She should let it go to voice mail like the others. Then again, if she answered, she could tell him to leave her alone. “What?”
“And good morning to you too.” Luke’s voice was annoyingly cheerful, that praise the Lord ready to leap out of his mouth and down her throat. “Where are you?”
“Not your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. I love you, Dez.”
Destiny clenched her jaw so she wouldn’t say the words, you love me but you love Jesus more. That would give him the opportunity to go all testimonial on her. She knew the legalities of being separated from God and the doctrine of Christ as the only way back. She disliked new Christians with their sunny eyes and doggy smiles, their tails wagging in expectation of blessing, their ignorant hearts not understanding that God is tough and cold and stays far away when you mess up.
How God must love the shrink-wrapped Chloe Deschene, hemmed in by a million-dollar condo and a husband who doesn’t sweat. In her black tank top, J. Crew cranberry cardigan, and gray toothpick cords, Chloe could model for a catalog of good-living Christian girls.
Chloe, a.k.a. Hope McCord, came to the marriage bed as a virgin. She admitted it over coffee, seemed proud of that sad fact.
Luke came to the unwed bed as a tiger and slinked away as a neutered housecat or—as he claimed—a virgin in Christ.
“Babe, where are you?”
“Stop asking.”
“Stop trying to hide.”
“Don’t make me block your number, Luke.”
“Just because I’m concerned about you?”
“You and Jesus go save the world. I’ll call you when I’m back.”
“Just tell me wher—”
Destiny ended the call. Let him go play at righteousness. She had her own existential questions to work through. Now that Julia had brought her to meet Chloe, she had to consider being tested. She had promised that—too quickly, of course—but she didn’t back down on promises.
What if she were compatible with Dillon? What if she were compatible and refused to let them take a part of her liver? She would be the worst person in the world.
What if she agreed to the surgery and then had one of those rare complications? If she died and Dillon lived, would Julia grieve? Or would her birth mother be happy that the lesser obligation—the one she had shipped off at birth—was six feet under?
Twilight zone thoughts.
Monday, 10:18 a.m.
Jack has people running everywhere.
He had sent Julia Whittaker to the Hilton to wait for their phone call. Henry Metzler volunteered to drive Destiny there, but she refused his help, said she would walk. She gave Jack a mock salute and left.
Jack steered Chloe to his office. She had her own because he said they shouldn’t be distracted when they were trying to work. The four-bedroom, five-bath condo was a wedding gift from his parents and her mother.
Her husband had tried to refuse the gift. He wanted a stripped-down lifestyle, to live as if they had to hustle for every jar of spaghetti sauce. Mother would not relent. If you’re not moving into that darling guest house on the estate, please let me be assured you’re safe. You’re still so young. The Deschenes backed her up by suggesting the condo.
Would she and her husband have been happier if they studied side-by-side instead of across four thousand square feet of silent home? Not that he was unhappy. Sometimes she wondered if any sort of unease had a place in Jack’s life plan. Was there something organically wrong with her that she couldn’t be content with the blessings that had been showered on her?
“Let me show you what we’ve learned so far.” Jack handed the stack of paper to her with the same pride and satisfaction that he showered on his essays and reports.
Chloe scanned the printouts and then tossed them onto his desk. “This tells me nothing.”
“It tells you she was arrested in college—”
“Twenty-five years ago.”
Jack shuffled the papers back into order. “Are you going to let me finish?”
“I apologize. Go ahead.”
“She was arrested once in college and that’s it. For both her and Matthew Whittaker. Their financials are good, if somewhat variable. That’s because of the business model. They take in huge fees, put out large expenses. They’ve got some significant medical expenses. We can’t ascertain how these were incurred because of confidentiality.”
“I know about HIPAA, Jack.”
“Point being—these expenses seem significant, and something you need to think about before you have your conversation with Mrs. Whittaker.”
“You’re ignoring what’s right before your eyes.”
Jack tilted his head. “What?”
