You Were Meant For Me (10 page)

“How about over there?” Miranda asked, pointing to a spot on the Long Meadow. “Does that look good to you?” He nodded and went ahead a few steps so he could spread out the blanket. Then he turned to see Miranda struggling to wheel the stroller over the grass.

“Let me help,” he said, pulling the stroller as she pushed. He looked down at Celeste, who was looking straight up at
him. She seemed to like the swaying motion of the stroller, because she opened her mouth in a gummy grin; Evan's chest puffed slightly with pride that he'd helped elicit it.

When they were settled, Miranda lifted her out of the stroller and placed her down on the baby quilt she had brought in one of the bags. Celeste's dark eyes—more brown than blue, Evan noticed—were looking around. Twittering sparrows, a squirrel scampering up a tree, a little boy on a neighboring blanket with a big red ball—she seemed to be taking it all in quietly, reflectively even. “She likes it here,” he said.

“I think you're right.” Miranda leaned her face down to the baby. “You like the park, don't you, baby girl?” Celeste cooed in response.

Evan began setting out the food. The plates Audrey had selected were blue and white; the fruit, bread, and cheese looked especially appetizing against them. He never would have thought of that, but when Miranda said, “Oh, this is so nice! Thanks for pulling it all together,” he was glad Audrey had. They talked while they ate: how Evan liked living in Red Hook, the awkwardness of eHarmony, freelance work versus a steady job. Miranda said she was worried about leaving Celeste when she went back to work. And she was saddened by the present estrangement from her circle of close friends.

“What about Bea?” he asked, and he bit a cherry from its stem. “Didn't you say that she was really supportive?”

“Totally.” Miranda helped herself to the prosciutto, which she deemed excellent. “But she got the part in that play she tried out for. She's in Oklahoma City for the next eight weeks.”

“Bad timing,” he commiserated.

“For me,” she said. “It's a great break for her, though—leading lady for a change. But you know who called me? Geneva Bales—she's the journalist who did that story for
Metro
.”

“Really? What for?” He remembered what she had told him about the interview.

“That's what I was wondering. She said she just wanted to see how Celeste and I were doing.”

“Did you get the feeling she wants to be friends?”

“Not exactly. It was like she was still acting like a reporter, even though the piece was finished. Lots of questions, you know? I thought it was kind of odd, but then she didn't call again, so I let it go.” Miranda sighed and then took another slice of prosciutto. “This really is fabulous.”

Score one for Audrey,
Evan thought. He'd text her later. After they finished eating, he wiped the powdered sugar from his fingers and brought out his Leica.

“Is that the camera you use at work?” Miranda asked. She'd picked Celeste up and held her against her ladybugged front.

“No. That's strictly digital,” he said. “This baby is from another era.” He held it out so she could see.

“Nice design,” she said.

“It's the best,” he said. “Compact, lightweight, easy to handle. And no one has to know that you're using it. You can be invisible.”

“What do you mean?” She shifted position as Celeste buried her face in her chest—rooting around for a nipple, no doubt.

“I'll show you.” Evan raised the camera up in a casual, even nonchalant fashion; he didn't even seem to be looking in Miranda's direction. But all the while he was snapping away,
the depression of the shutter making a slight, easy-to-miss sound. The light was perfect; no flash required. He must have shot a dozen frames: Celeste pressing against Miranda, Miranda smiling down at Celeste, Miranda bringing out the bottle of formula, Celeste's lips pursed in anticipation, the utter relaxation of her limbs as she began to suck, the rivulet of formula that dribbled down her chin, Miranda's hands as she gently wiped the small face clean.

“So you've been photographing us all this time?” Celeste had dozed off, and Miranda carefully settled her in the stroller to nap.

“Uh-huh. And you were hardly aware of it, right?”

“I get it,” she said, smiling at him. “You want to disappear.”

“Not permanently.” He smiled back, cradling the camera in his hand. “Just while I'm shooting. Once I've developed the film and start looking at the contacts, I'm back on the scene again. It's pretty stressful, actually.”

