If only Dillon had been born whole.
If only any of them had been born whole.
If only Katie Hamlin had punched her in the nose and exacted retribution. Maybe then her forgiveness would be easier to bear.
If only Matt were here to talk her through these exhausted notions, to hold her in the dark hours of the night.
She went to her suitcase, found her Bible, and opened up the Psalms. God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way . . . and my will and my courage and my baby boy . . . and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.
She read on, struggling to keep her eyes open. Be still, and know that I am God.
Julia let stillness take her—for how long, she didn’t know. Too soon, someone grabbed her shoulders and she screamed and swung her cast around and heard someone say, “Ouch.”
Destiny. Glaring down at her, security guard at her side. “Are you okay, ma’am?” he said.
“I’m . . .” Her heart lurched, making the room spin. “Dillon.”
“No,” Destiny said. “Your problem child, Chloe. Didn’t you get my message?”
“I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”
“If you’re all right, ma’am . . .” The security guard extended his hand and she tried to stand. She couldn’t feel her legs below her knees. Destiny looped her arm around her waist, helped her sit on the bed.
“She’s all right, thank you,” she said and pressed a ten-dollar bill into the guard’s hand. He shrugged, then left.
“I fell asleep on my knees.” Julia rubbed her eyes, trying to orient herself. The clock on the bedside table read 1:45 a.m. “Is Chloe okay?”
“No, dude. She’s not. But you’re going to make her okay. Can you walk or do you need like a cold shower or something?”
Julia stomped her feet. “I can’t feel them.”
“Wait.” Destiny kneeled down, took off her shoes, and rubbed her legs vigorously.
“Yow, that hurts,” Julia said.
“Aha, an improvement.”
“Pain—it makes a good spiritual metaphor.”
“I’d call it pins-and-needles,” Destiny said. “Let’s go. We need your help.”
Friday, 1:55 a.m.
Chloe was screaming and pacing the room. “Don’t let her see the video,” she cried.
“I don’t need to, sweetheart.” Julia tried to swallow her rising anger. What did this girl think would happen if she made a date with some guy she knew from the Internet?
God, forgive me. Everyone made terrible mistakes, and this one was a doozy. “What did Tom say?”
“He said we should threaten to bring an assault charge.”
“Against whom? Is Rob Jones his real name?”
Chloe buried her face in her hands. Destiny pried apart her fingers. “No ground-hogging on us. You promised.”
“Yes. I did promise.” Chloe shook like a dog tossing off water, then sat up straight. “Tom thinks his investigator might be able to track down who Rob Jones really is if they have a picture to show around.”
“Do you have a photo?” Julia asked.
“No,” Destiny said. “That’s why we need you to draw one. You got a good look at him in the lights when he pushed you down. That’s what you said. I only saw the side of his boot.”
Julia sank into the closest armchair and held up the cast on her hand. “Did you forget?”
“Oh . . .” Destiny sighed. “I did.”
“You’re an artist. You do it.”
“I’m not good with people. That’s why I do monsters.”
Chloe burst out laughing. Destiny gave her a quick look and then laughed with her. Smiling, Julia began to unravel her Ace bandage. “We’ll do it together. Do you have some paper?”
“I got some from the business center,” Chloe said. “They gave me some pencils too.”
“Ugh, Julia,” Destiny said. “Your fingers look like they have spiders growing out of them.”
“I like spiders,” Chloe said. “Rob Jones knows that.”
“And that is relevant—how?”
“Rob knows that. Jack doesn’t.”
“Tell him,” Destiny said. “Just tell your husband whatever it is that you want him to know.”
“He won’t listen.”
“Why should he, if all he hears is silence?” Julia said.
Chloe shrugged.
“So, Julia,” Destiny said, “you got fungus or something growing out of the top of your fingers?”
“Those are the stitches,” Julia said.
“How did you hurt your hand?” Chloe asked.
Strange. That had been one of Destiny’s first questions, and yet the intellectual sister didn’t think to ask until she saw the mess under the bandages. Was it from politeness—or from being too insular?
“She punched a wall because she couldn’t punch God,” Destiny said.
“That’s harsh,” Chloe said. “Do you still feel like that?”
“After meeting with your birth father and his wife, I now want to punch myself silly.”
“But they beat you to it,” Destiny said with a smirk.
“No. Quite the opposite. Once we all survived the first two hours, they were quite gracious. Chloe, they are anxious to meet with you.”
Chloe scooted back on the bed until she was jammed against the headboard. “No, I can’t do that. Not now. Half of America thinks those two are saints.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Destiny said. “I can’t do this, I can’t do that, I’m such a loser. Look at Julia—she just told two nice people how she pretty much screwed them out of a child and she did it face-to-face. For your sake, you idiot.”
“Don’t forget what’s at stake here. She did it for her son,” Chloe said. “We’re just tourists in her journey.”
Julia laughed. “Well, well, look who’s got a sharp tongue.”
“She got it from me,” Destiny said, joining her laughter.
“Dude,” Chloe said, with a giggle.
