You Were Meant For Me (18 page)

E
van spent the night with Miranda snuggled peaceably by his side. He didn't initiate sex; he sensed she was too preoccupied. But early the next morning—it was Saturday, and neither of them had to be at work—she surprised him by coming into the bedroom fresh from the shower and dropping her towel when she stood in front of him. “Are you in a hurry to leave?” she asked.

“No.” He reached for her; beads of water still dotted her collarbone and throat. “No hurry at all.”

Back in his own place, he sat down at his laptop and began Googling Jared Masters. He wanted to see what he could find out about the guy. Good education—private school in New England, followed by four years at Haverford and an MA in urban planning from Columbia. He now worked for a boutique real-estate company in Harlem and seemed to be on the rise professionally. He'd also been a soccer coach for some
uptown youth league, and more recently, he had started some kind of internship program for high school students at the real-estate firm. Evan read about his many accolades and the citation from the principal, and there were several pictures of him with the students, one of whom was now at Princeton.

Masters was also a very social guy; Evan found plenty of pictures of him at various clubs and restaurants in the city as well as out in the Hamptons. He was inevitably with a woman—always white—of a kind that Evan did not consider especially attractive but that he knew other people did: blond, skinny, done to the nines.

After a while he switched to searching for Geneva Bales. He couldn't help suspecting she and Jared Masters had some kind of connection, that it wasn't journalistic objectivity that had made her take his side the way she had.

The first things that came up were, predictably, the pieces she'd written for
Metro
; the magazine archived them, and had he wanted, he could have gone back over the seven years' worth of columns that were available online. There were references to other pieces as well—a bunch from the
New York Times
, a couple from the
London Observer
, one from
Vogue
, and another from
Vanity Fair
. He found photos too, pictures taken at various New York social events: galas for the New York City Ballet and the New York Public Library, a garden party held by the Central Park Conservancy.

But none of this was illuminating or even very interesting. Geneva wrote well and often. Along with her column, she plied her trade at various high-profile publications, and she had a modest presence on the New York social scene. Evan wanted more. Who was she? Where had she come from? There was no mention of a personal life—no lover or spouse, no
parents or children. Surely that information had to exist somewhere; he just had to persist and he would find it.

Around one o'clock, he got up and went into the kitchen for lunch. The refrigerator yielded a can of Coke, a desiccated lemon, and some leftovers from a Chinese take-out meal that had been none too appetizing even in its original incarnation. He pitched the sorry remains in the trash and sighed dramatically. In the past, he would have eaten the Chinese food without question or complaint. But spending time with Miranda had spoiled him.

Forget lunch. He popped the top on the soda can and reached for a bag of potato chips. Potatoes were vegetables, right? Back at the computer, he studied the Wikipedia entry for Geneva Bales.

She was born in 1971, raised in Asheville, North Carolina, graduated from Randolph Macon Woman's College in Virginia, and came to New York in the early 1990s. No mention of her family, but knowing her hometown was a useful start, and Randolph Macon might be a source too. Easy enough to calculate the year she graduated; there must be old yearbooks or other school publications. But he'd done enough for today. He needed to get out.

He brought his bike down and hopped on; he had no particular destination or goal. His only imperative was about speed: if he went too fast, he couldn't see what was around him. And seeing was what it was all about. He loved this time of year, this time of day. The shadows stretching and expanding and the sky taking on its warm, predusk glow. He'd ride for a while, stop to photograph some little incident, some bit of urban drama—
street theater
was his term for it—before getting back on the bike and pedaling on.

That night, he had dinner at the Tribeca loft Audrey shared with Gwen and Gwen's three kids. While both of them were lawyers, when it came to earning power, they were at opposite ends of the spectrum. Audrey counseled rape victims, and it seemed like half her work was pro bono; Gwen had made partner in a white-shoe firm on Park Avenue. It was Gwen's money that paid for the high-gloss loft on North Moore Street, with its seeming acres of highly polished wooden floors across which the kids ran, cartwheeled, and in the case of one of them, skateboarded.

“Dylan! Put that thing away before I take it away,” Gwen scolded.

Dylan, an impish child with a halo of blond curls and pale blue eyes, said, “Okay, Mom,” and then proceeded to skate down a long hall, out of his mother's range. Not that she would have noticed. Three kids were quite a handful, and dinner was an unruly, noisy affair. Gwen had ordered in—“I hope you like Japanese,” she said—and somehow, amid the giggles, tossed napkins, and spilled juice, the food managed to make it to the table and everyone did eat. After they finished dessert—a store-bought, elaborate tiramisu for the adults, cannoli for the kids—the youngest of them, Emma, decided she liked Evan and climbed into his lap.

