“You’re very welcome.” Ron rose, too, his expression darkening. “But be careful what you wish. If you find proof that Will is Timothy Braverman, you’ll feel a lot worse than you do already. You’ll have to make a choice I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”
Ellen had thought of nothing else, when she was trying to sleep last night. “What would you do, if it were your kid?”
“Wild horses couldn’t make me give him back.”
“No doubt?”
“Not a one.”
“Then let me ask you this, counselor. How do you keep something that doesn’t belong to you?” Ellen heard herself say it out loud, though she hadn’t thought of it that way until this moment.
“Och. My.” Ron cringed. “Excellent question.”
“And how do I explain that to Will, when he grows up? What if he found out? What do I say? That I loved you, so I kept you, even though I knew the truth? Is that love, or just selfishness?” Ellen heard the questions pouring out, her heart speaking of its own accord. “This is the thing, Ron. When I adopted him, I felt like he belonged to me because another mother gave him up. But if she didn’t, if she had had him taken from her by force, then he doesn’t belong to me. Not truly.”
Ron looked away, hitching up his jeans by his thumbs.
“So what do you say to that?” Ellen felt her eyes well up, then blinked them clear. “What would you do then?”
Ron sighed. “Fair points, all, but I have an easy out. In that case, saner minds would prevail. Louisa would kill me.”
“Well, I don’t have a Louisa. There’s no saner head around. It’s the me show. I just can’t forget about it. Put it back in the bottle.”
“Did you try?” Ron smiled, weakly.
“I’ve been trying since the minute I saw the card.”
“Give it time, then. You might feel differently, next month, or next year.”
Ellen shook her head. She hadn’t gotten this far in life without knowing herself. It was other people she had trouble with. “I’m not built that way. When I see a thread hanging from someone’s clothes, I have to pull it. If I see trash on the floor, I pick it up. I can’t step over it. I can’t pretend it’s not there.”
Ron laughed.
“This is almost like that, only ten times more. A million times more. It’ll be in the back of my mind for the rest of my life, if I don’t resolve it.”
“Then I feel for you,” Ron said softly, meeting her eye.
“Thanks.” Ellen managed a smile, picked up her papers and coat, and moved to the door, where the Wizard of Oz soundtrack grew louder. “I’d better go. Will hates the flying monkeys.”
“Everybody hates the flying monkeys,” Ron said, with a final smile.
Chapter Forty-one
Ellen spent the afternoon in Quality Time Frenzy with Will, building a multicolored castle from Legos, stamping Play-Doh with cookie cutters, and making Boca burgers for dinner together. Will set the table, running back and forth with a squeeze bottle of ketchup and sliced tomatoes, and Ellen felt as if the kitchen were their domestic cocoon, with its soft lighting, warm stove, and chubby housecat curled up on the floor, in his tuxedo.
“I have a surprise dessert for you,” Ellen said, but Will flashed her his picky-eater frown, as dubious a look as a three-year-old can muster.
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you, or it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“Don’t we have ice cream?”
“It’s better than ice cream. Wait right here.” Ellen got up, collected the dinner plates, and took them into the kitchen, where she set them in the sink. She fetched the dessert from the refrigerator, carried it to the dining room, and placed it on the table.
“Eeew, Mommy!” Will scrunched up his nose, the only reasonable response to what looked like a bowl of green plastic.
“Give it a chance. It’s Jell-O, in your favorite color.” Ellen had spent last night rereading the Braverman website and had seen the detail that Timothy loved lime Jell-O. Will had never eaten it before, as far as she knew, and she wanted to see if he liked it. Her test wasn’t scientific, but that would come later.
Will wrinkled his nose. “Is it spinach?”
“No, it’s lime.”
“What’s lime?”
“Like lemon, but better.”
“What’s lemon?”
“You know lemon. It’s yellow, like the water ice we get at the pool. Or like lemon sticks.” Ellen let it go. “Did you ever have lime Jell-O before?”
