by Ann McMan
“I was highly motivated,” Julia explained.
Evan handed her a tumbler. “You look more comfortable.”
“I feel more comfortable. Why haven’t you taken your shoes off yet?”
“I was just getting around to that.”
“Let’s go sit down for a few minutes.” Julia led the way to the living room, where they took their customary places on the big sofa.”
“How long will you be gone?” Evan asked.
“Not long. Overnight maybe? I haven’t even packed a bag.”
“Overnight? Julia . . . you’re going to Paris, not Orlando.”
“I know that. My mother isn’t expecting me. I don’t imagine this will be a protracted visit.”
“So why right now? Why tonight?”
“Why not now? I see no reason to prolong this. It isn’t like more time will change the facts or make things less true.”
“But,” Evan argued, “you must be exhausted.”
“Sweetheart?” Julia rested her hand on Evan’s knee. “Make your peace with this. I’m going. Tonight. Besides . . . it isn’t like I’ll sleep if I stay at home.”
Evan covered Julia’s hand with her own. “Okay.”
“Is it okay? Really?”
Evan could tell that Julia needed for it to be okay—for both of their sakes. Evan could see that in her eyes.
“Yes.” She leaned toward Julia to kiss her. Julia met her halfway.
When they parted, Julia scooted closer and rested her head on Evan’s good shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Evan muttered into her hair. “Really.”
Chapter Eleven
Julia’s nonstop flight landed at Charles de Gualle Airport at 11 a.m. local time. She’d already arranged to have a private car pick her up outside the international terminal so she could drive directly to her mother’s Saint-Germain-des-Prés apartment in Paris as soon as she cleared customs.
Julia had been surprised to realize that she’d actually managed to sleep on her lie-flat seat. She supposed that she’d nodded off someplace over the mid-Atlantic, about two hours into the flight. She woke up when the plane began its initial descent into de Gaulle. She was still bone tired, but relieved she wouldn’t be a complete ghoul when she finally reached her mother’s home.
She deliberated about whether or not to call her mother when she landed. What if she’d traveled all this way and her mother was not at home? It had been a reckless impulse just to jet off and show up this way, but she was determined to carry through with the plan once she’d set her mind to it. Besides, Katherine Donne was a creature of habit, and Julia knew her habits. She wouldn’t be leaving the city until she traveled to Annecy to spend Christmas with Binkie and Albert.
After passing through customs without incident, Julia opted to compromise: she’d send her mother a text message to tell her she’d just arrived in Paris on business. Her mother would know the real reason for her sudden appearance soon enough.
When she exited the airport terminal and crossed over to the island where private cars were queued up, she spotted a placard bearing her name right away. The old-fashioned, hand-lettered sign stood out in stark contrast to the sea of iPads other drivers were displaying. For some reason, she found that comforting. It was a folksier and more genuine welcome than she could ever imagine getting from her mother.
The driver snapped to attention as she approached.
“Miss Donne?” he asked in nearly unaccented English.
“Yes. Thank you for your promptness.”
He looked dismayed. “Your luggage?”
“No,” Julia tried to dispel his concern. “C’est bien. I don’t have any.”
He appeared confused.
“I keep things at the apartment in Paris,” she stated. “J’ai d’autres choses.”
“Oui, Madame.” He opened the car door on his Peugeot sedan for her. “Of course.”
Julia settled into the luxurious backseat for the ride into Paris. With good luck and no traffic jams, they should make it to the 6th Arrondissement in about forty-five minutes.
She withdrew her quad-band travel phone from her bag so she could message her mother. Once her phone successfully connected, she received a barrage of alert tones informing her that she had new messages. Several of them were from Evan.
This absurdly large bed is pretty empty without you.
Julia smiled. That was followed by four more messages, sent at different times during the night. Apparently, Evan had spent some time awake, too.
I don’t suppose you have any frozen waffles in this joint?
Hey there. You should be landing soon. I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you let me know how you’re doing? Just whenever you can? You know I’ll worry. It’s a thing.
One other thing. I know it doesn’t feel like it from your vantage point right now, but I promise everything will get better. I promise. We’ll survive this.
Oh. Forgot to add I love you.
Julia sat holding her phone with what she knew was a ridiculous smile on her face.
Evan was right. They would survive it all—and not just because they loved and supported each other, although that reality certainly sweetened the odds and made the inevitability of the process a lot more enjoyable. But it was more than that. They survived because surviving was what their species was programmed to do. It was how they were made—to keep going against any kind of odds or any set of obstacles thrown up in their paths by hostile environments. They’d keep going and persevering until old age, disease, or a stronger predator finally took them.
Yes. She would survive this. She knew that. What she didn’t know was what shape that path to survival would take, or where it might lead her.
She wrote a quick message back to Evan.
Landed at 11 local time. Now in the car, headed for Paris. I’ll take you out for waffles when I get home. I love you, too.
Before putting her phone away, she sent a second message—to her mother, this time—announcing her arrival and ETA. After that, she spent the remainder of this final leg of her journey watching the scenery along the A3 slowly dissolve into the outskirts of Paris.