“Is it?” Miranda adjusted the canopy of the stroller so that Celeste was shaded as she slept.

“Very. While I'm working, I never know what I'm going to get—only what I think I'm going to get. Or hope. Or pray. With digital, you can see what you've done right away; with analog, you're working on pure faith.”

“Pure faith as an operating principle sums up a lot of things, don't you think?”

“Can't disagree with that.” He stood and began to gather up the used plates and napkins. “Do you want to walk for a while?” he asked. “It's such a nice day.”

Now that the food was eaten, their load was lighter. Miranda stuffed the blanket into the basket under the stroller, and she and Evan each took a diaper bag as they made their
way around the park. Celeste was just stirring as they came to the carousel.

“Should we take her for a ride?” Evan asked. He remembered coming here with a whole bunch of friends when he was at Pratt; the carousel had been pretty seedy back then, with missing or damaged animals. But it had clearly been restored, and today, the brightly painted horses bobbed gently as they spun on their circular path.

“Let's!” she said eagerly. Evan insisted on buying the tickets and looked around for the right horse. “How about that one?” He pointed to a pale, dappled gray with a salmon-colored saddle and green pennants circling the column of its neck. “Or that one there?” It was the color of a storm cloud and had its head down, as if about to charge.

“Maybe she's not ready for those yet,” Miranda said. Evan felt like an idiot. He should have known that Celeste was too little for a moving animal. But Miranda didn't seem bothered by his response; she'd already started walking toward the carousel. “How about that?” She led the way to a dragon-shaped chariot, and Evan took a few pictures of the creature—scaled body, open mouth, wings poised for flight—before he joined her. Celeste, who'd still appeared a bit drowsy when they boarded, responded immediately to the lilting music as it began to play.

“She's dancing,” Evan said as she squirmed and rocked.

“She is.” Miranda kissed the top of her head. Then she turned to Evan. “Would you like to hold her?”

Evan said nothing, but opened his arms. He'd been watching Celeste all day, capturing her small gestures and the nuances of her expression on film; but he had barely touched her, much less held her. She was so warm and animate in his
arms—it was like her whole body was humming. He did not kiss her—that would have been presumptuous—but he did bring her close and dipped his head so he could inhale her baby smell: shampoo, soap, powder, and the faint whiff of ammonia; she probably needed to be changed. When he was younger, Evan had not thought much about kids. But being sterile suddenly felt like an unbearable loss. He was surprised—and horrified—that his eyes welled suddenly, and he turned away so Miranda would not see. Audrey was right. He was a wuss.

“Are you okay?” Miranda asked as the ride slowed.

So she
had
seen. “Hay fever,” he lied.

They walked slowly back toward the car, Evan still carrying Celeste. She felt good in his arms, like a cat or the large rabbit—a Flemish Giant—he'd held once at a county fair. They stopped so Miranda could change Celeste's diaper and again for a Popsicle from a vendor just outside the park. Miranda let Celeste have a lick; she seemed surprised by the cold and sneezed several times, as if to clear her head. She dozed again as they drove down the hill and woke blinking and yawning when Evan pulled up in front of Miranda's house. He double-parked so he could help her up the stoop with the stroller and the rest of her stuff.

“This was the best day I've had in a long time. I love having her, but it's hard being on call twenty-four/seven. And it's not like I had much preparation for it. It all happened so suddenly. But today, well, Celeste didn't even cry
once
,” she said, looking up at him. “Do you know what a relief that is?” Her fingers knotted easily with his, and he responded by tightening his grasp. “She must have had a good day too; thank you so much for making it all happen.”

“You're welcome.” He was ready to kiss her, but then a honk from a car trying to pass made him look away.

“Maybe you should go.” Her key was already out and she was opening her door.

“I'll text you,” he called after her. And after he had moved his car so the driver behind him could get past, he stared at the closed door, hoping that the next time he was here, he'd be following her through
it.

