You Were Meant For Me (27 page)

“Yes, I was angry. I'm not proud of that,” she said finally. “But I had reached the end—of my patience, my tolerance, of my everything. She used me up.”

There was a silence in which Miranda tried to imagine herself in Geneva's position. “How did you put it together? About Celeste, I mean,” she finally said. “Because you did put
it together, didn't you? You suspected she might be your niece when you sought me out, flattering me and getting me to agree to the profile. It wasn't just that you saw the story and thought we would make good subjects. You had a plan all along.”

“Yes,” Geneva said softly. “I did.” She looked down at her hands; they seemed to offer nothing in return.

“You still haven't told me how you were sure,” Miranda said.

“Wait here,” Geneva said. She went into another room and returned with a photo album.

As Geneva flipped through the pages, Miranda caught glimpses of a fair-haired woman with a French twist, a big brick house, a backyard teeming with roses. Here, in these snapshots, was Celeste's heritage, her legacy, and her birthright.

“Look,” Geneva said, stopping. There was a close-up of the French-twist woman holding a baby; on the baby's wrist was a tiny string of beads. The photo was black-and-white, but Miranda knew that the beads were pink and white glass, with black lettering. She had seen it before, the first time she'd seen Celeste. “That bracelet? My great-grandmother got it as a gift when my mother was born. It came with a layette—everything pink, white, and smothered in lace. The letters spelled out ‘baby girl.' My grandmother kept it and gave it to my mother, who was saving it for when she had a granddaughter. I didn't even remember it until I saw that photo of Celeste on the news. She was wearing it.”

“You suspected Celeste might be Caroline's—”

“Caroline had told me about Jared.” Geneva went on as if Miranda had not spoken. “She was mad for that man. Head
over heels. And the bracelet? She must have taken it earlier, before my mother died; I didn't find it with her things.” Geneva's voice cracked then. “I wish she had told me about the baby. But I probably wouldn't have believed her.”

“Jared didn't,” Miranda said.

“She told him?” Geneva looked surprised. “He didn't mention that.”

Miranda nodded. “On the last night he saw her. They had met for drinks at the Cosmo. He thought she was making it up. He was furious; he stormed out and never saw her again.”

“She drove everyone away!” Geneva burst out. “She couldn't help herself, but that's what she did.”

“I suppose that's true,” Miranda said. “But to her, it must have felt like you were the ones pushing her away. Abandoning her.”

“I know,” Geneva said. “And even though I'm not sure I could have done it differently, it will haunt me.”

“Why did you come looking for us, then? That's the really twisted part,” Miranda said. “That's what I still don't get.”

“Isn't it obvious?” said Geneva. “Guilt. Pure and simple.”

“All right. So you were guilty. But what did you think you would accomplish by writing those articles? What was it that you wanted?” There, she finally had asked the thing that had been plaguing her most.

“When I first suspected that Celeste was Caroline's baby, I felt sick.
Sick.
It was almost like Caroline had come back from the dead to taunt me. Of course that wasn't true. But I couldn't stop thinking about the baby: what would happen to her? Where would she end up? I didn't want her; I didn't think I could handle having her. Still, I wanted her to be safe. Protected.” She paused. “Loved.”

Miranda was quiet.

“Then I found out you were trying to adopt her. I thought if I interviewed you and wrote the piece, I would be doing two important things. Learning more about you. And helping Celeste. Because the piece did help, didn't it? You got offers of diapers, food—things like that, right?”

“Yes,” said Miranda. “I did.”

“But when I found out about Jared, I changed my mind. Not about you—it was clear to me that you were a wonderful mother. But I knew that Caroline had loved him—at least as much as she was capable of loving anyone. And that she would have wanted him to raise their child. So I switched allegiances. In the end it didn't matter, though. You didn't fight to keep her.”

“I wouldn't have won. But, more important, I didn't think I should. She was his child, after all. Who was I to take her from him? I loved her so much I was willing to let her go.”

“You put her first. Not too many people would have done that. Caroline wouldn't have.”

