Surrender to You

by Shawntelle Madison

  He smiled at me and the burdens I carried overnight lifted a bit. “Hey, Jason!”

  “What’s up?”

  He slowly grinned. “I know you didn’t want my help…”

  “No, I didn’t.” I immediately knew where this was going, but it was hard for me to be mad about it.

  “I had my boys do some looking and I’ve got some good news for you. According to my guy, he’s narrowed down the number of Patricia Halls to four. He’s followed one of them and figured out that she wasn’t your mother.”

  “How was that?”

  “You don’t look Dominican to me.”

  “So? There are white people there.”

  “Good point. If you’re Dominican though, I’ve read you wrong this whole time.”

  I snorted. “You haven’t seen everything.”

  He was quiet for a bit. When I moved to leave, he spoke up. “I do have more news for you…I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

  My heart sank. “What’s wrong?”

  “I found Frank Hall, your father.”

  Dread sucked me in, and I knew what he was about to say before he spoke. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry, Carlie. We found a death certificate.”

  I hurried to change the subject. Mourning the loss of my dad would happen tonight when I could be alone. “So what about the last three? Can I get addresses? Maybe check them out on my own?”

  His eyebrow rose. “Are you sure? You just found out—”

  “Why not?”

  He slowly nodded, understanding. “Got any time off coming soon?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We could go check it out.”

  “Only with dinner and a movie, too?”

  “Not really, I’m not the movie type.”

  I chuckled. “You’re more live action.”

  He tilted his head when a woman across the room smiled at him from her group of friends. “You could say that.”

  “Look, I’ve got Tuesday off. I owe a friend of mine a shopping trip, so how about we go after that?” I picked up his old drink since I had a fresh one to replace it. I’d be back in an hour with another refill.

  “Sounds good.”

  I pushed his fresh cup of green goo his way. “Drink up, Carver. I can’t have you passing out on me since you snuck some pie this morning.”

  “Your kitchen is full of traitors.”

  I took a step back and tried to fight the rising discomfort in my stomach. Carver’s news was finally sinking in. “Thanks again for everything.”

  “Not a problem. Stan’s happy he doesn’t have to chase after deadbeats for a while.” He shrugged.

  I turned away to take the old drink back to the kitchen. When I glanced over my shoulder briefly, I caught Carver looking away.

  —

  Doing a memorial for a man I didn’t know proved difficult that night. I would’ve liked to think I had more in me than a large bouquet of white lilies and two boxes of organic, gluten-free fried chicken TV dinners, but that’s what I had. Damn, I wished I could cook something nice.

  With everything arranged nicely on my tiny kitchenette table, I turned on my TV and switched the channel to ESPN. I mean, hey, why not? If my dad were like me, he’d appreciate a good time watching hockey instead of a dried-up drama on the next channel.

  I touched the flowers fondly and managed a half smile.

  “Here’s looking at you, Dad…” I raised my glass of port to the flowers and then took a sip. On the second sip, my glass didn’t make it to my mouth as a singular thought slammed into my gut: I didn’t even get a chance to say hello.

  The pain hurt worse than one of my stomachaches.

  I didn’t even have a picture of him to recall his face. I didn’t even have any tears to give him, either.

  A tiny bite of food reached my mouth and I grimaced. The breading on the chicken tasted horrific, too. My dad probably would’ve gotten a laugh out of that one. I’d like to think he had a sour sense of humor like mine.

  The mixed vegetables weren’t too bad, so I had a nice little vegetarian meal. Tumbleweeds floated past the chicken.

  A fistfight between two players broke out and I smiled wistfully. “That’s the last time I’m eating that shit, Dad.”

  —

  Two days later, as I’d promised Penny and her roommate Lana, we went out to lunch and browsed a few shops beforehand. Promise wasn’t the right word. Perhaps coerced would be better. I let them choose our lunch—and they chose an Italian restaurant off Boylston Street near the Boston Public Garden—so I got to be tortured the whole time. Even with the perfect clear skies and the expansive view of the gardens across the street, I thought I’d die from watching them eat.