W
hile Geneva Bales was speaking intently into her iPhone, Jared sat across from her in the small but neatly organized cubicle. On the desk sat a tall vase filled with long-stemmed tulips: pink, red, and white. A MacBook Air was propped open in front of her; on the wall behind her was a bulletin board covered in photos, clippings, ticket stubs, menus, and even a few scraps of fabric. Geneva shot him a look that said,
Sorry to make you
wait
, and then launched into a low volley of
um-hum, I see, of course, yes, yes, of
course.
When she at last concluded the call, she reached over and took the hand Jared extended in both of hers. “Finally,” she said. “I thought he would
never
stop talking.”

“It's okay,” Jared said. “I appreciate your willingness to see me on such short notice.” He'd sent his e-mail only the day before, and she had responded within the hour.

“I'm fascinated by what you said, Mr. Masters. Absolutely
fascinated. To think that the baby might be yours and that you made the connection because of the photographs. I mean, what are the odds?”

“The likeness was uncanny,” he said. “Here. I want you to see for yourself.” He pulled out the scrapbook along with the magazine and placed them side by side on the desk. Geneva took a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from a chain around her neck and studied the pair of images. “I can see what you mean,” she said. “The two faces are remarkably similar.”

“That's what I thought. But it doesn't hold up unless I have proof,” he said. “I want to do a DNA test. It's the only way to know for sure.”

“How did you plan on doing that?”

“I could go to Child Services. Get someone to order the test. But that seems so cold. Hostile even. I think it would be better to meet her first.”

“And that's where I come in?”

He nodded. “I know it's a strange request, and probably not the sort of thing you've been asked before. But it was only because of your story that I was able to put the pieces together.” More silence. “Please? I just have to find out if she's mine.”

“I'd like to help you,” she said finally. “But I'm not sure if I can.”

“You can introduce me to her,” Jared said.

“Introduce you?” Geneva was still wearing the glasses, and her finely arched brows rose above the frames. “To Miranda?” Jared nodded emphatically. “I don't know,” she said, shaking her head. “I just don't know, Mr. Masters—”

“Call me Jared,” he said quickly.

“Jared.” She seemed to hold the name in her mouth like
she was tasting it. “You still haven't convinced me. For one thing, I don't know her all that well.”

“You've interviewed her, haven't you? Been to her place? Seen the baby?”

“Celeste. Yes.”

“She trusts you,” he said.

“All the more reason for me not to violate that trust. She might not want to meet you. She might find it upsetting. After all, you have no real proof. Only pictures. And a hunch.”

“What if I told you who Celeste's mother was? Would that make a difference?”

“I'd like to know that.” She took the glasses off and replaced them on the chain. “I'd like to know that very much.”

“Her name was Caroline Highsmith. She was a beautiful girl. Beautiful—and troubled.”

“Troubled in what way?”

“I don't know the diagnosis. Maybe she was bipolar, manic—whatever they call it. She had these swings, you know? She could be ecstatic over the smallest thing—the shape of a cloud in the sky, finding a dollar bill in the street. But then she'd be so easily crushed too, like if they were out of her favorite flavor of ice cream at the supermarket. And her temper . . .” He paused, remembering.

“When did you find out about the baby?” She had started typing something into her laptop then; at first Jared was affronted by her rudeness. Then he understood: she was taking notes.

“In September. The last night I saw her alive,” he said. “We met for drinks. I had already decided to break up with her; she told me she was pregnant and I didn't believe her. I thought she was making it up—to trap me.” He felt ashamed, but he
pressed on. “Your article said the baby was born in March. And it was in late March that I found out Carrie had drowned. I also found out that there was some evidence she'd recently given birth. So at first I thought the baby—if there had been a baby—must have drowned with her. But when I read your story and I saw the picture, it started to come together.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “The baby—my daughter—hadn't drowned at all. She'd been left in that subway station, and Miranda Berenzweig found her.”

