"Get the hell out of here, Cole. I don't want anything from you. Ever."
"I'm not giving you anything. I'm not even offering anything. All I'm trying to do is explain. It's that old rivalry between us, isn't it? I let it go; why can't you? Lacey is off in New York, probably having a goddamn blast, and she's set us against each other. She's a bitch. She set me up, and there's nothing I can do about it."
"Save your breath. I have all the explanations I need or want. Get out of here before I toss you out."
"This is going to affect our working relationship. You're going to avoid me every chance you get. I'm going to be walking on eggs, afraid I'll say the wrong thing. Get off it, Riley. This is kid stuff."
"Is it kid stuff to go behind my back and tell my grandfather lies? Who gave you permission to write to him, to worm your way into his life? Answer me, you son of a bitch! All the old one does in his letters is talk about what a fine young man you are and how lucky I am that we're of the same blood. Ah, you thought I didn't know. Well, you see, I know everything. Not only are you a thief, but you're also a sneak, too. If I never have to talk to you again, it will be fine with me."
"The only lies I ever told your grandfather, I told to cushion his hurt over you. I told him you were away, out of town, all kinds of things so he would think you were working round the clock. I did it for you, you asshole. That old man doesn't deserve the treatment you're giving him. He's not good
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enough for you anymore, is he? You want to be here with all the rich, big-time Colemans. You like it here. You like it that Grandmam Billie turned things over to you. You like being a big honcho. Admit it, Riley. You don't give two shits about that old man and what he's built. It was all for you, and you spit on it and on him. You have no intention of ever going back to Japan—I see it in your eyes. You talk a good story, but you don't have the guts to do anything about it. I'm sorry I came in here. I hope you do decide to stay here because, by God, you are a Coleman. They deserve you."
"Shut up, Cole. Leave my family out of this."
"Which family, Riley? The Colemans or your other family, the one you turned your back on? That family? You're a piss-poor excuse for a grandson. Don't get up. Save the fancy footwork for some other time. If I tangle with you again, one of us will end up dead."
"Fuck you!" Riley shouted.
Cole turned at the door. "I won't come back here. I'm moving into the condo tomorrow morning. Sunbridge is yours, old buddy. Lock, stock, and barrel. When my mother put the deed in both our names, I didn't want it then. I don't want it now. As of tomorrow, i f 's all yours."
"I don't want anything from you," Riley bellowed.
"Tough." Cole laughed. "It's yours, like it or not."
Riley sat at the desk for a long time. He made no effort to stem the flow of tears running down his cheeks. He crumpled the letter he'd been writing into a ball. He shot it with his thumb and index finger the way he'd shot marbles when he was little. The paper teetered on the edge of the wicker basket, then fell in. He did the same thing with his grandfather's letter.
It was time to make a decision.
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UUUiU CHAPTER ELEVEN )»»)>»
The first thing Rand did when he arrived at Heathrow Airport was call to his solicitor to tell him he was on his way.
He whizzed through customs and hailed a cab. It was a typical London day—raw and cold. Rand shivered inside his heavy overcoat, wishing he were back in Hawaii, on the beach with Maggie.
Hiram Laskey was older than Methuselah, Rand thought, but his age in no way affected his brain or his keen eyesight. "You look like you have a problem, Rand," he said in a trembling voice. "How can I be of help?"
"I'll be wanting to make a few changes in my ... a few changes," Rand hedged. Now that he was here, he was sorry he'd come. He should have made his inquiries first and then come to the solicitor. This man would immediately think, as he had, that it was all a scam. Then again, maybe Hiram wasn't the kind of man who would understand. If only he weren't so ancient-looking. The thin, bald head and straggly beard, with traces of tomato soup, irritated Rand. So did the spots on his tie. He was wearing the same tired old suit Rand remembered from years ago. Clearly, Hiram didn't spend his money on clothing or a barber.
Hiram's voice was gentle, all traces of trembling gone. "Perhaps you might be more comfortable discussing... whatever it is you're having second thoughts about with one of the younger men. No offense will be taken, I assure you. As a matter of fact, I insist." He pretended to think while he steepled his fingers. "Arthur Mittington should do nicely. He's at the end of the corridor. Tell him I sent you. You'll get on well."
Rand felt ashamed. Nothing was working out right these days. The old man was right, though; he needed to talk to someone he could relate to.
"It was nice seeing you again, Hiram."
The trembling was back in Hiram's voice. "You won't think it's so nice when you get our bill. And to answer your
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unasked question, I am ninety-one years old. I will still be practicing when I'm a hundred. 1 can tell you this now that I've placed you in Arthur's capable hands. You are not, under any circumstances, to tell Arthur how old I am. They keep a running pool going."
The old man's handshake was almost as firm as Rand's.
Arthur Mittington looked like a rugby player. He was forty or so, Rand judged, and carried himself well. He came around from his desk, his hand outstretched. His herringbone suit pleased Rand. Carnaby Street, he suspected.
Arthur listened attentively while Rand talked. When Rand threw up his hands and said, "That's it," he smiled.
