North Carolina
Monday, 7:03 a.m.
Jack kissed Chloe’s cheek as she straggled past him for the coffee. He was buttoned-down and bright-eyed, his blond hair like a halo. Last night she had danced like a six-inch stiletto; this morning she flapped like a moldy old sneaker.
Fifty more years of this, she told herself. It’s good. Good to be safe with a good man.
“My turn to do the shopping.” Jack poured coffee into his oversize thermos. He eschewed Starbucks for thriftiness, though they could afford designer brews or even a housekeeper to make their morning coffee. Two children with trust funds fall in love, marry, make a life. In the scheme of God’s things, such fortune didn’t seem fair to her husband. So at every possible corner, Jack cut expenses and Jack cut guilt.
“Chloe. Are you listening? Need anything from Costco?”
She waved her hand over her mug, trying to muster a physiological response from the coffee. School. Costco. Jack. Manna and quail—she was ungrateful. Her own ingratitude was just another trap she could not escape.
“The usual stuff, I guess,” she managed. How many thousands of rolls of paper towels, bags of boneless chicken breasts, and jars of spaghetti sauce would make up fifty years?
Jack called their spare lifestyle training in godliness, apparently unaware of the irony of chewing on Costco dinner rolls while living in a million-dollar condominium. Was his lack of passion also training in godliness, or was there something so decaffeinated in Chloe’s love that he doled out his desire like he shuffled those stupid coupons?
“Christmas is just a few weeks away. I suppose we need to start thinking about wrapping paper and the like,” she said.
He touched the small of her back, tenderly possessive. “You still haven’t told me what you’d like for Christmas.”
“Jack. What I really want . . .” She clunked her mug on the counter and turned to face him. “I want a vacation.”
“What?”
“We haven’t been away since the honeymoon. Remember the honeymoon, darling?”
He put his arms around her and blended into her. A nice fit. Everyone said so. His eyes were blue like his father’s, narrow like his mother’s. He said she had doe eyes, as if that were a compliment and not a description of a girl running scared.
Her eyes were so dark brown that when people looked at her, Chloe was convinced they only saw their own reflection.
“I’m planning to polish the thesis over the winter break,” he said. “You know that.”
“Bring your laptop. It’s a small world now. You can log in from anywhere, anytime. And do anything you want.” Goose bumps ran up her neck because she had proof of that.
“I can’t . . . sorry, love.” He pressed his face to her neck. His skin smelled like Irish Spring soap. “The timing is off. Maybe we can plan something for graduation. Something amazing.”
Chloe locked his arms around her waist. “We’re never going to graduate, Jack. There will always be one degree or another to go after. I need a break now.”
“We could drive south to Florida for a couple of days, I suppose. Though the crowds will be horrible with Christmas vacations and all. Maybe if we steer clear of Orlando—”
“Let’s go to St. John’s or Palm Island. You can study and I can lie in the water and tip my head back and let the sun enfold me. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
“Sounds poetic.” He laughed, showing a dimple and perfect teeth. “You’re not having a midlife crisis twenty-five years early, are you?”
“No. I just want to see something other than a lab or a classroom.”
“Chloe, you could tell me if you needed something.” He leaned back, studied her face as if he were solving a mystery. “You know that, right? Anything at all.”
She needed out of the pressure cooker of their lives. Jack would never admit his conviction that a Deschene or a Middlebrooks should not have needs because they had been given so much. Look to the needs of others, he said. He believed that, lived that, all the while missing her desperate desires.
She needed him—or someone, forgive me, God—to love her slowly, deeply, without measuring that love like a coupon. She needed Jack to stop thinking of her as the girl who came to him as a virgin and to start searching for delight in the woman who was his wife.
Did he ever roil deep inside, ribs aching with something more than class schedules, lofty plans, and good stewardship? Or was she selfish and greedy and—dear God—what is so wrong with wanting to lie back in the sunshine and feel the breeze dance over her skin?
“Chloe.” Jack cradled her face. “Is there something I need to know?”
She pressed against him so he couldn’t see her eyes. “I just need a vacation.”
“Okay. Let me think.” His shoulders stiffened. Not from resistance, she knew. Just from the pain of possible rescheduling. “You do realize the resorts are probably booked solid.”
“Then we could sail. I would love to sail for a few days.” Sun glinting off the water. The gentle rocking of the boat. Sand flung into the wind becoming stars.
Endless stars. Endless skies.
Chloe spilled tears now, tears that Jack wiped away with his thumbs. “Are you all right, darling?” he said. “You can tell me if you’re not.”
“No. I mean, sure,” she said. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“What?”
“You’ve been acting hormoney lately.”
Chloe laughed. “Hormoney is not a word.”
“It should be.”
“So . . . what if I were?”
“Hormoney?”
“Pregnant.”
Jack smiled, his eyes crinkling under his wireless-rimmed glasses. “We’d make it work.”
“Make it work? That’s how you see us?” She pushed away, went to the refrigerator for the half-and-half. They bought it by the quart; cheaper that way.
Jack sipped his coffee, studied her. “You are tired, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you, Jack? We’ve been pounding out milestones since we got to Duke. One checked box after another. Chloe and Jack Deschene—a well-constructed spreadsheet, a well-executed program. Bang bang, mission accomplished and on to the next goal.”
He squinted and tipped his head to the side. He was a brilliant student but not given to intuitive thinking. “Is there something wrong with deciding what we want and then working our backsides off to get it?”
“What if we don’t really know what we want?”
“Oh, Chloe.” Jack hugged her, pressed his face to her neck. “Forgive me, darling. Forgive me if I’m not doing something right.”
How could she tell him that he did everything right, and that was part of the problem?
Chloe nestled into her husband’s shoulder and stayed there—silently—while the toast burned.
Monday, 7:31 a.m.
The intercom buzzed as they ate oatmeal with figs and walnuts. Chloe stood up. “What if Mother—”
“I’ll get it.” Jack motioned for her to stay seated. “It’s probably Marj, locked out of her apartment again.”
“Yeah, probably.” Their neighbor was a genius linguist at Duke, sweet-tempered and so forgetful that they kept a set of keys for her at their apartment.
He snatched Marj’s keys from the key tray. “Why would you think something’s wrong with Susan?”
“No reason. I just . . . she’s getting up there. She seems brittle.”
“I’ll make sure we see her more often, then.” Jack pressed the intercom call button. “Yes? What is it?”
“Mrs. Deschene’s mother is asking to come up.”
“Okay. That will be fine. Thanks.”
“I told you, Jack. She’s never out this early. Something’s wrong.” Chloe was already on her feet, skimming the possibilities. Her cousins were all in their late thirties, almost a generation removed from her. Her mother’s sister was a hardy eighty years old. No one had cancer or heart problems. Had someone been in an accident? Had Mother received some horrible diagnosis, like breast cancer or heart trouble?
Jack kissed her cheek, then headed for the foyer. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Right,” she said and followed him anyway.
He opened the door to an attractive woman wrapped in a smart charcoal gray scarf, probably in her early forties. A girl stood behind her wearing jeans, a pink hoodie, and motorcycle boots.
“Who are you?” Jack’s tone was starched. “You have a lot of nerve, posing as my wife’s mother. We don’t know you.”
The floor seemed to tilt under Chloe’s feet. “She’s not posing, Jack.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Could I come in?” the woman said.
“Certainly not.” Jack started to close the door.
The woman stuck her hand—encased in a cast—into the door. She yelped in pain but didn’t move her hand, just kept saying, “Please, please let me explain.”
“Chloe, call security,” Jack said.
“No.” Chloe could see herself in the woman’s eyes. “Look, Jack, just look. She is my birth mother. And you . . .” She inched around his shoulder so she could get a better look at the girl. “. . . you must be my sister.”
“Guilty as charged,” the girl said with a grin. “Guilty as charged.”
Jack roused their lawyer away from his breakfast to do a background check on this stranger who had barged into their lives.
“Inherited money is more curse than blessing,” John Middlebrooks used to say. “It takes years to know whom you can trust. And even then . . .”
