Her hand halted in midair. She thought of Will, and stopped herself. It was his birthright, not hers. His truth, not hers. She’d come here to learn whether he belonged to her or to the Bravermans, but neither was true. He belonged to himself.
She lowered her arm. She walked back to the car, sat in the driver’s seat, and stowed the bag on the passenger seat.
It was time to go home.
Chapter Fifty-seven
The ticketing line wound back and forth, and Ellen assessed it, worriedly. She didn’t want to miss the flight and she’d been lucky to get a seat. She couldn’t wait to see Will, and she felt almost herself again, having changed back into her sweater and jeans, which she needed in the air-conditioned terminal anyway.
She checked her watch. She’d scarfed down a turkey sandwich in the first fifteen minutes of her wait in line, and now she had nothing to do but look at the other travelers who had nothing else to do. The girl in front of her bobbed to music playing on her iPod, and the man in front of her was a middle manager, his thumbs flying over his BlackBerry keyboard at the speed of carpal tunnel syndrome. A man before him talked on a cell phone in rapid Spanish, which reminded her of Marcelo. She’d called him this morning but he hadn’t answered, so she’d left a message saying she’d be back to work tomorrow.
“Excuse me, is our line even moving?” asked an older man behind her, and Ellen stood on tiptoe to see the ticket counter. Only one agent was manning the counter, and two of the self-service kiosks bore Out of Order signs.
“Honestly, no.” Ellen smiled, but the man grumbled.
“I can walk to Denver faster.”
“You got that right.” Ellen looked away, and her gaze fell to the first-class line, only four people deep. “I wonder how much first class costs.”
“Highway robbery,” the old man shot back, and the line shifted forward an inch.
Her gaze drifted back to the first-class line, where a pretty redhead had just arrived, rolling a Louis Vuitton bag behind her, her head held high. She looked vaguely familiar and when she dug in a black purse, Ellen remembered where she had seen her before. It was the young woman who lived across the street from Carol Braverman.
Her name is Kelly Scott and her family has more money than God.
Ellen watched the redhead fan herself with some papers, looking sexy in black stilettos and a cobalt blue dress, whose bold color stood out among the Miami pastels. Businessmen passing by gave her more than a second glance, running their eyes over her body and shapely legs.
The line shifted, and Ellen moved up. Another businessman strode past her, carrying a lightweight bag and moving so quickly that his tailored sport jacket blew open. He joined the end of the first-class line, and Ellen looked over.
She recognized him instantly, stunned.
Chapter Fifty-eight
The businessman was Bill Braverman, and Ellen marveled at the odds that he would show up at the airport at the exact same time as his neighbor. She got a closer look at him than she had before, and he was an attractive man with a tall, wiry build, dark hair, and a nose that looked like Will’s, even in profile. She tried not to stare as he took out his wallet and cleared his throat, and at about the same time, the redhead turned around and glanced behind her. She looked right at Bill, who stood behind her, but strangely, she didn’t say hello. Instead, she turned away and faced the ticket counters.
Ellen didn’t get it. The redhead had to have seen Bill. He was right behind her and the tallest man in the line, not to mention her neighbor.
“We’re moving,” the old man said, and Ellen shifted forward, glued to the goings-on. Something was fishy between Bill and the redhead, but she wasn’t jumping to conclusions. She stayed tuned as Bill took out his wallet and faced the front of the line, showing no sign that he recognized his neighbor, who was standing in front of him, with bright red hair and a killer dress. Men all over the terminal were looking at her, yet Bill was pointedly looking away.
Ellen considered it. These two people had to know each other, and they clearly had seen each other, but they were acting as if they were strangers. There was one possible explanation, but she resisted it.
“You can move up again,” said the older man behind her, and Ellen filled in the gap. She kept watching, hoping that she was wrong. The redhead walked to the ticket counter, and the balding ticket agent brightened immediately. Bill looked in her direction, and the redhead got her ticket, bunny-dipped for her Vuitton bag, and rolled it away. Bill seemed not to notice her as she sashayed off, and Ellen lost sight of the redhead as she walked toward security.