Will shook his head, eyeing the bowl warily. “I had red. That was good.”
“Red is cherry.”
“Do we have red?”
“No. I made green.”
“Can’t you make red?” Will looked at her with plaintive baby blues, and Ellen managed a smile.
“Not this time. Today, let’s try green Jell-O.”
Will scrambled to a kneeling position in his chair and leaned farther over the table on his elbows, sniffing the bowl. “Why doesn’t it smell?”
“Give it a try and tell me if you like the taste.”
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t know, I never had it either.” Ellen hated lime Jell-O, but didn’t want to prejudice him. “I like to try new foods.” She couldn’t resist propagandizing, but Will ignored her.
“Why is it all flat on top?”
“That’s how it comes out. Grab the bowl and give it a little shake.”
Will did, giggling. “It wiggles! Just like on TV!”
“Fun, huh? Food you can play with.” Ellen scooped some Jell-O into his dessert bowl and held her breath as he picked up his teaspoon, dipped the tip into the shiny green mound, then touched the tip of his tongue to the spoon. She said, “Give it a real taste.”
“Do I have to?”
“Please.”
Will put the Jell-O in his mouth, and for a minute, didn’t react.
“Well, do you like it?”
“It’s good!” Will answered, his mouth full.
Chapter Forty-two
Ellen spent the evening in her home office, figuring out where and how to find the proof that Will was or wasn’t Timothy. It was nutty to try to prove something she didn’t want to be true, but she didn’t have to decide now what to do after she learned the facts. She could find out, then decide whether to keep Will or, inconceivably, to give him up. It was a process, and she could take it in stages. At stage one, all she wanted was the truth. And, happily, if it turned out that Will wasn’t Timothy, she could stop driving herself crazy and put the whole thing behind her. She took her BlackBerry from the holster and pressed speed dial C, and Connie picked up.
“Hey, El, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I have a huge favor to ask you, Connie. Something big came up at work, and I have to leave town for a few days.” Ellen hated lying, but she couldn’t risk telling even Connie the truth. “Is there any way you can cover for me?”
“Sure. Where you goin’?”
“Couple of different places, I’m not sure yet. It’s a big story, and I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.” Ellen rarely went out of town on business, but she was praying she could sell Connie. She wasn’t Don Gleeson’s daughter for nothing. “I’ll pay you overtime, whatever it takes. It’s that important.”
Connie hushed her. “I never worry about that. I can do it, but we’re having people over tomorrow. Can it wait until Monday?”
“Yes, I really appreciate it.”
“I’ll pack my toothbrush. See you Monday, regular time. How many days will it be?”
God knows. “Just a few, the situation is fluid. Can you live with that?”
“Yep. See ya then.”
Ellen hung up, with one more thing to do. She logged onto Outlook, skimmed her incoming email, and found one sender that surprised her. Marcelo. She clicked Open.
Dear Ellen,
I’m concerned about you. I hope you’re feeling better. Please do call a doctor. We lack a
human face without you! Best, Marcelo
Ellen felt a little thrill. He was such a great guy. It was worth fainting to get him to hold her. She smiled at the memory of being cradled against his chest, but it faded when she thought of what she had to do next. She hit Reply and started typing, then stopped. It was the point of no return, and the stakes were the job she loved and needed. Still, she typed on:
Marcelo,
Thanks for your nice note, but unfortunately, I need to take this week off. I have plenty of vacation time coming, and I’ll take the time out of that.
Ellen paused, not knowing whether to mention the think piece, which was still due Friday. She continued, typing:
I’m not sure if I’ll get my piece finished by deadline, but I’ll stay in touch with you about this. I’m sorry, and hope this doesn’t cause too much of a problem. Thanks and best, Ellen
She clicked Send and swallowed hard. Taking a vacation with a layoff pending could be career suicide, but she had no choice. The situation with Will and Timothy put everything into perspective, and her job would always be second to her child.