  “Oh, c’mon,” Penny spouted as she devoured the final bites of her chicken parmesan. “The least you can do is spend some time with me. I had to reschedule a few key clients today.”

  Lana grinned as she finished her chicken cacciatore. Oh man, that aroma is killing me softly. The pretty redhead, Sophie’s and Penny’s roommate and a first-year medical student, had tagged along for a free meal.

  I glanced down at my plate. My meal was a chicken Caesar salad with the soup of the day: chicken noodle. If I saw another piece of chicken this week, I’d scream and start running. Penny got me a menu with the gluten-free options, but after last night’s subpar meal, I wasn’t too excited about eating gluten-free at the moment. What I craved was the taste of foods I shouldn’t eat. It was almost like comparing wheat bread to white bread. Both were delicious, don’t get me wrong, but your taste buds damn well knew the difference between the two. And right now I’d do a table dance to have a full plate of gluten-filled spaghetti topped with meat sauce and huge-ass meatballs. Sprinkle some parmesan on that sucker and I’d be the happiest belle at the ball, but I knew it’d screw up my digestive tract, so I ate one of the healthiest things on the menu.

  I’d just have to adapt, and that meant watching them eat. While they were eating, I got Penny caught up on my search for my parents.

  “I’m so sorry about your dad,” Penny said as she scraped her plate. I was grateful for the noise. “At least you’re one step closer to finding your mom. How do you like working at Goodfellow Tower?”

  “It’s fine. Just another hotel.”

  “You sound bored.” The waiter took Penny’s plate. One less distraction.

  “I just want to find my mother and get back to the U.K. I’m meeting this guy in a bit to go check out someone.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Lana added. “Maybe this lady will be your mom.”

  I couldn’t help smiling from the warm feeling I kept having at the thought.

  “Maybe she might be—but don’t let your heart get broken. Just because you can find her doesn’t mean she wants to be found—” Penny began.

  “Don’t do this shit,” I said, trying to sound nice. “This is important to me, Penny.” Over the years, I’d gotten a less than enthusiastic response from Penny and Sophie. Neither of them had ever expressed an interest in finding out their own origins.

  Those people abandoned you, Penny would quip. The way I see it, my bios did me a favor when they left me wandering the streets. Sophie’s mom had left her at the hospital, but my situation was different. I had been left in foster care at around eight months old. Which meant for several months, my mother had held me, fed me when I’d cried, and loved me.

  That’s what I want to believe.

  Fifteen minutes later, we wrapped up lunch, but Penny’s words weighed heavily on me. Lana said her goodbyes and ran to catch a bus while Penny lingered with her chatty self. As usual.

  I caught Carver coming around the corner. He strode up to us wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. His usual ensemble for Dante’s Second Floor.

  I turned to Penny. “Okay, so I don’t want to keep you from your plans for the day. I’m sure there’s somebody with a boner waiting for your call—”

  “Hey, Carli
e.” He towered over all of us—even tall, modelesque Penny.

  She glanced from me to Carver. The sly grin on her face widened. “Is this the friend you’re meeting?”

  “Yeah.” I introduced Penny to Carver Murphy.

  She reached out, and they shook hands. “Nice, big hands,” she remarked.

  Oh, hell the fuck no. She used the voice. This guy was a client at my hotel and not one of her phone sex customers.

  I faked checking my cellphone. “Looks like we should get going.”

  “My car is around the corner,” Carver said. He looked Penny up and down with interest and I tried to hold back a laugh. With Carver in front of me, I couldn’t fill Penny in on what kind of man he was, but they were grown-ass adults, they’d figure it out.

  “Mind if I tag along?” Penny asked. “For moral support, of course.”

  “Do you mind?” I asked him. Penny was one of my besties. As long as she kept her mouth shut.