“Caroline couldn't have.”

“No. That's right.” Geneva stood and walked over to the portrait. Miranda got up and joined her. There was nothing in that enchanting child's face that forecast the sorry story of her life. Whatever she had read into Geneva's gesture was only because she knew its tragic end.

While Miranda was still looking at the portrait, she felt Geneva's touch on her arm. “Could I hold her? Just for a minute?”

Miranda hesitated. But as Geneva stood there, a supplicant in white and black, something in Miranda softened and she handed the baby over.

“She's so heavy!” Geneva exclaimed. She looked ill at ease—even burdened.

“She's big for her age,” Miranda said. “Which is actually a good thing, considering her start in life.”

Celeste began to squirm and reached out for Miranda. Geneva seemed relieved to give her back. “Do you think you could find your way to letting me see her sometimes?” she said. “Not often, not alone. But just once in a while.”

Again, Miranda was silent. She let her eyes roam around the meticulously appointed room. Although she had not seen the rest of the apartment, she knew it would be governed by the same sense of order, the same loving attention to detail. And she also knew what it had cost Geneva to make this request.

“I'm not sure,” she said finally. “I'll need to think it over.” Geneva was on the outside of Celeste's life; she wanted to step a little closer to it, and Miranda was the one who could bestow or deny permission. It was, she realized, a terrible position to be in. She was ready to go; she had gotten what she had come for. Or as much as she was going to get. She strapped Celeste into the car seat and took her bag from its spot near the love seat. Then she moved toward the door.

“I won't call you.” Geneva followed her and stood with her hand on the polished brass knob. “But I'll be hoping that you'll call me.”

Miranda did not reply. She had come to judge, to excoriate and to blame. But what she felt now was less anger and more compassion. Geneva was damaged too—by her past, by the choices she had made, and by the burden of guilt she would always carry with her. She still had not said anything, but she reached for the other woman's hand and gave it one short, strong squeeze before she
left.

W
hen Evan walked onto the set of the
Soigné
fashion shoot, he couldn't help but compare it to the last shoot he'd been on: yapping dogs, hissing cats, a rogue parrot, and yards and yards of pee-stained no-seam. Here, in this elegant Brooklyn Heights town house, the mood couldn't have been more different. Not only was the place itself posh by any standards—velvet drapes, massive crystal chandelier, enormous mantel in black, veined marble—but the mood was so subdued and even elegant. The smooth, creamy sound of Nat King Cole was issuing forth from a pair of speakers and, at the far end of the room, a long table had been set up with lavish platters of sliced fruit, a sink-sized bowl of yogurt, and a matching bowl of granola, croissants, and muffins; there was also coffee and hot water for tea.

Mario, who had asked for his help on this shoot, came up behind him. “Fashion people like to live well.” He paused to
take a bite of a blueberry muffin. “And if you're in their orbit, that means you get to live well too.” Evan had been friends with Mario since their days at Pratt, and when Mario's assistant bailed at the last minute, he didn't mind stepping in to lend a hand. The work wasn't too hard, and Mario had offered him a great day rate.

Evan began unpacking the lights, keeping an eye on the terry-cloth-clad girls—and they really were girls—who were having their faces painted by the makeup person. Not one of them was especially pretty, but as the makeup was applied, they became transformed, their features suddenly springing into vivid and compelling life. There was a red-haired, freckled one who truly did look like a kid, but when the makeup person got through with her, she was turned into someone at least a decade older—and decades more sophisticated. Those freckles reminded him a little of Thea, though Thea never attempted to cover them.

“We're going to start in the parlor,” Mario said. “So you can set up in there.”

The parlor had a long, lace-covered table, and the models were asked to sit and pose around it. They wore wispy, light dresses that looked like silk or, in one case, gauze; although it was now October, the magazine was already shooting for a spring issue.