The even then was always followed by a cautionary tale, which was why Mother was thrilled when Chloe began dating Jack Deschene. Serious, intelligent, focused—a young man with his own family money and a heart for Jesus.
While they waited for Henry Metzler to arrive, Jack sat Julia down in the living room and offered her a cup of tea. The woman stared at Chloe so long that Jack whispered, “Can you give us some time alone? Maybe head over to school for a few hours.”
“No.” She glanced at Julia, and at Destiny Connors. “Why would I want to do that?”
My mother, my sister. How bizarre after all these years. How wonderful.
Jack stepped so close that she couldn’t see the two women. “I need you to give me some time. Please.”
Chloe stepped around him. “If you would excuse me . . . I have a couple things to attend to.”
“Fabulous idea,” Destiny said. “I’ll come with you.”
“I’d prefer you stayed here,” Jack said.
Destiny ignored him, followed Chloe back into the foyer. Chloe liked that.
“Does your boyfriend always order you out of the room like that?” Destiny said.
“He’s my husband.”
“How’s that? You’re younger than me, right? Seventeen months. April birthday, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re, like, twenty-two? Legal age and all that.”
“I don’t drink,” Chloe said too quickly. That bottle of white wine was hidden in the kitchen, twenty feet away.
“It’s been an intense twenty-four hours,” Destiny said. “So let’s go out, get some coffee.”
I can make coffee, Chloe almost said and then thought, No. She had already dipped a toe into the unknown when Jack had opened the door to two strange women. Why not take a full step?
Chloe slipped on a green cardigan. Grabbing her coat from the back hall, she tossed Destiny a jacket. Her sister was from Los Angeles and Julia Whittaker was from Dallas. That’s all that Jack would let them say until he’d consulted Henry.
He’s blind. It’s clear as the sun in the sky that we’re all related.
Jack must know that. He just didn’t know why they were here today. And he was right—better to be safe than scammed. But a sister . . . she had always wanted a sister. The Middlebrookses’ house was nearly a mansion and her footsteps had always sounded so empty.
“Chloe.” Jack swung into the kitchen, phone in hand. “I think we should all stay put for a little while.”
“We’re only going for coffee.” She flushed—how must this sound to Destiny?
“I’ll bring her back in one piece,” Destiny said. “And I’ll buy the coffee.”
Jack gave her a nod, turned back to Chloe. “Let’s take a little while to sort things out before we . . . share too much. Please.”
“Sure,” Destiny said. “You’re the boss, Jack.”
They took the back stairs, went through the parking lot, and crossed the grass in silence. The complex’s green space was more park than lawn, immaculately landscaped to create a barrier of privacy from the campus and the city.
The brisk air was invigorating. Normally she and Jack would be in their cars with the windows up and heaters going, he off to some stimulating seminar and she going to the lab to pretend she really wanted to be a doctor instead of an engineer.
It was soothing to see Christmas lights on the rhododendrons and to hear the rush-hour traffic beyond the barrier of fir trees.
It was exhilarating to hear her sister’s footsteps clatter in time with her own.
Chloe had been singular for so long. The only child. The lonely girl, too smart to really click with a group. The only woman Jack had ever loved. It was exciting to be part of something else. Jack had sniffed out that eagerness almost immediately. That was clear from the muscle jumping in his cheek. The background check was a stalling tactic until he could figure out what to do.
Chloe had made her decision the second she left the condo with her sister.
“It’s pretty here,” Destiny said. “We saw the campus on the drive from the airport. All I know about Duke is basketball, Coach K and all that. Luke likes to— Anyway, I see the games in March.”
“Luke?”
“Yesterday’s news. So you—twenty-two and already married? That’s radical.”
“Yes.”
“You can answer with more than one word,” Destiny said. “I won’t bite. And if I do, I don’t leave teeth marks.”
“I’m still kind of stunned,” Chloe said. “I mean . . . I was heading out for school and bang! Here you are.”
Destiny laughed. “I say bang all the time.”
“I wonder . . .” They stopped at the crosswalk. Chloe pushed the walk button.
Destiny grabbed her arm, jaywalked her across the street. “You wonder what else we do the same? Like The Parent Trap.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“Here’s the pitch. Twins separated at birth by divorced parents meet at a summer camp, decide to switch places so they can get their folks back together. There’s this one scene where they stand side-by-side at a mirror.” Destiny stopped in front of a clothing store. Not open yet for the day, its windows were dark enough to offer a reflection of the cars passing on the street. “Like this.”
“Too weird.”
She tugged at Chloe. “That’s the fun of it. Look.”
Chloe saw an instant resemblance in the shape of the faces and the eyes. Night and day personality-wise, something anyone could see. Destiny was like something out of a quirky comedy, with her hip clothes and edgy makeup. Chloe was the stereotypical prepschool girl who could pass for twelve instead of twenty-two.
“She’s taller than us,” Destiny said.
“She’s got to be pushing five ten. I always thought I was tall at five seven.”
“Me too. Size two and trust me, I’m not bragging. I eat like an elephant, burn calories like a hummingbird.”
“Lucky you. I have to pick and peck like a chicken to be this size,” Chloe said. Her sister—what an amazing thought sister was—shared the same body type, thin to almost skinny.
“The women I work with would kill to have natural highlights like yours,” Destiny said.
“What women? Are you a stylist?”
“I make monsters.”
“What?”
“I do a lot of conceptual art for the studios. Sometimes get TV work when they’re looking for some particularly freaky stuff. You?”
“I’m a professional student. Jack doesn’t see either of us done with our various degrees until we’re thirty.”
“Jack . . .” Destiny curled her lips into a tight smile. “He seems nice. And really, really tight. Which I guess he should be, given the circumstances.”
“He is nice and he is very careful.” Why were nice and careful suddenly deficits? Why did just going out in the cold for a coffee with this girl feel like a betrayal? What would Mother think when she learned the birth mother had literally appeared out of nowhere?
She should have warned Jack not to tell her.
Destiny put her thumb under Chloe’s chin, tipped her head up. “I think we have her chin.”
“I guess.” Chloe turned away. “Starbucks is on the next block.” She loved their coffee, wished Jack understood that it’s not a sin to do a little something for yourself.
“So, Mrs. Professional Student. What’re you studying?”
“Premed. So . . . cell biology, genetics, that kind of thing.”
“Holy baloney.” Destiny smiled. “That will make our mummy proud.”
Chloe turned and asked, “Why are you here? Really?”
“Me? I didn’t have blood relatives until yesterday morning when Julia showed up at my house. When I found out I had a sister and she was coming to see you, I couldn’t resist hitching a ride on her private jet.”
“But why now? What does she want?”
“I promised not to say anything. She wants”—Destiny’s face darkened—“she wants to explain it herself.”
“Is it bad?”
“I honestly can’t answer that.” Destiny lowered her gaze. “I guess I was hoping we could figure that out together.”
They settled into a Starbucks, Chloe with a black coffee and Destiny with a latté and a chocolate-chip muffin.
“So?” Destiny tapped her arm. “You. Jack. Story?”
“We are so boring, so conventional, I can say it in two sentences. You could say it was our destiny.”
“Spare me the puns. Can you believe it? Who names their kid Destiny? Besides some teenage, single mom. So, back to you and Jack.”
The hunger for each other had started at prep school, fueled by shadow kisses and passionate embraces. They had both pledged chastity, so Chloe or Jack would say stop, he more often than her. She was the weak one, unbuttoning his shirt and pressing her lips to his collarbone like a bird swooping in for prey. By the time they said their vows and finally made love, it felt anticlimactic—as if they had passed some perfect moment and not even realized it.
The work, she told herself. The work came before the passion. They carried heavy academic loads, dreamed of lofty futures. Act justly, love mercy, walk humbly. That had to be their passion now.
“He was my high-school romance. We hung on into college. We’re both focused personalities and figured we’d better get married so we could concentrate on our studies.”
“Focused personalities?” Destiny laughed. “Tell me about it. Your place looks like a showroom.”
