I rest my chin on one hand, elbow on the armrest, watching bag-laden shoppers and camera-toting tourists swirl through the darkening afternoon. A woman in a sleekly tailored camel’s-hair coat throws her arm across a little girl’s shoulders—she’s about Penny’s age—bending briefly to kiss her hair. They’re wearing matching plaid mufflers and carrying glossy bright red shopping bags. A thirtysomething man in a tasseled ski cap and puffy black parka peeks at a tiny passenger in an expensive stroller, then pushes it across the white-striped crosswalk. How many of them might be renting a car someday? Driving blissfully along, husbands and wives and their children, unaware of the danger?
How many families will be on the road before we air our story?
Chapter Eight
T he glossy deep-brown front door opens with a twist of its old-fashioned wooden knob. Inside the warm vestibule another ornately carved door is latched tight. A harsh buzz sounds when I push the middle button on the ultra-modern electronic keypad.
Michael Borum’s condominium is one of three in a postwar brownstone in the South End. Post Spanish-American War. Built in boom times of a golden age, these elegant three-story buildings were battered and disdained through Boston’s turbulent 1960s. Now they’re the city’s most desirable housing: bohemian, artsy and urban. Borum’s place is right on the edge of safe, with aching poverty just a few blocks away. The Power House Garage is down the road in the other direction. Wonder if Michael takes his blue Mustang there. Wonder where he parks it. Maybe there’s a lot out back? I don’t see it on the street. Probably a sports-car thing.
No answer to my buzz. I know this is dicey territory. Close enough to noon on a Sunday morning not to be completely socially objectionable, but still pushing it.
Franklin left several messages for Michael Borum, but no reply. I called. No reply. Borum seems to be avoiding us. Of course he could be out of town. Or sick. Or dead. Since he’s incommunicado, there’s only one way to find out.
I push the buzzer again.
So it’s Sunday. We’re local television. We have no manners. Now I hear footsteps. And then the glass door flies open.
“It’s about time. If the damn newspaper is late once more, we’re going to cancel our subscription and call the publisher.”
If this is Michael Borum, he hasn’t bothered to add a shirt to his attire this cold January morning. Or maybe he’s waiting for the photographer from Bodybuilder Magazine to show up. His licorice-dark hair is slicked back, maybe from the shower. His drawstring sweatpants are fighting a losing battle with gravity. I calculate zero body fat. Wreathed around his remarkable biceps are intricately complicated monochromatic tattoos, spiky-leafed vines and ivy. One throbs dramatically as his fist-clenched tirade continues.
“This is the third Sunday that you guys have—”
“Mr. Borum?” I hold out both hands, empty, attempting to illustrate that I’m not here to provide newspapers. If he’s this angry over missing the Boston Globe, I wouldn’t want to be in his way when he’s angry about something big. Which means perhaps I should have continued to try to reach him on the phone.
“I’m, um, not from the Globe? Are you Michael Borum?”
“Yes, I’m Michael Borum.” He narrows his eyes at me, dark eyebrows knitting across his broad forehead, then moves forward. His brawn occupies the open front door, preventing me from seeing what’s inside.
“And you’re Charlie McNally. Channel 3. Why in hell are you hounding me? Have you television people lost your minds?”
A question I get more often than I care to admit. And one I still haven’t figured out exactly how to answer. I ignore it as politely as I can.
“Thanks so much for coming to the door, Mr. Borum.” I hold out a hand, smiling as if we’ve just been introduced. Old trick. If they agree to shake hands, in that moment they’ve relinquished their power.
Borum’s glance is withering. One of his hands stays clamped onto the doorjamb, the other on his hip.
“Thanks so much for your patience, yes, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you for almost a week now,” I continue, lowering my own hand and pretending the handshake thing never happened. I glance around, as if checking for privacy. “We’d like to chat with you, briefly, about an incident on the Mass Pike the other day. Monday, late afternoon, as we said in our phone messages. Is this a good place?”
Borum crosses those arms in front of his imposing, distractingly naked chest. Frowns. And doesn’t budge.
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me what this is about. It better be good. Because I wasn’t on the Mass Pike Monday afternoon. Or any time Monday.”