“The family resemblance, Jack. The eyes you say you love so much.”
“I’m trying to protect you. Can’t you even grant me that?” Jack put his hands on her waist, touched his forehead to hers. “Please, darling.”
She kissed him, tasted coffee, and what she called his everlasting mint, the Altoids he popped because Jack Deschene was the total package, whether in wing tips or sneakers, pinstripes or denim.
She admired him because he always strode for something and always clothed that something with Christ. If only he understood that she had been cut from a different cloth, that meeting her birth mother and her sister was a miracle and not some nefarious scheme to defraud them of the family fortunes.
“Think, Chloe. She wouldn’t have shown up out of nowhere if she didn’t want something,” he said. “And want it right now.”
“We’re so well protected, she’d need a can opener to pry something loose from us.”
“I can’t protect this, darling.” He laid his hand over her heart. “Sometimes I think you’re too tender for your own good.”
“Tender? Or weak? That’s what you think, isn’t it? That I’m weak.”
“Of course not. You’re a capable woman, and certainly the most intelligent I’ve ever met.”
She pressed against him. “I’m capable and smart and still something to be fenced in like a goat.”
“Listen to yourself.” Jack stepped back. “You hang out for an hour with the girl from Hollywood and now you’re fit for a soap opera? Come on, darling.”
“You know it’s true. I can’t live in Bubble Wrap, Jack.”
“Is that what you think I am—Bubble Wrap?”
“Of course not. You’re a loving hedge of protection, but how high does the hedge need to be?”
He pulled her to him, arms around her waist, unaware that his bear hug made her point perfectly. “I’m trying to do the best I can to provide exactly what you need.”
“Then do it—provide exactly what I need—right now.” She pushed him against the desk, untucking his shirt.
“What’re you doing? They’ll be here shortly.”
She melted into him, imagining the wind over the waves, sun on her shoulders, the schedules and obligations sinking into the horizon. “Which is why this could be so much fun.”
He warmed to her, his skin flushing. She ripped at his shirt, smiled at his gasp—until he pushed her away. “You popped off my button.”
“That was the point, Jack.”
“That is never the point.”
“Can’t you . . .” She swallowed, trying not to let a single tear escape. “Can you just relax with me and have fun?”
“We’re not in a movie, Chloe. We have things we need to do. Duties.”
Chloe pressed her lips to his ear. “Do I . . . displease you in some way?”
“Never.”
“Sometimes I think that you don’t want me.”
He stroked her face. “I always want you. Don’t you understand?”
“I don’t, Jack. I don’t know why you’re so careful.”
“I have to be.” He cradled her face. “You do understand that there will always be forces trying to pull us apart?”
“And you do understand,” Chloe said, “that we both need
to be able to stand on our own two feet? That you can’t be the only one making decisions? It is my decision whether or not to have a conversation with my birth mother. It can’t be yours.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been thinking straight . . . we need to pray.”
“Making love is supposed to be a form of prayer. Isn’t it?”
“Of course. Everything in its season. Now please, Chloe. Please.” Jack extended his hands to her. “Let’s keep our wits about us.”
She took his hand, stood quietly. As he prayed for protection and wisdom and grace, she prayed that God would get her through the next couple of hours. And the next fifty years.
Monday, 10:18 a.m.
Balancing a cardboard tray with corn muffins and two chamomile teas, Destiny carded open the door. Her room at the Hilton was four-star standard with a cream duvet and fluffy pillows on the bed, a rich peacock print carpet, maple writing table, Queen Anne chair. A door opened to the adjoining room.
“Hello?” Destiny set down the food, peered into Julia’s room. She was asleep on her side, hand stretched out toward her iPad. Destiny tiptoed in, stared at the image on the screen.
A boy, asleep on a sofa.
Her vampire brother, the body-snatcher who couldn’t survive without a piece of her or Chloe’s liver. His skin had a yellow cast; otherwise he looked like any young teen with a wannabe mustache, gawky arms, and bony knees. A game controller and cell phone rested on his chest.