After Evan had positioned the camera, a medium-format Rolleiflex, on the tripod, Mario began with several shots of the entire table—the girls holding crystal goblets, the pyramid of fruit in the crystal bowl, the platters of petits fours, the enormous sprays of white lilacs, flown in from who knew where—before he began to focus on the individual girls. “Come on. Throw your head back and smile, smile, smile.” He kept up a
steady patter, cajoling them with his words, his compliments. “You're at a party; you're having fun, the time of your life. Let it show, sweetheart. Let it shine.”

When it was the redhead's turn, Mario had her stand against the dark green velvet drape; her hair stood out like a blaze. In addition to her sliplike dress, she wore dangling earrings, a wristful of bangles, and a long scarf she wound in different ways around neck, shoulders, and arms. A stylist hovered nearby to make adjustments to her clothes and hair, adroitly stepping out of the way before the shutter clicked. “That's right. That's the way to do it!” The girl arched her throat and giggled;
click, click, click
.

Evan wondered if Thea had ever considered modeling when she was younger. She was very pretty, and she certainly had the body for it. They were lovers now, and he'd learned to appreciate that body, despite its not being the kind that naturally excited him. But she was fun in so many other ways. Since they'd started dating, they had gone rock climbing and Rollerblading. They were planning a white-water rafting trip, and Evan was looking forward to it. She was even taking trapeze lessons at Chelsea Piers, and although he declined her offer to treat him to a class, he did stay and watch. The sight of her long limbs stretched and flying through the air was exhilarating, and yeah, sexy. He didn't feel like he loved her, but he liked her a lot, and for now, liking was more than okay. “And this time, you picked one who's really into you,” Audrey pointed out. He knew she was right.

Around noon, they broke for lunch. Evan went back into the first room and saw that the breakfast stuff had been cleared and consolidated to make space for the sandwiches, wraps, bowl of salad, and cookie plate that had been added.
He reached for a sandwich—turkey with arugula and cranberry mayo on a ciabatta roll, just the kind of thing Miranda would have prepared. He also helped himself to a bag of sweet potato chips and a pickle. He still thought of her, often, though he tried to banish her image from the bedroom, especially when he was with Thea. He thought about Lily too. Were Miranda and her father, Jared Masters, a couple now? One happy little family? The thought still could make his stomach churn, so he tried not to think about it.

He was just about through with the sandwich when he was approached by a tall, blond woman in caramel-colored leather pants and a soft sweater of the same shade. At first he thought she was a model but quickly realized she was at least twice the age of the rest of the girls in the room.

“Evan Zuckerbrot?” she said, putting out her hand.

“I'm Evan.” He shook her hand and swallowed; it was hard to talk with a mouthful of turkey.

“Courtney Barrett. I'm the accessories editor at
Soigné
. I don't usually show up at these shoots, but when I saw your name listed as the assistant on the shoot, I wanted to stop by.”

“Nice to meet you.” What possible interest could the accessories editor of this big-time magazine have in him? He was just pinch-hitting here.

“I'm not here about the shoot,” she said as if she'd been able to divine his thoughts. “But I did want to talk to you. Can we go upstairs?”

“Isn't that off-limits?” he asked.

“Not to me.”

Evan finished the sandwich and took a drink from the can of green apple soda he'd plucked from the table. Then, still carrying the soda, he followed Courtney Barrett up the
handsome old staircase and into a room that was home to a pair of wing chairs, a low table, and a brass chandelier. “Please sit down.” He did as she asked. “I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you to come up here.”

“Yeah, I am. It all seems kind of mysterious.”

“It's not really.” Courtney smiled. “I just wanted us to have some privacy. I'm a friend of Miranda Berenzweig.” She let that hang in the air.

“Did Miranda ask you to talk to me?” Miranda! He'd just been thinking of her. Evan took another sip of the soda.

“No, she didn't. And I think she'd be pretty upset to know that I was here, so I hope you won't tell her.”

“Your secret's safe; I'm not in touch with her. But why did you come? We broke up.”

“I know that.”

“Do you know why?”

Courtney nodded. “She mentioned it had something to do with Jared Masters.”

“Did she tell you she cheated on me with him?” He finished the soda.

“She told me everything. Even things you don't know yet.”

