CHAPTER EIGHT
When Logan came to the kitchen twenty minutes later, he sat down at the table without saying a word. After a bowl of cereal, he worked his way through two pieces of peanut-buttered toast, rubbing Biscuit’s threadbare ear between his index finger and thumb, something he hadn’t done since he was five.
I didn’t mention what had happened outside, fully aware that made me a chicken. Then again, and although it had been a while since I’d attended school, I still remembered getting to class, fuming from something that had happened at home—Lisa hiding my left shoe, Mom asking me for the twentieth time if I’d done my homework, Dad telling me to leave my sister alone and stop snapping at Mom—and it usually ended with me in some kind of playground brawl I’d started simply because I was pissed.
So I said nothing to Logan, and except for the sound of crushing toast between his teeth he made no noise at all. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, we engaged in a dance of placated attitudes, watching our manners, being overly polite, desperately pretending everything was fine.
Would you like more milk, Logan?
Yes, please.
With chocolate?
Yes, thank you.
You’re very welcome.
It was so well coordinated and smooth, I expected someone to jump out and present us with an Emmy for outstanding choreography. Grace would have called me a “typical man,” said I was stuffing the feelings to the bottom of my gut, not letting any of them out. She wouldn’t have been far wrong, except I knew if I gave in to my emotions, there was a high probability I’d never make it out of the door unless someone scraped me off the kitchen tiles and molded me back together again, the cracks and repairs visible for everyone to see.
I put the milk in the fridge, for the first time registering the bare shelves, and made a mental note to go shopping, buy fresh food I couldn’t face preparing, let alone eating. When I turned around, I caught Logan looking at me, his eyes shiny with tears. I walked over, hugged him and whispered, “I love you, kiddo,” and blinked hard when he said it back.
After I’d waved him off on the bus, I decided to risk being a few minutes late for Ronnie and locate the birth certificate. Harlan said it wasn’t urgent, but I wanted to get things moving. Back in the den I sat at the desk, traced a finger over Grace’s writing on a pink love note she’d hidden in my lunch bag, and which I’d stuck on the computer screen.
ILU, Josh.
Now, forever and always.
Grace xoxoxoxo
As I touched each letter, every x and o, I hoped some of her soul would somehow flow up through my fingertips and straight to my heart. For the thousandth time I thought how we’d never have the opportunity to say goodbye. No chance of whispering a final I love you. Grace’s last words to me, which she’d called out as I’d left that morning, were, “Don’t worry about the garbage. I’ve got the day off. I’ll take it out.” No hidden meaning there. Nothing would ever give me any kind of comfort, or make me think, At least I got to say how I felt one last time. Her last words to me only represented the stark reality of life, and how quickly it could all be snatched away. I shifted in my seat, made my brain move, too, as I looked around.
We were total organizational opposites, Grace and I. She, meticulous and neat, binders and folders color-coded, carefully labeled, her financial history that went back exactly five years. Me, piles of old and new receipts in no particular order, barely held together with giant bulldog clips, haphazardly stuffed into the bottom drawer of our battered, old wooden desk. I could have pretended there was a system to my chaos, but how I’d ever located anything Grace needed without sending in a professional search party—fully equipped with shovels, axes and headlamps—remained a mystery to both of us.
Two minutes into my quest and I was ready to cry victory when I opened the binder labeled Personal Docs, immediately locating Logan’s up-to-date immunization records from Dr. Minhas, and a birth certificate.
“Yes!” I said, but dropping my fist when I saw it was Grace’s, not Logan’s, and despite riffling through the rest of the binder, I came up empty-handed. Logan’s birth certificate wasn’t the kind of document Grace would leave anywhere. Knowing her, she’d have kept them both together, especially considering how particular she was. I looked at my watch, set myself a fifteen-minute time limit and pressed on.
I turned the pages of Grace’s files and notebooks. Rooted through cupboards and shelves. Stopped when I located an old, crinkly paper bag, tucked away at the very back of the cupboard behind a Tupperware of old maps and a stack of Grace’s ancient, dusty cassette tapes, which hadn’t moved since we’d met. I emptied the bag on the floor, pushed the bits of torn-up paper and an old Christmas card away and stared at the photographs I’d never seen before, or knew existed.
They were terrible quality, grainy and dog-eared, printed on cheap paper. There was no particular order to them, either, half a dozen baby pictures shoved together. I leafed through them, soaked in Logan’s toothy grin, him sitting in his high chair with a fist full of blueberries, taking what must have been some of his first wobbly steps and him crawling on the floor. I frowned, wondered why Grace had never shared them with me, but was running out of time. I opened the Christmas card, cursing as the glitter from the red-and-green candy cane fell into my lap and stuck to my fingers.
Dear Grace,
We think of you often and wish you the happiest of holidays.
Love, Mom & Dad xxx
PS. Here’s our new number, please call.
This was it, my chance to tell Grace’s parents what had happened. More important, an opportunity to connect with someone from her past, people who knew her years before I did. So what if they didn’t get along when she was alive? They’d have anecdotes to share, memories I could borrow, a restorative glue to cover my heart. And I needed that glue.
