47

CORVO

Midway up the Morro dos Homens, the question that had cropped up the most on Sean’s hikes assaulted him again. Did Thomas know?

How could he get my mother pregnant and not know? Sean’s pragmatic side argued. Or at least consider the possibility she might become pregnant from their tryst?

Sean’s anger kicked in. Or had Thomas callously done the deed and then let her leave Camp David, never following through to make sure she was okay? Had Thomas waited for the right moment to seduce Ava? To take advantage of her? Especially with the convenience of his wife returning to the White House? Did Thomas bribe the Secret Service detail to keep a few hours of the president’s dalliances private from the rest of the world?

If so, Sean’s disregard and distaste for the Rich family grew even more.

Then reality struck. Sean himself was part of the family he lambasted from time to time. No wonder Mom chided me when I did that. I was attacking my own father and half brother.

Had Thomas wanted to know he conceived a son out of wedlock when he was president of the United States? Did he ever see Sean in the society pages and wonder at any resemblance? Especially with my middle name being Thomas?

And what role exactly did Ava play? Was naming him Thomas her backhanded slap at the man who had used her? Or an attempt to give Sean a bit of the father he would never know?

A new possibility startled him, and he sank onto a large volcanic rock nearby. Was her interlude with Thomas her way to get the second baby she’d wanted? She had told Sean how long she’d waited to have him. Did her longing and desperation for that baby drive her into another man’s arms?

He clasped his head in both hands. Was he judging Thomas wrongly? Had Thomas agreed somehow to be a surrogate lover in order to produce the child his university friend longed for?

If so, did Bill know about the arrangements? Had he even been part of the planning? Was that why Bill had to leave Camp David? Because he couldn’t handle seeing his wife in the arms of another man, even if it was to produce a Worthington baby? And why he had been the hardest on Sean, of the three children? Because he knew Sean wasn’t really his child?

Overwhelmed, Sean gasped for air. He struggled to sort through logically what he knew was fact and what was guesswork.

The two families had stopped seeing each other after that summer at Camp David. Was it simply because both men got too busy with their high-profile careers? Bill with growing Worthington Shares, and Thomas with being president of the United States for two back-to-back terms and then the host of philanthropic ventures that followed? That was the explanation Sean had accepted over the years, at least the one time he’d cared to ask. To him, the Riches were merely faces on a society page, figures who held high government positions. They didn’t have anything to do with him, so he didn’t track them.

Now he tried to recall anything Ava, Bill, or Will had said about the Riches.

Ava hadn’t said much, other than giving Sean that stern mom look when he vocalized his view of Spencer Rich as president. But Sean had seen her flipping through her Harvard yearbook from time to time and had come across multiple pictures in a university scrapbook she’d made of herself, Bill, and Thomas, arms around each other’s shoulders.

Before Camp David, the families had made a point of attending each other’s key events. Sean remembered seeing a picture of Ava and Bill, married not even a year, with Thomas at his wedding. Victoria was not in the photo—only the three Harvard schoolmates. When Sean had joked once about the missing bride, his mother had simply said, “Victoria is . . . different. From the best of circles and very beautiful. But I think Thomas married too quickly.”

Had Thomas done that because his heart had been broken by Ava marrying Bill?

Bill, come to think of it, had never mentioned Thomas by name in front of Sean. Odd, since they had been inseparable for three years at Harvard. The only reference Sean could remember was when the media reported on President Spencer Rich throwing a tantrum in the Oval Office. An intern had seen the display and let it slip to the outside world—and she’d since been dismissed. Bill had commented, “Like father, like son,” in disgust.

Ava had frowned and said, “Bill . . .” in that warning voice she had.

Would Bill have said that about his best friend at Harvard unless something or someone had come between them? Had Thomas also been in love with Ava, but Bill had won the prize? Or did Bill know about what happened at Camp David?

Will had once told Sean his memories of that time were fuzzy. He only recalled being glad when Spencer Rich left with his mother, since Spencer was a bully. Will preferred to explore Camp David solo.

No matter how much Sean raked his memory, he couldn’t come up with any further discussion about the Rich family.

Why did the families stop seeing each other? Was it because Ava knew she was pregnant? Or because Thomas and Ava wanted to hide their affair? Perhaps they feared that communication between the two families would allow hints of the truth to slip. Or that Bill would note the subtle exchanges between Thomas and Ava, and he might start to do the math on Sean’s birth.

The questions grated, rubbing his heart raw, because he had no answers. He might never have answers. He had to decide how to live with that, or if it was possible to live with that.

Sean scanned the mountain that still rose at least 1,000 feet above him. Then he stared at the over 1,000-foot drop to the bottom of the caldera.

NEW YORK CITY

“Sure, I can go after a potential human-interest story on special-needs kids and theater,” Jon said. “That’s a unique spin my boss would like for a fill-in piece anyway.”

Sarah gave Jon the contact info. She knew once the project was in Jon’s hands, they’d get the answers they were looking for.

Jon had an understated but persistent way of extracting information that relaxed people. By the time the interview ended, that person had been added to his social network and was already in the category of loyal advocate. That was just Jon. It was one of the many admirable qualities that had made him one of the best reporters in New York City.

PONTA DELGADA, PORTUGAL

The man disembarked from the private jet at Nordela Airport in Ponta Delgada. He was waved through Portuguese security and escorted immediately to the hotel where a red-haired American and a pilot had supposedly stayed for a day nearly two weeks ago. His contact had done well, pulling the appropriate strings to prepare for his arrival.

There a meal awaited him—red mashed peppers served with fresh cheese, mackerel with a flavorful sauce, tea pudding feito, and fresh pineapple. It was the best local fare that São Miguel Island had to offer. In spite of the task ahead of him, the man enjoyed every bite while his source ferreted out additional information. One chatty busboy said the red-haired American had asked a lot of questions about Flores—the temperature, the weather, sites not to miss—in his short stay at the hotel in Ponta Delgada.

The next move wasn’t even a decision. It was common sense. After a night’s sleep, the man, his contact, and the pilot would be off to Flores.

The man lingered over a locally manufactured cigar, then retired to the same room where the red-haired American had stayed. He nodded in satisfaction. His contact was indeed thorough in his arrangements.

They were closing in on their target.