“It’s easier to clean up a mess immediately than let it linger,” Chloe said. “Ask Julia Whittaker about that.”
Destiny stared at her. “Is that what you think we are to her? Lingering messes?”
“Given I’ve only known about you for half an hour, I have no way to pose a theorem. Want to give me a hint?”
“At least tell me about our father.”
“Oh, this is rich.” Destiny leaned over the table, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. “We have different fathers. Julia said your father is your story. I don’t know anything about him. Not yet, at least.”
“And your father?” Chloe said.
Destiny shrugged. “Same old, same old. Guy charms girl, guy beds girl, guy dumps girl.”
“And Luke?”
“Who said anything about Luke?”
“You did,” Chloe said. “Your face did.”
“Nothing to tell. Not anymore.” Destiny smiled. “So tell me how you ended up married already.”
“Same old, same old,” Chloe said.
Monday, 9:15 a.m.
People weren’t dying fast enough. What a horrendous notion—that Julia had to pray for someone to die, and die soon—from head trauma. How God must despise her prayers.
What would happen if Chloe refused to sit down with her, get to know her? That would be all the excuse Destiny needed to hop a plane back to Los Angeles, and Julia would have lost two precious days that she should be spending with Dillon. How odd—how heartless—that there wasn’t enough time or mercy or liver to go around.
Matt was in a rare fury. “You gave them our social security numbers? And our bank accounts? What’s next—the 401(k)s?”
“I gave them that as well.” Julia had returned to the Hilton and called her husband to ask that he help pray Destiny would be patient while all this financial and legal maneuvering took place. The background check would show how stable and reliable the Whittakers were.
Except neither she nor Matt felt very steady right now.
Dr. Annie had discharged Dillon from the hospital to wait for a liver. Matt had settled him in the family room with his electronics and multitude of medications that were palliative, not restorative. Their son was on the brink of catastrophic liver failure. If that happened, there would be no turning back.
“Julia. I asked you a question.” Matt smiled wanly, his eyes unable to lie. As a man of measured action, this waiting ate at him. Jack Deschene clearly was a man of measured action as well. The two would probably get along fabulously.
Julia pressed her fingertips to the screen. “They won’t let me talk with Chloe until they do a background check.”
“They couldn’t just get one of those generalized checks—the kind we have to do to teach Sunday school? Why do we have to lay bare our financials before them?”
“Honey. That takes at least two weeks. Does . . .” The thought Does Dillon even have that long? jammed in her throat. The screen flashed a soft blue as Matt pressed the phone to his chest. She could almost hear his heart pound.
If only they had a liver for Dillon today.
If only Chloe or Destiny were a match.
If only one of her daughters could show amazing grace.
If only, God. If only You would show mercy or at least show Your face. Are You afraid I’ll punch You? Would that jar You into action to save my baby?
“It’s okay, love.” Matt’s voice was low, soothing. “I gave them everything they asked for. And then some. It’ll be okay.”
“Nothing’s okay. You know it and I know it. No one in their right mind would even consider this. Chloe doesn’t know, Destiny is pretending I never asked, and this Jack Deschene is so controlling, I want to shake him.”
“What’s your impression of Chloe?”
“She doesn’t strike me as a girl who is used to making her own decisions.”
“So we have to consider: are you wasting your time in North Carolina?”
Julia shrugged, groaned as she shifted her hand. The long-lasting numbing agent the surgeon had injected had begun to wear off. “What choice do I have? We have to play this out, if only for the opportunity for Destiny to get used to . . . to . . .”
“The weirdness of it all?”
She laughed. “You do realize that it’s a miracle that she agreed to hop a plane with me? And given what . . . ah . . . reserved people the Deschenes are, it’s a miracle that they let me in the door.”
“There’s our hope. Hold on to those two small miracles and wait for the big one.”
And if it didn’t come? Julia couldn’t go back to the way she used to be, that hollowed-out shell. Losing Tom and giving up Destiny had seemed like the end of the world. Losing Chloe had been the end of herself.
After that adoption, God trickled back into her life like sunlight under the door. Julia pressed her face to the floor of her soul and let love creep over her until she was ready to love God again.
Now Jesus was like a receding tide with not enough ebb to pull her along. She pressed the phone to her cheek, closed her eyes. “Pray for me, Matt. Please.”
“Heavenly Father, you promise in your Word that by your Son’s stripes we will be healed. May our son become living proof of that promise.”
This whole thing is like something out of the twilight zone.
Julia, the organ-grabbing bio-mom. Chloe, the convention-clinging new sister. Jack, the gargoyle snarling at the gate.
That’s your problem, Mom used to say. It’s all a story for you, all an opportunity for embellishment and revision.
And the Bible isn’t? Destiny would throw back at her. Tell that to the Amorites, Hittites, Perizzites, Canaanites, and all the -ites that Joshua wiped out. Dude, historical revisionism is the stuff contemporary righteousness rides on.
Chloe had gone back to her place to await Jack’s permission to meet with her birth mother. She had insisted it would be a decision they made together. Out of deference to their newfound sisterhood, Destiny had swallowed her snort and refused their lawyer’s offer of a ride to the hotel. The hike to the Hilton was three miles of shops and restaurants, of brisk air and holiday lights.
The perfect way to clear her head.
The perfect place for the crazies to sneak in.
Like that urban myth of people who woke up in bathtubs filled with ice and discovered their kidneys had been cut out of their bodies. Destiny framed the scene in her mind. Start with a long shot of white, chipped tile. Slowly sweep to the open door. Beyond, a bed and bloody sheets. Keep moving to the sink, green mold on the faucets and blood stains on the porcelain.
Follow a trickle of mildew at midheight until a hand comes into view. Slumped at the wrist, the skin is stark white. Until the little finger flutters.
What a shock. What a cliché.
Destiny rubbed her back as if she could feel that crudely stitched slash of bloody tissue, that feeling of something vital missing. Her phone rang.
Luke. Right. Something vital missing.
This was his third call, following a couple of where R U texts that she had ignored.
She should let it go to voice mail like the others. Then again, if she answered, she could tell him to leave her alone. “What?”
“And good morning to you too.” Luke’s voice was annoyingly cheerful, that praise the Lord ready to leap out of his mouth and down her throat. “Where are you?”
“Not your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. I love you, Dez.”
Destiny clenched her jaw so she wouldn’t say the words, you love me but you love Jesus more. That would give him the opportunity to go all testimonial on her. She knew the legalities of being separated from God and the doctrine of Christ as the only way back. She disliked new Christians with their sunny eyes and doggy smiles, their tails wagging in expectation of blessing, their ignorant hearts not understanding that God is tough and cold and stays far away when you mess up.
How God must love the shrink-wrapped Chloe Deschene, hemmed in by a million-dollar condo and a husband who doesn’t sweat. In her black tank top, J. Crew cranberry cardigan, and gray toothpick cords, Chloe could model for a catalog of good-living Christian girls.
Chloe, a.k.a. Hope McCord, came to the marriage bed as a virgin. She admitted it over coffee, seemed proud of that sad fact.
Luke came to the unwed bed as a tiger and slinked away as a neutered housecat or—as he claimed—a virgin in Christ.
“Babe, where are you?”
“Stop asking.”
“Don’t make me block your number, Luke.”
“Just because I’m concerned about you?”
“You and Jesus go save the world. I’ll call you when I’m back.”
“Just tell me wher—”
Destiny ended the call. Let him go play at righteousness. She had her own existential questions to work through. Now that Julia had brought her to meet Chloe, she had to consider being tested. She had promised that—too quickly, of course—but she didn’t back down on promises.
What if she were compatible with Dillon? What if she were compatible and refused to let them take a part of her liver? She would be the worst person in the world.
What if she agreed to the surgery and then had one of those rare complications? If she died and Dillon lived, would Julia grieve? Or would her birth mother be happy that the lesser obligation—the one she had shipped off at birth—was six feet under?
Twilight zone thoughts.
Monday, 10:18 a.m.
