“How did you sell a six-month spiritual retreat to Alec?”
“Alec always knew I had a spiritual life—I spent a month in Tibet right after we met. I told him we were both about to start a new life, and I wanted to cleanse myself before I went to the altar. He would do anything to make me happy. Besides, Alec has his own life. A villa in Florence, his family castle in Greece, and compounds in Mexico and Buenos Aires. He wrote me a few sad letters, but I think my absence only made him more desperate to have me.”
“He never knew you were pregnant?”
“No one in America did,” Maitlin said. “Except Rachel.”
Of course. I reminded myself never to turn my back on that shark.
“Nandi was such an easy baby.” Her voice grew soft, as if she were talking to her daughter.
My throat was burning. I poured from the crystal water pitcher on the table, with thinly sliced oranges perfectly arranged across the ice cubes. I needed a drink to hear the rest, and water would have to do.
Maitlin went on: “I’d met Bessie in Cape Town, at a publicity event while we were shooting Vintner. She had a lovely orphanage—I couldn’t forget it. All it needed was some sprucing up. More money for staff. And I thought . . .”
“Why not adopt your own baby?” I finished, when she didn’t.
“It sounds . . . ,” Maitlin began, but stopped again. Maybe she’d never heard the words aloud. “An actress named Loretta Young did it in the 1930s. She was pregnant with Clark Gable’s illegitimate child, and her contract with her studio had a morals clause. She fled to Europe with her mother, and later ended up adopting her own child. Rachel told me that story once. So many of my friends were adopting . . . and I saw an answer. Even Alec liked the idea of adopting a child—we talked about it. I could be Nandi’s mother, but without the shame of an affair. Why should she begin her life under such a cloud? I pledged my heart to Nandi under the moon and left her in the care of people I trusted. People I researched.”
Mama Bessie’s days in the orphanage business were about to end, I guessed. I wondered where her children would land after all of the dust settled. Children like Oliver.
“What about Zukisa?” I said.
“No!” Maitlin said, raising a trembling finger. “She has no ties to Children First. We met her independently, during a nationwide search for a nanny. She still doesn’t know. I’m sure of it.”
If that was true, Zukisa might be the closest thing Nandi would ever have to a mother.
“Why South Africa?” I said.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I trusted only Bessie—that woman was making miracles happen on a daily basis, and she needed resources. I gave her a large contribution, and every penny went to the children and that facility. And she took care of Nandi. You saw Children First—it’s impeccably run. I knew my baby would be safe there. Bessie worked with Rachel to fast-track my application. I visited Cape Town whenever I could, and they smuggled her out to the hotel for visits. It was months, but it felt like a lifetime. I lost twenty pounds from the stress. That day you came was my first visit to the orphanage since Nandi was there. We thought it was time to go public.”
“How did Paki find out?”
“I don’t know,” Maitlin said. “From the photos? She looks so much like him. Or, maybe someone from Children First overheard something and told him. Bessie’s had leaks before—that’s why the crowd was waiting for us. He never told me how he found out.”
“Did he try to blackmail you?”
“It wasn’t like that . . . at first,” Maitlin said. “When he contacted me, he was hurt. Angry. He had feelings for me. That was one of the reasons I stopped seeing him, at the end. He had a fantasy of us together, and he got nasty when I told him I was marrying Alec. He said I should bring him to America to help raise his daughter. I didn’t want him within a thousand miles, but he insisted. It came through my lawyers, so I was terrified Alec would find out the truth. But Paki never put it in writing, never said we had a secret. I didn’t want to fight with Paki, but I couldn’t give up on Nandi. Fame and money have certain privileges. My lawyers had connections in the State Department who fast-tracked a work visa. Alec never knew the rest. Everyone was happy. I thought it was over.”
Maitlin looked exhausted. She drained her glass and stared at the pool again. Her hand was shaking. She didn’t try to hide it.
