To Know You (9781401688684)

by Ethridge, Shannon (CON)

WAVERUNNER: Us. Sitting down with a glass of wine. Watching the water. Talking. Really getting to know each other.

  Chloe held her breath. Her hands were stiff, as if she couldn’t find the will to type another word. She could hear the faint hum of traffic, the flutter of her pulse.

  WAVERUNNER: It would be nice to sit across a table from you. Or to huddle against the wind and watch the roar of the ocean.

  HANDS _ ON: Why did you say it was meant to be?

  WAVERUNNER: Because I’m in Gloucester. Practically on your doorstep. We’re off-loading what little cargo we have and then we’re anchoring to ride out the storm.

  The storm. Strange that Jack hadn’t jumped on that as an excuse to haul her back to North Carolina. Probably because it was supposed to rain in Boston, dump snow in New Hampshire and Maine. Destiny could meet Thomas Bryant, and they could either go on to Colorado or Chloe could jump a flight home before weather became an issue.

  HANDS _ ON: How far is that from Boston?

  WAVERUNNER: What’s going on?

  HANDS _ ON: Long story.

  WAVERUNNER: You want to tell it to me?

  HANDS _ ON: Maybe.

  WAVERUNNER: How long are you here?

  HANDS _ ON: For a day or so.

  WAVERUNNER: It’s a forty-five minute drive, tops. I’ll come there.

  HANDS _ ON: No. Not here.

  Not anywhere, Chloe told herself. She couldn’t. She double-clicked the icon, ending the chat. The sailboat came alive again on her screen.

  Sitting there, a cartoonish icon that seemed more real, more vital than the beautiful hotel suite in which she sat. She cracked her knuckles, then crossed her arms and stuck her hands under her armpits to keep from touching the keyboard.

  The straitjacket pose wasn’t lost on Chloe. Was she keeping herself in trust or keeping herself from abundant life? She flung her arms outward and shook them like a crazy woman.

  One simple mouse click. Either say hello or shut down. Deep breath. Oh, God, dear God, I don’t want to know what You think, not in this moment, because I need to believe You never intended us to live like robots—well-mannered, good-intentioned automatons.

  Chloe left-clicked and the icon blinked to life.

  WAVERUNNER: I guess we got cut off.

  She waited. Tossing in cyber waves.

  WAVERUNNER: I’d like to hear your voice.

  HANDS _ ON: Isn’t it better this way? Keeping an arm’s length?

  WAVERUNNER: Is that what you think?

  How pathetic was she, not knowing what she thought. She loved Jack and he loved her. She adored Mother and Mother adored her. She respected God. Feared God. But that was all one life. One cloistered, cushioned pathetic life—lived under the red slicker.

  What if she splashed in a puddle, just this one time? Just to talk. How could it hurt anything if she had coffee with some guy, talked engineering, watched the rain come down.

  HANDS _ ON: Is there some place—

  Just this one time.

  HANDS _ ON: —where maybe we could have coffee?

  WAVERUNNER: Sure.

  This was insane, immoral, horrible.

  Stop the drama. It was only coffee. Julia and Destiny would be busy today with Thomas Bryant. Chloe could rent a car, take a ride, have a coffee, be back tonight before anyone realized she was missing.

  And why should any of that matter? She was an adult.

  Oh, God, I am a married adult. With responsibilities and duties. But surely You see how things are. How I am. Trapped.

  WAVERUNNER: Two Brothers café. Late afternoon? I still have to literally batten down the hatches.

  HANDS _ ON: Sure.

  He gave his number and she scribbled it on the Westin’s notepad.

  HANDS _ ON: See you then.

  WAVERUNNER: Wait. Shouldn’t I know your name?

  HANDS _ ON: You first.

  WAVERUNNER: Rob. Rob Jones. You?

  She could be anyone. Why not be the person she first was?

  HANDS _ ON: Hope. Hope McCord.

  WAVERUNNER: Can’t wait to hear your voice, Hope.

  HANDS _ ON: Me too.

  WAVERUNNER: And see your face.