Jack has people running everywhere.
He had sent Julia Whittaker to the Hilton to wait for their phone call. Henry Metzler volunteered to drive Destiny there, but she refused his help, said she would walk. She gave Jack a mock salute and left.
Jack steered Chloe to his office. She had her own because he said they shouldn’t be distracted when they were trying to work. The four-bedroom, five-bath condo was a wedding gift from his parents and her mother.
Her husband had tried to refuse the gift. He wanted a stripped-down lifestyle, to live as if they had to hustle for every jar of spaghetti sauce. Mother would not relent. If you’re not moving into that darling guest house on the estate, please let me be assured you’re safe. You’re still so young. The Deschenes backed her up by suggesting the condo.
Would she and her husband have been happier if they studied side-by-side instead of across four thousand square feet of silent home? Not that he was unhappy. Sometimes she wondered if any sort of unease had a place in Jack’s life plan. Was there something organically wrong with her that she couldn’t be content with the blessings that had been showered on her?
“Let me show you what we’ve learned so far.” Jack handed the stack of paper to her with the same pride and satisfaction that he showered on his essays and reports.
Chloe scanned the printouts and then tossed them onto his desk. “This tells me nothing.”
“It tells you she was arrested in college—”
“Twenty-five years ago.”
Jack shuffled the papers back into order. “Are you going to let me finish?”
“I apologize. Go ahead.”
“She was arrested once in college and that’s it. For both her and Matthew Whittaker. Their financials are good, if somewhat variable. That’s because of the business model. They take in huge fees, put out large expenses. They’ve got some significant medical expenses. We can’t ascertain how these were incurred because of confidentiality.”
“I know about HIPAA, Jack.”
“Point being—these expenses seem significant, and something you need to think about before you have your conversation with Mrs. Whittaker.”
“You’re ignoring what’s right before your eyes.”
Jack tilted his head. “What?”
“The family resemblance, Jack. The eyes you say you love so much.”
“I’m trying to protect you. Can’t you even grant me that?” Jack put his hands on her waist, touched his forehead to hers. “Please, darling.”
She kissed him, tasted coffee, and what she called his everlasting mint, the Altoids he popped because Jack Deschene was the total package, whether in wing tips or sneakers, pinstripes or denim.
She admired him because he always strode for something and always clothed that something with Christ. If only he understood that she had been cut from a different cloth, that meeting her birth mother and her sister was a miracle and not some nefarious scheme to defraud them of the family fortunes.
“Think, Chloe. She wouldn’t have shown up out of nowhere if she didn’t want something,” he said. “And want it right now.”
“We’re so well protected, she’d need a can opener to pry something loose from us.”
“I can’t protect this, darling.” He laid his hand over her heart. “Sometimes I think you’re too tender for your own good.”
“Tender? Or weak? That’s what you think, isn’t it? That I’m weak.”
“Of course not. You’re a capable woman, and certainly the most intelligent I’ve ever met.”
She pressed against him. “I’m capable and smart and still something to be fenced in like a goat.”
“Listen to yourself.” Jack stepped back. “You hang out for an hour with the girl from Hollywood and now you’re fit for a soap opera? Come on, darling.”
“You know it’s true. I can’t live in Bubble Wrap, Jack.”
“Is that what you think I am—Bubble Wrap?”
“Of course not. You’re a loving hedge of protection, but how high does the hedge need to be?”
He pulled her to him, arms around her waist, unaware that his bear hug made her point perfectly. “I’m trying to do the best I can to provide exactly what you need.”
“Then do it—provide exactly what I need—right now.” She pushed him against the desk, untucking his shirt.
“What’re you doing? They’ll be here shortly.”
She melted into him, imagining the wind over the waves, sun on her shoulders, the schedules and obligations sinking into the horizon. “Which is why this could be so much fun.”
He warmed to her, his skin flushing. She ripped at his shirt, smiled at his gasp—until he pushed her away. “You popped off my button.”
“That was the point, Jack.”
“That is never the point.”
“Can’t you . . .” She swallowed, trying not to let a single tear escape. “Can you just relax with me and have fun?”
“We’re not in a movie, Chloe. We have things we need to do. Duties.”
Chloe pressed her lips to his ear. “Do I . . . displease you in some way?”
“Never.”
“Sometimes I think that you don’t want me.”
He stroked her face. “I always want you. Don’t you understand?”
“I don’t, Jack. I don’t know why you’re so careful.”
“I have to be.” He cradled her face. “You do understand that there will always be forces trying to pull us apart?”
“And you do understand,” Chloe said, “that we both need to be able to stand on our own two feet? That you can’t be the only one making decisions? It is my decision whether or not to have a conversation with my birth mother. It can’t be yours.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been thinking straight . . . we need to pray.”
“Making love is supposed to be a form of prayer. Isn’t it?”
“Of course. Everything in its season. Now please, Chloe. Please.” Jack extended his hands to her. “Let’s keep our wits about us.”
She took his hand, stood quietly. As he prayed for protection and wisdom and grace, she prayed that God would get her through the next couple of hours. And the next fifty years.
Monday, 10:18 a.m.
Balancing a cardboard tray with corn muffins and two chamomile teas, Destiny carded open the door. Her room at the Hilton was four-star standard with a cream duvet and fluffy pillows on the bed, a rich peacock print carpet, maple writing table, Queen Anne chair. A door opened to the adjoining room.
“Hello?” Destiny set down the food, peered into Julia’s room. She was asleep on her side, hand stretched out toward her iPad. Destiny tiptoed in, stared at the image on the screen.
A boy, asleep on a sofa.
Her vampire brother, the body-snatcher who couldn’t survive without a piece of her or Chloe’s liver. His skin had a yellow cast; otherwise he looked like any young teen with a wannabe mustache, gawky arms, and bony knees. A game controller and cell phone rested on his chest.
Thirteen years old and chronically ill—of course the kid wanted to stay in touch with his friends. Supposedly he made movies. Luke could teach those daredevil friends of his a few stunts, not risky enough to break any bones. Just rich enough to garner respect and a little awe. He was so good with kids.
If Luke were here, he’d say go for it. Have the blood test. Trouble was—would that be Luke’s common sense? Or some desire to satisfy Jesus? Luke had already given her up. What more could his God ask of him?
Destiny’s cell phone vibrated. Chloe. She stepped back into her room, pressed Talk. “Hey.”
“Hi. We texted and called, still haven’t heard back from Mrs. Whittaker.”
“Julia. Call her Julia, for Pete’s sake. She’s your mother.”
“That’s kind of TBD over here. They’re ready to meet with you guys.”
“Am I invited?”
“I insisted, said you were part of the package.”
Destiny smiled. “She’s sleeping. What time?”
“In an hour? I’m sorry—”
“I know it’s not your fault. You’re just doing what they’re tel—what they’re advising.”
“Yeah. I guess. This is all so . . .”
“So fantabulously freaky? Tell me about it. She’s not a bad sort. Can you ask him to go easy on her?”
“He’s not a bad sort either. He’s just . . . concerned.”
“Okay. We’ll see you in a few.”
Destiny shut the phone, yelped when Julia stepped into the room, her face looking all night-of-the-living-dead.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That was Chloe. They’re ready for us.”
Julia pressed her injured hand to her stomach. “I slept wrong. And I can’t—with this on my hand—I can’t do my hair—”
Destiny pointed at the vanity. “Sit. I’ll make you presentable.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Oh yes, I really do.”
“Okay. I’ve got my makeup case and curling iron in my room.”
“I’d prefer to use my stuff.” No way was Destiny going in there. What if Dillon woke up and called for his mom? She didn’t want to see him. Chloe was okay, didn’t come with any obligations of the flesh. Dillon was a gaping wound, and she wasn’t ready for that.
Maybe she’d never be ready for that. And how would she tell Julia thanks for the ride but no liver for you?
Destiny dampened a facecloth and wiped Julia’s face of foundation and two days of travel crud. Julia grasped Destiny’s wrist. “They’re going to hate me.”