The coach line shifted forward, and one of the ticket agents walked to the front of the line, made a megaphone of her hands, and called out, “Anyone for Philly? Philly, come on up!”
“Here!” Ellen ducked the tape to get out of line and hurried to the front, maneuvering to stand next to Bill, standing so close she could smell the residual cigarette smoke wreathing him. As casually as possible, she said, “Hard to go back to Philly in the cold.”
“I bet.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Vegas.”
“Wow. I’ve never been. Have fun.”
“You, too. Safe trip.” Bill flashed her a grin, then went to the front desk, got his ticket, and walked off toward security, his jacket flying open.
Three people later, Ellen got her ticket and hurried ahead to security, but lost sight of Bill and the redhead. She found herself again at the back of the line and in time made it through security, then took a quick look at the lighted departure signs for Las Vegas. The Vegas gate was two down from hers. She hurried toward the gate, scanned the passengers waiting for the flight, and spotted them in no time.
Bill sat reading a Wall Street Journal in one of the wide gray seats, and directly across from him was the redhead, flipping through a thick copy of Vogue and crossing and uncrossing her legs. It was a game they were playing, frequent-flier foreplay.
Ellen lingered behind a round pillar and watched Bill and the redhead until it was time for first class to board. They joined the line, leaving a few travelers between them. The redhead got her boarding pass swiped, and just as she entered the jet way, she turned behind her, ostensibly for her bag, and flashed Bill the briefest of smiles.
He’s cheating on Snow White?
Ellen went ahead to her gate, disgusted and sad. She boarded, and her heart went out to Carol, planting marigolds on Timothy’s memorial on the front lawn. Being nice to the grocery stockboy. Playing Mother Goose to toddlers. Teaching children’s theater at Charbonneau House. Ellen was so preoccupied that she barely heard the ticket agent asking for her boarding pass.
She boarded, found her seat, and stowed her roller bag in the overhead, then sat down, suddenly exhausted. Outside on the tarmac, a baggage train chugged past, but Ellen closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see anything anymore. Not Miami or its heat. Not Bill Braverman or his mistress. Not Charbonneau Road. Not the marigolds.
She felt awful inside, raw and depressed. She didn’t want to think about letting Will go to the Bravermans. She didn’t want to think about letting Will go at all. Will was her son and he belonged with her. And her father, and Connie. And Oreo Figaro.
Ellen stopped herself in mid-dwell. There was no point to making herself crazy until she had the DNA results.
She vowed to keep the melodrama to a minimum until then.
Chapter Fifty-nine
“Mommy!” Will shouted, leaving his Legos and running to meet Ellen just as she closed the front door against the cold.
“Honey!” she called back, hoisting him up and hugging him close, ambushed by a fierce rush of emotion. She kissed him on the cheek and tried to pretend this was a homecoming like any other.
“I’m making a castle! A big castle!” Will kicked to be let down.
“Good for you.” Ellen set him on the ground with his feet still kicking, and he hit the hardwood floor like a windup toy. He ran back to his Legos, hit the
rug, and sprawled on his tummy in his overalls. Ellen wished she could take a mental snapshot and keep it forever.
“Welcome home!” Connie smiled, wiping her hands on a dishcloth as she came into the living room. “You made it early, huh?”
“Got it all done early.” Ellen slid out of her coat, shaking off the unaccustomed cold, and felt happier than ever to be home. Oreo Figaro looked up from the back of the sofa, where he sat with his front paws neatly underneath him. The living room smelled deliciously of hot coffee and chicken with rosemary. “Connie, am I dreaming or is that dinner?”
“It’ll be ready in ten minutes, and Will took a good nap, so he’s up and at ’em.” Connie met her eye meaningfully, and Ellen impulsively grabbed her and gave her a huge hug.