Thirteen years old and chronically ill—of course the kid wanted to stay in touch with his friends. Supposedly he made movies. Luke could teach those daredevil friends of his a few stunts, not risky enough to break any bones. Just rich enough to garner respect and a little awe. He was so good with kids.
If Luke were here, he’d say go for it. Have the blood test. Trouble was—would that be Luke’s common sense? Or some desire to satisfy Jesus? Luke had already given her up. What more could his God ask of him?
Destiny’s cell phone vibrated. Chloe. She stepped back into her room, pressed Talk. “Hey.”
“Hi. We texted and called, still haven’t heard back from Mrs. Whittaker.”
“Julia. Call her Julia, for Pete’s sake. She’s your mother.”
“That’s kind of TBD over here. They’re ready to meet with you guys.”
“Am I invited?”
“I insisted, said you were part of the package.”
Destiny smiled. “She’s sleeping. What time?”
“In an hour? I’m sorry—”
“I know it’s not your fault. You’re just doing what they’re tel—what they’re advising.”
“Yeah. I guess. This is all so . . .”
“So fantabulously freaky? Tell me about it. She’s not a bad sort. Can you ask him to go easy on her?”
“He’s not a bad sort either. He’s just . . . concerned.”
“Okay. We’ll see you in a few.”
Destiny shut the phone, yelped when Julia stepped into the room, her face looking all night-of-the-living-dead.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That was Chloe. They’re ready for us.”
Julia pressed her injured hand to her stomach. “I slept wrong. And I can’t—with this on my hand—I can’t do my hair—”
Destiny pointed at the vanity. “Sit. I’ll make you presentable.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Oh yes, I really do.”
“Okay. I’ve got my makeup case and curling iron in my room.”
“I’d prefer to use my stuff.” No way was Destiny going in there. What if Dillon woke up and called for his mom? She didn’t want to see him. Chloe was okay, didn’t come with any obligations of the flesh. Dillon was a gaping wound, and she wasn’t ready for that.
Maybe she’d never be ready for that. And how would she tell Julia thanks for the ride but no liver for you?
Destiny dampened a facecloth and wiped Julia’s face of foundation and two days of travel crud. Julia grasped Destiny’s wrist. “They’re going to hate me.”
“If they do, it won’t be because of your hair or face. Now hold still.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Not at the moment.” Destiny shook off her hand. “Will you hate me if I say no?”
“Don’t ask that.”
“You asked, I answered. Now it’s your turn.”
“How could I?” Julia stared at the mirror, gaze locked on Destiny. “And how could I not?”
Monday, 10:38 a.m.
After changing and freshening up, Chloe went into her office and locked the door. Jack was in his office, sorting through another of the various reports on the Whittakers. This kind of instant information gathering had to be costing tens of thousands of dollars. Her husband might drink coffee from a warehouse store, but he wasn’t shy about resources when it came to protecting his turf.
Why shouldn’t she just leave? She could dash across the park and keep running until she got to the Hilton. She could fly back to California with Destiny, get to know her. Or maybe New England. She would rent a house and not tell Mother or Jack or Julia Whittaker where she was.
She’d stare at the icy waves pounding over the rocks and wonder why God felt as deep and cold as the ocean.
If Jack wouldn’t listen, she knew someone who might.
HANDS _ ON: Hey there. Thought I’d try for a quick hello. Working?
WAVERUNNER: Not on deck for a few minutes. You OK?
HANDS _ ON: Life is weird, that’s all.
WAVERUNNER: Anything I can do?
HANDS _ ON: Tell me what you see, right now.
WAVERUNNER: Ha. A mess on my table.
HANDS _ ON: You can’t see the water?
WAVERUNNER: Not sitting down. Wait.
Chloe imagined him getting up, going to the porthole. They had both agreed not to share photos. Their intimacy came from knowing the person within—or beyond—the shell. They knew the basics: age, the region where each other lived, their vocations. And so much more. Like how he liked mustard on his fries and rain on his face; how she abhorred snakes and loved spiders; how fixing things made them both feel closer to the driving mechanism of the world.
