The Concealers (11 page)

Sol considered that for a long minute. Katherine had begun to wonder whether she'd said something wrong when, finally, he said, “We could use the help now, but three weeks isn't a deal breaker. I can use that time to remodel a little. So, I feel good about that.” He came around his desk and gave Katherine a warm hug. “Really good. Welcome aboard. Let me know if you need help with anything and have a safe trip home.”

“Thank you, Sol,” said Katherine. “I feel good about it, too.”

She knew she should call her mother, but decided to wait until she had more information about getting out of her lease and finding an apartment, thinking that it would be easier to answer all the other questions her mom would ask. Katherine was working on her to-do list when she felt the buzz from her phone. A new e-mail had arrived from an unfamiliar but unmistakable source: [email protected]. This one she would save until she got home, not trusting her emotions in public.

As she walked the five-plus blocks from East Twentieth Street across the Square, she tried to anticipate the content of the e-mail and what her response would be. Whatever the e-mail said, she knew she had to deal with it, and her mind focused on her core questions first:
(1) Did Preston Wilson have the tests done, and if so, is he my father? (2) If he is, does he want to be my father now, after all these years? (3) If he does, what should I do and what do I want to do? (4) If he does, what should he do, and what does he want to do? (5) If he does not, what should I do, and what do I want to do?

Katherine quickened her pace, and before she realized it, she was racing up the stairs to her apartment. She hadn't managed to think through even the first scenario.

She collapsed on the couch, exhaled, and opened the e-mail.

 

Hello Katherine,

 

I was hoping to call you, but your mother wasn't comfortable giving me your phone number. She gave me your e-mail address instead, and suggested that I write to you. I know how strange, awkward, and horribly impersonal this must seem for you to be reading this.

 

I learned from your mother, not long ago and to my complete surprise, that you are my daughter. I hope you will forgive me, but I had a paternity test done, and it confirmed what your mother told me.

 

I can't imagine what learning all this now must be like for you, and it breaks my heart to think about it. What I do know is that I want to meet you, get to know you, and love you, if you're willing to let me do that. Since I have not had the chance to be your father before, I would like to make up for it now.

 

Preston Wilson

 

As Katherine closed the e-mail and turned off her phone, she felt hot tears on her cheeks. She got up and went to the bedroom, almost in a daze, and threw herself on her bed, where she cried more. At some point, she realized her tears might also be harbingers of joy.

“Hi, Mom. Am I getting you at a bad time?”

“No . . . give me a minute . . . I can talk better in here,” Beth said. “I'm so glad you called. How are you? How's it going?”

“Actually, I have great news. I have a job!”

“That's wonderful.” Katherine was pleased to hear the excitement in her mother's voice. “What, where? Tell me about it.”

“I'm going to be a reporter for the
Twin Forks Press
, a small but prestigious weekly on Long Island, connected to the Northeast Print and Media Group. My salary is three times what the
Mother Jones'
internship would pay, all my business expenses will be covered, I'll have the freedom to pursue and report on my stories, and most of all, I really like Mr. Kaplowitz, the editor.”

The phone went silent for a few beats, Katherine knowing her mother was trying to process all of this.

“I'm so happy for you and proud. I knew you'd do it. You're on your way. When do you start?”

“As soon as I can wind up things here and find a place to live in Southampton. I asked Mr. Kaplowitz for a little time to visit home, too. I want to come spend some time with you and Grandpa, pack, and talk with Grandpa about buying a good used car. Then, I'm off to Southampton. Susan may join me, help me move in.”

“You're right, this is great news. Let me know when you'll be here. I want to change my shift around so we can have some real time together. I love you, Katherine, and I'm very proud of you.” The noise from the garbage trucks and handlers on the street below distracted her and made it hard to concentrate.

After a moment's hesitation, Katherine said, “I love you, too, Mom. See you soon.” She'd held back telling her mother the other big news of the day. There'd be another time for sharing that, after she had time to think it through herself.

The walls of her crowded apartment suddenly felt too confining for her mood.

“Come on Hailey girl, let's get some sunshine,” she called out. “Clear our heads.” Katherine got the leash, and together they bolted down the stairs. The world suddenly looked bigger and more colorful.

At the square, she stopped at a park bench, smelling the fresh fruit and produce from the vendors' displays, and expanded her to-do list to include all the people she had to see and talk with, and the new tasks she had to do. On her to-do list was a visit to her mentor, Professor Simpson. She wanted to tell him about the job in person, and to again thank him for all he had done and been to her.