  “Not a problem.” He led us back to his black Lincoln Navigator and he got into the driver’s seat.

  Boylston Street was packed with cars. I was surprised he’d found a parking space.

  As I slid into the passenger seat, I saw the look of pure joy on Penny’s face and shook my head with a smile. Who was I to deny her some man candy?

  “What’s that smell?” I asked. The whole interior, from the polished leather seats to the pimped-out dashboard, smelled minty with a hint of something saccharine.

  “That’s spiced candy. The kind you get during Christmas.” He headed north until we hit Storrow Drive.

  As we drove west down the six-lane parkway, I asked about the smell. “Why no new-car smell?” I asked with a laugh.

  “You’re asking the man with a sugar addiction why his car smells like this?”

  Good point.

  We drove for a bit and I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking so I placed them in my lap. “So where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” His smile was reassuring. “Are you sure you want to come along?”

  “I’ve been waiting so long to do this.” Even Penny’s jokes wouldn’t pry me from this car.

  For the rest of the way, we drove in silence to the southwest—until Penny sent me a text message: hey c, has tall, dark, and tasty got a girlfriend?

  Me: I dunno. I don’t ask that kind of thing.

  Penny: oh lawd, he is fine. I just want to rub his bald head against my tits.

  Me: you are so wrong for that…

  Penny: don’t be mad ’cause my rack is bigger than yours.

  Me: whatever, just be nice to him.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught Penny’s fingers creeping up the side of the seat. She’d almost reached his arm when Carver spoke up.

  “How long have you two known each other?” Carver asked me.

  “Since we were kids. We grew up together,” I replied.

  “So where did you meet Carlie?” Penny asked. She knew damn well where I’d met him and pried like a pro.

  “I travel a lot, but for the past couple of weeks I’ve been staying at the hotel where your friend works,” he said.

  “Oh, really.” She leaned forward in the seat, placing her hands on his shoulders. Penny was practically straining against the seat belt. “Even though I work from home, I adore traveling. Where do you hail from?”

  “Chicago born and bred. And you?”

  “New York City.”

  The two continued to gab, but when Carver turned off onto Elm Street in the Sumner Hill neighborhood of Jamaica Plain, my breath quickened and sweat lined my palms. Their conversation faded away and I took in every street and nook and cranny. Was this my mom and dad’s neighborhood? Had they lived here for years before my dad passed away? This historic district was one of the nicer ones. Not as well-to-do as Back Bay, but if my mom lived here that meant she’d done well for herself.

  From one tree-lined street to another, turn after turn, anticipation built in my stomach.

  Finally, we reached a street with a beautiful cobblestone wall. All the houses along this street, many of them offset from the road, were breathtaking, ornate Italianate-style homes. I’d always been a sucker for classical architecture. Our final destination was a beautiful mustard yellow house, with dark brown trim, sheltered among oak trees. The lot wasn’t too big, but the small circular driveway boasted the owner’s wealth.

  Carver got out of the car first and I motioned that I wanted to follow.

  “Stay here,” he said. “Let me check things out first.”

  “Please.” I grabbed his arm. The thick muscle under my palm flexed. “I won’t say anything. Even if she doesn’t want to meet me, I’d like to see her.”

  He didn’t move and continued to look at the house as if he was considering what I’d asked him. I spoke again before he could change his mind. “I promise to behave.”

  In the backseat, I caught Penny shaking her head. For once, she was silent.

  Carver took the lead and I followed him up the cobblestone path. Just seeing the tri-level house up close left me in awe. This place had to be in the millions of dollars. Was my mother loaded?

  Carver walked up to the double red doors and knocked. I swallowed down my apprehension and waited to see who would answer the door. Would a haughty butler answer?

  A short Indian woman answered and my disappointment was immediate. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re looking for Patricia Hall. I work for a private investigation firm.”

  The woman’s face scrunched up with concern. “I’m sorry but if you have any legal matters for me, you should contact my husband.” She took a step back and the door closed a bit.