“Coffee,” Julia said. “And then let’s figure out how to get this picture drawn.”
Two cups of caffeine later, Julia still hadn’t been able to make her hand cooperate. There was no way she could bend those three swollen fingers. Her grip of the pencil with her thumb and small finger was tenuous at best, clumsy most of the time.
“Destiny, you have to do it,” Julia said.
“I can’t do it. I don’t have that kind of talent.”
“Help her,” Chloe said.
“I just said I don’t know how.”
“Steady my hand,” Julia said. “Lay your hand over mine. We’ll hold the pencil with my thumb and your index finger.”
“Gross,” Destiny said. “I have to touch that mess?”
“Honey, that’s often what it takes to get things done.”
Destiny sat next to Julia. “I’m left-handed. My right hand has no clue.”
“Then you hold the pencil and I’ll guide you with my left hand.” Julia climbed on the bed, positioned herself behind her daughter, and laid her left hand over the girl’s.
They sketched for almost an hour, with many erasures and as much input from Chloe as she could be coaxed to give. They finally produced a drawing that they agreed resembled Rob Jones. The thick, wavy hair that curled on his collar. The sleepy eyes. The long, thin nose.
“That’s him,” Chloe said. “Now take it away. I can’t bear looking at him.”
“I’ll call Tom, fax it to him,” Destiny said. “But first, you call Jack.”
“No, I can’t tell him about this. He’s going to hate me.”
“He’s part of this, Chloe. Call him or I’ll rip up this picture.”
“Julia, tell her to give me that picture.”
Julia shook her head. “She’s right. Call him and ask him to come out here to meet Andy and Katie with you. And then you can decide what to do about this Rob Jones. Honey, you’ve got to start somewhere.”
“I can’t.”
“Good grief.” Destiny grabbed her phone, speed-dialed Chloe’s landline number, put it on speaker.
“Destiny?” Jack asked.
She pressed the phone to Chloe’s face.
“It’s me,” she said in a halting voice.
“Are you okay, darling?”
“Could you fly out this morning? I’m going to . . . meet my birth father later today and I’d like you with me.”
“Of course,” he said. The eagerness in his voice was touching. Chloe made a circle around the sitting room, giving Jack specifics on the resort and transportation.
Julia kissed Destiny’s cheek. “Good work. Get some sleep after you fax that.”
“Gonna get messy once he gets here.”
“We can handle it,” Julia said. “Sweet dreams, my baby girl.”
“Back-at-cha,” Destiny said.
Julia smiled. Should she tell her that back-at-cha was one of Tom’s favorite sayings? No. She’d leave Destiny the joy of discovering that.
Chloe came back in the room. “He’s coming as soon as he can get on a plane. Now what?”
“He loves you,” Julia said. “You need to tell him.”
“I can’t.” Chloe shivered. “It would destroy him.”
Destiny squeezed her shoulder. “You heard what Tom said. That year of being eaten alive before he told Jenny he had a child? Hiding who you are is more destructive than being truthful about it.”
Chloe stared at Julia. “After I was born—how did you get through it? How were you able to move on with your life?”
“It was a very difficult time,” Julia said. “A dark time, full of blessings in disguise.”
Thirteen
Fort Worth, Texas
19 Years Earlier, September
They say you’re the best,” Matthew Whittaker said. “At making something out of nothing.”
Julia tried not to roll her eyes at the young man who sat across the table. Her desk and phone were in the closet off this room. She met prospective clients—usually engaged couples—in an office she had decorated to look like a sitting room. The palette of the room was sparse and neutral—with off-white walls, a neutral-suede sofa she had reupholstered herself, an oak table she had refinished in natural tones.
After extensively interviewing a client by phone, she would prepare the room with pops of color and decorative items, based on what she gleaned of her prospective client’s taste. Even table linens and water glasses or tea service were interchangeable. Her friend Patricia Howland supplied fresh flowers for every business meeting in exchange for referrals to her sister’s florist shop.
The pillows, table linens, and artwork were all her originals—thank you, Massachusetts College of Art. Her office was like the seasons, changing not by the calendar but by Julia’s gut instinct as to whom she might need to impress. She could go from gray silks to tie-dyed burnt orange and scalding red in less than an hour.
Today’s meeting required simplicity and efficiency. She wore black slacks, a silk shell in the palest of grays, and a copper necklace she had hammered and burnished herself. She was always happiest when she worked hands-on in any medium.
Seeing, building, revealing—if only life were so uncomplicated.
Julia had stripped down her office for this meeting, a rare opportunity to design a business function instead of a wedding or shower. Modern art with sharp edges and chrome colors hung on the walls. She painted or inked her own artwork, sometimes the night before a meeting if she didn’t have something in her mother’s garage that fit the meeting’s color scheme.
The painting and sketching helped. Working almost all the time helped. Trying to pray—really pray—helped. Her mother, bless her overbearing heart, helped. The passing of time—first days, then months, and now years—helped.