At the top of the list, though, and coloring every other thought, was the issue of how to respond to Mr. Wilson. That was the problem, really, she determined. It was
Mr. Wilson.
Apparently, he was indeed her father, but how should she approach meeting him? It was the scariest meeting she had ever contemplated, and perhaps the most important. What should she do or not do? What should she say or not say? She again played out the scenarios in her head.

In the end, she realized there had to be two people on the stage of this drama. She would have to determine what to say and do depending on what her father said and did, and like any interview, she would gain more by listening than talking. But this wasn't any interview for which she'd been trained. This was coming face-to-face with a ghost. This was meeting the phantom she had dreamed about all her life.

Whether she liked it or not, the next line in the script was hers. Her father had taken the first step up a steep stairway with too many stairs to count. She had to respond. She wanted to respond. And she was scared to respond.

Katherine thought about calling him at work, at the number she'd already looked up, but she couldn't imagine what the telephone conversation would be like. She contemplated waiting until she heard from Angelo, but she decided that would hardly be fair to Preston. She decided to answer his e-mail and suggest a meeting. The last thing she wanted was a protracted discussion via e-mail. This had to be done in person. She had to hope he would understand that. Perhaps he was as nervous as she was. Or maybe he wasn't nervous at all.

Katherine had read his brief message over and over. Preston had written that he wanted to be her father, to meet her, to get to know her . . . and love her, if she was willing. But what did that mean? Certainly, she wanted to meet him, too, whether she was anxious or scared or whatever. She had to meet him. She also wanted to get to know him, and so she knew they were in agreement on that part. They would each have to see about the rest.

She reached for her iPhone, hit Reply to Preston's e-mail, and typed:

Preston,

 

Thank you for your e-mail. This must be difficult for you as well. I certainly want to meet you and get to know you. I'd rather not continue on e-mail, though. If anything is personal in my life, it is this. Where and when can we meet?

 

Katherine

 

She read and re-read her response. Satisfied, she hit Send.

His response was as quick and satisfactory as she could've hoped.

 

Hi, Katherine,

 

Can you meet me 12:30 tomorrow afternoon at the 21 Club?

 

Preston

 

Katherine responded,
“See you then.”

“Hi, Katherine,” Preston said.

At that moment the maître d' walked up to them.

“Mr. Wilson,” he said, with a nod to Katherine and a slight tip of the head, “ . . . as requested, Table Number Two awaits you. This way, please.” He led Katherine and Preston into the bar room and straight to a corner table for two. He positioned the table sufficiently to allow Katherine to slide into the sumptuous red leather seat to the right under two brass bells separated by a bronze sculpture of a bull and bear drinking from a bucket. Preston sat facing the entrance, with his back under the sculpture of a lone bear situated under a shelf adorned with a vase, and enclosed in a rich wood inset.

The waiter approached the table and asked what they would like to drink. Katherine ordered sparkling mineral water, they agreed on Pellegrino, and Preston ordered a Chivas Regal 12 on the rocks.

Katherine's eyes scanned the iconic bar room, trying to absorb it all, beginning with the expansive bar itself, the model airplanes, assortment of helmets, a number of tractor-trailers, a Goodyear blimp, outboard motorboats, and other fascinating toys and models hanging from the ceiling, as well as the playful elegance of the entire room. Suddenly she remembered she was there as a guest, and the man who invited her, the one she'd just met, was . . . her father.

“I get it . . . is this why your g-mail address is Preswil21?” Katherine asked with a smile, not knowing what else to say and hoping to excuse her lapse of attention and break the ice.

“Yes,” Preston said. “My company sells a lot of high-end cars. This restaurant is good for business. Not just because it's famous, but the food and wine and service are superb.”

Katherine wondered whether she had offended him by suggesting the address was pretentious or at least too transparent. She thought she had done a good job at starting on the wrong foot, and she wondered if he could sense her embarrassment.

“The restaurant is awesome,” she said. “What an amazing bar room. Why did you request this table in particular?”

“You won't believe it,” Preston said. “This is where Michael Douglas sat in a scene in
Wall Street
. Imagine, Gecko sat right where I'm sitting now.”

Katherine could not figure out if Preston was trying to be funny or was sincere in his enthusiasm. She decided to just say, “Wow.” That didn't help either.

“Tell me about your car business,” Katherine said, while reaching in her handbag and taking out her pen and pad. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Well . . . this is not an interview, is it?”

Katherine hesitated and then put the pad and pen back in her handbag. “Sorry, old habits die hard. Do you mind if I record this conversation instead? Just kidding—sort of,” Katherine said in a shaky voice. “Please go on, I'm interested in your car business.”