“So be it,” Ellen said aloud.
Oreo Figaro looked up at the sound, lifting his chin from his front paws, regarding her with disapproval.
Chapter Forty-three
Ellen awoke to the ringing of her BlackBerry, which she kept on the night table as an alarm clock. She grabbed it before it woke Will. “Hello?” she asked, muzzy.
“It’s Marcelo.” His voice always sounded so soft on the phone, his accent more pronounced, and Ellen blinked herself awake, checking the digital clock. Sunday, 8:02 A.M.
“Oh, jeez, hi.”
“Did I wake you?”
Yes. “No.”
“Sorry to bother you, but I got your vacation request and I wanted to discuss it with you. It’s a problem for us, right now.”
“It’s just that—”
“I’m going to be in your area tonight. I can stop by, if you like, and we can talk about it.”
Marcelo, here? I’ll have to vacuum. And put on makeup. Not in that order.
“Ellen? I don’t mean to intrude—”
“No, it’s fine, a great idea.”
“What time is good?”
“Will goes to bed around seven thirty, so any time after eight o’clock.”
“I’m free at nine. See you then.”
“Great. Thanks.” Ellen pressed End. Marcelo was coming here? Her boss, her crush? Was this a date or a firing? It was exciting and unnerving, both at once. At best, she’d have to lie to his face about where she was going on Monday, which wouldn’t be easy. Especially if he wore that aftershave, eau d’eligible bachelor.
“Mommy?” Will called out, waking up in his bedroom.
“Coming, sweetie,” Ellen called back, becoming a mom again.
Chapter Forty-four
“Marcelo, hi, come in,” Ellen said, opening her front door onto a living room that looked as if no one lived there. Will’s toys, books, and DVDs had been put away, and the rugs had been vacuumed. Cat hair had been lint-rolled from the sofa cushions, and paw prints wiped from the coffee table. The house was so clean, it should be for sale.
“Thanks.” Marcelo stepped inside, and Ellen edged back, suddenly awkward. She had fantasized about him walking through her door, though the fantasy didn’t include vacuuming.
“Let me take your coat,” Ellen said, but Marcelo was already sliding out of his black leather jacket, and she caught a whiff of spicy aftershave, a scent that spoke directly to her I’m-Very-Single cortex, bypassing the saner He’s-Your-Boss lobe.
“What a nice house,” he said, looking around. He had on a black ribbed turtleneck with nice brown slacks, and Ellen found herself wondering if he’d been on a date. He asked, “How long have you lived here?”
“Six years or so.” Ellen brushed a stray hair from her eyes, surprised that even a single strand had escaped her product-heavy blow-dry. She had changed her outfit three times, only to end up in her trademark loose blue sweater, white tank underneath, jeans, and Danskos. She didn’t want to signal that she considered this anything but a meeting between colleagues. “Would you like a Diet Coke or something?”
“Sure, great.”
“Hang on a sec. You can sit down.” Ellen gestured at the sofa cushion without hesitation.
“Let me help you. I’d love a house tour.”
“Okay, but, it’s a short one.” Ellen waved awkwardly at the dining room. It was odd, having him in her house, standing so close to her when she wasn’t even unconscious. “Speaks for itself, huh? And over here’s the teeny tiny kitchen.”
“Very nice.” Marcelo followed her, looking around with his hands linked loosely behind his back. “It’s warm and friendly.”
“And clean.”
Marcelo nodded, with a smile. “I was going to say it was clean. Very clean.”
“Thank you.” Ellen went into the cabinet, found a decent tumbler, then went in the fridge and got him ice and a soda. Oreo Figaro sat on the counter, watching the goings-on with interest.
“I like cats. What’s his name?”
“Oreo Figaro.”
Marcelo lifted an eyebrow. “Back home, many people have two names, like my brother, Carlos Alberto. But I didn’t think that was so common in the States.”
“It’s not. He’s Brazilian.”