A nugget remained, that pinhole of pain that could burst at odd times. Some moments were predictable, like when Jeanne and Patrick had their first daughter two years ago. Funds were tight, so Julia drove from Texas to Massachusetts, raising money for gas and lodging by sketching ten-minute portraits in the parking lots of highway rest areas. She held the baby as the priest baptized her, and Julia prayed that her own joy for her friends would hide the twisting ache in her belly.
Guard as she might, pain could cyclone without warning.
Setting up her booth at the Dallas Arts Festival and watching a teenage girl rent a double-square of pavement that she filled with chalk art.
Taking a meeting with a young woman who begged Julia to put together a wedding in a week because she was pregnant and wanted to wear a traditional gown.
Hearing a newborn wail in church.
Dating nice guys. Zach. Aaron. Daniel. Wanting to enjoy them but not trusting herself to not jump into bed with them as a way to try to fill the gaping hole in her soul.
“So, can you do it?” the man behind the tortoise-shell frames said. “Make me look like a million dollars on a thousand-dollar budget?”
Julia smiled. “I specialize in optimizing resources.”
“What?” He squinted at her, mild blue eyes magnified by thick glasses. He couldn’t be much older than her but his sandy hair was already thinning and inexpertly combed in an attempt to hide his losses.
“Can you give me a minute?” she asked.
“Ah . . . sure, I guess.” Matthew Whittaker sipped the coffee she had provided in a heavy white mug. She’d made a rich roast because the designer blends didn’t feel appropriate. She hadn’t bothered with table linen, not for this client. An accountant trying to grow into Financial Services, he impressed Julia as someone who quickly saw through artifice. From what she understood of his business, he wanted his clients to see that he could see—that he could measure trends and possibilities and make solid choices.
Julia took her sketchpad and pencil from her briefcase. She used different bags for different clients and borrowed this black leather case specifically for corporate events. She sketched rapidly, capturing the shape of his head and the line of his jaw. “Take off your glasses,” she said.
“And this has what to do with my event?”
“Trust me,” she said, thinking this was the one area in her life where she could be trusted, where her instincts were infallible. She finished the sketch in four minutes and told him to put on his glasses so he could see what she’d done.
“Where’s my hair?” he said.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You look like an accountant. Shave your head, get contact lenses or better yet—Lasik—and you’ll optimize your resources and look like the man who is fearless enough to steer clients through rough waters.”
He smiled and she felt a strange flutter. “Does appearance matter that much?”
“If you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be here,” Julia said. “Why hire an event designer when you could throw some Ritz crackers and squeeze cheese on the table and hope for the best?”
“That’s a shallow way to approach building business relationships.”
“I agree, if it’s a false appearance. Mr. Whittaker—”
“Matt.”
“I’m not interested in creating illusions, Matt. I want to reveal character.”
“Nice sentiment. What if I don’t want my character revealed?”
Julia leaned across the table, clutched his hand hard enough to make him cringe. “Then I don’t want your business.”
He laughed. “For a beautiful woman, you’re tough.”
“And you’re lying.”
“My eyes may not be good, but I know what I see.”
“You’re lying because you don’t talk like that. Throwing empty compliments into a business negotiation. You can do better.”
He blushed. “You’re right, I don’t. I apologize if I offended you. I just . . . couldn’t help myself.”
Julia grinned. “And now you’re telling the truth. So, you have a thousand dollars to spend on
a holiday party for clients you want to impress?”
Matt tapped the top of his thumbs together. She could imagine him poring over the stock market reports or whatever other magic runes these financial guys studied, tapping his thumbs until he got an answer that made sense.
“Total.” His voice was low but he kept eye contact.
“Which is less than what my fee would be.”
“I understand that. Can you give me a minute?”
“Are you going to sketch my picture?” she said, smiling.
“I already did.” He dug a bound document out of his briefcase. He slid it across the table. “This is for you.”
She paged through it, admiring the paper stock and quality binding but otherwise, thoroughly confused. “What is this?”
“If you waive your fee for my event,” he said, “I’ll give you the business plan I devised for you. Unless you already have one?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“I figured as much.” Matt grinned. A touch of elf, she thought and she desperately wanted to redo his sketch because in capturing his precision, she had missed the humor. “You’re the one-woman shop that every girl in Dallas-Fort Worth wants to hire to design their wedding. I bet you don’t make a cent by the time you figure in time and expenses.”
“True.” Julia shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Or you’ll never really get off the ground. I know promise when I see it—even through these thick glasses, Ms. McCord.”
“Julia.”
“I’m not interested in building illusions, Julia. I want to invest my time in the real thing.”
“So we’re bartering?”
“That makes the most sense for both of us,” he said. “You help make me a success and I’ll help make you a success. Deal?”
“Will you shave your head?”
“Would you turn me down if I didn’t?”
“No. But I’d make you wear a hat.”
As she said it, she saw it. Fedoras. She’d have to scour the flea markets and thrift shops for them, put out word to all her college friends. She’d need at least thirty, based on his list of invitees. She’d clean up the hats and personalize them for each attendee. It would eat a tremendous amount of her time and she’d lose money, but she could see it so clearly that she had to do it.
To Know You (9781401688684) Page 27