Which I know is not true. But of course, right now I don’t have the photo to prove it. But of course, he doesn’t know that.
I scratch my head, feigning confusion. I pause, deliberately using up two of my five seconds. I move in for the kill. Again, oh, so politely.
“Well, Mr. Borum, we know you were. Maybe you forgot you were there? We have a photograph of you in your blue Mustang driving through the Fast Lane Monday. Around four-thirty. There was an accident about that time…”
I stop. Shift tactics. This is hardly the time to accuse him of being a criminal. I smile, conciliatory.
“And we’re just searching for people who might have witnessed it. There was a family whose car was wrecked, the father hurt. Do you remember that? I mean, did you see anything?”
“Let’s see the photo.” Borum, challenging, is obviously not enchanted by my little performance. And is neatly calling my bluff. “Let’s see that photo you say you have of me driving on Monday.”
“I…” I think fast. I pat my purse, as if the photo’s inside, then shake my head. As if I’m making a decision. I pull out a business card. “Here’s my card, with my work and home phone numbers on it. Call me if you think of anything. I’ll be happy to show the photo to you, at some point. But—”
“You know what, Miss McNally?” he interrupts, holding up a palm. “Forget it. You go ahead, put your photo on television. See what happens. See how fast a subpoena arrives at your general manager’s door. I was not on the Mass Pike Monday, at four-thirty, or any other time. I was having drinks with friends at Bistro Zelda. You’ve got the wrong time. Or the wrong day. Or the wrong car. Or all three. Put that photo on your news? Say it’s me driving? Do it. I mean it. Do it. Then let me warn you, Miss McNally. I’ll own Channel 3.”
Borum backs into the dimly lit hallway behind him. He stops, his narrow smile radiating contempt as he slowly pulls the door closed.
“Do your homework,” he says. “Or I’ll see you in court.”
“He didn’t say he didn’t own a blue Mustang,” I say. “I take that as a good sign. And I guess he got all our phone calls, he was just ignoring us. That makes him guilty, too.”
Juggling an elaborate bouquet of pink roses and a beribboned stack of my favorite kids’ books, I jab the up button on the Mass General Hospital elevator.
Franklin is carrying a huge, ungainly, black-and-white stuffed panda. Puffed out arms and legs dangle as Franklin shifts the bear from one position to another. Button eyes now stare at the floor.
Sunday visiting hours are two to four. Josh and Penny are on the way. We’re all going to meet brand-new baby Maddee. She was a little late. But fine.
“So that’s the good news.” I press the button again. Then one more time.
“We’ve been over this before, Charlotte. The elevator does not come any more quickly if you—” Franklin sighs. Then gives up.
“Can we just agree to disagree on that?” I ask as the door opens. I dramatically gesture Franklin inside.
“The bad news is, Borum insists he wasn’t there. And he offered an easily traced alibi. Something is very wrong. We’ve seen the photo. Borum can’t be in two places at one time.”
The elevator pings. Doors slide open onto the pastel wonderland of Maternity. Floor-to-ceiling murals, ice pink and soft blue and buttery yellow, show smiley-faced suns, lush fields of i
mpossible daffodils and every cute baby animal imaginable. Some carry balloons and cotton candy in their paws or webbed feet. All are clearly blissed out.
“Remember that pink lotion?” I close my eyes and sniff at the familiar fragrance, swept back into some fuzzy half-memory. “It smells like baby in here, doesn’t it? In a good way?”
But I’m talking to no one. Franklin and his stuffed companion are conferring with a ponytailed nurse in a Pooh-covered tunic. She points him down to the end of the hall.
And there’s Maysie. My dear best friend. With a tiny yellow-swaddled bundle in her lap. Three pink helium balloons are tied to the back of Maysie’s wheelchair. This far away, it’s difficult to tell who has the bigger smile—the new mom or the new dad, Matthew, who’s pushing their newest family member toward us. Talk about blissed out.
For a briefly disquieting second, I can hardly look at them. I remember the moment, almost the exact moment, when I knew my biological clock had ticked its last. At birthday thirty, I did my first calculation. Fifteen more years. It seemed like forever. At birthday forty, I counted. Five more years. Plenty of time. At birthday forty-five, I began my birthday-math ritual. And stopped. I blew out the candles, smiled at my birthday-party pals, and said a silent goodbye. Goodbye, little whoever. You are not to be.