“If they do, it won’t be because of your hair or face. Now hold still.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Not at the moment.” Destiny shook off her hand. “Will you hate me if I say no?”
“Don’t ask that.”
“You asked, I answered. Now it’s your turn.”
“How could I?” Julia stared at the mirror, gaze locked on Destiny. “And how could I not?”
Monday, 10:38 a.m.
After changing and freshening up, Chloe went into her office and locked the door. Jack was in his office, sorting through another of the various reports on the Whittakers. This kind of instant information gathering had to be costing tens of thousands of dollars. Her husband might drink coffee from a warehouse store, but he wasn’t shy about resources when it came to protecting his turf.
Why shouldn’t she just leave? She could dash across the park and keep running until she got to the Hilton. She could fly back to California with Destiny, get to know her. Or maybe New England. She would rent a house and not tell Mother or Jack or Julia Whittaker where she was.
She’d stare at the icy waves pounding over the rocks and wonder why God felt as deep and cold as the ocean.
If Jack wouldn’t listen, she knew someone who might.
HANDS _ ON: Hey there. Thought I’d try for a quick hello. Working?
WAVERUNNER: Not on deck for a few minutes. You OK?
HANDS _ ON: Life is weird, that’s all.
WAVERUNNER: Anything I can do?
HANDS _ ON: Tell me what you see, right now.
WAVERUNNER: Ha. A mess on my table.
HANDS _ ON: You can’t see the water?
WAVERUNNER: Not sitting down. Wait.
Chloe imagined him getting up, going to the porthole. They had both agreed not to share photos. Their intimacy came from knowing the person within—or beyond—the shell. They knew the basics: age, the region where each other lived, their vocations. And so much more. Like how he liked mustard on his fries and rain on his face; how she abhorred snakes and loved spiders; how fixing things made them both feel closer to the driving mechanism of the world.
Jack thought she was silly for screaming at dead snakes and fixing toasters when she should be studying. Every time her husband told her she was meant for more, it somehow made her feel less.
WAVERUNNER: Okay. Still there?
HANDS _ ON: Absolutely. What’s happening out there?
WAVERUNNER: The sky is gray, water is calm. Storm coming, they say. We’re probably heading to anchor.
HANDS _ ON: I hate being anchored.
WAVERUNNER: Sometimes what’s going on around us dictates what we have to do.
HANDS _ ON: Will you be caught in the storm? Is it bad?
WAVERUNNER: Remember that movie The Perfect Storm? It won’t be that, but we’ll have to take care about that front forming near Nova Scotia. And what about where you are?
HANDS _ ON: Cold front.
WAVERUNNER: I could change that for you. For real. It’s just a short flight. If you’d ever consider . . .
HANDS _ ON: I’d like to—
A hard knock on the door startled her. She shut her laptop. “Come on in.”
Jack stuck his head in the door. “Henry’s back and your mother is here.”
He meant Mother and not Julia because Julia was an outlier, a reminder that Chloe was more than Middlebrooks and Deschene and that something unknown had burst into the spreadsheet of their lives.
“I’m coming,” she said, remembering to send her chat to the trash, empty it, and blank out her browsing history.
And wasn’t that what happened to her? Julia Whittaker emptied her life of her second daughter, and Mother and Father and now Jack were doing a splendid job of blanking out the history.
Chloe took a deep breath and walked out to embrace the variables.
What do you say to a group of people when you know what you say—no matter how you say it—will make them hate you?
Chloe’s husband, Jack. Sitting as judge.
Twenty-two-years old, he took his responsibility as head of the household seriously. He had replaced his rimless glasses with darker frames, a futile act of gravitas for one so fair-haired. He had changed his shirt from this morning’s button-down blue to a muted gray with subtle pinstripes.
Did he iron his own slacks like Matt did because no one could make a better crease? They would get along wonderfully, both financial whizzes, according to what Destiny had gleaned. Matt would tell Jack to lighten up because this is the day, man and we should rejoice in it.
And what joy they could have in this moment! Her two daughters in the same room, so lovely in such different ways.
Still in ripped jeans and motorcycle boots, Destiny had changed to a knit wrap, knotted to show a minimum of cleavage. The orange-spice print that would be garish on pale skin blended well with her black hair and shadowed eyes.
Chloe had changed into a green plaid jumper over an ivory turtleneck sweater. The expensive outfit teetered between L.L.Bean and prep-school uniform. This was a style that Matt loved; he often bemoaned that their brides were either too gaudy or exposed too much skin.
Were Dillon a part of the gathering, Julia’s delight would be complete.
Instead, her son’s—their brother’s—shadow loomed over them with a chill of mortality.
Susan Middlebrooks hadn’t stopped staring at Julia since she and Destiny were escorted to their chairs. They had shaken hands briefly; the woman’s hand had been cold and she’d quickly withdrawn it after a crisp hello. She was dressed impeccably in a houndstooth suit of soothing gray tones, likely Armani or Donna Karan. Her eggplant pumps and purse were exquisitely expensive and so old school that they were almost fashion forward. She was a lovely woman with soft skin and faded brown eyes—almost elderly. She had to have been fifty when she and her husband, John, adopted Chloe.
Perhaps that explained why Chloe was apparently content to be managed rather than partnered in her marriage. She clung to Jack’s hand as he made introductions. Her glances at Julia had been hurried, her handshake a wisp.
Chloe retreated to a sofa and locked her gaze on Destiny with a shy smile that held a flicker of amusement. Perhaps this would be the blessing—bringing sisters together.
If only they would consider meeting their brother.
Destiny. Chloe. Dillon. Three fathers, three lifetimes. Three heartbreaks, Tom and Andy of her own stupid doing but, Why Dillon, dear Lord? Why afflict him for all my mistakes?
Julia sank into the armchair Jack had indicated. She had no status here except as a supplicant. How would—or could—she ever say what needed to be said? I loved you enough to give you life. Now please, forgive me enough to share some of that life with my son.
Jack stopped his small talk midsentence. “Excuse me?”
Julia leaned to Destiny and whispered, “Did I say that out loud?”
“For the whole world to hear.”
“I didn’t quite catch that.” Jack stood up. “Could I ask you to repeat what you said?”
“Hey,” Destiny said. “Let’s chill. Get to know each other.”
“Mrs. Whittaker.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”
“Jack. Please.” Chloe took his arm, tried to move him back to his chair.
Cold inched up Julia’s throat.
Patience.
Matt’s voice, because lately that was the only way she could hear God’s voice. Prayers in a dark closet, on the mountain top, in Matt’s car, in his arms, prayers in Jerusalem because, Lord, Your Son was born there and You let Him die so my son wouldn’t have to, so please hear me hear me hear me hear m—
“Come on,” Destiny said. “A little patience here.”
Jack kneeled next to Julia and took her hand. His was surprisingly large and warm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whittaker. We’re all a bit on edge. It’s such an . . . unexpected situation. May I get you a cup of tea?”
Suddenly Chloe was on her other side, slender fingers grasping Julia’s shoulder. “I’ll make you some coffee. Destiny says that’s what you like. Would that be okay? Or I could get you some orange juice or water.”
“Thank you,” Julia said. “I would like coffee.”
“I’ll help,” Destiny said and the two girls were off.
Jack sat back in his chair, making small talk with his lawyer with enough nods and glances at Julia to make sure she understood she could be part of the conversation if she cared to be.
She could barely breathe, let alone speak. She studied the room, tried to glean something of Chloe’s personality from the décor. Judging by the contemporary styling, either the girl was a professional designer—or a guest in her own home.
Susan Middlebrooks nodded at her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whittaker. You’ve been here ten minutes and I still haven’t thanked you.” Her voice was rich and confident, despite the tremble of her hands. “It must have been a difficult thing to do, to give my daughter up.”
Her daughter? Julia deserved that—she was the intruder here. These people must think that she was either a tramp or a fool to have gotten pregnant twice outside marriage and to have surrendered two children.
“I’m grateful,” Julia said. “For all you’ve done for Chloe.”