◊ ◊ ◊
By the time Evan got back to Chadds Ford on Tuesday morning, Stevie was all packed and ready for her stay with Dan and Kayla.
Evan was sad that she’d be gone for the next few days, but brightened up when she realized that Stevie had left a hefty portion of her cookies behind.
“What’d we do to earn these?” Evan asked.
“I felt bad about interrupting your reindeer games the other night. I figured you and Julia could make good use of them while you have the house to yourselves.”
“Okay . . . that’s just kind of creepy.”
“You think having sex with Julia is creepy?” Stevie asked.
“No. I think talking about it with you is creepy.”
Stevie huffed. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
“Trust me. I know exactly when you were born. If you’ll recall, I was there.”
Stevie made a capital W with three fingers on her right hand. “What-ever.”
“I see you’ve learned the alphabet. It’s good to know those tuition payments are being put to good use.”
“Very funny, Mama Uno. Oh,” she seemed to remember something. “Tim called. He left a message for you on the house phone.”
“You didn’t talk with him?”
“No. I was on the phone with Des, and didn’t get to it in time.”
“Okay,” Evan said. “What time is your Dad getting here to pick you up?”
“He said around 3:30.”
“I need a few minutes to talk with him when he gets here. Privately.”
“You’re not gonna make him throw a rod again, are you?” Stevie asked.
“I promise I’ll try to behave.”
“Cool.” Stevie shifted gears. “Did you two have fun on your date last night? What’d Julia say about your outfit?”
“I
think it was a hit,” Evan said. “I gave you all the credit.”
“I’d be flattered if I didn’t know that you’d also give me all the credit if she said you looked like a dork.”
“True. But then, Julia would never say that.”
“Is she coming over here tonight?” Stevie asked expectantly. “So you can have your uninterrupted sex romp?”
“You don’t really expect me to answer a question like that, do you?”
“No.” Stevie sulked. “But I keep hoping.”
“Well, the answer is no, just the same. Julia had to take a last-minute business trip. She’ll be gone for a day or two.”
Evan didn’t see any reason to fill Stevie in on the reason for Julia’s sudden trip to Paris. It probably wouldn’t remain a secret for long, so she wanted to give Julia as much space and time as possible to figure things out. That went for her report to Dan, as well. She’d already opted to omit any details about Lewis Donne and his “charitable” trust. She’d share that information with Dan verbally, but not include it in her written report. He might balk at that, but Evan was determined to remain firm about her reasons for withholding it. Donne might’ve been involved with Cawley and Bishop Szymanski in what appeared to be an institutionalized pedophilia scheme. But even if that proved to be the case, Cawley’s own sins would be sufficient to sink his nomination. However incriminating what Evan now suspected about Lewis Donne was, it remained uncorroborated. As of today, there was a lot of smoke—but no smoking gun.
At least, not yet . . .
Stevie disappeared to finish up her load of laundry, so Evan took advantage of the quiet to start compiling what she had for Dan. She knew he’d bitch about wanting the written report from her ASAP.
When she sat down at her desk, she listened to the voicemail message on the house phone from Tim.
“Hey, Evan. I had a pretty shocking conversation yesterday with a guy named Mark Atwood. We were teammates at St. Rita’s. He now runs a bar in the Gayborhood and he was very open about Father Szymanski. He pretty much confirmed what we already knew. It sounds like there were more members at that private club involved than we realized. He also said some exotic woman approached him a couple weeks ago with a big cash offer to keep quiet—just like Joey. He didn’t take it because he’s already decided he’s not coming forward with anything about what happened to him. He didn’t name any names, either. But I think it’s possible your guy was involved with what happened to him and the other kids from the team. I know you’ll want to talk more about this. So, give me a call when you can, okay? We’ll figure something out.”
Damn it. What the hell was Tim doing still going around talking to these guys?
She dialed his number back. It rang four times before rolling to his voicemail.
Shit. Phone tag . . . She’d have to settle for leaving him a message.
“Hey, Tim,” she said to his machine. “It’s me. I got your message. Why don’t we meet for dinner tonight? Julia is out of town and Stevie is headed to Dan’s for a few days, so I’m on my own. How about I come by the church and pick you up around six or so? We can grab something to eat and you can fill me in. Maybe I’ll even take you out to that bourbon bar after dinner? That’s if you can promise me you’ll quit playing amateur detective. Call me back if this doesn’t work for you; otherwise I’ll see you at six.”
She hung up and started outlining the information she had for Dan. The more she worked on compiling it, the more surreal the whole scenario seemed.
This is going to read like the plot of a Wes Craven movie.
She’d asked Ping to organize the information she’d gleaned from their raid of the PAC attorney’s office and transmit it to her in electronic form. That material hadn’t arrived yet, but Ping knew Evan was under the gun to turn everything over to Dan today or tomorrow, so she expected to get a Signal message from her with the attachments at any time.
Her cell phone beeped. She picked it up.
“New Signal message from Moxie.”
Great. Can’t wait to read this . . .