“Did you know that Paki was involved with Kingdom of Heaven?” I said.
I couldn’t help trying to make my voice gentler.
Maitlin shook her head, resolute. “Absolutely not. I’d never heard of them. I still can’t believe it. Maybe he knew someone at the winery in South Africa, if they’re connected. A friend? Maybe he told the wrong person, and got swept up into something. He would never hurt Nandi. I’m sure of that.”
I could have told Maitlin that Paki saved Nandi’s life in the vineyard—and mine—but neither of them deserved the grace.
“You didn’t know about the plan to kidnap Nandi?” I said.
“Of course not!” Maitlin said, losing her battle against her sobs.
“But you had suspicions about Paki,” I said. “And you didn’t want to call the FBI.”
“They said they would kill her,” Maitlin said, spraying a whisper through gritted teeth.
“Yes. And once the FBI started sniffing around Paki, your secret would come out.”
That was the plain truth of it. That was why Roman was dead. Why Nandi and I had almost died together in the vineyard. Maitlin had been afraid Paki would say too much. Paki bore responsibility for the kidnapping, but Maitlin’s lie had opened the door.
From the agony on her face, Maitlin had never heard the sound of the truth spoken aloud. She looked breathless, gazing at me with something like wonder. Slowly, she shook her head. “I just didn’t think he could . . .”
“. . . lie as well as you?” I finished for her.
“I love Nandi!” Maitlin’s eyes spilled tears. “You don’t know how much.”
I was tired of standing on my crutches in the sun, and tired of talking to Maitlin. My slashed arms ached from holding myself upright.
“Who told you about me and Paki?” Maitlin said. “The FBI?”
“You just did,” I said. “I had a suspicion. Like everyone says, she has your smile.”
“What now?” she said, suddenly shrunken.
“It’ll leak. Paki’s probably already talking. Billionaires have a lot of friends, and people who want to be friends. He’ll hear the truth. I thought you might want a last opportunity to tell him yourself. You owe him that dignity, at least. But you better hurry.”
I watched her eyes glass over. Somewhere deep in there, she was trying to find a way to spin this, to make it work for her. Then her face went blank, porcelain. The momentary glimpse into the real woman was gone.
Maitlin smoothed hair away from her forehead, the only strands out of place.
“Well, Mr. Hardwick, I’m sure my lawyers will settle any outstanding matters with you. I’m very tired,” she said, standing. “And I hope you’ll understand if I need to be with my family.”
“Indeed you do,” I said. “I just wish I’d had a better home to bring Nandi to.”
Sofia Maitlin smiled, her eyes dancing with madness. It was quite a performance. I wondered if even she knew when she was acting anymore.
I wondered what child protective services would make of a mother like Maitlin when the social workers came to take a much closer look at Nandi’s life. But Maitlin had money, and money could make problems go away. As they say, we can’t choose the people we’re born to.
“Maitlin,” I said. “We’ve been through enough for me to tell you the truth.”
“Yes, please.”
“I hope they take her from you,” I said. “I hope they give Nandi to Zukisa.”
Her eyes watered, but the rest of her face never changed.
I turned around to limp back toward the house and the waiting cab.
Nand
i was still shrieking and laughing somewhere inside the palatial house when I returned, and Zukisa was laughing with her. Nandi’s voice was so tiny, she sounded like she could fit in the palm of my hand.
What would Zukisa do after she heard the news about Maitlin? Would she quit, or weather the storm for Nandi’s sake?
At least Nandi will be rich enough to afford therapy, I thought.
At the front door, I paused to savor the echoes of joy one last time.
Nandi’s laughter healed my face enough to smile.
THIRTY-ONE
THREE MONTHS LATER
The Good Earth in Studio City throws down a great Oriental chicken salad, so I ate there whenever I worked my new gig at CBS. Work was only two or three days a week, but my face was popping up on The Young and the Restless. It was good to be back on TV.