Before I could change my mind, I hastily dialed the number and waited, holding my breath. Instead of Grace’s mom or dad picking up, an automatic message kicked in, telling me the line was no longer in service, which meant neither the card, nor the number, were recent.
My fifteen minutes were long up, and after all that, despite the sea of paper debris that made the room look as if a paper-hating burglar had busted in, I’d made no progress. If anything, I’d been catapulted back to the beginning, sailing past square one, and well beyond that, too.
CHAPTER NINE
By now I was seriously behind. I reluctantly gave up my search, fired off an apologetic text to Ronnie about being late on my first day back and drove to the address he’d sent. It was a street in a part of town with nothing but McMansions, each driveway built for a multitude of brand-new, shiny vehicles. We’d done the remodel of the client’s master bedroom two winters ago, but Ronnie had said they no longer approved of the shade of gray they’d chosen for their carpet, and wanted it replaced—all five hundred square feet of it—with another, almost identical.
As I parked the truck, I wondered what it must be like, when money was no object. It made me envious, sure, and it also felt as if a giant magnifying glass was being held up to all of my failings. It was my own problem. Grace had never cared about my lack of qualifications, or been particularly interested in money. She loved working at Ruby & Rose’s, her favorite part when she turned yet another reluctant kid into an avid reader, saw them come back, excited to devour more of the intricate worlds and unforgettable characters she’d introduced them to. She’d run the shop for a couple of years now, and her job had paid okay. Like so many, we managed between the two of us, although “managing” had never been my intention, certainly not when I was growing up.
I’d had visions of grandeur for my career, plans long abandoned since they literally went down the drain with the booze. While I was smart enough to understand money didn’t buy you happiness, I also couldn’t imagine how it would possibly hurt during shitty times such as these.
> Truck parked and locked, I walked to the front steps, slowing when it dawned on me the Chevy Silverado on the left side of the driveway belonged to Leila. The job was basic, and I hoped she wouldn’t stick around all day, or, better still, maybe Ronnie was inside because he’d borrowed her truck.
I’d never quite warmed to the Thompson Twins. While Leila had an incredible knack for design, a great business head and could sweet-talk the most nervous of customers, as soon as she spoke to her employees, she transformed into Cruella de Vil. On the plus side, she and Ronnie made sure my hours were consistent, and when the landscaping work ran low over the winter, they always needed help on renovations and flipping houses.
As I got to the top step, the front door opened and Leila walked out. She raised her eyebrows, then looked at her watch. “Did you get lost?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Had to get Logan to school. I sent Ronnie a message.”
Leila didn’t have children, but Ronnie’s four girls under the age of ten probably meant she knew school didn’t start this late. “You should’ve sent me one, too,” she said. “Our clients expect punctuality. So do I. Being on time sets us apart from the competition. You know that.”
“Yes, and I’m usually early. You know that.” When her eyes narrowed, I forced a smile and added, “It won’t happen again. Anyway, has the project changed, or—”
“No, they wanted input for their backyard kitchen.”
As she talked, I found my mind pinpointing the exact moment I’d become destined to build outrageously expensive outdoor kitchens that would be used only a few months a year, and not having the money to buy one instead.
I was eleven, had fallen into a bad crowd at my school in England whose behavior culminated one Tuesday afternoon when four of us stole a car. None of us knew how to drive properly, and we’d had pints of cider before we jumped the curb, almost sending a group of seniors to the hospital, or, as the police had told my parents, the morgue.
When a transfer to the US office in Albany came up at the insurance company Dad worked for, both he and Mom grabbed hold of it like Charlie Bucket to his golden ticket for the chocolate factory. Lisa thought going to study architecture at an American university would be awesome, and even put on a ridiculous accent until she noticed the original one garnered far more attention. Me, on the other hand, a gangly, sullen fourteen-year-old, moaned the idea of moving halfway across the world was “absolute total crap.” Despite vowing I’d hate America, I settled in quickly, loving the school and making friends—ones my parents approved of—finishing near the top of my class every year, getting two full scholarships to uni.
It was in the middle of an advanced calculus lesson, three months before the end of high school, when Lisa showed up. “It’s Mom and Dad,” she’d whispered, tears running down her face. “A lorry...it jackknifed and... Oh, Josh, they didn’t make it. Mom and Dad didn’t make it.”
Right there, in the middle of the high-school corridor, was the life-shattering moment that made the next decade of my life unravel. Nobody was surprised when I failed my engineering course and lost the scholarship, not considering how I drank myself beyond oblivion most days in an attempt to make myself either entirely numb, or synthetically happy. I hated myself even more when I became jealous of Lisa, who finished her degree in architecture and joined the ranks of a prestigious firm whose name I couldn’t be bothered to remember.