Hello, dear Evan. How lovely it was to see you and the sainted Julia last night. I suppose, since we’ve had the big reveal, there isn’t much reason for me to keep my identity concealed any longer. My reasons for tarrying in your province (as you so charmingly called it) are all but concluded anyway, so I’ll be moving along to greener pastures very soon. One last item of business I have to resolve does, coincidentally, touch upon something that concerns you. Your bumbling friend, “Father Dowling,” does seem to have a propensity to stick his nose into areas it does not belong. A word of caution regarding this: if he persists, it will end badly for him. I can assure you that I am not the only party distressed by his recent conduct. I, however, am only peripherally involved and have neither the time nor the inclination to school him about his continued interference. Alas—I cannot say the same for others who may be less well tempered. I am sure you take my meaning. Please do give my warmest regards to the lovely Julia. It’s gratifying to see that she has achieved a modicum of constancy where you are concerned. Brava for that accomplishment. Enjoy it while it lasts.
–Affectionately, M.
Sonofabitch . . .
How could she have been stupid enough not to make this damn connection with Moxie from the outset? Even in those fleeting moments when she flirted with the idea, she’d dismissed it as impossible.
So why was Maya Jindal involved in this, and who the hell was she working for?
Marcus? Possibly.
But Dan denied that Marcus had any role in the Cawley matter.
And what had Maya been doing at the Galileo Club last night?
Evan wasn’t naive enough to think it had been an accident. Maya didn’t operate that way.
And now she was warning Evan that Tim was in the crosshairs. From whom? She said it wasn’t from her—or her client. But somebody had tipped her off that Tim was in danger.
She found it hard to believe that Maya would be working to protect anyone. That wasn’t her métier.
Tim said that Mark Atwood told him an “exotic” woman had tried to buy his silence—just like Joey Mazzetta. Well, “exotic” could be stamped on Maya Jindal’s damn calling cards.
What a perfect cluster.She had no idea how to parse all of this out.
But she knew one thing for sure: she needed to rein Tim in, and fast.
She picked up the phone and called his number again. Same deal. Four rings. Voicemail.
“Tim? It’s Evan. If you’re there, pick up.” She waited a few beats. “Listen. I really need to talk with you. Call me back ASAP about tonight. And don’t make any other plans, okay? I’ll see you at six.”
She hung up.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She was tempted to grab her keys and head back into the city right now. She could catch up with Dan later. That prospect evaporated when she heard the nagging rumble and drag of Dan’s Chrysler, groaning its way up her gravel driveway.
“Dad’s here!” Stevie yelled.
Great, Evan thought. A nice little ass-ripping is just what I need right now.
She got up to meet him at the door.
◊ ◊ ◊
Julia’s mother was anything but cordial when she opened the door to her extravagant Left Bank digs and saw her haggard-looking daughter standing there.
“Where are your bags?” her mother demanded.
“It’s wonderful to see you, too, Mother. May I come inside?”
Her mother stepped back to allow Julia to enter. Julia was impressed by how unchanged the apartment was. She hadn’t been there in more than two years, not since before Andy’s murder. Her parents had flown to the States to attend the private funeral service for Andy in Delaware. They stayed on in Philadelphia at the Delancey Place townhouse for several days, but Julia saw very little of them. If they minded, they didn’t bother to express it. She now assumed that her father had used the trip back as an excuse to renew acquaintance at his club.
&
nbsp; The thought sickened her.
That visit had been the last time Julia would see her father before his death, seven months later.
Her mother was now striding about the room in a clear display of agitation, absently straightening things that didn’t require adjustment. Julia had noticed when she arrived that her mother appeared to be dressed for going out—impeccably attired, as was her custom. That wasn’t uncommon. She doubted that Katherine Donne took any meals in her apartment, although its kitchen was impressively equipped with every culinary requisite.
Evan would love it. Even though it had a dearth of cast-iron pots.
Katherine Hires Donne was the author of Julia’s disdain for unrefined cookware.
“I fail to see why it was impossible for you to let me know your plans.” Her mother continued to catalog her expressions of umbrage. “I could have been away overnight. As it is, I’m already committed for the evening.” She slammed the lid of an ornate cigarette case shut with so much energy, it made the water inside a crystal vase full of white Peruvian lilies pitch and roll in protest.
Apparently, everyone in France still smoked.
“I apologize for that, Mother.” Julia dropped into a chair without waiting to be invited to sit.
“Just showing up like this is most inconsiderate of you, Julia. And your appearance is frightful. You look so . . . unkempt.”
“Mother, I just spent eight hours on an airplane and another three quarters of an hour in a car getting here. Do you think it’s possible we might try and at least feign civility for a few minutes before lapsing into recriminations and discussions of appropriate fashion?”
Her mother glared at her for a few moments before sitting down on a love seat that sat opposite Julia’s chair.
“What do you want from me?”
It was an odd question, considering the reason behind Julia’s visit—an almost prescient one. At least her mother’s voice was . . . not exactly kinder, but lacking its initial tone of haughtiness.
“I need to talk with you,” Julia said, simply.
“You flew over here in the middle of the night—without telling me you were coming—because you wanted to talk with me?” Her mother plucked at a nonexistent speck of lint on the empty cushion beside her. “I have a telephone. You sent me a message not thirty minutes ago, so I am able to deduce that you still know the number.”
