by Jean Stone
Ginny laughed. “I wasn’t real shocked, Jess.”
“I was. Father paid them two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Two hundred grand?” Ginny shrieked over the line. “That was a freaking fortune back then! Well, I guess some of us had it. Some of us didn’t.”
“Apparently Miss Taylor did,” Jess said, then added with a sigh, “Or she got it. Fifty thousand, anyway.”
“Maybe your father gave it to her.”
“But I remember seeing the entries in his checkbook. He paid a thousand dollars every month, too. Why would he give her more?”
“Who knows. Maybe she was sleeping with him, too.”
“Ginny …”
“Sorry. My mistake.”
Jess tried to ignore Ginny’s comment. “Well,” she said, “there was no mistake about one thing. Miss Taylor’s records said my baby went to the Hawthornes.”
“And mine went to the Andrews,” Ginny said. “And P.J.’s to the Archambaults, and Susan’s to—oh, Christ, I can’t remember who got her kid.”
“The Radnors.”
“Right. From New Jersey.”
Jess laughed. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“You might say your little reunion was rather a significant event in my life. Hey—I wonder if Susan’s kid ever tried to find her.”
“I don’t think so. I had a note from her at Christmas. She married some college professor named Bert and they were going to England to teach at Oxford.”
“Yuck. All that tweed and wool. I’m sure she’ll be quite happy.”
Jess did not bother to agree that Susan Levin had not been one of their favorite people: older, wiser, sedate Susan Levin, who had never quite fit in with the immature, fantasy-driven teenagers. Susan, who had been so stiff-upper-lipped when she learned her son had not wanted to meet his birth mother, that he was content to know only his adoptive parents. Jess once again remembered the reunion, and how ironic it had been that Ginny’s story had turned out best.
“Ginny … Should I forget about this?”
“And do what? Go crazy every time you get another letter or another phone call?”
“But what if it’s just a prank?”
“Look, kid, maybe it is. But why? It makes no sense why someone would do this, unless it’s for real.”
Jess did not mention Charles, or the fact that Chuck had been in Boston. She did not want to bring her own family under suspicion, even to Ginny, who would never be shocked.
“Here’s what there is,” Ginny continued. “You’ve got a letter from Martha’s Vineyard that says it’s from your baby. Followed by a weird phone call. Now you tell me there’s a note saying Miss T. was paid fifty grand for who knows what.” Jess listened quietly, trying to absorb Ginny’s words. “They may not be connected, but if I were you, I’d want to know. Fifty grand—thirty years ago—reeks of something shady.”
Part of Jess had hoped that Ginny would not react the same way that she had. “But what should I do? I can go to the Vineyard, but where would I begin?” She heard the tap-tapping of Ginny’s fingernails on some surface.
“Hire someone,” she finally said. “Somebody who’d care.”
“Like a private investigator? How do I do that? Look through the phone book?”
There was another long pause over the phone line, then Ginny asked, “Hey—what about P.J.’s son? Wasn’t he in law school?”
“Phillip?” She had a quick-flash memory of a handsome boy. “Yes … he’s probably a lawyer by now.”
“Then as they say in the courtrooms—I rest my case.”
Chapter 6
Phillip Archambault despised playing racquetball. Running was his favorite sport; he preferred to compete against himself rather than others, which was probably not the appropriate attitude for an up-and-coming corporate attorney. Then again, it wasn’t Phillip who had wanted to be a corporate attorney, but his brother Joseph. It was Joseph who had bought him a desk and a briefcase and a health club membership long before Phillip had taken his boards.
They had kept the same storefront office on the Lower East Side that their father had worked out of for nearly thirty years, though Joseph—more inclined toward dollars than sense—was determined to take it uptown, or, at the very least, midtown. Which was why Phillip was at the Manhattan Health and Racquet Club now, playing a game that he despised, trying to win over the thirty-something CEO of McGinnis and Smith—computer gurus on the fast track to global software greatness. Joseph dreamed that Archambault and Archambault would be along for the ride. And Phillip felt destined to help his brother’s dream come true.