“Coffee’s ready.” Destiny stood in the doorway holding a tray of coffee mugs, sugar, and creamer. Chloe followed her into the room, coffee pot in hand. Jack and Mr. Metzler took cups, Mrs. Middlebrooks abstained. Chloe went back into the kitchen, returned with a glass of water for her mother.
Destiny poured for Julia, added three heaping teaspoons of sugar.
“No, thank you,” Julia said.
“Take it. You’re in full zombie mode,” she whispered. “So shut up, take it, and sharpen up.”
They drank in silence for a couple of minutes. Susan Middlebrooks took Chloe’s hand, lacing her fingers through her daughter’s.
Destiny tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. When her foot joined the rhythm, she put her mug on the coffee table and said, “Okay, people. I’ve got a flight to catch, a sweet private jet with leather seats and Wi-Fi. So maybe we could get the discussion going?”
That’s Tom coming through. Julia reminded herself that she was not the only one in the equation.
“Don’t everyone speak at once.” Destiny dinged her mug with a spoon. “What do you need to know about Julia that your cybercolonoscopy hasn’t told you?”
Jack shot her a dirty look. “We needed to make sure this is a fruitful meeting and not some sort of trap.”
“I understand,” Julia said. “Believe me—I understand.”
“This is counterproductive,” Chloe said. “It seems like it would be better for me to sit down with Julia by myself.” Without making eye contact, Jack shushed her with a touch of his hand.
Henry Metzler leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other. “Mrs. Whittaker, I apologize for what must look like a united front. Please understand, we have been approached more than once by people—claiming a family tie—who wanted to profit from the circumstances of Mrs. Deschene’s parents and her husband.”
Chloe swiveled to face her husband. “We have? Why didn’t you tell me? I would have wanted to know.”
Jack shrugged. “There was nothing for you to know. They were all scam artists. Criminals. Why would we expose you to any of that?”
“Because I’m your wife, Jack.”
He stared at her for a long moment before turning to Julia. “Mrs. Whittaker, we’re taking up time that should be devoted to you. What would help us get to know you better before you explain why you’ve made this trip?”
Julia fumbled in her bag for her iPad. “You’ve all had the pleasure of meeting Chloe’s sister. I’ve known Destiny for two days now—the day of her birth and yesterday. And I’ve been blessed.”
Destiny gave her a quick smile that faded as quickly as it had come. She knew why Julia was here and had studiously avoided the subject as they flew cross-country. Her silence on the matter was ominous.
“Chloe, you also have a brother. Dillon.”
“Your son with your husband,” Mrs. Middlebrooks said.
“Yes.” Julia handed her the iPad. “That’s Dillon—Chloe’s and Destiny’s half-brother—taken last month.”
Chloe peered over her mother’s shoulder, then glanced at Destiny. “He’s got our eyes.”
Destiny smirked. “Genetic manifest destiny, forgive the pun.”
“He looks like a nice boy,” Mrs. Middlebrooks said.
Julia launched into the spiel that felt more like a college essay than a mother preparing to plead for her son’s life. How creative Dillon was. The volunteer work at the hospital. The left-handedness and big feet that made him a constant visitor to the emergency room, stitches on his forehead, a broken wrist, and battered knees. And too many other visits to the clinics and ERs and how do I find mercy from all these people who assembled to guard Chloe from me?
Henry Metzler took the iPad. “What is the point of this, Mrs. Whittaker? What kind of help does Dillon need?”
“We’re all people of faith—”
Destiny folded her arms and whispered. “Do not speak globally on that.”
Something’s there, Julia realized. Something that needed tending, but Julia could only focus on one child at a time. The legitimate child—what a cruel term. Destiny and Chloe being born out of wedlock didn’t make them any less of God’s children, or her own.
And yet, the two girls had lifetimes ahead of them. Dillon—How long how long? Dear God, please make the sun stand still and make “not long” enough time.
“Dillon has had liver disease since he was born—”
Jack shot from his chair. “No.”
“—and he desperately needs a liver transplant—”
He crossed the room in a flash. “Get out.”
Chloe jumped up after him, pulled at his sleeve. “Jack, don’t.”
“Don’t you understand what she wants from you?”
“What is she saying?” Susan Middlebrooks looked at Henry Metzler, who gave Julia a stern look.
“Mrs. Whittaker,” he said. “This is extremely inappropriate.”
“—and we can’t find a compatible donor, and please understand, time is so short—”
Jack stood over Julia, fists clenched. “I said, get out.”
Destiny got between them. “And this is why I’m not a fan of you Christians. Because you’re all gooey-lovey when it looks good but when someone asks you to dig deep—”
“Dig deep? She wants my wife to donate part of her liver. Why not you, Destiny? You’re one of her bastards. Let her harvest you.”
“Jack! Stop it.” Chloe pushed into the mix and it all became a blur. Jack trying to get to Julia, Destiny pushing back at him, Chloe holding on to both, Mr. Metzler standing to the side as if ready to catch someone if they tumbled.
“Please.” Julia wanted to stand but she was blocked by the tangle. “Let me explain, please someone just let me explain.”
“Stop it.” Mrs. Middlebrooks stood, a dainty woman with a suddenly large voice. “All of you, sit down!”
Destiny backed away, hands up.
Jack glared at Julia. “Get—”
“Jackson Isaac Deschene, I won’t ask you again.” Mrs. Middlebrooks pointed to the sofa as if he were a child.
He is a child. All three of them were and she was asking them to do something that would be impossible for anyone—to honor blood ties that she had severed when she surrendered them to the Connors and to the Middlebrooks.
Chloe gave her a pained look and sat on the arm of Destiny’s chair. Jack seemed stranded in the middle of the room.
“I’m so sorry,” Julia said. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t such . . .” Her throat closed. The pain of going back to Dillon and Matt with no hope was impossible to bear.
“Tell me,” Chloe said. “Tell me and my sister what this means.”
“No,” Jack said. “We’re not listening to this.”
“You’re right. You are not listening to this.” Chloe stood. “I am. We’re going out. Destiny and Julia and I. And no one is coming with us.”
She gave Jack such a dark stare. Something’s there. Something that needed tending but first—
First, Dillon.
Monday, 11:13 a.m.
Chloe hadn’t splashed in a puddle in twelve years.
She used to jump with both feet, howl with laughter when she made the water fly. That made Father chuckle. Mother would wrinkle her brow and tell her to come inside and change those wet pants before she caught a devil of a cold.
When Chloe heard in church that the devil prowled like a hungry lion, she clung to her father and swore she’d never get her pants wet again.
It took him fifteen minutes to figure out what the fuss was about, another five to explain that a devil of a whatever was merely an unfortunate expression. He bought Chloe fisherman boots and a red rain slicker that was more watertight than a submarine. She had grown out of the boots years ago but she had kept them, cherished them as deeply as Mother cherished Father’s wedding ring.
This was a devil of a mess and a devil of a decision.
Chloe sat at a table in the park with Destiny and Julia, shivering under her ski jacket. She knew her own psychology, understood that she had been as protected as an orchid in the Arctic, and she had submitted willingly. The thing with WaveRunner was a diversion, just a form of entertainment. A place where she could go and pretend to be herself—whoever that was.
The appearance of Julia Whittaker had made her dual realities totter. And now her birth mother asked her to go into a dark unknown where there would be no pretending.
“So how much do they take?” Destiny said.
“A lobe.” Julia’s voice wavered. “Maybe a third of your liver.”
“It’ll grow back,” Chloe said. “The liver is one of the few organs that regenerates.”
Destiny poked her arm. “So you’re making her case for her?”
“I’m just giving the facts. What is the mortality rate, Mrs. Whittaker?”
“Please. Just call me Julia. This is hard enough.”
“So you’re the victim here?” Destiny said. “That’s a ha-and-a-half.”
“This is hard enough on all of us,” Chloe said. “Let’s just get the facts out and then we can discuss.”
“Do either of you know your blood type?” Julia said. “If you’re not type O, the discussion is irrelevant.”