  HANDS _ ON: Nothing special.

  WAVERUNNER: What you are on the inside will shine through.

  And that was the problem—Chloe didn’t know what she was inside. Maybe this was the only way she’d find out.

  Tuesday, 9:16 a.m.

  “Woman, you are a horror show,” Destiny said.

  Julia shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  “You reflect poorly on my skills. We are not leaving this hotel until we redo your face and hair.”

  Destiny had made Julia up over an hour ago. Now her eyes were deeply shadowed, her face blotchy. She’d been crying again.

  Julia turned to Chloe. “Do I look that bad?”

  She shrugged. “Not my field of expertise. Sorry.”

  “We should just go.”

  Julia clicked her fingernails against the cast until Destiny grabbed her hand and said, “Stop or I’ll tie it to the table. I swear I will. Now sit.”

  “Did someone treat you like that?” Julia asked.

  Destiny yanked a comb through her hair. “Are you hoping my parents are abusive so you can rescue me?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “That’s harsh,” Chloe said.

  “I’m kidding, guys. Just kidding. This one”—she touched the top of Julia’s head with the brush, playing fairy godmother—“this one needs to chill. Now sit still, Julia. You’re not even fit for a garage sale.”

  “Aren’t you nervous, Dez?” Chloe seemed nervous as well. She wasn’t as sold on this meet-the-daddies thing.

  “Why should I be?” She should have known a consequence of this trip would be extended navel-gazing. Not that they had the right—and yet, wasn’t that the point of this? To know who you could have been. Destiny would take that head-on. No tears like Julia, no hiding in the laptop like Chloe.

  What ifs never scared her. That was her vocation, her gift.

  What if an asteroid was about to explode on earth? What if aliens had an insatiable appetite for human brains? What if angels were plotting a second rebellion?

  What if Tom Bryant had stayed?

  “A big-time lawyer. He’s probably . . . running the world, or something,” Chloe said.

  Destiny pointed the brush at her. “Your husband would be thrilled if you came from the same kind of intelligent, ambitious gene pool.”

  Julia grabbed her hand. “Destiny. Don’t.”

  “Tell her who her father is.”

  “I will, as soon as I get back from this Tom thing.”

  “Chloe!” Destiny glanced at her sister. “Can you close that stupid laptop?”

  “I’m sorry. What do you need?”

  “You to stop apologizing, for one thing.”

  “I’m sorry for being sorry.”

  “We could use some support.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to go with you today.”

  “Not that. With bio-mom.”

  “She thinks I’m uncooperative,” Julia said.

  “You have no vision. The point is,” Destiny said, “what do you want him to think?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ll have a split second to make a first impression before the memories rush in. Hair and makeup tell a story. How you tie that scarf tells a story. Even how you walk, your posture. So what do you want it all to say?

  “Do you want him to think that you are just as successful as he is? Or”—Destiny winked at Chloe—“do you want him to see you and think, Wow, she’s sexier than ever and I am the biggest fool to have ever let her walk?”

  “First of all,” Julia said, “I didn’t walk. He did. So perhaps we could drop the sassy and smart and just go for dignified?”

  “Ah. So you want him to see you as mature and serene—despite the fact that he had his way with you and then tossed you like a snotty
tissue?”

  “That’s cruel,” Chloe said.

  “The truth often is,” Destiny said. “Crueler not to see it.”

  Julia shifted in the chair so she could see Chloe. “What do you think?”

  “Me? I don’t have a basis for an opinion.”

  “So why can’t I be me?” Julia said.

  “And who are you?” Destiny said.

  “Mother. Wife. Friend. Employer.”

  “And Christian,” Chloe said.

  “My faith is intrinsic in everything I am. At least, I hope it is.”

  “You’re lying,” Destiny said, curling iron in hand.

  Julia squinted up at her. “Apparently you do have a basis for every opinion.”

  “It doesn’t come naturally,” Destiny said. “If it did, they wouldn’t have to drill it into you. ‘God. Family. Church.’ And then, if you’re a member of the Connors clan, you add ‘country,’ cue the trumpets, and salute the flag.”

