

  Of course she was. All the babies were. Bright eyes, creamy skin, shiny hair.

  “Look, Larry. Look how beautiful.”

  “She looks like you,” the husband told her.

  Right. In your dreams.

  “Well the little thing sure put up a fight to get into this world,” Mick said. “But thank God she’s none the worse for wear.”

  The husband opened his briefcase and took out an envelope. “I’m just glad the mother’s okay. Thank God she happened to get sick when she was so close to a birthing center. What are the chances?”

  Mick smiled. Yeah, what are the chances? All Mick could think about was how badly he wanted to close up shop and get home. He hadn’t had lunch yet and was getting a little cranky.

  “I just can’t believe how perfect she is,” Mrs. Milner said holding the tiny hand in her fingers.

  “She’s a good baby too. The foster mother,” meaning Nanny who bitched about having to watch all the babies in the basement, “said she already sleeps through the night.” Okay that wasn’t true but every parent he told this lie to was just thrilled by it. Honestly, what three-week-old really slept through the night? Why would you want them to? More than a few hours of silence from a baby that young would have Mick in a panic.

  But people wanted the fantasy. That’s what they paid for.

  “We can’t thank you enough,” Mr. Milner said.

  “My pleasure. Thank you for understanding about all the medical bills.”

  “Oh that’s all right. I can see how happy this little girl is going to make my wife. You can’t put a price tag on that—like they say in the ads—priceless!”

  “I sure understand that,” agreed Mick. “Look, I’m going to run down the hall and get some papers for you to sign. You’ve spoken with our lawyer about the next step of the process?”

  “Yes, we know what we need to do.”

  “Well then, let me get the documents.” Mick started to walk out but turned around. “And congratulations on the birth of your daughter and the beginning of your new family!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Milner were too absorbed in the baby to reply but that was all right. Besides money, the next most important thing was that the adoptive parents adore their children.

  Last year Mick had refused a couple because the husband looked cruel. He’d had to return the deposit but felt good about his decision. Something about the guy wasn’t right despite the Social Services clean bill of health. Just six months later the guy had killed his wife. Mick’s stomach went into knots whenever he thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t followed his instincts.

  Mick left the conference room trying to shrug off the bad memory.

  The Milners would be good parents. No need for worry there.

  Five babies down, five to go, he thought as he headed toward his office.

  3.

  New York City, late afternoon

  Kurt hailed a taxi to drive them to the Clarkson’s’ condo in Manhattan. He gave the driver the address, then he and Gloria got in.

  “The snow is really coming down,” Kurt said.

  “Yeah, well it’s February in New York. It’s been a pretty warm winter but it has to snow sometime.”

  “I guess.” Kurt cleared the fog off the windows. It had been years since he’d seen snow, years since his hands had been cold and his hair covered in flakes.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Kurt watched the snow falling on the city streets. He missed this. And the way he felt about Gloria gnawed at him. He hadn’t let himself feel in so long and now here he was, head over heels. He was probably deluding himself thinking that it could work, that he could live in this identity and be safe. Carrying on in the life of an itinerant housepainter or even a shady PI Skip Tracer was one thing. But living with, marrying even, a woman always in the public eye, meeting with authors and agents . . . All it would take was for a newspaper to snap his picture beside her, and the feds would be all over him. Gloria said she wasn’t nearly as social as he thought, but she had no idea how easily fugitives could be found once they started popping up in public.

  “Stop thinking so much,” Gloria said as she reached for his hand. “Let’s just worry about meeting the Clarksons fo
r right now okay? We’ll worry about us later.”

  He smirked. She already knew him too well.

  A few minutes later they pulled up to a huge gray granite building. Kurt paid the driver and they got out.

  “You ready?” he asked her.

  “Yeah.”

  A doorman ushered them to the front desk where an older man waited, poised. “And you’re here to see?”

  “Tanya and Henry Clarkson,” Gloria said.

  “Are they expecting you?”

  “Yes,” Kurt said. They were lucky that the two families they had chosen had the same addresses as when they’d completed their adoptions. The fact they were willing to see them on such short notice was another boon.

  The man made the call then told them to go to the twelfth floor. When they got off the elevator, a thin Charlize Theron look-a-like was standing down the hall with the door open. She waved and smiled. A little blond boy ran out of the apartment toward them. “Hi, I’m Henry Junior.” He reached out and shook Kurt’s hand.

  “Firm shake for a little guy,” Kurt said.

  “Cute kid. Really cute kid,” Gloria added her compliment.

  “Come on, I’ll show you my toys.” He took Gloria’s hand and led her to his house.

  When they approached the door, the woman extended her hand. “So nice to meet you. I’m Tanya Clarkson. I see Henry Junior has made his own introductions. He’s very social. I think he’ll be a politician someday.” She laughed. “Come on in.”

  The place was huge. High ceilings, hardwood, and granite everywhere. There was a black marble mantle around the gas fireplace, and black and white photographs in silver frames covered the walls, including a huge close up of Henry Jr. as an infant. Others of the two Henrys together, as individuals; a creepy close up of a Weimaraner . . . no pictures of Tanya so he guessed she was the photographer.

  Henry Clarkson, a lawyer who could “only give them a few minutes of his time because he had to prepare for a big case,” joined them in the living room. He was a skinny little balding guy with an air of superiority he probably didn’t merit, and a big chip on his shoulder. Typical Manhattan stuffed shirt asshole, thought Kurt.