Still, the information was the first breakthrough for the man and well worth the price.
It hadn’t taken long to identify and trace the pilot’s flight path to São Miguel in the Azores.
46
CORVO
Sean stood outside his small island home, enjoying the early morning air before starting his hike up the Morro dos Homens, the highest point on the southern rim of the Caldeirão. He loved the spongy earth of the peat bogs of the caldera. They were some of his favorite places on the island. The bogs had been a good, natural reminder that the earth didn’t have to be solid or predictable under his feet in order for him to move ahead and enjoy the view.
On Corvo, Sean had found solace when the underpinnings of his life were ripped out.
His mother, whom he’d respected and loved for more than three decades, wasn’t who he thought.
His father wasn’t who he thought.
The way he’d arrived on this earth wasn’t how he thought.
He wasn’t who he thought.
Now it made sense why his middle name was Thomas. Why he didn’t have a generational Worthington first name or middle name like his brother and sister. Why his profile in the mirror wasn’t one of a Worthington. O’Hara, certainly, from his mother’s side, but not the Worthington nose his brother and sister had—the feature that seemed to mark every Worthington for generations. The Irish heritage side had definitely won out in his looks. Both his mother and Thomas had Irish blood running through their veins.
He shivered, thinking again of her betrayal. He’d asked her once, when he was in elementary school, why she’d named him Sean Thomas.
“Thomas is a good, solid name I’ve always loved,” she’d said. She hadn’t said, “Thomas is the name of my friend and your dad’s best friend who I slept with when your dad had to go out of town. He’s your real father.”
He winced. That sounded crass, but wasn’t it the truth?
His first name, meaning “God has favored,” was ironic. How could God favor him, a mistake? The product of a one-night love—lust—affair? Why would his mother name him that? Each time he thought deeply about the meaning of his name, he got angry all over again.
Does anyone else in the family know? Does Will? Sarah? Dad?
The questions had played like litanies through his mind for nearly two weeks until they were well worn and ragged around the edges. The only way to find out, he knew, was by returning to the States and asking his mom face-to-face. She’d lied to him once, which made her capable of lying again. That was why he had to look her in the eyes to know the truth. It was the only way he could be sure.
But he wasn’t ready for that yet. The heat of the betrayal was still too hot for him to handle facing her. He didn’t want to say anything he might regret later.
NEW YORK CITY
“One last question.” Sarah smiled at Marie. “I know we’ve taken a lot of your time.”
“Not at all, dearie. Those are my boys. I care about them with a mother’s heart. But I’m concerned. Is Justin all right?”
Darcy studied the headmistress. “You asked just about Justin. Any reason?”
Marie patted Darcy’s hand. “I know Michael is all right. Justin I’ve been concerned about for a long time.”
Little does she know, Sarah thought, but she wasn’t going to tell the older woman how Justin’s story had ended. At least not yet.
“Do you have a way to get in touch with Michael, other than mail at his apartment?” Sarah asked.
“Of course. Right now he’s in London, but we talk by phone, and I have his number. He also gave me the address you type into the computer, but I’ve never used it. I’m not into such newfangled things,” Marie whispered.
After riffling through her large purse, she extracted a dog-eared address book and jotted Michael’s phone and email address on a piece of paper. “Here.” She extended the paper to Sarah, then took it back again briefly to jot another note. “When he works in theater, he uses another name—Michael M. Madsen. That’s his mother’s maiden name. He never wanted to publicize his last name, Vara, because of what his father did. It was a terrible time in his life. Most folks know him now simply as Michael or Michael M. Madsen.”
Darcy and Sarah got up from their spots on the pew.
“Oh,” Marie said, looking flustered for a minute, “let me give you one more thing.” She extracted another sheet of notepaper from her purse and wrote a message on it. “When you find Justin, give this to him, would you?”
Sarah took the paper. How would this dear old woman take finding out the truth? “Is it all right if I make a copy of your contact information for myself?” she asked. Once the name was going to be released, Sarah would circle back and let Marie know what had happened to Justin before the press hit. The headmistress who truly cared for her former students deserved to know.
As they exited the massive stone church, Darcy and Sarah paused outside the door.
“So we find Michael Vara-Madsen, and we might find some answers,” Darcy said.
“Agreed. But how can we go about it so we don’t tip him off, if he did have something to do with the bombing?” Sarah asked.
“Jon,” both women said simultaneously.
“Bet he wouldn’t mind writing a piece about special-needs theater camps, if Michael is on the up-and-up,” Sarah said. “He told me once he has to have ‘evergreen’ pieces ready to go—human-interest stories that can be easily updated and slipped in if a hot news piece falls out at the last minute.”
“There you go,” Darcy declared.
Sarah would give him a call. She hailed a taxi and got in the back. Realizing she was still holding two pieces of paper in her hands, she opened Marie’s note.
Justin, my dear, I have missed you. Remember you have a home at St. Mark’s and in my heart. Call me anytime, day or night.
Fondly, Mrs. Chesterton
Sarah’s eyes misted. Her mother often said that people who worked with children and adults who had special needs were the salt of the earth. Marie Chesterton had proved that truth once again.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The man was brisk and businesslike as he mounted the stairs of the private jet that would take him to the Azores.