I remember when a soap actor could be set for life. Now the soaps were struggling—even The Guiding Light got canceled. But I would have steady work for at least two months. Len had advised me against taking the job, but I felt lucky to get it.
Lenox Avenue had finally wrapped—Spike said he liked me better with the scar—but the release date was half a year away. At least. I wasn’t a movie star yet.
Hollywood is all about waiting. If you don’t stay busy, you lose your mind. For a change, my mind wasn’t on work. I was consumed with my home.
I’d found Nandi, but I couldn’t find Chela’s birth mother.
I’d made hundreds of telephone calls and two weekend trips to Minnesota in a month, and I’d mostly gone in a circle between rehab centers, hospitals, jails, and drug dens that always took me back to I don’t know. Chela had given me permission to let it go, but I couldn’t live with failing her. Maybe we store up feelings in one place, and that’s where mine were. I’d become obsessed with finding Patrice Sheryl McLawhorn, and I was running out of time.
That day, I was supposed to be memorizing lines, but I had my search notes spread across the table, trying to decide where to look next. The trail was paper thin, but it seemed to be leading to Canada. I was ready to go wherever I had to.
Someone sat down across from me in my booth.
I didn’t have to look up. Her coconut oil scent said it all.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know you,” I said to the woman across from me.
“Are you sure?” said the woman I’d called Marsha.
Her hair was cut in a page boy, dyed red-brown instead of black, the color of dried rust. Her haircut changed everything about her face, making it sterner at some angles and softer at others, but her body was the same. White jeans could hardly contain her.
I’d been trying to decide how I felt about Marsha, too. I still wasn’t sure.
“You went to my high school. I’m sure about that part,” I said. She’d known about Mrs. Davis and the jokes I made in the cafeteria.
She nodded. “We walked past each other in the hall every day my junior year.”
“I went through yearbooks going back ten years,” I said. “Which one are you?”
“Marsha,” she said. “Let me be Marsha. Any other name I give you would be a lie, too.”
Her voice was soft, tentative. “I was the kid nobody noticed, Ten. You were a god, and you smiled at me for no reason one day. Maybe you just felt sorry for me, but I’ve had a crush on you ever since. So there—now you know my secret. It just wouldn’t be a good idea for you to know my name.”
My memory flashed me a glimpse of gold-rimmed eyeglasses. Nothing else.
Landing in bed with a woman I’d believed was an old high school friend had taken me back to the beginning of myself, for a while. I’d enjoyed the feeling. If I believed her, I could capture some of the feeling, at least. But believing was hard for me.
The nearest diners were far away, across a large room, so Marsha and I could talk.
“We almost died when you left,” I said, my voice low and even. “I could barely walk.”
“I was under orders,” she said. “After I called in, it was up to the FBI. The choppers were waiting in Atascadero, five minutes away.”
“If Paki could keep us alive that long.”
“Poetic justice, isn’t it?” she said.
In other words, Nandi and I had survived by chance. Like Marsha had told me once, she wasn’t good at apologizing. And I was crazy if I thought she’d come to offer me an explanation.
Marsha wanted something. And since she was already oiled up, I figured it was something big.
I ate when my salad arrived, refusing to let my reminiscences with Marsha kill my appetite. I asked the waitress to bring Marsha an iced tea, too.
Under the table, Marsha’s foot climbed my calf, toward my left thigh. Such an obvious tactic disappointed me, until I felt myself getting hard. I hadn’t had sex since the last time with Marsha, and my body recognized her touch. Every toe that ran across the bulge in my lap had its own caress. She nudged with her big toe, and ten of mine curled in response.
“You are a freak, I’ll say that,” I said. “And from me, that’s saying something.”
“I’m parked outside,” Marsha said. “I have a big backseat.”
“My father told me never to get in cars with strangers.”
Marsha smiled, as if my willpower made her proud. “You did good work out there, Ten. You impressed me. You impressed my . . . friends. You’re a natural.”