"I understand exactly how you feel. I also think you're right in wanting to do all the checking yourself. If we hire on, it might confuse matters. You are the interested party, so to speak. You'll see firsthand and be able to observe everyone. Private investigators tend to be impersonal, and I don't think that's what you want. Might I ask what your intentions are if everything is proved right?"
"I haven't gotten that far. I've never been a father before."
Arthur laughed. "I have, and I can tell you it's no picnic. I will also tell you that out of my four nippers, there isn't one I wouldn't die for. Just knowing you have flesh and blood walking around makes all the difference in the world. You won't necessarily have that feeling, but I am sure if Miss Brighton proves to be your daughter, you will do whatever it is you feel right about. If I can be of any help, call me. I'll jot down my home phone number. Don't be embarrassed to call me at home, even if it's just to talk. Don't you Americans refer to it as unloading?"
"I guess we do."
He'd just used up two hours and hadn't accomplished a thing. But the possibility of a new friend shouldn't be taken lightly, he cautioned himself.
The taxi dropped him off at the Dorchester. He registered, carried his own bag to the lift, and went to his room. He was tired. A shower, some dinner from room service, and a couple of whiskies would be all he needed to sleep. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to do what he had to do.
The taxi Rand had hired for the day swooshed to a stop in front of the orphanage that had housed Chesney all her young life. It was a dismal place, all gray stone with tiny windows.
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He couldn't begin to imagine what a child's feelings would be when brought to this old, forbidding fortress. Chesney had lived here. His heart felt sore and bruised. How would he ever be able to make up for this?
The inside of the building wasn't much better. It was cold and damp. All the women bustling about wore heavy wool jumpers and thick sweaters. No one paid any attention to him. He wandered down the long hallway looking into austere rooms, most of them offices of some kind. He wondered how many homeless, unwanted children lived here. Hundreds probably.
The hallway branched off to the left and right. Rand chose the right. Classrooms. He peered into one through a small pane of glass. Twenty or so children, he surmised. Age five or thereabouts. So
small to be so alone. All were dressed alike. He frowned. Did they dress the children this way on purpose so they would lose their identity? Were they numbers on a chart? Did they have real names or made-up ones? He wished he knew. On the other hand, they might be dressed alike so that no child would think he was better than another. He shook his head. He didn't know what he was thinking. Further down the hall he peered into another room. These children were older. To his eye they all looked alike, too. There were no blue jeans and sneakers here. He stood for a long time observing the class. Not one face showed any kind of animation. There was no sparkle. This clearly was not a place of sunshine. How these children would love Hawaii. Perpetual sunshine. Laughter and warmth. He felt sick.
How was it possible that warm-eyed Chesney with the gentle smile was a product of this place? If he'd lived here for eighteen years and then suddenly found out who his parents were, he'd raise hell. Chesney hadn't made one demand, hadn't asked for a thing. She walked into his life and walked out. He felt sicker by the minute.
Rand continued to walk up and down the halls. He wanted to leave these dreary surroundings but couldn't bring himself to walk out. Eventually, he came to a door marked Head. He knocked and opened it at the same time.
"Can I help you?" a pleasant voice inquired.
"I've come to inquire about Chesney Brighton," he said. Rand watched as the thin woman's eyes raked over him; he read dislike in her eyes. And why not?
"Yes, Chesney," she said, her voice no longer so pleasant.
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"I remember her very well. She was a wonderful child. Very obedient and never a sassy word out of her."
"What would have happened if she hadn't been obedient and she sassed you?" Rand asked quietly.
"She would have been punished, of course. We pride ourselves on deportment. Each child is made aware, early on, that the outside world is not a playground. We give the children a good education here. Each child has his or her duties, and of course, the older ones look after the younger ones. Chesney was very good with the little ones. She'd tell them stories and make them laugh. Chesney smiled a lot, but she never laughed—now, that's strange; I wonder whatever made me think of that.
"She comes back, you know. At Christmas she brought bags and bags of presents. The child must have used her entire salary for all those gifts. Chesney is one of the rare ones. Most of the others never come back, and I can't say I blame them." The woman stopped speaking and stared at Rand. "Are you the father?"
"I don't know."
"If you are, it's a little late to come calling. You were needed years ago. I don't see what good you can do now," the woman said sourly.
"I don't know either. I just found out. I don't think that will excuse me, but if I had known—"
"That's what they all say. I'm sorry if I sound bitter. You see, so many men and women come here when they get an attack of conscience. All of a sudden they realize their very own flesh and blood has been locked up here or turned loose in the world, and they're full of regret. I've told you everything I know about Chesney."
"She gave me her mother's address," Rand said. "I. .."
"If you decide to go round to see her, do it in the daytime so you don't disturb her family. Chesney told me she wasn't happy to see her. I felt so sorry for her. They all think there's a parent out there who is just waiting for them to show up on the doorstep. They want to be hugged and told they're loved. We try to hug and love them here, but it isn't the same. They know it, and they keep on hoping."
"Thank you for talking to me. I didn't get your name."