“Game!” Ron McGinnis roared with a crack of his racquet and a slam of the ball against the wall. A victorious grin broke through the sweat that trickled down his face. “Good match, Phillip,” he said. “You’re getting better.”
Wiping his brow, the young attorney returned the smile. “Apparently not good enough.”
“You put up a fight. Which is just what McGinnis and Smith needs.” He grabbed a towel from the floor and headed for the door. “Wish I could catch another game, but there’s a board meeting at three.”
It was not news to Phillip: Ron’s partner, Ed Smith, had already told Joseph that they would be presenting the Archambault and Archambault credentials to the board today, that today the decision about the next legal counsel for the firm would be made. Until recently, McGinnis had seemed unwavering in his choice of Brad Eckerman—a hotshot Wall Street type who had been an instrumental force in the Microsoft-Apple deal. But Ed Smith wanted to throw their business to Joseph and Phillip: Joseph, after all, had been a frat brother, and frat brothers trusted frat brothers no matter what the odds.
Phillip tipped his hand in a semisalute. “Then we’ll talk later,” he said, walking to the corner where the racquetball lay silent, its energy depleted, its duty done.
McGinnis waved and went out the small door, leaving Phillip alone in the tall-ceilinged, wood-walled cell. He stood for a moment and listened to the muted echoes of other balls against other walls, other deals being banged out in the macho-sweat rhythm of the prestigious club that Joseph had insisted they join.
“Fifty thousand dollars a year?” Phillip had moaned. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Look at it this way,” Joseph had rationalized over pastrami sandwiches at the deli next to the office. “If we lived in the burbs we’d have to join a golf club. How much do you think that would cost?”
“But we could hire a real secretary for fifty thousand! God, Joseph, can’t we just get clients on our merits? Not on our athletic performance?”
“Little brother, you have much to learn,” Joseph said, sinking his teeth into his pastrami and dismissing further talk.
Phillip picked up the ball now and slipped it into his leather bag. Joseph probably would have wanted him to follow Ron into the locker room, to continue the back-and-forth banter of bullshit so seemingly crucial to winning a client. But Phillip’s arms ached, his head ached, and he’d done the best he could.
After all, he reminded himself as he left the room, he’d really rather be running.
Back at the office, Phillip arranged and rearranged the pens in his desk drawer, pretending not to notice the clock that said 3:07, pretending that he didn’t care about the outcome of the McGinnis and Smith board meeting.
But damn it, he did care. For all the differences of opinion he had with his brother, Phillip knew that Joseph had their best interests at heart, as he always had, as he always would. Phillip had still been an undergraduate when their father died; Joseph, two years out of law school. It was Joseph who had worked while Phillip finished law school; Joseph who had told their mother she needn’t worry, that he had a plan in which he and Phillip could save their father’s law firm and take care of her forever. Phillip, of course, had agreed.
He glanced at the clock again and wondered how long the board meeting would last. And if Joseph’s tie to Ed Smith would carry any weight at all.
<
br /> He would rather it didn’t. He wanted their success to be based on his hard work alone. Phillip had spent the past eighteen months researching the firm, researching other software companies, studying copyright and the new Internet laws that hadn’t even existed a decade ago when Joseph graduated from Columbia. It was dull, tedious work, but Joseph expected him to do it, and do it well. And he had. Now he wanted to make his brother—and mother—proud. Even if it meant playing racquetball for the rest of his natural life.
Joseph stuck his head into Phillip’s office. “Don’t forget that Mom’s expecting us for dinner.” He glanced at his watch. “Maybe we’ll be able to bring her good news.”
Phillip continued to straighten his pens. He wished that just once he could stay in the city on a Wednesday night, maybe go to bed in his loft apartment early, maybe even watch some mindless TV. “When do you think we’ll hear?”
“I expect by four.”
Phillip nodded.
“It’s a shoo-in, little brother. Don’t sweat it.”
“Hey, I’m not sweating,” he lied.