“Is this where you offer me a part in a movie?”
“Sure,” she said. “It’s only acting.”
The growing earnestness on her face made me laugh.
“I have a gig for you,” she said. “You’re the perfect person to save my ass.”
I stopped laughing. “You’ve got nerve asking me for anything, lady.”
Marsha looked at me with amnesia. “What do you mean?”
“You piggybacked on my investigation to get closer to Kingdom of Heaven,” I said, just loudly enough for her to hear. “You compromised me and nearly got me killed. I was deprived of civil rights during an un-lawful interrogation and imprisonment—and the burgers were good, thanks, but not good enough. What the hell makes you think I would work with you?”
“Nandi’s home, isn’t she?” Marsha said quietly.
We sounded like lovers having a spat. In a way, I guess we were.
“The end justifies the means?” I said. “I’ve heard that song before. The very worst offenses in the history of the world were justified like that.”
“That was one of the good days,” Marsha said. “There are stars on the wall at Langley—one for everybody who didn’t make it—and they’re a reminder that some days go bad. There are a lot of stars, Ten. I don’t take the good days for granted.”
If Marsha considered our day at the vineyard a good day, we had different definitions.
“I’ve got lines to memorize,” I said.
“I’ll tell you more,” Marsha said.
Curiosity killed the cat, I reminded myself. But I was already listening.
Marsha scooted beside me in the booth, pretending to sample my scallions. When she leaned against me, her skin draped me in body heat. “You’re not the only one who got in trouble. You rescued Nandi, so you made out better than I did at the vineyard. The meeting was interrupted before I could get what I needed. That vineyard in Paso was one end of a ball of yarn we’ve been unraveling for five years. Remember where we met? In Malibu?”
My mind flashed an image of her nakedness against the Pacific.
“Hard to forget that,” I said.
“I was surveilling a beach house. We’ve been there a year. The house belongs to a man named Fong, an arms dealer high in the Chinese organization. If I could have gotten the information there, my employers wouldn’t be on my ass.
“He has a young, beautiful wife. Raised in Hong Kong. Speaks perfect English. She’s a movie and television fan. I think you’d like each other. And while you were liking each other, you might be able to . . . plant a little listening device in the house.”
“You don’t have people who do things like that?”
“There are limits to resources, and license. For diplomatic and other reasons, we can’t do anything that might embarrass the State Department.”
“So it could only be done by someone you could leave high and dry.”
“Someone who would, of course, be very well paid for that risk.”
I had heard enough. “No thanks,” I said. “Been there, done that.”
Marsha whispered in my ear. “The husband might be working with terrorist cells to develop a smuggling network. An ear in the right place could save thousands of lives . . .”
Marsha’s voice trailed off as the waitress returned with her iced tea. I hadn’t realized that Marsha’s hand had wandered to my lap, barely concealed by the table. From the startled look on the waitress’s face, she’d seen more than she expected. She hurried away.
“Well paid.” Marsha squeezed my crotch. “Among other perks.”
“Not my line of work,” I said, gently moving her hand. I scooted a safe distance away, to the edge of the booth. “I’m not getting my balls shot off seducing some Chinese mastermind’s wife. Or locked up for breaking and entering, or worse, when you decide you don’t know me anymore.” I leaned forward. “I do not trust you. There is nothing in this world you could say to get me back into this madness.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel,” Marsha said. Then she pulled a manila folder out of her white leather bag. She rested it on the table, although she never let it go. The folder was marked with a single name typed on a label: PATRICE S. McLAWHORN.
Chela’s birth mother.
Marsha pulled out a full-color eight-by-ten photo. It was a surveillance photo from a grocery store parking lot, as clear as a studio’s. It was the same white woman I’d seen in Chela’s photo, with thirty more pounds and fifteen more years, her hair dyed red. She didn’t look like a junkie, dressed in a skirt and jacket she wore to an office. I couldn’t see Chela anywhere in her.
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