“Like what?” Underneath his hostility, Evan was intrigued. Maybe there was more to the story than he'd realized. Maybe he was secretly hoping there was.

“That her father died.”

“Really? When?” Evan thought of the game of checkers and the misplaced but nonetheless sincere affection shown to him by Miranda's dad.

“A few weeks ago. Here's another thing I'll bet you don't know. Jared Masters took a job in Gilead, Louisiana. He's relocating there for at least a year—maybe more. He signed over all his parental rights to the baby to Miranda.”

“You mean Lily's going to be Miranda's? For good?”

“Celeste,” said Courtney. “That's what her legal name is now. And yes. For good.”

“Wow.” Evan ran his finger around the rim of the empty can. “Miranda must be thrilled.”

“Delirious is how I'd put it.”

“Well, I'm happy for her. Really, I am. You can tell her that for me.”

“Maybe you want to tell her yourself.”

“I don't think that would be such a great idea.” He waited. “I'm seeing someone else now.”

“Oh,” said Courtney Barrett. She looked like a woman who was used to getting her way and who was clearly surprised when she didn't. “I didn't know.”

“Yeah, well, how would you? Anyway, I wish Miranda well, but things are different now.”

“Are they?” Courtney said.

Uncomfortable under her direct stare, Evan stood up. “The shoot,” he said. “They're going to be starting soon. I'd better get back.”

The afternoon passed quickly. Nat King Cole gave way to Billie Holiday and Judy Garland. More food—cream puffs, napoleons—appeared late in the day. Mario chanted to the girls,
Rock it, shake it, work it, work it, work it.
They finished up around seven o'clock, and Evan stayed to take down the lights and put the rest of the equipment away. “Thanks for the help today,” Mario said when they had finished and everything was loaded up in his van. “I owe you one.”

“No, you don't,” said Evan. “I was happy to do it.”

“That blonde who came looking for you? You know her?”

“Friend of a friend,” said Evan. He wasn't going into it with Mario—not now anyway.

“I'm heading out for a drink,” said Mario. “Want to join me?”

“Rain check?” Evan said. “I've got plans.”

“The blonde?”

“Not the blonde,” said Evan. “Blondes aren't my type.”

Later that night, he was lying naked next to Thea. They'd gone out for a few beers and a burger at Anchor on Van Brunt Street and then back to his place. The sex had been particularly acrobatic tonight; she wanted to try all sorts of positions—stretching, bending, twisting. Evan wasn't really into it, but he went along for the ride. The novelty was appealing and it helped distract him from what was still missing with her, the thing he'd had so effortlessly with Miranda. Somewhere outside was a wailing sound.

“Is that a cat?” She propped up on an elbow.

Evan got up and went to the window so he could hear better. “I don't think so. It sounds like a baby.”

“How annoying. I hope it doesn't cry all night.”

“Babies do cry,” Evan said as he got back into bed. “Comes with the territory.”

“I know—that's part of the reason I've never wanted to go there.”

“You don't want kids? I mean—someday?”

She shook her head. “I decided pretty early on it wasn't for me. I'm the eldest of five and helped raise my siblings. That's enough.”

“Not even one? One baby?”

“No, Evan.” She swatted him playfully on the arm. “Not even one. Anyway, we'd be idiots to have a baby.”

“And why is that?” He tried to keep his tone light; he'd never told her about his—condition.

“Are you kidding? Look at how tall we are! If we had a baby, it'd be a giraffe.”

I like giraffes,
thought Evan,
Giraffes are fine.
But he just smiled and said nothing.

Soon she had drifted off to sleep, the sound of her light, even breathing gentle as a lullaby. Evan, however, remained stubbornly awake. Miranda's father had died. Masters was both out of the city and out of the picture. Celeste was now Miranda's child. For good. The thought kicked and danced in his head, making sleep even more remote a possibility. Finally, he got up and went into the kitchen. The first gray light of morning had begun to show at the window, and Evan sat down to watch as it grew lighter and lighter: the breaking of a brand-new day.