“Would you read me a story?” she said. “Please?”

“Sure,” he said, shifting to accommodate her weight. She was as golden and curly haired as her brother, but her eyes were a darker, more somber shade of blue.

“You don't have to do that,” Gwen said. “She can go play with her brothers.”

“No, I want to,” said Evan. He looked at Emma. “What story would you like?” She produced a book that seemed to be
mostly about fairies and unicorns; pink and sparkles were the operative design elements. While he read, she relaxed against him and began to suck her thumb; when he finished—the fairies and the unicorns had retired to some magical, fairy-and-unicorn never-never land—she took her thumb out of her mouth and said simply, “Again.” So Evan read it again, and then a third time. She was asleep before the fairies made their final flight home; Gwen came to lift her from his lap and take her to bed.

Audrey flopped down on the couch beside him; it was long, streamlined, and white, which seemed like a puzzling choice for a three-kid household, but it looked pristine, as if it had just been delivered from some very high-end showroom.

Audrey had told him Gwen had a housekeeper in several times a week and that no one was allowed to eat on it—ever.

“Thanks for being so sweet with her.”

“She's adorable,” he said. “A real doll.”

“I can tell you miss that baby,” said Audrey.

“I do, actually.” His smile was slow and rueful. “Who'd have thought, right? I mean me, wanting a kid so much?”

Audrey leaned over to touch his cheek. “It'll happen for you, Ev,” she said. “You wait and see. If not with Miranda, then with someone else.”

“I don't want it to be with someone else; I think I love her.” He had not actually said this out loud, and once he did, it seemed indisputably true.

“And does she think she loves you?”

When Evan did not reply, Audrey sighed.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he said.

“I just don't want you getting hurt,” she said. “Is that so bad?”

“There's always a chance of getting hurt,” he said. “No matter how it plays out.”

“You seem more prone to it than most. Heart on your sleeve and all that.”

“I like keeping it handy,” he quipped. “You never know when you'll need it.”

*   *   *

When
Evan got home, he was restless and unable to wind down, so he settled in with his laptop. Audrey and Gwen had sent him off with a cannoli-filled bag, and he absentmindedly chewed on one as he continued his Google search, this time back through archives from the Asheville local newspapers. He stopped when he got to the wedding announcement for one Geneva Highsmith; Geneva was not what you would call a common name. The groom's name was Preston Bales.

Okay, Bales he got. But what was it about the name Highsmith? He felt like he'd heard it before. As he continued to sift through the newspaper archives, looking for additional references, it hit him. Highsmith was the last name of the woman who had drowned—the woman who was Celeste's biological mother. Miranda had learned a little about her when Jared Masters first came on the scene. Was it just some crazy coincidence, or was there a connection between Geneva Bales—Geneva
Highsmith
Bales—and the woman who had died?

Fueled by his desire to find out, Evan kept looking. The papers yielded nothing more, but then he found an entry for a country club in North Carolina. The country club had a newsletter, and some patient, devoted club member had digitized all the old issues going back to 1952. He checked the date of the wedding announcement again and then went back to the issues that corresponded. Bingo. There, on page seven, was
a wedding photograph of Geneva Highsmith and Preston Bales, each flanked by family members. To Geneva's left was Eloise Highsmith—Geneva's mother. And next to her was a slender, delicate-looking figure in an ice blue dress that seemed way too big on her. Her straight blond hair hung down past her shoulders. Caroline Alexa Highsmith. This twig of a girl was Geneva's sister—and Celeste's mother.

Evan stared at the screen. There it was, irrefutable proof of the connection between Geneva, Caroline, and the abandoned baby. Is this why Geneva had contacted Miranda in the first place? Did she know all along that the baby was her niece? Although it was after one a.m., he knew he would not be able to sleep until he got to the bottom of this, so he went into the kitchen to make himself coffee. He brought the steaming mug back to the computer and settled in. Then he began a new search—Geneva Highsmith—and felt a small, electric jolt when the results began to load.

*   *   *

Miranda
was surprised to hear from Evan early Sunday morning. He said he had something important to tell her. He couldn't do it over the phone, and it couldn't wait. He needed to see her immediately.

“All right, then,” she said. “Just come over now.” She decided to make a batch of scones for him. They were his favorite.