“Will you marry me?”
“Anytime,” Connie answered, releasing her with a grin, then she went to the closet, got her coat, and put it on. Her overnight bag, purse, and tote sat packed on the windowseat. “You got a sunburn, eh?”
“I know.” Ellen’s hand went to the tip of her nose. It would be hard to explain at work tomorrow. Then again, everything would be hard to explain at work tomorrow.
“One last thing.” Connie picked up her bags, and her smile vanished. “I’m sorry about the phone business. Hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble.”
“Don’t worry, I can deal with it,” Ellen said, though she didn’t know how. “You took great care of him, and that’s what matters.”
“Thanks.” Connie turned to Will. “See you later, alligator!”
“In a while, crocodile,” Will called over his shoulder, playing happily on the floor, his world order restored.
“See you!” Connie let herself out, and Ellen went over and touched Will’s hair. The dark blond filaments felt soft under her fingertips, and she tried not to notice his hair color was almost the same as Carol’s.
“Please say thank you to Connie.”
“Thank you, Connie!” Will scrambled to a standing position, then ran over and hugged his babysitter, and Ellen could see how happy it made her. She didn’t want to think about how Connie would react if Will turned out to be Timothy. She put it out of her mind as she let Connie out the door, then kicked off her clogs and got down on the rug to play with Will.
She still had one DNA sample to collect, but she could do that after the Lego castle.
Chapter Sixty
Ellen scanned the directions for the DNA sample while Will stood at the kitchen sink and rinsed his mouth with warm water, his small fingers wrapped like a gecko’s around the glass tumbler. Though she had to use the nonstandard test for Carol and Bill, she was collecting Will’s sample by the conventional method, and she had to get it tonight because all the samples had to be sent to the laboratory together.
“Spit, Mommy?” Will asked, his eyes trustful over the rim of the glass.
“Two more times, pal.”
Will took a second gulp of water and spit it into the sink. “Is this good?”
“Yes, and we have to do one more thing.”
“Okay.” Will took his third gulp, letting the water dribble out of his mouth and down his chin for fun.
“Good, thanks.” Ellen wiped his wet grin with a napkin, then took the glass from his hand, set it on the counter, and turned to face him, placing a hand on his little shoulder. “Now open up, sweetie, just like you do for the doctor.”
“Is it gonna hurt?”
“No, not at all.” Ellen took the Q-tip in hand. “I’m going to rub the inside of your cheek with a Q-tip, that’s all. It’s the same kind of Q-tip we use to clean your ears.”
“Are you cleaning my mouth?”
“Yes.” Sort of.
“Why is my mouth dirty? I brushed my teeth this morning.”
“Ready to open up?”
Will opened his mouth like a baby bird, and Ellen rolled the swab on the insides of both of his cheeks for about a minute, making sure to cover most of his inner cheek. Then she withdrew the swab and set it on a folded piece of paper to dry, according to the instructions.
“Good job, sweetie.”
Will began jumping up and down.
“We just need one more, okay?”
“Why?” Will opened his mouth again, and Ellen picked up another Q-tip and swabbed the inside of his cheek.
“Just to be sure. All finished. Great job.”
“Now can we have dessert?”
“We sure can.”
Anything but lime Jell-O.
Chapter Sixty-one
Ellen had just stepped out of the shower when her cell phone started ringing. She ran into her bedroom, picked up her BlackBerry, and checked the display screen. It was a 215 area code, a Philly phone number she didn’t know. She pressed Answer.
“Hello?” It was Marcelo, and Ellen warmed to the sound, sinking onto her bed and drawing her pink chenille robe closer around her.
“Hey, hi.”
“I got your message. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you until now. Are you at home?”
“Yes, I’ll be back to work tomorrow, like I said. If you’re free, we can meet in the morning and talk over this thing with Sarah.”
“I don’t think it can wait. I’d like to come over tonight, if I may.”