Marcelo laughed. He popped the soda and poured it fizzling into the glass. “I live in town.”
I know. We all know. You’re the hot, single Latin boss, and therefore the most-talked-about person in the newsroom, if not the Western Hemisphere.
“I think about moving out here, but I wonder how you meet women in the suburbs.”
“At the sandbox, mostly.”
Marcelo smiled.
“The men are short, but they’re single.”
Marcelo laughed again. “I was out here on a blind date. Can you imagine that?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Ellen liked the way his accent made it e-magine. “How was it?”
“Excruciating.”
“Been there. Excruciating conversation, excruciating restaurant, excruciating kiss good night. It’s excruciating.”
Marcelo laughed again. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
I always make jokes when I’m nervous.
“It was very strange to have you faint, so suddenly.” Marcelo frowned slightly, and Ellen recognized a flicker of concern behind his eyes, which made her warm all over.
“Thank you for being so kind about it.”
“Give me no credit. I wanted to leave, but you were lying in my way.”
Ellen laughed, and Marcelo sipped his soda and set it down.
“So, to your email.”
“Yes.”
“Please explain.”
“I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Let’s be honest with each other. You’re reliable. You make deadlines. You didn’t take a vacation last year, I checked. All of a sudden, you’re fainting and you need time off for a mysterious reason.” Marcelo glanced away, then back again. “I will tell you, I usually keep my private life to myself, but my mother was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s at home, in Pinheiros, getting treatments, and she tells me they make her very tired.”
Ellen felt for him, having been there herself, and the pain on his face was visible. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. If that is what’s going on with you, or if you have some other illness, you can be sure I’ll keep it confidential.”
Ellen felt touched. “I don’t have cancer, but thank you for asking.”
“Is it another illness? Is that it?”
Ellen didn’t know what to say. His tone was so calm and the excuse so handy that she almost considered making up a short-lived disease. She could keep her job, if she lied.
“Do you have a drug problem, or alcohol? We have counseling for that, you know.”
“No, that’s not it, at all.”
&n
bsp; “Well, what then? Am I being too intrusive? I feel like I’m doing that a lot lately, with you, though I’m trying to help you. It’s a difficult situation, having to make these layoff decisions, and I’m doing everything I can to save your job.” Marcelo stood straighter, shaking his head. “But a vacation request, at a time like this, how do you justify that?”
“All I can tell you is that I need to take these few days off to settle something personal.”
Marcelo looked at her, his regret plain. “That’s it?”
Ellen was so tempted to tell him, but she couldn’t. “Sorry,” she answered. “That’s it.”
“Are you going somewhere or staying here?”
“I’d rather not say. I’m taking vacation time, is all.”
Marcelo’s lips pursed. “Will you get the homicide piece written on time?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“How does your draft look?”
“I haven’t started drafting yet.”
“May I have your notes?”
“I haven’t transcribed them yet.” Ellen felt a wave of guilt at his dismayed expression.
“How am I supposed to give you an extension and no one else? How can I justify treating you specially?”
“If you have to fire me, I understand. But I need this time for myself.”
“Would you rather get fired than tell me what’s going on?” Marcelo asked, his eyes disbelieving. “Can that be what you truly want?”
“Yes,” Ellen answered, though she hadn’t thought of it that way.
“It matters that much to you, whatever you’re doing?”
“It matters more to me than anything in the world.”
Marcelo blinked.
Ellen blinked back. For a minute, they played eye chicken.
Marcelo sighed, and his expression softened. “Okay, you win. Take the time you need this week, but that’s it. I’ll tell everyone you’re not feeling well. It’ll make sense, after you fainted dead away.”
“You’re saying yes?” Ellen was dumbfounded. “Why?”
“I’m trying to show you that I’m not a jerk.”
“I know that. I never thought you were.”
Marcelo lifted an eyebrow, dubious, but Ellen knew she’d never convince him otherwise, after what Sarah had told him.