“So we’re only relevant if we’ve got the right blood?” Destiny said.
“Stop it. She’s only trying to make it easier on us,” Chloe said.
“That’s her history. Get knocked up, pop out the kid, and sayonara until she needs a body part.” Destiny turned to Chloe. “How old were you when they told you that you were adopted?”
“Four or so,” Chloe said. Father had taken her for ice cream after church, told her so matter-of-factly that it rolled off her like rain. “Someone had adopted a little girl from China and my parents explained . . . the usual spiel. We chose you because you were special, la-di-dah and all that.”
Destiny leaned across the table, stare locked on Julia. “I was eleven because my mother didn’t have the guts to tell me before then. Or maybe she didn’t think I was special enough.”
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Chloe said.
“I just want her to know that she’s not the only one who paid a price. We did too.”
Was that really true? Chloe wondered. She recognized the profound privilege the Middlebrooks name and money conferred on her, and she valued the deep love that her parents had showed her. Yet there was a void in not understanding why her birth mother had asked for a closed adoption—as if Chloe were something she needed to put behind her like she never happened.
Julia wrapped her hand over Chloe’s. “I’m sorry. This is so sudden. So bizarre.”
“If you say you’re sorry one more time,” Destiny said, “I’m taking Chloe and we’re leaving.”
“Don’t speak globally on that,” Chloe said, drawing a laugh from her sister. “I don’t know my blood type, Mrs. Whi—Julia. I’ve never had surgery. And I’m ashamed to say I never seem to have time to donate blood.”
“And you’re going to have time to donate part of your liver?” Destiny said. “How long will we miss work if we do this? And remember—this is not a discussion about donating. This is merely us considering whether we’ll even have a blood test. Right, Chloe?”
“We’re still in the discovery phase.” Chloe wrapped her fingers around her sister’s arm. So strange, so wonderful to have a sister. Especially one who said what she thought, even when it’s contrary.
It was the silence at home that drove her to seek friends elsewhere. She had been taught to be always polite and forward-looking. Didn’t Jack ever feel compelled to move beyond the boundaries? That was what marriage should be—a growing out of yourselves, two halves becoming a new and wonderful whole.
Too often it felt like Jack had adopted Chloe rather than married her.
“I gave blood once,” Destiny said. “A friend was in a terrible accident on the 405. He was in surgery forever. A crew of us went down to the Red Cross because we didn’t know anything else we could do. I was so freaked, it never occurred to me to ask what my type was. We thought that giving our blood would somehow shift fate into his favor.”
“What happened?” Julia said.
“What do you think? The whole blood thing was stupid. He died.”
“So what is the mortality rate?” Chloe asked.
Julia dropped her gaze. “It’s zero point five percent.”
“And that means . . . ?” Destiny said.
Chloe did the math. “Five people out of a thousand die.”
“The odds are much better when the donor is younger,” Julia said. “And you would be given a comprehensive checkup before.”
“And what about after,” Destiny said. “How long will we be out of work? Or in Einstein’s case here, school?”
“One to two months. Matt and I understand it would be a hardship for any donor. Legally, we can’t compensate for donation, but we can provide living expenses.”
“It’s not about the money,” Destiny said. “I have a career. Missing a couple months . . . people will slide into my place and I might not get back in the stack.”
Two months. That might as well be two lifetimes in terms of Jack’s plan. If Chloe missed the next semester, she could kiss her scheduled start of medical school good-bye.
And would that be a bad thing? Perhaps she would give a portion of her liver just to get some breathing space. What a ghastly thought. How could Jack or Mother—or God—forgive such persistent ingratitude?
“Two months of your life,” Julia said. “Two months gives Dillon a chance to go to college. He’s bright, Chloe, like you. Two months gives Dillon a chance to have a career. Someday, Destiny, someday the two of you could make films together. He’s like you. So creative, so full of life. Two months gives your brother a lifetime.”
Destiny cursed, shot to her feet, and stomped away. The bushes in the park were barren, the grass a hazy brown. The white Christmas lights that had seemed so cheerful a few hours ago now seemed futile.
Without their help, Dillon Whittaker could be dead before the dogwood trees bloomed in the spring. If he was as sick as Julia described, he must be high on the transplant list. Maybe today would be the day that someone with type-O blood died.
Maybe that death, that sacrifice, would spare Destiny and Chloe from having to make a decision. This was an impossible situation. Even the most merciful heart would balk at this request.
Destiny circled back to the table. “If we say no . . . we’re the worst kind of sludge.”
“If you would just consider being tested today,” Julia said. “We can see if any of the pain of taking the next step is even necessary.”
“And no one you know has qualified?” Chloe said. “How is that possible?”
“You think I’m not asking that question?” Julia slapped her hand on the table. “You think I’m not shouting at God that this is just so totally wrong and cruel? Neither Matt nor I have type-O blood, and our friends and family members who volunteered and do have type O have unusual complications—too many tattoos, a history of cancer, a surprise pregnancy.”
“Ah, the fateful surprise pregnancy,” Destiny said.
Mother would say she’d pray about it and then say no. Henry Metzler would say it was too high a risk. Jack would say no and think—too kind to say it—that this was proof Chloe was a helpless lamb in need of his shepherding.
Father would say find Christ in the question before you demand the answer.
How? Even Jesus felt like a straitjacket, not letting Chloe take a single breath without wondering if she would disappoint the people who loved her.
“Oh, God.” She buried her head under her arms. “God, help.”
She felt her sister’s arm around her waist, guiding her away from the table. “I have an idea,” Destiny whispered. “And it’s pretty cool.”
As she explained her idea, Chloe had to agree it was pretty out-of-the-box. The thought of taking off with her sister, finding an unplanned adventure—no matter where it led—was irresistible. And there was no way Jack could say no. Not to this.
This was her birthright.
She took a deep breath, felt something tear away inside and thought, This decision hurts and feels good at the same time. Like a boat being torn from its mooring and drifting toward a boundless horizon.
“She owes us knowing,” Destiny said. “Before we can decide about her son, she owes us this much.”
“Okay,” Chloe said. “Let’s tell her.”
They walked back arm-in-arm, just the right size for each other.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” Julia said when they sat down.
“If we agree to be tested and one or both of us is compatible, will that put us under any obligation?” Chloe asked.
The eagerness in Julia’s eyes bordered on tragic. “No, of course not.”
“Okay. Just one thing.”
“Anything, just tell me.”
Chloe cleared her throat. “Just say it,” Destiny said.
“We will agree to the blood test. After you take us to meet our fathers.”
The jet was on stand-by for Boston—and Tom Bryant—after all these years.
“You never told me the name of Hope’s father,” Matt said. The lines in his face had deepened in the two days she’d been gone. “You said it needed to remain confidential.”
“It did.” Julia burrowed into the blanket like a child, iPad close to her face. The girls had gone back to Chloe’s apartment to pack for the trip. It would be a miracle if Chloe actually returned with Destiny—and they so needed a miracle now.
There was an eerie gallows humor in his FaceTiming from inside the pantry, discussing matters of life, death, and potential scandal while he was surrounded by boxes of oatmeal. They took their phone calls from Dr. Annie and other medical professionals here—it had the best Wi-Fi reception and was farthest from the family room where Dillon was curled up on the sofa.
“I respected your privacy,” he said. “Respected the work that God had done in your life.”
“Oh, Mattie,” she said, trying to choke her tears with the blanket. “I love you so much.”
She wanted to climb through the screen and into his arms, to feel his stubble on her cheeks and mingle her breath with his because they had been blessed with such life. Oh, God, such a perilous life because whatever you have created us to be must include Dillon, so please, please save him and please let Andy forgive what I’m about to do.
“And I love you so much, and even more,” he said. “But this . . . this going to see the men. They had no right to ask you this.”
“I’m asking them to do something outrageous,” Julia said. “They get to ask me for something outrageous in return.”
“No. We’ve disrupted Destiny’s life and the Deschene-Middlebrookses’ universe. Now you’re going to dig deeper into the past, bring more families into this? I’m not sure we have the right to go that far.”