Jack thought she was silly for screaming at dead snakes and fixing toasters when she should be studying. Every time her husband told her she was meant for more, it somehow made her feel less.
WAVERUNNER: Okay. Still there?
HANDS _ ON: Absolutely. What’s happening out there?
WAVERUNNER: The sky is gray, water is calm. Storm coming, they say. We’re probably heading to anchor.
HANDS _ ON: I hate being anchored.
WAVERUNNER: Sometimes what’s going on around us dictates what we have to do.
HANDS _ ON: Will you be caught in the storm? Is it bad?
WAVERUNNER: Remember that movie The Perfect Storm? It won’t be that, but we’ll have to take care about that front forming near Nova Scotia. And what about where you are?
HANDS _ ON: Cold front.
WAVERUNNER: I could change that for you. For real. It’s just a short flight. If you’d ever consider . . .
HANDS _ ON: I’d like to—
A hard knock on the door startled her. She shut her laptop. “Come on in.”
Jack stuck his head in the door. “Henry’s back and your mother is here.”
He meant Mother and not Julia because Julia was an outlier, a reminder that Chloe was more than Middlebrooks and Deschene and that something unknown had burst into the spreadsheet of their lives.
“I’m coming,” she said, remembering to send her chat to the trash, empty it, and blank out her browsing history.
And wasn’t that what happened to her? Julia Whittaker emptied her life of her second daughter, and Mother and Father and now Jack were doing a splendid job of blanking out the history.
Chloe took a deep breath and walked out to embrace the variables.
Monday, 10:59 a.m.
What do you say to a group of people when you kno
w what you say—no matter how you say it—will make them hate you?
Chloe’s husband, Jack. Sitting as judge.
Twenty-two-years old, he took his responsibility as head of the household seriously. He had replaced his rimless glasses with darker frames, a futile act of gravitas for one so fair-haired. He had changed his shirt from this morning’s button-down blue to a muted gray with subtle pinstripes.
Did he iron his own slacks like Matt did because no one could make a better crease? They would get along wonderfully, both financial whizzes, according to what Destiny had gleaned. Matt would tell Jack to lighten up because this is the day, man and we should rejoice in it.
And what joy they could have in this moment! Her two daughters in the same room, so lovely in such different ways.
Still in ripped jeans and motorcycle boots, Destiny had changed to a knit wrap, knotted to show a minimum of cleavage. The orange-spice print that would be garish on pale skin blended well with her black hair and shadowed eyes.
Chloe had changed into a green plaid jumper over an ivory turtleneck sweater. The expensive outfit teetered between L.L.Bean and prep-school uniform. This was a style that Matt loved; he often bemoaned that their brides were either too gaudy or exposed too much skin.
Were Dillon a part of the gathering, Julia’s delight would be complete.
Instead, her son’s—their brother’s—shadow loomed over them with a chill of mortality.
Susan Middlebrooks hadn’t stopped staring at Julia since she and Destiny were escorted to their chairs. They had shaken hands briefly; the woman’s hand had been cold and she’d quickly withdrawn it after a crisp hello. She was dressed impeccably in a houndstooth suit of soothing gray tones, likely Armani or Donna Karan. Her eggplant pumps and purse were exquisitely expensive and so old school that they were almost fashion forward. She was a lovely woman with soft skin and faded brown eyes—almost elderly. She had to have been fifty when she and her husband, John, adopted Chloe.
Perhaps that explained why Chloe was apparently content to be managed rather than partnered in her marriage. She clung to Jack’s hand as he made introductions. Her glances at Julia had been hurried, her handshake a wisp.
Chloe retreated to a sofa and locked her gaze on Destiny with a shy smile that held a flicker of amusement. Perhaps this would be the blessing—bringing sisters together.
To Know You (9781401688684) Page 9
