With Liam sated, Carla resumed reading the first draft of Adam’s article.
He had given it to her reluctantly, concerned that his prose would not meet her expectations. But as the pages turned, she read more swiftly, at first surprised, then relieved, then impressed. He wrote with a clarity and humanity, evoking his translator’s daughter so well that it hurt Carla to perceive how the web of ignorance and custom would ensnare her once the Taliban resumed control. It was the best kind of journalism, she thought, capturing a social landscape through the people caught in it. It was something Ben might have done, yet so clearly Adam’s own—more particular, somehow, and more poignant. Then she heard the sharp rap on her door, and went to answer.
Though she would know this woman anywhere, Carla was astonished to find her on the porch—still striking in her midsixties, her gray-blond hair perfectly coiffed, her blue eyes clear and cool, her patrician features barely conveying the disdain she was too well mannered to express. Without preface, Clarice Blaine said, “May I come in?”
It was not phrased as a request. Silent, Carla stood aside. Clarice entered, barely casting a glance toward Liam’s bassinet before taking a chair. Carla sat across from her, resolved to say nothing until Adam’s mother spoke again.
An arid smile briefly crossed Clarice’s lips. “It’s obvious you’ve been spending time with my son. You seem to have mastered his talent for Delphic silence.”
This was meant to unnerve her, Carla knew. But while she did not have this woman’s breeding, Carla had not been an actress, or a celebrity, for nothing. “You came here for a reason,” she responded evenly. “I’m sure you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
With an ironic lift of her eyebrows, Clarice took note of Carla’s self-containment. “I thought it was time we spoke.”
“Why now?” Carla inquired. “We were doing so well as it was.”
A chill amusement surfaced briefly in Clarice’s eyes. “You’ve certainly been doing well. First my husband—and now, it seems, my son. Not to mention a considerable chunk of Ben’s estate.”
Carla forced herself not to react. “I can understand your point of view. Is there anything else you want to say?”
Clarice’s face set, her anger still repressed. “You tried to steal my husband and my security, using your pregnancy as a crowbar. Now you’re moving on to Adam. There are words for women like that.” She paused, speaking more deliberately. “There’s been enough, Carla. I don’t want you in my life, or with my son.”
Still Carla held her temper. “I don’t intend to be in your life. But Adam’s life is his own. You can’t choose for him—especially when it concerns my son, who’s no more at fault for being here than Adam was. I’m sorry for your pain and humiliation and to have been any part of that. But perhaps we have too much in common.”
Clarice stiffened. “You really do flatter yourself.”
“Flatter myself? Let me see if I understand you. You had an affair, as I did, the difference being that you were also committing adultery. You became pregnant, as I did—and, like me, decided to have the child. Then you protected that child—and your own reputation—by signing over your marital assets to Ben. Too bad my reputation took the beating you were so eager to avoid. But I can live with that.” Carla’s tone became quieter. “When I learned about Ben’s will, I gave you most of what he left me. Not just out of sympathy for you—Adam had been through enough without feeling guilty about being born. I’m sure that part was particularly humiliating. Given that you were so determined to leave my son and me with nothing.”
Clarice stiffened. “So you really think this is about my pride? You may fancy playing your new role as a mother for an audience of one. But from the day he was born, I’ve loved Adam more than you can ever understand. Far too much to see him settle for an alcoholic has-been whose greatest talent involves lying on her back.”
Carla gave herself a moment to regain her calm. “I don’t expect you to thank me, Clarice. After all, being taken care of by others has always been your due. But you can take your hypocrisy elsewhere. As for having me in Adam’s life, I suppose you could end up with Rachel. Then you can deal with Whitney Dane, who seems entitled to some grudges of her own.”
Clarice’s eyes froze, betraying how startled she must be, her sudden fear of what Carla might know. But Clarice could not ask. Nor did Carla choose to say the rest: that before settling on Ben, Clarice Barkley, Whitney’s closest friend through college, had betrayed her by sleeping with Whitney’s father. Instead, she finished coolly, “You’re wondering what I know, of course. A good deal, actually. But you’ve disenchanted Adam quite enough already. Besides, the Blaines have so many secrets I’ll enjoy sharing this one with you. As with Ben’s will, you can thank me later.”