He seemed agitated when he arrived, and he didn't even react to the aroma wafting from the oven. Instead he reached into his backpack and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “It's Geneva Bales,” he said. “Geneva Highsmith Bales. I found out who she is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Highsmith, don't you remember? Celeste's—I mean Lily's—mother was Caroline Highsmith, and Geneva is her older sister. Which means that Geneva is the baby's
aunt
.”

“I don't believe it.”

“I didn't at first either. But I did a complete search and I found everything—all the documentation.” He thrust the papers at her. “Here. Read for yourself.”

Miranda's eyes traveled over what Evan had given her: printouts of newspaper clippings, photos, and a wedding announcement. She looked up at Evan. “Can it be true?”

“I know it is,” he said. “But here's what I don't know. Was she aware of the connection? And if she was aware, how the hell did she ever figure it out?”

Miranda spent several seconds staring at the photograph. Yes, that was Geneva; she could recognize her easily. Her hair was even styled the same way, though she wasn't wearing a headband. Finally, she looked up at Evan. “Why did she come after me to do that story? And what did she want from me?” But of course Evan had no answer for that.

J
ared sat at his office desk, straightening the already-straightened piles of papers, relocating his stapler and tape dispenser. The pencils in the pencil holder seemed a little dull; maybe he'd even sharpen a few before he left. And how about some filing? There was always something that needed to be filed, wasn't there? But he did neither of these things and instead sat there, hands open and still on the orderly surface.

He knew it was time to go home, but Jared was procrastinating. Tonight, he was the last one here; even Athena had gone, and the evening sky, glimpsed through the wide windows on the office's far wall, was turning lilac as it darkened. He'd called Supah to tell her he was going to be late, but still, this was really pushing it. He'd better leave—now.

Fortunately, the heat had abated a little bit and his walk home was not so bad. It had been years since Jared had been in the city in August for such a long, unbroken stretch. He'd
always managed to get away—to the Hamptons, of course, but also to the Cape or the Vineyard, where some of his prep school and college friends had places. But this year he'd canceled his plans because he thought the disruption—new surroundings, new babysitters—might not be good for Lily. Now that he was stuck here in the dog days, though, he was regretting his decision. He felt trapped and resentful.

*   *   *

Back
at his apartment, he was relieved to find that Supah had already put Lily to bed. Having to deal with the baby as soon as he walked through the door could be stressful. Sometimes she was cranky, or she needed to be changed. Once, she'd thrown up on a really expensive Hermès tie; the stain had not come out.

“Thanks for staying,” he said as Supah slung her bag over her shoulder.

“You welcome.” She had her hand on the doorknob. “I take Lily to the sprinkler today. She no like.”

“No?” Jared was surprised; didn't kids love sprinklers? He sure had when he was little.

“Water get in face. She cry.”

“Okay, no sprinklers, then.” Jared reached for his wallet. Usually he paid Supah on Friday, but tonight he slipped her a twenty. “Thanks. I know I've been keeping you a lot lately.” She looked down at the crisp bill, surprised but clearly pleased too. Then she said good night and left.

Jared tiptoed in to peek at Lily. Asleep, though who knew for how long? She was teething now, and the pain would wake her—and therefore him—suddenly and jarringly. Those teething screams were something else. Just anticipating the next few hours, he poured himself a glass of wine. He remembered
how he'd been afraid to have so much as a sip of the grape that first night; by now he'd realized that a little booze helped take the edge off, and, man, did he ever need that. He wished he could have a cigarette too, but he'd given up smoking—at least at home, and where else could you smoke these days?—in deference to Lily's little lungs.

Jared changed out of his work clothes into shorts and a T-shirt and then padded barefoot into the kitchen to see what he might have for dinner. And look at that—Supah had prepared a noodle dish and left it in the fridge for him. He was so hungry and worn-out that he didn't bother to heat it up. Even cold it was delicious, seasoned with coriander and some kind of spicy peanut sauce.

After he'd finished his dinner and the wine, he felt better. Had he been alone, he would have headed out—some of his favorite spots, like the Cosmo, were just getting going about now. But he wasn't alone; he was tethered to the baby asleep in the next room. He needed to get out more; he'd see if Olivia wanted to pick up any extra evening hours. Being a father was not the sum total of his identity. He was a guy, and guys had needs.