I look down at my rainbow-wrapped parcels. Pat the Bunny. Goodnight Moon. Many Moons. And, for later, Maddee’s first Nancy Drew. I’d have been a good mother.
“Baby Maddee’s too young to be in our wedding.” My favorite voice.
I turn to see Josh, smiling, emerging from the elevator. I see Penny peeking out from behind him. “And you know Penny would never stand for it,” he continues.
I try to untangle my unexpected rush of emotions. Love. Hope. And time. There’s time.
Penny races down the hall as Josh kisses the top of my head. He’s carrying a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of plump white roses. Twisty fuchsia ribbons trail from around the stems. He pulls one flower from the center and hands it to me.
“Congratulations, Auntie Charlie,” he whispers, leaning close. “You’re my baby, you know.”
He lifts my chin, locking my eyes with his. This time, his kiss lingers, tender. For that moment, only the two of us exist.
“I know,” I finally manage to say.
“Come look at her toes, Charlie Mac, they’re the littlest of littles.” Penny has already scampered back, and grabs the belt of my coat, pulling me away from Josh and toward the baby parade. Franklin’s perched the panda on the back of the wheelchair, paws sticking straight out, balloons bouncing against its floppy black ears.
“Would you like to give these to Maysie for us, sweetheart?” I say, holding out my bouquet.
“And these, too, kiddo,” Josh adds, giving her the rest of the white roses. “Maybe give them to Matthew, since Maysie’s arms are full of baby.”
Penny carefully wraps her arms around the two bouquets, then, with a brief furrow of her little forehead adjusts the satin ribbons so they fall just so. “I’m practicing for the wedding,” she announces, her voice brimming with pride. “Watch this, Charlie Mac.”
Penny walks in bridal procession touch-steps up to Maysie and Matthew and solemnly presents her bouquet. Then, placing one snow-booted toe carefully behind her, she performs a deep and perfect curtsy.
Our laughter fills the hallway as the Maysie entourage draws closer. Matthew’s face is almost covered by the masses of flowers he’s wound up carrying. Franklin’s taken Panda from his perch and is carrying him again. Maysie looks ecstatic but exhausted. No makeup, hair slicked back, wearing a pink-striped hospital gown, hospital-issue pale blue slipper socks and a plastic hospital name bracelet around her wrist. A crocheted yellow blanket is tucked across her legs.
“You okay, Mays?” I lean down and kiss her hair, then hand the books to Matthew. “You look fantastic.”
“I’m fine, perfect, wonderful,” she says. Her voice is thick with emotion. “Meet baby Maddee.”
Maysie carefully slides her right hand underneath the swaddled bundle on her lap, then cradles Maddee’s tiny head with the left. Smiling, she lifts her new daughter, sleeping and unaware, and hands her to me. “Maddee, meet your Auntie Charlie. And your Uncle Josh.”
Penny, hanging on to Josh’s sleeve, on tiptoe for a better view, watches intently as the newborn passes across from mother to best friend.
“And me, Cousin Penny!” she adds. She frowns, perplexed. “Aren’t I a cousin?”
Maddee’s heavier than I expected. Solid. Her tiny chest rises, falls, rises again. With one tentative finger, I smooth the almost-invisible silky fuzz across the top of her head, then bend, briefly, to inhale the unmistakable scent. Her eyes flutter open, just a fraction. I glimpse a flash of blue.
“Welcome to the world, Maddee girl,” I whisper.
“Want to walk with me back to the station?” Franklin pulls on his gloves, then ties the belt of his navy coat in a knot, the two loose ends exactly the same length. “Talk with Kevin about what Borum said? He’s probably working today, this close to the beginning of sweeps. Then I can collect my ten thousand dollars.”
Franklin and I are in the two-story glass-walled entry hall of Mass General, waiting for Josh and Penny to bring the car from the parking lot. We’re planning a Sunday evening—a family evening—of carryout barbecue from the Blue Ribbon, followed by a G-rated Netflix. I’m hoping for an R-rating, or even X, after Penny goes up to bed. And I don’t mean in a movie.