Standing, Carla went to the door and opened it. There was nothing Clarice Blaine could do but leave, her posture erect and her head held high, though she could no longer look Carla in the face.
When Rachel appeared at his door, Adam was not surprised—to show up unannounced matched his sense of her, and he had not expected her to vanish. “I’m glad to see you,” he said, and found that this was true. “When did you get back from Manhattan?”
“This morning, and I only plan on being here a day.” Stepping inside, she looked around her—for traces of Carla, he imagined. “I came to see you, actually.”
He hoped his smile was not as uneasy as he felt. “A house call is way more than I deserve. I’m still sorry about what happened.”
She sat with him beside a window framing the meadow, lit by slanting winter sun. “So am I,” she answered quietly. “Especially because it wasn’t my choice.”
Adam touched the bridge of his nose, a nervous gesture—he seemed to be losing his gift for emotionless calm. “Carla’s baby could’ve been stillborn. You and I were only skiing . . .”
Rachel shook her head. “We were doing more than skiing, I thought. I had the delusion we were starting something.”
“Perhaps we were,” Adam acknowledged. “I hated having to leave.”
After a moment, Rachel nodded slowly. “Is the baby all right?”
Despite his best efforts, the thought of Liam made Adam smile—a few days before the tiny boy had wrapped a death grip around his finger, looking into his face, and Adam had imagined a glimmer of recognition. “Oh, he’s fine. Just hungry all the time.”
Rachel looked at him with new directness. “Then I guess you don’t need to worry anymore.”
“Not about his lungs, certainly.” He was skirting the truth, Adam realized, and Rachel deserved much better. “As for the relationship between Carla and me, I’m not sure yet.”
She smiled at this, a reflex. “But there is a ‘Carla and me.’”
Adam nodded. “At least for now. But neither of us know where this is going. So I’m not counting on a happy ending.”
Across the table, Rachel seemed to steel herself, her striking features assuming a determined cast. “A reasonable person wouldn’t. A truly reasonable person might even call this a Freudian nightmare.”
Adam chose not to defend himself. “Only if it feels that way.”
“How can it not?” Rachel persisted. “Your father’s girlfriend? Your father’s son? Why not start wearing his old jackets, and writing sequels to his books?”
This struck close enough to home that her words stung him. With an edge in his voice, he said, “I’m sorry that I hurt you, Rachel. And so quickly at that.”
At once, her gaze broke. “I guess it’s my turn to apologize. Maybe I imagined something that wasn’t there. I make things up for a living, after all.”
“You’ve got too much going to believe that. In bed or out, I wasn’t just killing time.”
Rachel looked up at him. “I hope so,” she said in a firmer tone. “I do care about you, Adam. But you actually seem to be contemplating a future with your father’s mistress and your infant half brother, rubbing salt in your mother’s gaping wounds—not to mention your own. Are you still so tied to Benjamin Blaine that his leftovers are sacred relics?”
The question both angered and unsettled him. Quietly, he answered, “Whatever else, I don’t see Carla and Liam as leftovers. Another sign of my deep emotional problems.”
Rachel bit her lip in obvious dismay. “I’ve really lost my gift for words, haven’t I? No doubt tact is not my greatest strength. But do you honestly think you can untangle all this?”
It was a good question, Adam thought, even from a woman who knew only what was apparent on the surface. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Even if I can ‘untangle all this,’ what happens isn’t just about me.”
“Oh, she’ll want you, Adam. Why wouldn’t she?” Rachel touched his arm, speaking in a lower voice. “Please don’t hold what I’ve said against me, all right? No matter what, I’ll want to know what happens to you.”
“And to you, Rachel.”
She stood at once. Walking her to the door, Adam ventured, “Are you still working on the novel?”
She smiled for a moment. “Religiously. I’ve discovered that mixing self-doubt with unhappiness is the writer’s friend. Anyhow, thanks for asking.”
She turned in the doorway, and kissed him, long enough for Adam to wish he could respond. Then she pulled back, looking into his face. “Damn you, Adam Blaine,” she said, and walked swiftly to her car.