  “I’m sure someone has mentioned to you at some point,” Chloe said, “that you might be a tad cynical?”

  “Yeah, that might have come up once or twice.”

  “I could have used a healthy dose of cynicism at your age,” Julia said.

  “Or a healthy dose of spermicide,” Destiny said.

  “Are you nervous, Dez?” Chloe asked. “Is that why you’re being such a brat?”

  So nervous her skin curdled. Not that she would admit that. “No.” Destiny tossed her head as if to punctuate her statement.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Who’s cynical now?”

  “What about you, Julia? Are you nervous?”

  “Can I answer honestly?”

  “Will you?” Destiny said. “Answer honestly, that is.”

  “Shut up and let her,” Chloe said.

  Julia swiveled on the stool and stared up at Destiny. “The truth is that I’m angry. Angry with Tom for leaving me to sort out . . . us. I am angry that I need to be away from Dillon. I am angry that I had to come to both of you as a supplicant and not as a woman who loved you so very much. I’m angry because I can’t expect you to believe that, not when I am so desperate to have your grace. And . . . I am furious that I have such severe spiritual astigmatism that God is like an out-of-focus photo.”

  “Do you forgive him?” Chloe said.

  “God?” Julia said.

  “Tom,” Destiny said, suddenly desperate for an answer to a question that should be irrelevant to her. “Do you forgive him for not being what you needed?”

  “I haven’t tried to, not for a long time,” Julia said. “So I don’t really know.”

  Tuesday, 10:06 a.m.

  They rode the elevator to the thirty-second floor. It was no surprise that Tom had reached this height, a steel and glass building where he’d be able to look down over Boston Harbor.

  Julia had resisted googling him since the search engine made its debut in the mid ’90s. She had wanted to, as if gathering details on his life could supply the end to part of the story. Her loyalty to her family had kept her from typing in his name.

  She searched him online last night because now it was appropriate, or as appropriate as it could be when one is about to blast through another’s privacy fence.

  Matt had known for two years—or maybe longer—that Tom had become a leading attorney in media law and a name in First Amendment cases. Had he looked for some evidence of Tom having married and fathered children, like she had? Or did Matt take in the information and spreadsheet it to be sorted when they needed it?

  Julia knew the answer to that. That Tom Bryant existed ate away at Matt. That Andrew had risen to such prominence in evangelical circles meant any jealousy her husband harbored would be multiplied tenfold.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Destiny said, though she was the one who danced from foot to foot, dragging her fingers through her hair hard enough to pull out long strands. She had dressed with enough care to show she didn’t care. Skinny jeans, faded with tattered thighs. Ankle boots with turquoise socks peeking out, and despite the cold, a form-fitting black leather jacket. Underneath, a T-shirt that simply said RIDE. And with all the fuss she had made over Julia, the only makeup Destiny wore was eyeliner.

  Tom would have to see how like him she was and thus forgive Julia for opening up this old story. As much as she hated him for taking the easy way out, she also knew it would have hurt him some small bit. Perhaps as a failure in planning or execution, or perhaps as a lapse in judgment—he would carry some regret forward.

  Then again, if he had had any regrets about letting Julia go, he could have easily found her. She had finished school in Boston, though it hadn’t been easy. For most of that time, she was within a mile of him—or closer.

  The elevator stopped, doors opened to let a silver-haired woman in. She carried a laptop like a school book, worked a phone with her free fingers.

  “What are you going to say to him?” Destiny whispered.

  “I won’t have to say anything,” Julia said. “He’ll see me, he’ll see you, and he’ll know.”

  His photo on the law firm’s website showed very little change. A little gray at the temples, of course, but the same wide smile and unforgettable blue-gray eyes.

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know, honey. How could I possibly know?”

  The door closed, the elevator resumed its upward crawl. Julia was tempted to push the emergency stop button until she could figure out what she might say to Tom that would persuade him to persuade Destiny to save Dillon’s life.

  The elevator stopped again at the twenty-sixth floor. The woman got out.