“I formed Wilson Holdings several years ago, principally to own and run automobile dealerships. We started out with the Mercedes franchise here in New York and as we grew that store, we expanded to Atlanta, San Francisco, Chicago, Charlotte, and Houston, and in many locations it served our purpose to buy the underlying real estate as well.”

Katherine told Preston that she'd checked out his website and was impressed with the presentation and the variety of automobiles his companies offered for sale. Preston explained how it had been his good fortune to have secured at the onset high-end franchises such as Mercedes, Porsche, Audi, BMW, and Bentley, and the competitive advantage that they had provided over the years.

He talked about the franchisors' increasing requirements to improve the dealerships' facilities and why his decision to embrace this effort was a big part of his success, the rest being an outstanding management team committed to discipline, excellence, and understanding their market and customer base.

“You're obviously a success. Has it always been easy going for you?”

That was the first time Katherine saw Preston laugh, but she noticed the smile on his face did not include his eyes, and the sound of the laughter had a bit too much push. She wished she had been able to take notes.

“No, it has not always been easy. The car business is cyclical, by its nature; there will be ups and downs. We got into trouble a couple of years ago or more, and we were facing bankruptcy. Our big-shot lawyers saw no way out, but fortunately, we found one lawyer who was able to turn it all around.”

“How did that work?”

“He understood the automobile business, the banking industry, and, most importantly, people. He saved my business. He was amazing.”

“Was?”

“His name was Joe Hart. Unfortunately, he died a year and a half ago—an inoperable brain tumor.”

Katherine detected honest emotion in Preston's face and body language. She had no doubt that he had strong feelings about Mr. Hart and what he had done for him.

“He obviously meant a lot to you.”

“We—my wife, Marcia, and I—have a one-year-old son named Preston Joseph Wilson. We call him P.J.”

“Mr. Hart being his namesake?”

“Yes. Some would call us sentimental, I suppose.”

“Not me. It sounds like the perfect name,” Katherine said slowly, trying to wrap her head around this newest idea of a half-brother. “How's P.J. doing? What's he like?”

“Oh, he's a great little guy, full of smiles, starting to pull up now. He's doing fine . . . except that he was born with a serious hearing impairment.”

“I'm so sorry. I hope something can be done.”

“Working on that,” Preston replied.

Katherine hoped that Preston would elaborate on P.J.'s condition and possible treatment, but she was reluctant to pry. In the awkward gap when Preston didn't continue, it dawned on Katherine, and she hoped on Preston, that they'd not ordered their meal. She was ravenous. She needed food to quell her sour stomach, which was in knots, and she hoped not apparent to the man sitting across from her.

“Preston, could we order? I'm starving.”

“Of course, I'm sorry,” Preston said, motioning for the waiter, who quickly came to the table and asked for Katherine's order first. She skipped the appetizers and selected the Vermont pulled pork sandwich. Preston ordered lobster and fennel salad, to be followed by the maple-glazed Long Island duck breast.

“Tell me about you, Katherine,” Preston asked his newly discovered daughter. “You're obviously a good reporter. You've had me doing all the talking. I know, from a conversation with your mother, that you went to Columbia University on a scholarship, and that you're now getting your master's degree in journalism. I also know how proud your mother is of you.”

Katherine told Preston about growing up in the tiny town of Marion, between the Finger Lakes Region and Lake Ontario in upstate New York. She talked about her time at Columbia and adjusting to the big city, her tiny, noisy Sixteenth Street apartment off Union Square, and how much she enjoyed her master's program. She leaned forward and told Preston in nearly a whisper about the job at the
Twin Forks Press
, and that after a quick trip home to see her mother, pack, and buy a used car, she planned to drive to Southampton, find a place to live, and finally, go to work as a reporter.

By then, they had finished their entrées and were indulging in desserts.

Finally, Katherine pursued what was most on her mind. “There's something I've been wondering about. When and where did you meet my mother?”

Preston laid his fork on his dessert plate and complied. “A long time ago. Here in the city. I woke up with a lot of pain in my abdomen one morning and went to the hospital. Your mother was one of the nurses in the ER and later took care of me in my room. My doctors thought it might have been diverticulitis or whatever—something serious—but it turned out to just be food poisoning, and they let me go.”

Preston and Katherine ordered coffee, and he continued.

“I wanted to take your mother to dinner to thank her for taking care of me. She turned me down, but I met her when she got off her late night shift, and we went for a bite to eat. She wanted to go with me to a club, so we did that and then . . . I took her back to her apartment.”