Not that he'd had much time to think about those needs lately. Since Lily's arrival, his libido had gone into the deep freeze. Not tonight though. That soft summer sky had stirred something in him. He was lonely; that's what it was. He was lonely and in need of some female company. He couldn't even rely on the steady beam of Athena's affection; now that she and Gabe were an item, she had turned her gaze elsewhere. To his surprise, he found that he missed her.

Jared channel surfed for a while, and when none of the hundred-plus channels engaged him, he turned the television
off. Facebook was another downer; the first thing that popped up was a picture of Athena and Gabe, both in bathing suits, yukking it up at her place on Sag Harbor. She'd invited him to bring Lily and join them, but he'd declined, saying it was too much of a hassle to travel with a baby. This was only partially true. The real reason was that he didn't want to be around all that giddy, newly-in-love stuff. It made him feel like shit.

God, but he was one gloomy son of a bitch tonight! He had to shake this off
now
; nothing killed the interest of the ladies faster. The ladies, the ladies . . . When was the last time he'd even been interested in a lady? The image of Isabel Clarke popped into his head—not the last time he'd seen her in June, freaked out and bleeding from that bizarro cat attack, but before that, when she'd been all flirty and hot. How the hell was she anyway? Was her lip okay? Did she and her asshole of a husband ever find a new place? Without giving himself time to weigh the pros and cons—and knowing that if he did, the cons would win by a landslide—he called her. And just like that, she picked up.

“Long time!” she said. “Sorry I was such a mess that day.”

“Are you kidding? It wasn't your fault. That cat was
crazy.
But are you all right now? Did you have to have surgery?”

“I did, but I'm good as new,” she said. “You can barely even see the scar.”

“I'm so glad.” It was true. Even if he hadn't been thinking about her, he was genuinely awash in relief to learn that her lovely face had not been marred. “So have you and Brandon found an apartment?”

“Not yet.” She waited before speaking again. “Is that apartment on One Hundred Seventeenth Street still on the market?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.” The finance guy had not made an offer. “But Brandon said he wasn't interested in that place—”

“He wasn't.” Isabel's tone had taken on an edge. “
I
am. Kind of. I think.”

Jared tried to make sense of this. Were they splitting up? “If you haven't found anything yet, maybe I could show you something else? I've gotten a couple of new listings that might be just your kind of thing.”

“Could you?” she said in that little-girl voice of hers. “Would you?”

“Of course. When would you and Brandon like to meet?”

“Brandon's in London right now,” she said. “On business.”

“I see.” He had to tread carefully here. But she was a big girl. She knew what she was doing. And so did he.

“Could we meet? For a drink or something? You could tell me about those listings.”

“I'd be happy to,” he said, trying to sound professional even though that was sure as hell not how he felt. “How's Thursday?” Today was only Monday; Thursday should be enough notice for Olivia. Thursday was
perfect.

Jared was practically humming when he got off the phone. So a-hole Brandon was in London. Yippee. He hoped he was having a good time because Jared was looking forward to having a very good time with his wife.

Thursday he left work a little early so he could shower and change before heading out again. Lily was fussy when he got there; Supah had not been able to get her to take her afternoon nap. “She sleep good tonight,” said Supah.

“I hope so,” said Jared, thinking of the evening with Isabel.

Since Supah had not yet bathed or fed her, he decided he'd
better do that before Olivia arrived. So he sat Lily in her high chair and attempted to feed her dinner, which came from tiny jars of strained chicken and rice, carrots, and applesauce. Usually Lily ate with appetite and enjoyment. But not tonight. She twisted her face away from every spoonful and even managed to push his hand out of the way, which lobbed a bright spray of pureed carrot all over the wall. While Jared was wiping it up, she overturned the dish containing the rest of the food onto the tray of the high chair and was happily slapping her hands in the resulting mess. When he tried to clean her hands, she ended up smearing both their faces with baby food. Baby food was dripping down from the tray onto the floor too.

Jared tried to keep his temper in check. She was a baby, after all. She didn't mean to be such a pain in the ass—even though that was exactly what she was. “I guess you're not hungry tonight,” he said. “So we'll just skip dinner, okay?” He lifted her from the high chair and managed to get her undressed and into the plastic tub without too much hassle. But she splashed nearly half of the water onto the floor; when it mixed with the baby food—which he'd not had time to clean up—it made a nasty sludge that he really did not want to track all over this apartment. He couldn't clean it now, though, so he slipped off his shoes and did his best to avoid stepping in it.