  “What do you want from him?” Julia asked.

  “Nothing,” Destiny said. “I’m just nosy.”

  “You wouldn’t have crossed this country if you didn’t want something.”

  She glared at Julia. “Acknowledgment, all right? Just a simple I know you exist and that mattered to me. If that’s all right with you, Mother. You’re the one who kept him from me with the closed adoption.”

  Julia opened her mouth to answer and couldn’t because the elevator opened onto the thirty-second floor and Tom was right there, waiting to get on.

  “Oh,” Destiny said and followed Julia out of the elevator.

  He moved toward them, almost onto the car, when he glanced at them. He narrowed his eyes, perhaps sensing a cosmic shift, and then opened his eyes wide, said, “Jules,” and opened his arms.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and let him hold her while she breathed his expensive cologne and that little tang of his skin when he worked hard. She felt his strong body—of course he’d be a workout fiend—and she could almost taste the coffee he had just drunk under the hint of bubblegum because, after all these years, he was still the kid from Southie.

  She could almost feel his lips on hers, even though he planted them kindly on her forehead. She had feared all along that she would never be free of him, and she could feel him now, sneaking under her skin.

  Julia loosened her grip. Tom kept one arm around her waist and stepped to the side so he could extend the other arm to Destiny.

  “I know who you are,” he said, “but I don’t know your name.”

  Destiny pulled her arm back and, in a blur, punched Tom Bryant in the stomach. “That’s my name,” she said. “And don’t you forget it.”

  Tuesday, 10:07 a.m.

  Chloe wasn’t much for makeup. A little lipstick, the occasional eye shadow, and she was done. No need for mascara, not with the long lashes she had inherited from Julia. Jack liked the natural look, and Chloe couldn’t be bothered to try something new.

  Until now—when she was poised on the precipice of everything new and different. She fingered the items in Destiny’s makeup case. So much to choose from.

  You’ll have a split second, Destiny had told Julia, to make a first impression.

  Chloe was good with her hands. If she wanted, she could create a new look for herself. All the tools were
spread out before her.

  What do you want it to say?

  Was she the girl who was about to make a devil of a mistake? Or the woman who was about to choose something for herself?

  Someone knocked on the door. Hard.

  Chloe pressed her hand to her throat. So silly to be startled. Leave it to Destiny to forget her keycard and have to come back for it.

  “Stupid,” Chloe said as she opened the door.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What—” She stepped back, her heart thundering.

  “Sorry,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I missed you.” He took her arm and led her to the sofa. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. He wore gray slacks, a white shirt open at the collar, and a navy-blue V-neck sweater. The cowlick in his blond hair was gelled into submission. He found the closet, stowed away his raincoat and umbrella, and sat down next to her.

  “I told you not to come.” The shiver in her voice was embarrassing.

  Jack took her hands. “I really scared you.”

  “No. Not at all. My head was somewhere else. I was just . . . thinking about calling Dr. Monroe and asking him to run a new assay for me.”

  He leaned over and kissed the back of her hand. “What assay?”

  Panic bubbled under her ribs. Jack never asked for details. When people asked him about his wife’s research, he simply said she was working on a disease model for some cancer pathways.

  Tiny steps, painstaking work. That’s how they unravel the groaning of creation. One strand of DNA at a time. My wife has the patience of a saint.

  Chloe launched into a genuine explanation of nucleotide excision repair and a bogus protocol to map a synthetic XPJ prokaryotic pathway. Jack leaned closer, his lips moving as if memorizing the key words so he could look them up later.

  His sudden interest warmed her—until she realized his query was to distract her from asking why he had shown up uninvited in Boston.

  “I told you not to come,” she said.

  “And I told you I didn’t want you to go through this alone.”

  Chloe got up, went to the window. The weather was damp. She had wanted her first view of Boston to be sunny and hopeful. People in the street shrank into their scarves and gloves. Chicago was supposed to be the windy city, not Boston. Narrow streets, cold ocean, just enough tall buildings to create tunnels for cold air.