"Ardeth Wilkes. It doesn't matter if you know my name or not. You won't ever be coming back here."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Wilkes."
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"It's Miss Wilkes. I'm not married. This place and all these children are my family. Good day."
Rand leaned back and closed his eyes on the trip to Stepney Green. He'd never felt worse in his life. Flogging was too good for him. Right now he'd almost welcome death. He didn't want to talk to Chesney's mother.
"We're here, sport," the driver said cheerfully. "You said I was to stop at the corner, and this is the corner. I'll wait here for you."
It was a neat neighborhood. The houses were pretty much all the same, but different colors. Trees lined the sidewalks. Maggie would call it quaint. A workingman's neighborhood.
Rand swallowed hard before he knocked on the door. He felt light-headed and still a bit sick to his stomach.
Once she had been pretty. Now she looked tired and weary. Raising five children on a carpenter's salary hadn't been easy. She smiled, and Rand remembered. "I'm Rand Nelson," he said.
"I know. Come in."
"How did you know?" Rand asked. It could still be some kind of scam, he told himself, but he didn't believe the thought.
"A woman always remembers her first love. You were so dashing in your uniform. I gave the picture to Chesney. I don't know why I ever saved it. A romantic notion, 1 guess."
"You must have been surprised when she came to see you."
"I always knew she would someday. When I read that they passed that law, saying orphans had a right to, I knew."
"How did you feel when you saw her?"
"Awful. I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her. I wanted to tell her it would be all right, that she could come here and live with us. I couldn't do that. My husband would never understand. He'd leave me, and how would I ever take care of five children on my own? I was cool, polite. It broke my heart. I still cry when I think of it."
"You should have taken her in your arms—you should have pretended to act like a mother just that once," Rand raged.
The woman stepped back. "Just a minute. Who are you to come here and tell me what I should have or shouldn't have done? Where were you all these years? You fancy chopper pilots had your way with us girls and then left. I don't owe
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you or anyone else an explanation. You're lucky I'm talking to you now."
"I'm sorry. I had no right to say anything. I went to the orphanage this morning and I came away sick."
"I did the same thing the day after she came here."
"I gave you money. Why did you decide to—not to .. ."
"Have the baby? First of all, it's against God. There wasn't a doctor to be found who would do it, and I didn't want to starve. I used the money to buy a letter of transit on the black market. The Red Cross helped me get back to England. You didn't care. I remember that jaunty wave you gave me when you left. Until Chesney searched you out, you probably never thought of me once."
It was true.
"Besides, I loved you. I couldn't kill a child we created together."
"I did the best I could for her. I left little presents, not much, what I could afford, on her birthday and at Christmas. She told me she kept every single thing. On her birthday I always made a cake and told my family it was for an old aunt I haven't seen in years. It was all I could do."
"I didn't know," Rand said hoarsely.
"And if you had known, what would you have done?"
"I don't know that either," he said honestly.
"Why do I have this feeling you don't believe Chesney is your daughter?" the woman asked.
"At first I didn't believe it. I tried to remember. It seemed to me that I would have known somehow that I had a child. My wife told me only women have those instincts."
"Your wife is right. Is there something I can tell you, something that will prove to you that. . . you were the only one?"
"You don't have to prove anything. You were a virgin. You weren't the kind of young woman to ... to go with more than one man. I knew you were in love with me, and I knew nothing would come of it. I was going off, maybe get killed. I put it completely out of my mind. I don't even know when her birthday is."
"It's September ninth."
The woman's eyes were kind. "We shared a small, intimate joke and laughed about it together. I've kept all these memories alive. Shall I te
ll you or will you remember on your own?
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We used to talk about our childhood and some of the silly things we did."
"We talked about our pets, our friends. My cat."
"A toy cat. Sally Dearest."
Rand almost blacked out. The woman reached out to him and led him to a chair. Rand realized that they'd been standing all this time.
"You had a real cat with a real name," Rand said softly. "Whiskers."
"Yes. We are Chesney's parents, Rand—you and I. It will be up to you to do whatever has to be done. Will you agree?"
Rand didn't trust his voice. He nodded.
"And will you let me know from time to time how things are? You can address a letter to me in care of general delivery. If you're going to write, do it the first of the month so I don't have to run to the post office every day." Rand nodded again.
"Maybe she doesn't need us," he said. "She didn't ask for anything. She said she just wanted me to know she was real. That I had a daughter."
"She said the same thing to me. I don't honestly know if she does need us. It may be too late. She's an independent girl. I think you better leave now. Please, don't come back. If you need to get in touch, do it through the mail."
"I am so sorry," Rand said.
"I am too. It's up to you to turn it around and make it right, if you can. Good-bye, Rand."
Back in the hotel Rand sat with his head in his hands. His head ached from thinking. So many things to make up for. Could he handle it? With Maggie's help he could. On his own he wasn't sure.
Rand picked up the phone and called Arthur Mittington. They exchanged greetings. "Until I tell you to stop, I want you to send a check for five hundred pounds the first of every month to Chesney's mother. In care of general delivery. I don't know if it's wise or unwise on my part. I just know I want to do it."
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