As she removed the plastic from the shirt, he tossed his suit jacket onto the love seat, tugged free his tie and unbuttoned the shirt he was wearing. By the time he shed it, she was holding up his new one for him to slip on. She looked a little steadier now and seemed more like herself. His concern began to ease a bit. Until he drew near and saw that her eyes housed a healthy bit of panic.
It was obvious there was something bothering her. A lot. Yeager told himself that whatever it was, it was none of his business. But that didn’t keep him from wondering. Boyfriend troubles? Family conflicts? Problems at work? He knew nothing about her outside her job. Because there was no reason for him to know anything about her outside her job. There was no reason for him to care, either. That wasn’t to be cold or unfeeling. That was just how he was. He didn’t care about much of anything outside his immediate sphere of existence. Somehow, though, he suddenly kind of cared about Hannah.
“I’m sorry,” she said as he thrust his arm through the shirt’s sleeve, “but the fabric isn’t exactly the same as the original. Since I was moonlighting, I couldn’t use what we have at work, and that came from Portugal. But I found a beautiful dobby in nearly the same color. I hope it’s okay. It brought the price down a bit.”
Yeager couldn’t have cared less about the price. He cared about quality and style. Maybe it was superficial, but a man who was the face of a Fortune 500 company had to look good. And, thanks to Hannah, he always did.
“No, this is good,” he said. “It’s got a great texture. I actually like this one better than the one you made for me at Cathcart and Quinn. Why aren’t you the one they’re sending on buying trips to London and Portugal?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Cathcart that question,” she said in a way that made him think she’d already broached the topic with her employer and been shot down. Probably more than once.
“Maybe I will,” he said, wondering about his sudden desire to act as her champion. “Or maybe you should just open your own business.”
As she studied the fit of his shirt, she gestured to the rack of clothes against the wall. “I’m trying.”
Out of curiosity, Yeager walked over to look at what she’d made for her other clients. He was surprised to see that the majority of items hanging there were children’s clothes.
“You mostly make stuff for kids?” he asked.
Instead of replying, Hannah moved to her sewing machine to withdraw a business card from a stack and handed it to Yeager. It was pale lavender, imprinted with the words, Joey & Kit, and decorated with a logo of a kangaroo and fox touching noses. Below them was the slogan, “Glad rags for happy kids.” At the bottom were addresses for a website, an email and a PO box.
“This is your business?” Yeager asked, holding up the card.
She nodded. “I’m an S-corporation. I trademarked the name and logo and everything.”
“Why kids’ clothes? Seems like other areas of fashion would be more profitable.”
“They would be,” she said. He waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. He was about to ask her to when she told him, “Turn around, so I can make sure the back darts are aligned.”
He did as she instructed, something that left him looking out the apartment’s solitary window. He didn’t know why, but it really bothered him that Hannah only had one window from which to view the world. His West Chelsea penthouse had panoramic views of Manhattan and the Hudson from floor-to-ceiling windows in most rooms—including two of the three-and-a-half baths. Not that he spent much time at home, but his office in the Flatiron District had pretty breathtaking views of the city, too. No matter where Yeager went in the world, he always made sure he had a lot to look at. Mountain ranges that disappeared into clouds, savannas that dissolved into the horizon, oceans that met the stars in the distant night sky. Some of the best parts of adventure travel were just looking at things. But Hannah lived her life in a square little room with one window that opened onto a building across the way.
“You know, I don’t usually have to put darts in a man’s shirt,” she said. “But the way you’re built...broad shoulders, tapered waist...”
Yeager told himself he only imagined the sigh of approval he heard.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I think this looks good.”
She ran her hand down the length of his back on one side, then up again on the other, smoothing out the seams in question. The gesture was in no way protracted or flirtatious. Her touch was deft and professional. Yet, somehow, it made his pulse twitch.
She stepped in front of him, gave him a final once-over with eyes that still looked a little haunted, and told him, “You’re good to go.”
It was one of his favorite statements to hear. Yeager loved going. Anywhere. Everywhere. Whenever he could. Strangely, though, in that moment, he didn’t want to go. He told himself it was because, in spite of the relative ease of the last few minutes, there was still something about Hannah that was...off. He’d never seen her be anything but upbeat. This evening, she was subdued. And that just didn’t sit well with him.
Before he realized what he was doing, he asked, “Hannah, is everything okay?”
Her eyes widened in now unmistakable panic. She opened her mouth to reply but no words emerged. Which may have been his biggest tip-off yet that there was something seriously wrong. Hannah was never at a loss for words. On the contrary, she was generally one of those people who had a snappy reply for everything.
He tried again. “You just don’t seem like yourself tonight.”
For a moment she looked as if she was going to deny anything was wrong. Then she made a defeated sound and her whole body seemed to slump forward.
“Is this about the weird news you got today?” he asked.
She nodded, but instead of looking at him, she lowered her gaze to the floor. Hannah never did that. She was one of the most direct people he knew, always making eye contact. It was one of the things he loved about her. So few people did that.