  She isn’t my birth mother.

  Carver took a step back and I followed his lead. Now that I thought about it, a stranger walking up to my house and asking for me would creep me out, too. “No problem. We meant no harm. Thank you, Mrs. Hall, for your time.”

  My feet shuffled on the pavement during our trip back to the car. Instead of getting into the seat, I wanted to keep going. A headache formed at the back of my skull and the feeling of disappointment settled into my chest.

  “We’ve still got two more people to check out,” Carver said softly.

  I forced a smile on my face. “That means she might be out there.”

  He tapped my shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear, Jason.”

  I was headed home empty-handed, but at least the buoyancy of my spirits remained high.

  Chapter 17

  Carlie

  Just two more mystery women separated me from learning about my mom, and I refused to let Carver’s people make the introductions without me—which meant I needed another day off.

  Toss in a conference on domesticated dog reproduction and you’re one busy chick.

  As usual, my alarm clocks didn’t go off as expected. The siren noise, which got me a complaint from my noisy neighbors, didn’t do its job of drop-kicking me out of slumber.

  I stumbled out of bed and hurried to get a dose of coffee. Would you believe there were coffee drinks with gluten? The astounding number of products with gluten was more than frustrating.

  Those crunchy breakfast bars you hoard at the back of your cabinet—yep, they got wheat.

  Those tasty tacos cooked on food trucks that sizzle every time you walk by—cruelty of all cruelties, those were jam-packed with wheat, too. Even a personal favorite I could microwave in a hurry, oatmeal with blueberries, was now off-limits.

  In the last few weeks, my life had changed in too many ways. I scratched the side of my face and scanned what I had to eat. Organic, gluten-free bars that had a strange aftertaste, muffins from a gluten-free bakery downtown that I saved for bad days—like yesterday—and the coup de grâce, the one thing I refused to throw away: a wrapped-up loaf of sourdough bread from one of the best bakeries in Boston.

  I opened the package and sniffed the stuff like a junkie teetering on giving in. What
I wouldn’t give right now for a donut stuffed with vanilla custard, a side of pancakes, and a whole-wheat bagel.

  Of course, just thinking of pancakes made me think of Tomas.

  I opened the bag again, took another hit, and then hurried to get dressed. I wouldn’t be able to afford to stay here if I didn’t make a living wage. By the time I threw on my heels and a dab of perfume, I scampered back to the bag of bread.

  Only to see a bit of mold growing on the bottom.

  Good things don’t last forever.

  I released a very long sigh.

  “Consult a dietitian while you’re in the U.S., Ms. Jason,” my physician had reminded me.

  I knew what I needed to do: I had to change my lifestyle and not live the life I wanted to live. Growing up, I ate whatever was given to me and now I had to make do with this change.

  By the time I reached the hotel, the place was packed with conference attendees standing in line. All the clerks were present, but just seeing how busy things were told me I wouldn’t see my mother anytime soon.

  Two hours later, I was in the middle of the mix at the hotel and I could barely stand up. What I wouldn’t give to eat my old breakfast. The line never seemed to end and the conference attendees were out-of-towners who needed hand-holding. Their needs ranged from last-minute tickets to the Boston Opera House to exclusive arrangements at the premier golf courses. Could I make arrangements for a family of six to visit the aquarium? Maybe I could help with a seafood dinner for a party of sixteen? Half of the time, the hardest part about working during a conference was remembering the needs of each client and reacting appropriately when you saw them again.

  Not once did I see Tomas.

  He was the owner though, what reason did he have to be on the front lines with the soldiers?

  As hard as I tried to tell myself I didn’t care, I couldn’t shake the anticipation around each corner.

  Once the line at the check-in desk was under control, I had to make sure another group of buyers would arrive to the conference room for another meeting. That meant a few phone calls to their assistants, or in this case, one of the buyers who didn’t have one. “Bien sûr, Monsieur Denis. I’ll take you to the meeting personally if you’d like.”