Geneva had not looked at him for the duration of this recitation; her fingers danced and skittered on the keyboard for several seconds, the light tap of her nails against the keys the only sound in the office. Finally, she got up and walked to the window. Outside, the Chrysler Building blazed in the sun.

“All right,” she said, turning slowly around. “I'll phone her. Feel her out.”

“So you
will
help me, then?” His face broke into a wide, tremulous smile.

“I can't promise anything. But I'll try. I'll contact Miranda Berenzweig for you. It has to be done with great tact and delicacy. If she says no, you'll have to go through the court system.”

“She might say yes,” Jared said.

“She might,” Geneva agreed. She returned to the desk, sat down, and began typing again. Jared watched her for a moment. Did he or didn't he want Celeste to be his? If he didn't, why was he even putting himself through all this? But he didn't think he could tolerate not knowing for the rest of his life. “I'll be in touch when I've made contact with her,” Geneva said, looking up from the keypad. Jared stood and extended his hand once more. But Geneva surprised him by coming around the desk and giving him a hug. The embrace was
quick and almost businesslike, but for the briefest second, he was sure he'd felt the hammering of her heart. Or was it just his own?

That was on Friday. He spent the weekend second-guessing himself. When his phone buzzed early Monday morning, he panicked. He had set this thing in motion; was he ready for the consequences?

But when he answered, it was not the cool, melodious voice of Geneva Bales on the line. It was Isabel Clarke. Jared said hello and groped for a cigarette. When he found the pack, he lit up and inhaled deeply. That first drag of the day was always the best: a little bit harsh, a little bit biting. It was the drag that reminded you that what you were doing had real consequences.

“Did I wake you?” she said, her voice soft and breathy. Jared wondered idly what she was wearing. Or not wearing.

“I was up,” he lied. “What's going on?”

“It's the apartment on One Hundred Seventeenth Street. You haven't sold it, have you?”

“Not yet, though there's been some interest. . . .” Another lie, but damn it, she had woken him and he didn't want to be jerked around by her—again.

“Oh good! I think I persuaded Brandon. We're going to make an offer. But I just need to see it
one
more time. For ten minutes. Or even five. Can you set something up? Today?”

“Sure, I can.” He sat up straight in bed, took another deep drag, and began mentally rearranging his schedule. “Let me see when I can get you in there,” he said. “Call you back?”

“Call me back,” she said. “I'll be waiting.”

When Jared arrived at the building on 117th Street several hours later, Isabel was already there on the sidewalk. Now
that
was a first. “Thanks for doing this,” she said, giving his arm a little squeeze. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he said. His skin tingled where she had touched him. “Is Brandon looking for a parking spot?” The Clarkes owned a sleek, bottle green Mercedes; he could imagine that Brandon Clarke licked it clean at night.

“Brandon's at the office,” she said. “I'm flying solo today.”

Jared gave her a look, but she did not meet his eyes.
Uh-oh,
he thought. This was not good, no way, no how. This was trouble, with a capital T and underlined three times besides. But now that he was here, how to gracefully get out of it?
Isabel, you need a chaperone. Or a keeper. I
won't show you the apartment until you produce one or
the other. Now just turn around and take your sweet,
hot little body home before I jump your bones on
the living room floor.
Instead he said, “Where do you want to start?”

“In the garden,” she said, and he led the way. Since he hadn't been expecting her, he hadn't gotten a chance to check things out back there. Fortunately, it didn't look too bad: no trash and only a few scattered leaves. But what was that? Leaving Isabel to bury her nose in some shrub, he went over to the far end of the yard to inspect. Cat food, that's what it was. Tiny, dry kibble in the shape of fish—like the cat knew or cared. Someone around here must have been setting it out. Cat kibble brought cats, and cats brought trouble: they howled, mated, fought, and crapped. Jared had nothing against pet cats, but he did not want strays in this yard—not when he wanted to get a million two for it.