“What kind of news was it?”
She hesitated again, still not looking at him. Finally she said, “The kind that could not only completely change my future, but also confirmed that my past could have—should have—been a lot better than it was.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
At this, she emitted a strangled chuckle completely devoid of humor. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”
Maybe the wine had affected her more than he thought. Probably, he ought to just drop it and pay her for his shirt. Definitely, he should be getting the hell out of there.
Instead he heard himself ask, “Do you want to talk about it?”
At that, she finally pulled her gaze from the floor and met his squarely...for all of a nanosecond. Then she lifted both hands to cover her beautiful silver-gray eyes. Then her lips began to tremble. Then she sniffled. Twice. And that was when Yeager knew he was in trouble. Because Hannah crying was way worse than Hannah panicking. Panic eventually subsided. But sadness... Sadness could go on forever. No one knew that better than he did.
She didn’t start crying, though. Not really. After a moment she wiped both eyes with the backs of her hands and dropped them to hug herself tight. But that gesture just made her look even more lost. Especially since her eyes were still damp. Something in Yeager’s chest twisted tight at seeing her this way. He had no idea why. He barely knew her. He just hated seeing anyone this distraught.
“Holy crap, do I want to talk about it,” she said softly. “I just don’t have anyone to talk about it with.”
That should have been his cue to get out while he still had the chance. The last thing he had time for—hell, the last thing he wanted—was to listen to someone whose last name he didn’t even know talk about her life-altering problems. He should be heading for the front door stat. And he would. Any minute now. Any second now. In five, four, three,
two...
“Give me one minute to change my shirt,” he told her, wondering what the hell had possessed him. “Then you can tell me about it.”
* * *
While Yeager changed his shirt, Hannah moved to the love seat, perching herself on the very edge of the cushion and wondering what just happened. One minute, she’d been double-checking the fit of his shirt and had been almost—almost—able to forget, if only for a moment, everything she’d learned today from Gus Fiver. The next minute, Yeager had been offering a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
Not that she would cry on him. Well, probably not. She didn’t want to ruin his shirt. But she appreciated his offer to hang around for a little while. She hadn’t felt more alone in her life than she had over the last few hours.
She’d taken Gus Fiver’s advice to close Cathcart and Quinn early, then had sat with him in the empty shop for nearly an hour as he’d given her all the specifics about her situation. A situation that included the most stunning good news/bad news scenario she’d ever heard. Since then she’d been here in her apartment, combing the internet for information about her newly discovered family and mulling everything she’d learned, in the hope that it would help her make sense of the choice she had to make. Maybe someone like Yeager, who didn’t have any personal involvement, would have a clearer perspective and some decent advice.
She watched as he changed his shirt, doing her best not to stare at the cords of muscle and sinew roping his arms, shoulders and torso. But in an apartment the size of hers, there wasn’t much else to stare at. Then again, even if she’d had the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel surrounding her, it would still be Yeager that drew her eye. So she busied herself with filling her wineglass a third time, since the two glasses she’d already consumed had done nothing to take the edge off.
“You want a glass of wine?” she asked Yeager, belatedly realizing how negligent a hostess she’d been.
Also belatedly, she remembered she’d picked up the wine at Duane Reade on her way home from work. She reread the label as she placed it back on the table. Chateau Yvette claimed to be a “wine product” that paired well with pizza and beef stew. It probably wasn’t a brand Yeager normally bought for himself. But it was too late to retract the offer now.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” he said as he finished buttoning his shirt.
She retrieved another glass from the kitchen and poured the wine. By then, Yeager had draped the plastic back over his new shirt and was sitting on the love seat—taking up most of it. So much so that his thigh aligned with hers when she sat and handed him his glass. She enjoyed another healthy swig from her own and grimaced. She honestly hadn’t realized until then how, uh, not-particularly-good it was. Probably because her head had been too full of Omigod, omigod, omigod, what am I going to do?
“So what’s up?” he asked.
She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. It still came out shaky and uneven. Not surprising, since shaky and uneven was how she’d been feeling since Gus Fiver had dropped his Chandler Linden bombshell. There was nothing like the prospect of inheriting billions of dollars to send a person’s pulse and brain synapses into overdrive.
If Hannah actually inherited it.
She took another breath and this time when she released it, it was a little less ragged. “Have you heard of a law firm called Tarrant, Fiver and Twigg?” she asked.
Yeager nodded. “Yeah. They’re pretty high-profile. A lot of old money—big money—clients.”
“Well, I had a meeting with one of their partners this afternoon.”
Yeager couldn’t quite hide his surprise that someone like her would be in touch with such a financial powerhouse, though he was obviously trying to. Hannah appreciated his attempt to be polite, but it was unnecessary. She wasn’t bothered by being working class, nor was she ashamed of her upbringing. Even if she didn’t talk freely about her past, she’d never tried to hide it, and she wasn’t apologetic about the way she lived now. She’d done pretty well for herself and lived the best life she could. She was proud of that.