Katherine tried to imagine the scene, her mother coming out, exhausted after a late night shift, and being talked into going to dinner. She wondered what she looked like in those days, how she wore her hair, did she change out of her uniform, what she would have worn. She forced herself to focus, catching the end of Preston's saga: “. . . and that's the last time I saw her.”

“But she called you?”

“Yes, a little over a month ago—out of the blue—and told me about you, and that I was . . . am . . . your father.”

“And that was the first time you had any contact with my mother, since . . . ”

“Yes. It was a complete surprise.”

“And quite a shock,” Katherine said.

“Yep,” Preston said, again with a half-smile. “I know for you, too, this must be—I don't know the words. I've thought about it ever since your mother called me. I was twenty-three at the time. I never knew.”

Katherine became silent, trapped in a self-imposed prison, consumed by her thoughts. She recognized the same sincerity she felt when Preston was talking about Joe, and she was intrigued by the range and control he appeared to have over different sets of emotions. In the business and car discussions, he seemed to be one person; when talking about Joe, Marcia, and his son and now this, another, separating business and transactional issues and personal issues, and placing them in distinct boxes. She wondered if she was being overly analytical, and if so, was that her defense mechanism?

Katherine found herself listening to Preston and at the same time, replaying in her mind parts of what he'd said already, particularly the part about the attorney—Hart—who had saved Preston's business and obviously had been an influence on him—enough for Preston to name his first child after him.
A substantial influence . . . on one of the members of your family.
Bingo.

“Are you all right? Have I offended you in some way?” Preston asked.

Katherine was jarred back into the universe of the table, realizing she had strayed far out and more than a little annoyed with herself for having done so, yet aware she could not have helped it.

“I'm fine, thank you. Sorry—my mind drifted off. I didn't mean to be rude.”

“I hope I can see you again soon,” Preston said, and Katherine knew he meant it. “What can I do to help? Forget buying a car, I'll take care of that. What kind would you like?”

Katherine, who had never had an offer like that in her entire life, was caught completely off guard, still processing the
influence on a family member
hook.

“Oh my God,” she blurted out, her feelings comingled with her excitement at the prospect of finally seeing a path to fulfilling her last assignment required by her mentor. Katherine's face flushed, she hoped Preston could not read the confluence of thoughts, impressions, and ideas swirling and spinning in her brain like a tilt-a-whirl at a carnival. She heard the words, “Thank you, but I can't let you do that,” come out of her mouth, and while relevant, they didn't seem to match all that she was thinking and feeling.

“Why not?” Preston persisted. “Please, let me help, you can't know how much that would mean to me.”

Katherine unconsciously squeezed the fingers on her left hand with her right, feeling the pain. Preston had just made an amazing offer to give her a car, and she was struggling with an answer.

“Can I think about it?” Katherine said, not knowing what else to say.

“Of course, the offer stands,” Preston said as he signed the check. “Would you like anything else, Katherine, more coffee?”

“No, thank you. And thank you so much for meeting me, for this lunch, and especially all of our discussion. I've never been in this restaurant. It's wonderful.”

“You're welcome, Katherine, believe me,” Preston said.

They were among the few diners left in the room, and Katherine was feeling uneasy about taking so much time from Preston, from his business and his family. They got up from the table, Preston straightened his tie and sports jacket, and they walked a few steps. Katherine again marveled at the curved benches finished in red leather, the tables, red-and-white tablecloths, all the color from the pieces hanging from the ceiling, and the large, curved wooden bar.

“Do you see that table?” Preston asked, pointing to the table at the end of the row and closest to the bar.

Katherine followed his direction, noting the empty table for two, and said, “Yes.”

“That's where Humphrey Bogart proposed to Lauren Bacall—number thirty.”

“Really? That's awesome,” Katherine said.

They turned, Katherine briefly running her left hand along the edge of the bar, and walked slowly from the bar room to the entrance.

Preston lightly placed his hand on Katherine's arm and seemed to Katherine to be locking his eyes on hers.

“You know, I'm the one who is thankful to you,” he said. “I've truly enjoyed every minute, and I hope you'll call me and tell me when we can get together again, the sooner the better.”

“I'd like that, too. I'm fascinated by all you told me about the attorney who helped you, Mr. Hart. I'd really like to learn more about him. Would you mind discussing your relationship with him further, and if so, when could we do that?”

“I'll talk with Marcia, and if you are free, we could go to dinner tomorrow night. Marcia will want to make sure P.J. is settled for the night. We live at Trump Tower. The entrance is on East Fifty-Sixth Street. You could come by our place at six. How does that sound?”