Finally she was bathed, dried, and in pajamas; Jared, however, was sticky with exertion, stress, and baby food. He still had to get her to sleep and get himself cleaned up and presentable. He deposited her in her crib and then had to endure her crying while he attacked the worst of the kitchen. He steeled himself against it, and eventually, her cries tapered off.
He popped his head in to check on her—she was asleep. Great. He was running behind and needed to shower before Olivia got here.

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed and ready to walk out the door. He hadn't given Lily her bottle because she was still asleep, but he'd tell Olivia to do it if she woke up. So where was she? He checked his watch and began to pace. He texted her and was reassured by her immediate answering text.

Be there very soon. Sorreee!

No prob,
he texted.
Get here asap. Use yr key.

He checked on Lily again. Still asleep. He didn't love the idea of leaving now, but he figured it would be all right. Lily hadn't had her nap, so she'd be out for a long while. And anyway, would it be so terrible if she cried for a couple of minutes before Olivia got here? Some people believed in the cry-it-out approach; he'd heard heated arguments in favor and against when he took Lily to the playground and hung out with the moms, nannies, and the occasional dad. And it did seem to work—when he'd left her crying in her crib tonight, she'd ended up falling asleep on her own.

These were the things he told himself as he let himself out of the apartment and hurried to the street. No subway tonight; he was meeting Isabel at a new place she'd wanted to try in Hell's Kitchen, and he was taking a cab. He was able to flag one down quickly, and once inside, he texted Olivia again. She didn't reply, but he'd try her as soon as he got downtown.
It'll be all right,
he told himself.
It'll be fine.
He had his iPad on his lap; he'd brought the new listings to show Isabel. He didn't think that was their real agenda; still, best to act as if.

The place Isabel had suggested was called Les Nuages, and it was packed. She was waiting for him up front, and as
soon as he saw her, he forgot about texting Olivia and the listings on his iPad. He forgot about pretty much everything but the way she looked in that short, body-hugging black dress—what was all over it? fringe? feathers?—and those killer heels. Her legs—had he ever seen them before?—were terrific, and her bare, tanned shoulders were peeling slightly; he wished he could lick them. “I ordered for both of us,” she said, gesturing to the bottle of champagne that sat chilling in an ice bucket in front of her on the bar. “But I asked them to wait until you got here before they uncorked it.”

Champagne? So that's the way this was going down? “Well, what are we waiting for?” The bartender popped the cork, which shot off behind him, causing several onlookers to hoot in approval. Jared clinked his glass to Isabel's. “Let the good times roll.” They polished off the bottle very quickly and then decided to head downtown, to Chelsea, to eat. They ended up at the Cosmo; Jared realized he had not been here since that last awful night with Caroline. He wanted to banish or, better still, obliterate the memory, so he immediately asked for a Scotch on the rocks. When it came, he drank it quickly, and then he and Isabel split a bottle of wine with dinner. Who even knew what they were eating? He was flying, feeling no pain, nothing but a ravening, need-it-bad, need-it-now kind of lust. Finally, the meal was over and they got into the elevator that would take them to their room; Jared still was known here, and he found his old privileged status was intact.

As soon as they were alone, the door shut smartly behind them and bolted, he was kissing her the way he'd been wanting to kiss her all night, pulling the skinny straps from her shoulders—Jesus, he tore one in his excitement to get her naked, but she didn't care a bit—and pushing her down on the
wide, welcoming bed. He went wild when he saw the tan lines that encased her beautiful breasts—so small and perfect, the nipples as pink as gumdrops—and then ended above her ribs. Her white, lacy thong was no more than a scrap; he gently tugged it off with his teeth before touching the slick, salty place beneath it with his tongue. Her tanned thighs opened wider, and she grabbed his head, pulling him to her.

After they were done, Isabel produced a nice little bag of blow, and they did a couple of lines together. Then he scooped her up and carried her back to the bed. “Brandon could never go again,” she said, arching her hips up to meet him.

“Brandon,” he said as he thrust inside her, “is in merry old England. Cheerio!” And they both laughed so hard they nearly slid off the bed.

Jared must have fallen dead asleep after round two. He woke somewhere around dawn with a ferocious need to piss and a headache that felt like a two-ton truck barreling through his skull. Standing naked in the bathroom, he was disoriented, and for a moment he confused Isabel's sleeping form with Caroline's. Caroline! God, he'd missed her! Then it all came back to him: where he was, whom he was with. This was followed by the sickening realization that he had not gone home last night. Even worse—he'd never texted Olivia, the way he'd planned. Jesus Christ. Was Lily okay?