“Dillon. He gives us the right. He’s their blood too. And if I’m asking them to consider that, then they have the right to ask me to give them the full story.”
Matt glanced away, stone-faced. “What if they want something from you?”
“Who?”
“Thomas Bryant. And the one you still haven’t named.”
“For goodness’ sake, Matt. It’s been over twenty years.”
“Do you blame me for being . . . concerned?”
“Of course not. I do blame you for letting some petty jealousy keep me from getting Dillon the help he needs.”
He stared into the screen, an iciness in his eyes that she rarely saw. “Back then, what you shared with each of them. That wasn’t petty for you. You would have chosen either one in a heartbeat. What if . . . seeing them brings up that old stuff?”
“I’m a different woman. You said that you respected the work God had done in my life. The work you helped walk me through.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m happy about you digging into that old mess.”
“Mess? Is that what you think I was before you saved me?”
“I didn’t save you, Julia. I never said I did.”
“But you take pride in being the stable one.”
“This is not the time, Julia.”
“You made it the time.”
“I’m just bringing up a concern about two more families you and those girls will disrupt.”
“Those girls? Those girls are a part of me.”
“You think I don’t know that? When I had the investigator doing all that work, tracking through documents and your mother’s journals and talking to people at the churches. It took six months, Julia. Six months of digging into your past love—”
“Stop it, Matt.”
“—tracking down the flesh-and-blood reminders that you had two lovers who consumed you so much that—”
“Now stop it right there, Matthew Whittaker. You were not a virgin when we met.”
She tried to curl her right hand into a fist. Agony shot through her broken fingers. There was a reason the surgeon wrapped her hand in a heavy cast—to protect her from herself.
There were reasons to let the past stay shrouded. And yet, sometimes wounds need to be opened to heal properly.
Matt closed his eyes, shook his head. “It wasn’t the same.”
“Why?”
“I was a loose kid . . . doing what loose kids do.”
“And that’s better?”
“They were easier . . . ,” he said, blinking back tears.
“To walk away from?”
He nodded. “Shameful. But that’s over. I repented, remedied the best I could, and let Jesus walk me forward.”
“I’m sorry, Matt. I don’t mean to hurt you. They’re the past.”
“Then why won’t you tell me who Chloe’s father is?”
Julia burst into tears.
“Oh, Julia.”
“There’s shame still on me for this one.”
“Julia. It’s okay. Whoever he is, we’ll work through it.”
She swiped at her tears, did her best to look her husband in the eyes. “Hope’s father—Chloe Deschene’s biological father—is Andrew Hamlin.”
“Andrew . . .” Matt squinted. “You mean . . . the Andrew Hamlin?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
Monday, 12:19 p.m.
Why did Destiny let Chloe go back home by herself? The power trio probably barricaded her in the bathroom. She could see them plying her with honey and castor oil, trying to drive out the devil that was her birthright.
Destiny’s phone binged. Luke, texting yet again. For the two years they were together, she had loved his persistence. Depended on it. Now it only annoyed her.
LA: I know where u r.
Don’t answer, she told herself but her fingers had already done the work.
DC: Not unless u r stalking me.
LA: I spoke to Melanie.
Destiny laughed. He was faking and knew full well she wouldn’t fall for it. Melanie Connors would be on the front lines if she knew about this, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with Chloe’s mother and the other two. Like the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld: “No liver for you!”
The irony was that Luke would tell her to have the surgery. Yes, he could knock back beers or race in the desert or swan dive off cliffs. But when things got real, he listened carefully and found ways to help. His pockets were perpetually empty from tossing cash to anyone who had a good story and sad eyes.
Empty pockets, full heart, he used to say.
Destiny closed out the text, dialed his number. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice was deep and warm.
“What did Mom tell you?”
“That your birth mother showed up after all these years. Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Dez. Come on. It’s like . . . a life event.”
“Only if I let it be.”
“So where are you?”
“Why, Luke? Why do you want to know?”
“I love you and want to make sure you’re okay. Is that a sin?”
She laughed, her voice like brittle sugar. “You said it was.”
“You need to let me explain. When do you get back from . . . ?”
“Nice try, man.”
“Destiny.” He whuffed into the phone. A patient man, blowing out air through his beard was usually the limit of his exasperation. “I don’t want you to be alone . . . in whatever you’re going through. I want to be there with you.”
There is getting a little crowded. “I’ll call you, Luke. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“What if I need you, babe?”
“You don’t need me. You’ve got Jesus to keep you warm at night.”
“Destiny, don’t—”
Destiny pressed the power button on her phone. She needed a minute alone. No Luke playing I-want-you-but-I-can’t-have-you games. No Chloe calling to say Mummy and Jackie wouldn’t let her go out to play. No Julia crying that she was sorry, so sorry.
No anyone wanting to know if she was all right.
Destiny Connors was all right. She made sure of that and she didn’t need her family or lover or God in heaven to make sure of that for her.
Monday, 12:42 p.m.
Mother sniffled. Jack ranted. Mr. Metzler calmly protested. It ran off Chloe like rain.
“. . . a restraining order . . .” Jack waved his arms as if pulling her strings. A female Pinocchio was all she was. Crafted, not born as a Middlebrooks, adopted without flesh-and-blood as a Deschene.
My name is really Hope McCord, she wanted to say. I don’t know my father, but my birth mother promises I will, and that’s enough for me.
Nothing could be heard amid the tears and fear of those who claimed to love her. And clearly they did love her—as long as she was Chloe Middlebrooks Deschene and not some college student who had never been anywhere without a passport, a first-aid kid, and three pairs of clean underpants.
“Chloe, you’re getting caught up in the moment,” Jack said. “You need to dial it back. So you can think.”
“I’m sick of thinking.” The sound of her own voice startled her. Chloe didn’t recognize herself with the volume turned up.
“Jack is correct, dear.” Mother dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Monogrammed with her family’s initials, it was a relic of ages long past. She and Father had lived under glass, public personas in a climate-controlled biosphere. Always generous, always careful. “You could be walking into human trafficking for all we know.”
“Mr. Metzler spoke with the company that hires out the private jet. Tell them,” Chloe said. “You know Julia is for real, that she has carte blanche for traveling wherever she wants.”
The lawyer pulled at his bottom lip, remained silent.
“Tell them!”
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any physical danger to Chloe in this trip. I confirmed that the plane was reliable, the pilot trustworthy.”
“See.” Chloe stared at her mother, then turned to Jack. “See?”
“However . . .” Henry Metzler held up his hand. “. . . emotionally or otherwise, Mrs. Deschene, I must strongly urge caution.”
“That’s me.” Chloe zippered her suitcase. “One strongly urged caution.”
“Chloe, I beg you.” Jack grasped her hands. His felt dry—as if she had wrung something out of him. “Don’t do this.”
“I told you I needed a vacation. You should have listened.”
“I’m listening now.” Tears puddled in his eyes. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Look around you, Jack. It’s three against one here. It’s never just you and me.”
“How can you say that? We got married so it would be us.”
“Us.” Chloe pressed her hand against his chest so he couldn’t embrace her. “There is no us. There is only you—and what you decide we should do.”
“Chloe, my dear,” her mother said.
“Don’t you see? I went from you to him—with no me in between?”
“Tell me,” Jack said. “Tell me what you need to be you.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” Chloe said. “You should know.”
Chloe grabbed her suitcase, wheeled it down the hall with the three of them following.
“Chloe.” Jack followed her into his office. “Whatever you think you need, you won’t find it . . . doing this.”
The sharp edge to his tone made her stop, stare at him. “Doing what, Jack? What do you think I’m about to do?”
He stared back, his jaw tight. “Wherever you go or whatever you do, remember that I love you.”
She grabbed the laptop and the power cord and shoved them into her bag. She pushed past him without another glance.
Destiny’s father worked in Boston. They’d be there well before nightfall.
A storm was coming to the Northeast, WaveRunner had said.
One might never know what—or who—would wash ashore.