“Oh, right, Franko. Just what I wanted to do on a Sunday night. Work. You’re kidding me, right?”
Franklin is not amused. “We need to screen the undercover video of the rental company. Transcribe the Ross interview. Finish looking up the VIN numbers we pulled from RCK and Miracle Motors. Find more unrepaired recalls. There’s a lot to do, Charlotte. And not long to get it all accomplished.”
A bevy of coats and hats and umbrellas passes us, visitors, patients, doctors, pushing through the heavy front doors and into the waning afternoon. Four o’clock. It’s already getting dark. Why is Franklin suddenly so eager to spend all his time at the station? Maybe the better question is—why am I suddenly so not?
“Let’s give ourselves a little break,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I got Borum this morning, but we can’t do more on that until tomorrow. And tomorrow, I’ll come in early. Look up VINs. Talk to Kevin. Bet I get started before you do. It’ll all work.”
“Your call,” he says. “It’s your face that’s on the air, not mine. Your name on the story. If there is a story.” Franklin unwraps his herringbone muffler, then reties it with what seems like unnecessary drama. A honk beeps from outside. Josh’s Volvo. Penny’s hanging out the passenger window, waving.
Franklin’s poised, his glove on one curved metal handle of the revolving door. He cocks his head toward the car. “You coming with me? Or going with them?”
I love my work. I love my new family. I can’t be two places at once.
It’s Sunday night. Family night. I take a deep breath and step into a new world. “Going.”
I hope it’s the right decision.
Chapter Nine
“N o. Not later. Now.”
My hand tightens around my cell phone as the unfamiliar voice persists. Wenholm Dulles, who says he’s a Bexter parent, called me on my private line just after Franklin went to Buzz World to get us some late-after-noon caffeine. Franklin seems to be over his work panic. This Monday, feeling like a team again, we’ve already plowed through most of our video and targeted some potentially unrepaired recalls. Some are used cars still for sale and some are rental cars. It’s taken all day, but our story seems to be working. Cross fingers. Now we have to find those cars and check for air bags.
This unexpected phone call has screeched my momentum to a halt.
“Mr. Dulles, I’m afraid I don’t remember you from the Head’s party, forgive me. And—”
“It’s critically important,” Dulles interrupts. “As
I said, about something that may be happening at Bexter. The Head said we should call you. And now, we’re just down the street. In the Parker House café. It’ll take fifteen minutes of your time. Ten. But again, Miss McNally. This must be a secret.”
Of course. What else is new.
“Hold on,” I say. I clamp the phone against my shoulder, grab a pen and scrawl on a yellow sticky pad. What I write is a lie.
Dentist. Forgot. Back soon. C.
I stick the note to Franklin’s monitor. I know he’ll believe me. We’ve never deceived each other. We’ve never kept secrets. But first there was New York. And now Bexter. And now an imaginary dentist.
Bexter. I yank myself out of guilt and back to reality. Has there been another phone call? Or is it something about Dorothy Wirt? Josh? Penny? Something is truly wrong there.
“Mr. Dulles? I’m on the way,” I say, struggling to talk and button my coat as I hurry down the hall. “But can you tell me more? On the phone? I truly have to get back to the—”
“I have two children, both attend Bexter,” he says, cutting me off again. “Lexie’s a freshman, Tal’s a senior. About to graduate. All these years, we’ve insisted on only the best for them, and—”
Silence.
“Mr. Dulles?” I clatter around the final landing of the back stairwell and out toward the side door. “Mr. Dulles?”
I check the cell-phone screen. Green letters pop into view. Dropped call.
When I reach the Parker House, I instantly spot Wenholm Dulles, wearing a double-Windsor rep tie, button-down white oxford shirt and expansive demeanor. He takes up most of the room on his side of the plush taupe suede booth. More a salon than a café, Parker’s has a subdued exclusive air that keeps tourists away and conversations private. Big menus. Big prices. Big business.
Dulles has his camel’s-hair overcoat folded plumply, russet satin lining showing, on the seat beside him. That obviously means “this seat taken.” I guess I’m supposed to sit next to the woman across the table.
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