Hastily, he began to scoop the kibble up with his hands and put it in his pockets; he'd dump it later. But as if summoned by his anxieties—or the promise of a handout—a
large, orange cat appeared. He must have weighed fifteen pounds, with a massive, leonine head. One green eye took the measure of Jared; the other was swollen shut. Both his ears had lost their tips.

“Oh, look,” Isabel said. “Isn't he magnificent? Here, puss.” She knelt and extended a hand.

Magnificent was not the word Jared would have chosen. The cat made him nervous, and he wanted it gone. “Isabel, be careful. He's a stray.”

“Aren't we all strays in one way or another?” she said. The cat padded over, and when she began to stroke him, a resonant purr rose up from the depths of his throat. “See?” She looked up at Jared. “There's nothing to worry about; he's a love.”

From his vantage point above her, Jared could have looked directly down the gaping front of the loose little dress she wore, but he resolutely turned away and lit a cigarette.

The sound of her cry—pained, startled—caused him to whip back around. There was Isabel, hands pressed to her mouth, blood everywhere—hands, face, dripping down her neck. With a disgusted swish of his tale, the cat bounded off.

“What the hell happened?” said Jared.

“I don't even know!” she cried. “One minute he was purring and the next, he just flew at me! Oh, it hurts, Jared. It hurts so much!”

“Okay. Okay. Try to calm down,” he said. “Take your hands away. I want to see how bad it is.”

Isabel's gore-smeared hands dropped to her sides. Beneath the blood that covered the lower part of her face, Jared could see where the cat's claws had torn her upper lip; it curled away from her face in a weird, unnatural way, and he felt sick
looking at it. “Come on,” he said. “We've got to get you to the hospital.” He considered his options. Call 911 and wait for an ambulance, or try getting a taxi? She was crying harder now, and he put his arm around her shoulders and hustled her back through the house. Whatever frisson there had been between them had completely evaporated; she was freaked out, and his only thought was to get her medical attention.

A yellow cab was just pulling up to the curb to discharge a passenger when they got to the street; they got in and Jared told the driver where they were headed. There had been a hand towel in the apartment's bathroom and he'd thought to grab it on the way out. Isabel pressed it to her face and whimpered softly beside him.

“Hey, is everything okay back there?” The driver's gaze sought Jared's in the rearview mirror.

“Everything's fine,” Jared said. “We just need to get to the hospital—”

“She's not going to OD in my cab, is she? Because if she is, I'm going to let you out right here; I don't need that shit, man.”

“She's not on drugs,” Jared said coldly. “A cat clawed her lip, okay? Now, can you please hurry?” The cab surged ahead and, in minutes, had pulled up to the ER entrance of St. Luke's Hospital on Amsterdam Avenue. Jared paid the churlish driver—“I hope she didn't drip all over the backseat, man”—and ushered Isabel inside.

She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder while they waited for her name to be called. He used the time to call Brandon but got his voice mail, so he left a message. It seemed like she might have fallen asleep, and he remained still, even though the position he was in was uncomfortable. And he was freezing too—it must have been sixty degrees in
there. Jared was wishing he had a sweater or jacket when he heard Isabel say softly but distinctly, “I'm going to need stitches. Do you think they'll have a plastic surgeon here?”

So she wasn't asleep. “I'll bet they do, and if not, you can see one yourself tomorrow—”

He was interrupted by a woman in scrubs holding a clipboard, calling out, “Isabel Clarke?” Trailing the towel like a bloodied security blanket, Isabel got up and followed the scrubs past a pair of double doors.

Brandon phoned right after she'd gone. “A cat clawed her? Jesus! Where were you? At the Bronx Zoo?”

“No, One Hundred Seventeenth Street.”

“Why were you on One Hundred Seventeenth Street?” Brandon sounded suspicious. Or was Jared projecting?

“Isabel wanted to take another look at that apartment. She said you were ready to make an offer.”

“An offer? On that overpriced dump? Hell no!” Brandon made a peculiar noise that Jared realized was laughter. He'd never heard the guy laugh before; he thought maybe he didn't know how. “What made you think that?”