“Welcome aboard, sir.” The middle-aged pilot, experienced and confidential, greeted him at the doorway.
The man carried only a small overnight bag and his briefcase. He wouldn’t need more than a couple changes of clothes and the packet in his briefcase. A quick phone call to someone high up in the Portuguese government had ensured that his plane would be able to land without delay and that he wouldn’t need to go through the usual customs check.
No one but himself and the pilot was on board. The pilot already had his instructions. No further conversation was needed. The man liked it that way—quiet, simple, streamlined.
His contact had already caught a flight from New York to Boston, and then to São Miguel. They’d meet at the hotel on the island.
If Sean was in São Miguel, the man would do what he needed to do.
47
CORVO
Midway up the Morro dos Homens, the question that had cropped up the most on Sean’s hikes assaulted him again. Did Thomas know?
How could he get my mother pregnant and not know? Sean’s pragmatic side argued. Or at least consider the possibility she might become pregnant from their tryst?
Sean’s anger kicked in. Or had Thomas callously done the deed and then let her leave Camp David, never following through to make sure she was okay? Had Thomas waited for the right moment to seduce Ava? To take advantage of her? Especially with the convenience of his wife returning to the White House? Did Thomas bribe the Secret Service detail to keep a few hours of the president’s dalliances private from the rest of the world?
If so, Sean’s disregard and distaste for the Rich family grew even more.
Then reality struck. Sean himself was part of the family he lambasted from time to time. No wonder Mom ch
ided me when I did that. I was attacking my own father and half brother.
Had Thomas wanted to know he conceived a son out of wedlock when he was president of the United States? Did he ever see Sean in the society pages and wonder at any resemblance? Especially with my middle name being Thomas?
And what role exactly did Ava play? Was naming him Thomas her backhanded slap at the man who had used her? Or an attempt to give Sean a bit of the father he would never know?
A new possibility startled him, and he sank onto a large volcanic rock nearby. Was her interlude with Thomas her way to get the second baby she’d wanted? She had told Sean how long she’d waited to have him. Did her longing and desperation for that baby drive her into another man’s arms?
He clasped his head in both hands. Was he judging Thomas wrongly? Had Thomas agreed somehow to be a surrogate lover in order to produce the child his university friend longed for?
If so, did Bill know about the arrangements? Had he even been part of the planning? Was that why Bill had to leave Camp David? Because he couldn’t handle seeing his wife in the arms of another man, even if it was to produce a Worthington baby? And why he had been the hardest on Sean, of the three children? Because he knew Sean wasn’t really his child?
Overwhelmed, Sean gasped for air. He struggled to sort through logically what he knew was fact and what was guesswork.
The two families had stopped seeing each other after that summer at Camp David. Was it simply because both men got too busy with their high-profile careers? Bill with growing Worthington Shares, and Thomas with being president of the United States for two back-to-back terms and then the host of philanthropic ventures that followed? That was the explanation Sean had accepted over the years, at least the one time he’d cared to ask. To him, the Riches were merely faces on a society page, figures who held high government positions. They didn’t have anything to do with him, so he didn’t track them.
Now he tried to recall anything Ava, Bill, or Will had said about the Riches.
Ava hadn’t said much, other than giving Sean that stern mom look when he vocalized his view of Spencer Rich as president. But Sean had seen her flipping through her Harvard yearbook from time to time and had come across multiple pictures in a university scrapbook she’d made of herself, Bill, and Thomas, arms around each other’s shoulders.
Before Camp David, the families had made a point of attending each other’s key events. Sean remembered seeing a picture of Ava and Bill, married not even a year, with Thomas at his wedding. Victoria was not in the photo—only the three Harvard schoolmates. When Sean had joked once about the missing bride, his mother had simply said, “Victoria is . . . different. From the best of circles and very beautiful. But I think Thomas married too quickly.”
Had Thomas done that because his heart had been broken by Ava marrying Bill?
Bill, come to think of it, had never mentioned Thomas by name in front of Sean. Odd, since they had been inseparable for three years at Harvard. The only reference Sean could remember was when the media reported on President Spencer Rich throwing a tantrum in the Oval Office. An intern had seen the display and let it slip to the outside world—and she’d since been dismissed. Bill had commented, “Like father, like son,” in disgust.
Ava had frowned and said, “Bill . . .” in that warning voice she had.
Would Bill have said that about his best friend at Harvard unless something or someone had come between them? Had Thomas also been in love with Ava, but Bill had won the prize? Or did Bill know about what happened at Camp David?
Will had once told Sean his memories of that time were fuzzy. He only recalled being glad when Spencer Rich left with his mother, since Spencer was a bully. Will preferred to explore Camp David solo.
No matter how much Sean raked his memory, he couldn’t come up with any further discussion about the Rich family.
Why did the families stop seeing each other? Was it because Ava knew she was pregnant? Or because Thomas and Ava wanted to hide their affair? Perhaps they feared that communication between the two families would allow hints of the truth to slip. Or that Bill would note the subtle exchanges between Thomas and Ava, and he might start to do the math on Sean’s birth.