Wow. Ellen checked her watch—9:08. Will was in bed, fast asleep. “Sure.”
“It’s not a social call,” Marcelo added, and she felt herself flush.
“Understood . . .”
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Great,” Ellen said, and as soon as they hung up, she bolted to the closet. She changed her clothes four times, ending up with a light blue V-neck and jeans, but instead of a tank top underneath, she went with a lace-topped ivory camisole.
Though her underwear was the last thing on her mind.
Chapter Sixty-two
By the time Marcelo knocked on the door, Ellen’s hair had dried loose and curly to her shoulders and she had doused herself with perfume, made up her eyes, and patted concealer on her telltale sunburn.
“Hello,” Marcelo said, unsmiling as he came inside.
“Good to see you.” Ellen knew she couldn’t kiss him hello, but she didn’t want to shake his hand, so she settled for closing the door behind him. “Can I take your coat?”
“That’s okay, I won’t be staying long.”
Ouch. “Would you like a drink or something?”
“No, thanks.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Thanks.” Marcelo crossed to the couch and sat stiffly down, and Ellen took the chair catty-corner to him. He said, “I thought it would be better to talk here than in the office, since we’re conspiring.”
“I’m really sorry about what happened.”
“I know.” Marcelo looked tense, a new tightness around his mouth. “I’ve been struggling with what to do, how to handle the situation.” He linked his fingers between his legs, leaning forward slightly. “To start with, I shouldn’t have done what I did . . . started anything romantic with you. It was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
Ellen swallowed, hurt. “You don’t have to say you’re sorry, and it wasn’t so terrible.”
“It was, especially considering how it turned out.”
“But we can set it right.”
“No, we can’t.”
Ellen felt like they were having a lovers’ quarrel, and they weren’t even lovers.
“I’m your editor, and there’s no way we can be together, in the end.”
“But we just started.” Ellen was surprised at the emotion in her voice. “Other couples at the paper date.”
“Not editor and staffer. Not a direct report.” Marcelo shook his head, downcast. “Anyway, to the point. I lied to my staff. I’ve never lied to my staff, ever. I showed you a favoritism I wouldn’t have shown anyone else, and I did it because I care for you.” His voice softened, but his gaze remained firm. “But now I know what to do.”
“I do, too.” Elle
n had thought about it on the plane, but Marcelo held up his hand.
“Let me, please. That’s why I came here tonight. I don’t want you to come in to work tomorrow morning.”
No. “Why not?”
“I’m going to hold a meeting of the staff and I don’t think you should be there. I’m going to tell them what happened. Not about my . . . feelings, I’m not that crazy.” Marcelo smiled. “I’m going to tell them that I lied about your whereabouts because you had a personal matter that you didn’t want me or them to know about, and I thought it was the best way to handle the situation.”
“You’re going to tell the truth?”
Marcelo chuckled. “It’s not that crazy. We’re a newspaper. We care for truth.”
“But not now, not this way.” Ellen couldn’t let him do it. It was career suicide.
“I’m going to apologize and say that I realize, in retrospect, that it was poor judgment on my part.”
“You can’t do that, Marcelo.” Ellen didn’t know where to begin. “It undermines your credibility forever. They’re already talking about you, and this will only add fuel to the fire. You’ll never live it down.”
“Reporters are intelligent and verbal people. They talk, they speculate, and they gossip. There’s nothing to be done about it.”
Ellen leaned forward, urgent. “That’s not the way to handle this. One of us has to admit that they were lying, and that person can’t be you.”
“If I tell the truth, it will pass.”
“No, it will follow you forever. I can’t let you do it.”
“You have no say,” Marcelo said with a sad smile, and Ellen realized that if he wouldn’t do it for him, maybe he’d do it for her.
“You’d hurt me more if you did that. They’ll think we’re sleeping together, and I’ll be branded forever. It’s better for me if you suspend me for lying to you.”
“You want that?” Marcelo frowned.