But a few minutes later, when the receptionist-for-a-day buzzed the phone on Phillip’s desk, he could feel the sweat on his forehead and his heart began to race. Dropping the pens, he reached over and lifted the receiver.
“Yes, Marilyn.”
“I’m not Marilyn. She’s the girl you had last week. I’m Sandy, remember?”
Phillip closed his eyes. “Right. Sandy. What is it?” But he knew by the flashing red light on line one that there was a phone call, and it was for him. A short burst of pride that McGinnis and Smith would call him—not Joseph—was quickly replaced by a moment of dread: maybe they didn’t want to call Joseph because it was bad news; maybe Ed didn’t have the guts to tell a frat brother he was out before he was in.
“You have a call on line one.”
“Did they say who it was?”
Her pause was unnerving. “Well, no, did you want me to ask?”
“That would have been nice.”
“Well, sorry. Do you want me to find out?”
“No, no, Sandy, it’s all right. I’ll take it.”
But before he cut her off, the receptionist added, “I didn’t want to pry. On account of it’s some woman.”
A woman? What woman would be calling him? It must be his mother. God knew he’d been too busy to date in, well, too long. But as he reached for the button to access line one, Phillip had another thought. Maybe it was Ron McGinnis’s assistant. Maybe Ron was too chicken to be the bearer of bad news. God, Phillip groaned as he punched in the button, I hate being a lawyer.
“Is this Phillip?” asked a female voice. “Phillip Archambault?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Phillip. I don’t know if you remember me. We met a few years ago.…”
A filmstrip of faces clicked through his mind of girls he had dated and women he’d known. But none in his memory matched the soft voice he heard now. “Go on,” he said.
“It’s Jess Randall, Phillip. I was a friend of … of P.J.’s. Remember?”
The filmstrip stopped, the faces dissolved. And in their place came the clear vision of a beautiful woman, her head wrapped in a turban, her emerald green eyes locking onto his own. P.J. The beautiful woman who had at last taken his hand and held it in her own. The woman who had been his birth mother, whom he never would have known had it not been for Jess Randall.
It was Jess who had found Phillip, Jess who had brought him to meet her, Jess who had been responsible for those months of special love that Phillip had found before P.J. died.
“Jess,” he said quietly. “Gosh. It’s so good to hear from you. How are you?” He quickly brushed something away from his cheek; he was not surprised that it was a tear.
“I’m fine, thanks. And you’re doing well. A law firm in Manhattan?”
“Well,” he laughed, then glanced up at the wall again, suddenly remembering that his future was in the hands of the clock. “It was my father’s. We’re struggling, but it’s going okay.”
“I know. I got your number from your … mother. She’s very proud of her boys.”
“Yeah, well, mothers are like that.” And, he reminded himself, Jeanine Archambault was his mother. It had been Jeanine Archambault who had raised Phillip, sacrificed for him, loved him every day. Loved him as much as she did his brother, Joseph, who had also been adopted, who was also “special,” a chosen child. He was glad he’d never told Jeanine that he’d met P.J. He would not hurt her for anything in the world. Besides, telling Joseph had been stupid enough. “So what can I do for you, Jess?”
“I need to see you, Phillip. Are you free for lunch, maybe next week?”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is. It’s business, I’m afraid. Though I’d love to see you even if it weren’t.”
He remembered the small, gentle woman who had been so kind when he had been so scared. Looking at his calendar, Phillip said, “I can’t make it until Thursday. Is that okay?”
She paused a moment, then said, “Thursday is fine. I’ll come into the city. Shall I meet you at your office?”
“No,” Phillip said abruptly, not wanting to take the chance that Joseph would be there, that Joseph would demand to know why Jess had come and what trouble she intended to stir up this time. “Let’s meet at Tavern on the Green. Say, one o’clock?”
“I’ll see you then, Phillip. And thank you.”
After hanging up, he wondered what Jess wanted. Surely she had a bevy of attorneys at her disposal: people with the kind of old money Jess had inherited needed lawyers the way sick people needed doctors—a lot of them and often.