The questions grated, rubbing his heart raw, because he had no answers. He might never have answers. He had to decide how to live with that, or if it was possible to live with that.
Sean scanned the mountain that still rose at least 1,000 feet above him. Then he stared at the over 1,000-foot drop to the bottom of the caldera.
NEW YORK CITY
“Sure, I can go after a potential human-interest story on special-needs kids and theater,” Jon said. “That’s a unique spin my boss would like for a fill-in piece anyway.”
Sarah gave Jon the contact info. She knew once the project was in Jon’s hands, they’d get the answers they were looking for.
Jon had an understated but persistent way of extracting information that relaxed people. By the time the interview ended, that person had been added to his social network and was already in the category of loyal advocate. That was just Jon. It was one of the many admirable qualities that had made him one of the best reporters in New York City.
PONTA DELGADA, PORTUGAL
The man disembarked from the private jet at Nordela Airport in Ponta Delgada. He was waved through Portuguese security and escorted immediately to the hotel where a red-haired American and a pilot had supposedly stayed for a day nearly two weeks ago. His contact had done well, pulling the appropriate strings to prepare for his arrival.
There a meal awaited him—red mashed peppers served with fresh cheese, mackerel with a flavorful sauce, tea pudding feito, and fresh pineapple. It was the best local fare that São Miguel Island had to offer. In spite of the task ahead of him, the man enjoyed every bite while his source ferreted out additional information. One chatty busboy said the red-haired American had asked a lot of questions about Flores—the temperature, the weather, sites not to miss—in his short stay at the hotel in Ponta Delgada.
The next move wasn’t even a decision. It was common sense. After a night’s sleep, the man, his contact, and the pilot would be off to Flores.
The man lingered over a locally manufactured cigar, then retired to the same room where the red-haired American had stayed. He nodded in satisfaction. His contact was indeed thorough in his arrangements.
They were closing in on their target.
48
CORVO
It was midafternoon, and Sean was nearing the end of his goal—to reach the top of the Morro dos Homens. For the past hour, the peak had been shrouded in a murky mist, much like his cluttered thoughts.
They circled back to perhaps the biggest question of all—why? Why had his regal, do-no-wrong, reared-with-the-highest-morals mother fallen into an affair or chosen to have an affair? The fact she had done one or the other was irrefutable. Sean was living proof.
Heaviness descended, and dark thoughts taunted him. She was weak. Willing and ready to fall into his arms. All they needed was a time and a place. If not for that mistake, you wouldn’t be alive. You are a mistake. That’s why you’ve felt at odds with life, like you never fit.
The heaviness crushed him to his knees and shortened his breath. He closed his eyes in agony.
End the mistake, the dark voice insinuated. Step off the top of the mountain. Simple as that.
Sean grabbed his head with both hands. “No,” he whispered. “I will not.”
A quietness settled. Yes, she was weak, a gentle voice said. Fragile because she was lonely. Fragmented. Craving love.
In a flood Sean’s own loneliness in the past couple of months swept over him. I’m lonely. Feeling fragmented. Craving love. A memory of the night he met the exotic woman in the bar surfaced. She’d offered herself to him.
Would it really matter if I give in? he’d wondered. He was in a far-flung location. No one would know. He relived the two of them in the hallway. Her touch in just the right place. His
craving that touch and more. Intense desire had weakened his resolve.
So what had stopped him?
The same gentle voice that spoke to him now. The voice that told him to stay on the right path.
The mist began to clear from his head.
He had been so close to doing the same thing his mother had. Only one step and a hotel room door away. Who was he to judge her? He’d almost made the same mistake . . . with a stranger.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” he rasped, his throat clogged with emotion. “So sorry.”
Loneliness and the pain of the revelation intensified into an agonizing knot in his stomach, forcing gut-wrenching sobs. He didn’t know how long he lay on the damp ground or if he fell asleep.
When he at last had the strength, he struggled to his knees, then rose slowly. He opened his eyes and stared in wonder. He was at the top of the Morro dos Homens, surrounded by brilliant blue sky, with a panorama of green valley, rocky cliffs, and shimmering azure waters far below.
His clothing was damp, as if a light rain had misted him.
A Wilson’s storm petrel circled nearby. He’d seen them on the island in groups, but this one was solo. Small in size and seemingly a weak flyer, it was yet a bird that weathered the roughest of seas around the world but always came home to the far southern oceans to nest.
“I understand,” Sean said. He was like that bird, weathering the roughest of seas solo. It would be his choice, his determination that would take him home.
To those who are given much, much is required, the gentle voice said.
Sean nodded. His perspective was now unfettered. He knew the path ahead.
NEW YORK CITY
It wasn’t even his usual lunchtime yet, but Will had been antsy and uneasy all morning. Stepping out of the Worthington office building, he headed for Central Park. He needed a brisk walk to take the edge off the foreboding. He hadn’t been able to concentrate.
Is there something I should have done differently? He couldn’t let the question go. It tormented him.
A Powerful Secret Page 17