When I blew the small amount of money from my inheritance on a plane ticket to Sydney, I thought I’d leave my excess baggage behind, but I didn’t, despite bumming around, working odd jobs for cash under the table. When that finally ran out I called Lisa, who agreed to give me money only if I spent it on a ticket back to Albany, where I worked odd jobs and collected even more of an alcohol problem, a slew of traffic tickets and a DUI. By the time my thirtieth birthday loomed, I could barely look at myself, knew if I hadn’t been such a selfish, reckless teenage asshole, we’d never have moved to the States and my parents would still be alive—and I’d felt that way almost up until the day I’d met Grace.
“Have you listened to anything I’ve said?” Leila’s voice dragged me back to the front steps and the fifty shades of gray carpet I was supposed to care about.
“Sorry,” I said. “You want me to—”
Leila’s hands went to her hips. “Look, I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but you need to focus. I said you have to finish this job by three. The clients are leaving town.”
“Uh, that’s going to be a problem. I have an appointment at twelve.”
“Did you text Ronnie about that, too? Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have rearranged.”
“It’s a last-minute thing. A meeting with the lawyer. About guardianship for Logan.”
Her jaw muscles clenched, making tiny, sinewy movements as she considered her response, gracing me with a curt, “I see.”
I’d rarely asked for time off, had taken only a total of three sick days in more than five years, each day justified, and unpaid. Ronnie’s famous mantra was sick days are for wimps, which he’d proven by going to the office every day after he’d broken his leg in two places, needed a dozen pins, earning him the nickname Iron Man.
“How long will it take?” Leila said.
“About an hour. I’ll come back—”
“No, it’s fine.” She may as well have told me to go fuck myself. “Take the afternoon.”
“But I don’t need—”
She waved a hand, effectively dismissing and shutting me up, and walked down the steps to her truck without another word. Taking an unpaid afternoon was something I could ill afford, but challenging Leila and pissing her off even more wasn’t an option. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, hoping the day wouldn’t get any worse.
CHAPTER TEN
The next few hours were spent busting my ass, laying most of the carpet in an attempt to redeem myself with Leila. When I made it to Gingold, Garner & Greene’s offices with ten seconds to spare, Harlan’s assistant, Shirley, who always sported chunky necklaces that could drag her to the depths of a swimming pool, ushered me into his office, told me to make myself at home.
When Harlan walked in, he grabbed my hand. “Josh, good to see you. Have a seat.” He gestured to the tawny-colored, gold-studded leather chair opposite his desk, and I sank down, grateful to give my body a rest.
As he took out a yellow legal pad and one of his expensive pens, I wiped my hands on my thighs. I always kept a clean pair of sneakers in the truck and I’d changed into them earlier, but although my feet were clean, my frayed jeans and paint-splattered shirt definitely looked out of place amid the spotless oak desk, rows of shiny books and immaculate fish tank quietly bubbling in the corner.
Harlan was an older gentleman, about the age my dad would have been if he were still alive, with deep-set wrinkles around his eyes and a full head of dusty blond hair—the color where you can’t quite tell if it’s the original, or a more recently acquired silvery hue. From the little I knew about him as a lawyer and a client, and from what Ivan had said about the way his uncle ran the firm, Harlan wasn’t one to make the “blue collar, white collar” distinction. As far as he was concerned, without the people who’d made the desk he sat at, or the building that housed their offices, he’d be out of a job.
“I know I’ve said it before, but please accept my sincerest condolences,” Harlan said as Shirley brought in two cups of steaming tea. She put them in front of us before leaving the room, shutting the door softly behind her. “I’m sure asking how you and Logan are is premature, but not doing so would be callous, in my opinion. So, how are you both?”
I wrapped my hands around my cup, warming my fingers on the porcelain. “We’re coping. It’s, uh, an adjustment.”
“I completely understand. I felt that way when my first wife passed.”
“Of course, Ivan mentioned it. I’m so sorry.”
“As am I. Pancreatic cancer, twenty-five years ago.” He paused. “I wish I could tell you getting over losing your spouse is a fast and simple process, however, I’d be misleading you. What I can say is it gets easier with time...a lot of time.”
I wondered if he’d told himself that in the hope it would eventually become a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I didn’t ask in case he said it hadn’t worked. To busy myself I put my cup down and retrieved some paper and a pen from my backpack.
Harlan clasped his hands together, gave a quick nod. “Alright, let’s talk about Logan.”
“Well, it’s simple, I think,” I said. “I want to become his father. You know, legally.”
“I understand,” Harlan said. “Before you arrived I had a look at your file to refresh my memory. It’s a good thing we put the domestic partnership agreement together. I’d forgotten.”
“It was a few summers ago,” I said. “After we got talking about it in the yard.”
“Well, I’m glad we did,” Harlan said, “because, in its infinite wisdom, the great state of New York doesn’t recognize common-law marriage.”
I nodded, remembering the discussion I’d had with Grace about a week after she told me she still didn’t want to get married, probably never would.
“As far as I’m concerned—” she planted a kiss on my lips, slipped her arms around my neck “—we’re already husband and wife. I don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to prove it.”
“Well, that’s not what the law says.” It hadn’t dawned on me until later that I’d perhaps not quite taken the most romantic of angles, but a practical one nonetheless. “If anything happens to you, I wouldn’t be considered next of kin.”
Her Secret Son Page 5