No, he could not imagine what business Jess Randall would have with him. He did, however, know why he’d chosen to meet her at Tavern on the Green: The restaurant was on the west side, close to where P.J. had lived. And sometimes just walking by the building where Phillip had first met his birth mother comforted him, made him feel more at peace, even though P.J. was gone, even though he’d never see her again.
He sighed and glanced at the clock again. It was 3:42. Maybe he should get out of the office, stop waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe he should go uptown and walk by P.J.’s apartment now. Maybe it would make him feel better again.
McGinnis and Smith be damned.
The building looked the same. It had been nearly five years since he’d stood there with Jess; five years, and yet it looked the same: brown brick with beige trim, in the style of the 1930s, when only the very fortunate were allowed to look out over Central Park West, when women in furs and men in top hats had stepped into limos stretched along the curb. Today there were BMWs and cabs waiting, and yuppies who moved in and out of real estate, rich for a time, perhaps, then downsized or outsized and credit-carded to the max.
Turning up his collar against the early March wind, Phillip counted the windows from the ground floor up to the twelfth: P.J.’s floor.
It had been fall when he’d come here, the late afternoon sun losing itself to the Hudson, as it was now. A dim yellow light already glowed in the twelfth-floor living room window—light from a lamp that was no longer P.J.’s. Phillip closed his eyes and pictured the inside the way it had been—the high, ornately carved ceilings so perfectly preserved; the plush, curved, celery-colored sofa and matching soft-tinted walls; the sleek marble-topped tables; the classic paintings and sculptures that accented the rooms. It had been a sharp, inviting contrast to the dark mahogany tables with lace-crocheted doilies, the upholstered recliners, and the braided oval wool rugs of the house in which Phillip had been raised—the house of Donald and Jeanine Archambault, upper middle class for the era in which they lived, meaning there was always enough to pay the bills and a little extra for such things as college educations for their two adopted sons. There was always enough, but there were no paintings, no sculptures. So as Phillip stood in P.J.’s living room on Central Park West surrounded by the elegance, the grace, and the glamour, h
e had shifted from one foot to the other, waiting to see if P.J. would welcome him and wondering if she would be disappointed in him.
It had been difficult.
“No!” she had screamed when Phillip and Jess entered the bedroom, P.J.’s sickroom domain. She pulled the comforter over her turbaned head.
“I wanted to see you,” Phillip answered, his voice trembling, his legs jellylike. “I wanted to meet my mother.”
Slowly, she pulled the comforter from her face. “Well, take a look,” she’d hissed. “If you want to look closer, I’ll take off this rag and you can see the bald freak that’s your mother.”
He did not know where his courage had come from. Maybe from years of wondering who his birth mother was, maybe from hours he’d spent drawing and painting and wondering if his mother, too, was an artist, if his creative genes had come from her. Whatever it was, it had definitely been courage that helped him move toward her bed, helped him sit on the edge and move closer to her. “Your eyes,” he said. “I’ve got your eyes.”
And he did have her eyes, her clear emerald eyes that had not been faded by the cancer.
Then he handed her the rose, the one he had bought many hours earlier, when he’d hoped she would come to Larchwood Hall. “It’s a little droopy,” he apologized. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God,” P.J. cried, taking the flower. She shivered and started to cry. She reached out and touched his face. “You are so handsome,” she said. “My God, you are so handsome.”
A light mist of snow sprinkled against Phillip’s face now. He let it moisten his cheeks, his brow, the lashes of his emerald eyes. He was so grateful to have met her, to have known her, if only for those few months before she died, before the breast cancer took her too fast, too soon.
And now, on Thursday he was going to see Jess again—the woman who had enabled him to feel so much joy, joy that had culminated in such deep sorrow. Phillip put his gloved hands in his pockets. It seemed that life was merely a string of good times and bad, held together by spaces of nothingness in between—hours, days, weeks, years of doing things like practicing law while waiting for the next good time or bad time to come along.