Still, she replied, “I know. They’re not exactly my social stratum. But I didn’t contact them. They contacted me.”
“About?” he asked.
“About the fact that I’m apparently New York’s equivalent to the Grand Duchess Anastasia of Russia.”
Now Yeager looked puzzled. So she did her best to explain. Except she ended up not so much explaining as just pouring out her guts into his lap.
Without naming names, and glossing over many of the details, she told him about her discovery that she’d been born to a family she never knew she had in a town she would have sworn she’d never visited. She told him about her father’s addiction and abuse and about her mother’s custodial kidnapping of her. She told him about their false identities and their move from Scarsdale to Staten Island. She told him about her mother’s death when she was three and her entry into the foster care system, where she’d spent the next fifteen years. And she told him about how, in a matter of minutes today, she went from living the ordinary life of a seamstress to becoming one of those long-lost heirs to a fortune who seemed only to exist in over-the-top fiction.
Through it all, Yeager said not a word. When she finally paused—not that she was finished talking by a long shot, because there was still so much more to tell him—he only studied her in silence. Then he lifted the glass of wine he had been holding through her entire story and, in one long quaff, drained it.
And then he grimaced, too. Hard. “That,” he finally said, “was unbelievable.”
“I know,” Hannah told him. “But it’s all true.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean the wine. It was unbelievably bad.”
“Oh.”
“Your life is... Wow.”
For a moment he only looked out at her little apartment without speaking. Then he looked at Hannah again.
And he said, “This isn’t the kind of conversation to be having over unbelievably bad wine.”
“It isn’t?”
He shook his head. “No. This is the kind of conversation that needs to be had over extremely good Scotch.”
“I don’t have any Scotch.” And even if she did, it wouldn’t be extremely good.
He roused a smile. “Then we’ll just have to go find some, won’t we?”
Three
Instead of extremely good Scotch, they found a sufficiently good Irish whiskey at a pub up the street from Hannah’s apartment. She’d ducked into the bathroom to change before they’d left, trading her shorts for a printed skirt that matched her shirt and dipping her feet into a pair of flat sandals. By the time the bartender brought their drinks to them at a two-seater cocktail table tucked into the corner of the dimly lit bar, she was beginning to feel a little more like herself.
Until she looked at Yeager and found him eyeing her with a scrutiny unlike any she’d ever had from him before. Normally he showed her no more interest than he would...well, a seamstress who was sewing some clothes for him. Sure, the two of them bantered back and forth whenever he was in the shop, but it was the kind of exchange everybody shared with people they saw in passing on any given day—baristas, cashiers, doormen, that kind of thing. In the shop, his attention passed with the moments. But now...
Now, Yeager Novak’s undivided attention was an awesome thing. His sapphire eyes glinted like the gems they resembled, and if she’d fancied he could see straight into her soul before, now she was certain of it. Her heart began to hammer hard in her chest, her blood began to zip through her veins and her breathing became more shallow than it had been all day. This time, though, the reactions had little to do with the news of her massive potential inheritance and a lot to do with Yeager.
He must have sensed her reaction—hyperventilation was generally a dead giveaway—because he nudged her glass
closer to her hand and said, “Take a couple sips of your drink. Then tell me again about how you ended up in Staten Island.”
She wanted to start talking now, but she did as he instructed and enjoyed a few slow sips of her whiskey. She wasn’t much of a drinker, usually sticking to wine or some sissy, fruit-sprouting drink. The liquor was smooth going down, warming her mouth and throat and chest. She closed her eyes to let it do its thing, then opened them again to find Yeager still studying her. She was grateful for the dim lighting of the bar. Not just because it helped soothe her rattled nerves but because it might mask the effect he was having on her.
“According to Mr. Fiver,” she said, “my mother got help from a group of women who aided other women in escaping their abusers. They paid counterfeiters to forge new identities for both of us—fake social security numbers, fake birth certificates, the works. I don’t know how my mother found them, but she needed them because my father’s family was super powerful and probably could have kept her from leaving him or, at least, made sure she couldn’t take me with her.”
“And just who was your father’s family?”
Hannah hesitated. During her internet search of her birth name, she had come across a number of items about her and her mother’s disappearance from Scarsdale a quarter century ago. Some of them had been articles that appeared in newspapers and magazines shortly after the fact, but many of them were fairly current on “unsolved mystery” type blogs and websites. It had been singularly creepy to read posts about herself from strangers speculating on her fate. Some people were convinced Stephen Linden had beaten his wife and daughter to death and disposed of their bodies, getting away with murder, thanks to his social standing. Some thought baby Amanda had been kidnapped by strangers for ransom and that her mother had interrupted the crime and been killed by the perpetrators, her body dumped in Long Island Sound. Other guesses were closer to the truth: that Alicia escaped her abusive marriage with Amanda in tow and both were living now in the safety of a foreign country.
Baby in the Making Page 3
