The Concealers (14 page)

As soon as she was through the Holland Tunnel, and the traffic had thinned a bit as she headed west on I-80, she told her communication system to dial Susan again.

“Hey, you,” Susan answered.

“Hey back. Got time for a question?”

“Sure.”

“What do you think I should tell my mother?”

“Let's see, ‘Hi, Mom, I met your lover's wife.' ”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes”

“Why?”

“It makes me feel better.”

“Are you messing with my mind?”

“That, too.”

“So you're not drinking?”

“I am drinking.”

“Can I help?”

“No.”

“Why are you messing . . . ”

“Because you're full of yourself.”

“How?”

“You've gone a lifetime without a father. Now you have one, he's rich, gave you a new car, and you're worried about what to tell your mother? Get over yourself. But, I'll help you move into your apartment anyway.”

Never in all their years of friendship had Susan talked to her in that manner. It scared her to hear Susan slur her words.

“This is not a good conversation,” Katherine said. “Do I need to turn around and come back?”

“No, this is good for me, and I think it's good for you, too.”

Katherine went quiet for a while and then said, “Maybe I'll become an alcoholic.”

“Not a good idea,” Susan said.

“Why?”

“Because you don't hate yourself.”

“I hate the way I look. Does that count?”

“A little.”

“Do you hate yourself?” Katherine asked.

“At times.”

“Why?”

“That's what I'm trying to figure out. Could be I'm too tall . . . or could be that my mother and father are drunks . . . and so am I.”

Katherine could hear the pain in Susan's voice but felt inadequate and powerless.

More silence. “Why didn't you want me at your graduation?” Susan said. Katherine knew Susan comment was rhetorical and could feel the hostility in her tone.

“Because I didn't . . . ”

“Exactly,” Susan said.

“This conversation sucks.”

“I knew we could agree,” Susan said.

After thinking—worrying—for an hour about Susan and her parents, Katherine decided it was time to call her own mother.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Honey. How are you doing? Where are you?”

“I'm headed home and should be in Marion in time for dinner. How's your shift?”

“Good. Timing's perfect. You know where the key is if you get to the house before I do. I can't wait to see you.”

At that moment, Katherine's sound system began making a faint beeping sound. Was it an alarm? Something malfunctioning? She ended the conversation with her mother and looked for a chance to pull over.

The beeping didn't stop, and it seemed like it was taking too long for her to pass the eighteen-wheeler to her right. She fumbled with the dials and pushed a few buttons until the beeping stopped, and she could see the truck in her rearview mirror. She heard a voice through her speaker system.

“Kat? Are you there?”

“Yes . . . Hello . . . I'm here. Who is this, please?

“6A.”

“Really? Sean? Is it really you?”

“Affirmative. Can you talk?”

“Absolutely. It's good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“I'm good. What are you up to?”

“I got a job at a great weekly in Southampton. At the moment, I'm driving to upstate New York to see my mom and grandpa. After that I'll move into my new place and take a brief vacation before I start work.”

“Cool. Where're you going?”

“Well, it's a long story, but I'm going to drive to Braydon, South Carolina, talk to a woman there—don't know for how long—and then make my way back up the coast.”

“Unreal. This could be good. Any idea when you'd be making this trip?”

“Probably spend two days in Marion, then a day to get to Southampton and unload my stuff . . . so I'd say I'll start next Monday, assuming I can confirm the arrangements. I'm guessing it's fourteen, maybe fifteen hours to Braydon. Why?”

“I'm traveling a lot these days myself. You won't believe this, but I'm going to be working in the southeastern part of North Carolina about that time. I've been trying to figure out how we could get together, after you couldn't make it to Washington. So, maybe on your way back might work out. Have you ever been to Wrightsville Beach?”

“I've never heard of it. Is it nice?”

“More than nice. Check out Wilmington, North Carolina, and Wrightsville Beach. As your personal travel representative, I strongly recommend that you secretly meet a certain agent there so that you and he can finish a conversation that was started in April in the Berkshires.”

Katherine could feel her heart pounding. She tried to sound casual, but she knew her success would be limited.

“I certainly would like to get to know that agent better, and I love the beach. I should warn you that I'll have Hailey with me.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“Yes—my four-legged girlfriend.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Sean said. “I'll set you up in a condo on Shell Island, the north end of Wrightsville Beach, if you don't mind. I'll text or call to give you the arrangements.”

“I'm on a tight budget, Sean.”

“I'll handle the lodging,” Sean offered.

“Not sure I want you to do that. We're just having a conversation, right?”

“Relax, Katherine.”

“Will you protect me?”

“There's nothing I'd like better,” Sean said. “See you soon.”

Katherine could see on her dash that the call was over, all too soon as far as she was concerned. Her conversation with Sean was settling over her, caressing her like a warm summer breeze. She pictured him the way she saw him in the mountains after the race, mud on his face, sweaty, clear-eyed, and adorable. Suddenly she was hungry. She pulled off at the next exit, refueled her SUV, freshened up, and bought a sandwich and a diet Coke.

Katherine's conversation with Sean was toggling between the right and left hemispheres of her brain, with the analytical quadrant getting the most attention. She felt like a worried director examining dialogue in a screenplay for unintended meaning. One thought survived with clarity: if she intended to follow through with the idea of a trip to Braydon—the first vacation she'd taken in four years, and likely the last she'd get for a while—she needed to make the arrangements with Alice.

Katherine looked up the number Casey had given her. She scanned the BMW's telephone section, found it, and made the call. A female voice, soft and Southern, answered.

“Hello,” said Katherine, and introduced herself. “Casey Fitzgerald gave me this number. I'm trying to reach Alice Hawkins. Are you Alice?”

“I sure hope so. I've been using that name for a lot of years. If Mr. Casey gave you my number, it must have been for a pretty good reason. What a dear man. How may I help you, young lady?”

“May I call you Alice?”

“Of course.”

“Am I interrupting you?”

“Not at all. It's a good time. I just finished planting my beautiful impatiens, and I'm sitting on my front porch having some sweet tea.”

“It's a long story, Alice . . . and the reason I'm calling. I'm twenty-three years old, on the cusp of becoming a reporter, and . . . this is going to sound strange . . . I recently discovered that Preston Wilson is my father.”

“Oh, my dear. Preston Wilson, the automobile dealer from New York?”

“Yes. And he told me about Joe Hart, and that you were Mr. Hart's secretary.”

“I know your father. He visited me in Braydon and helped a friend here named Johnny. How is Mr. Wilson?”

“He seems to be doing well. He and Mrs. Wilson have a one-year-old son named Preston Joseph. They call him P.J. He was named after Mr. Hart.”

“I didn't know any of that. I wish I had.”

“I hope I'm not intruding, Alice, but I was so captivated hearing Preston, his wife, and Casey talk about Joe Hart, and the way he helped his friends . . . I'd like to come to Braydon to meet you and learn more about Mr. Hart. He must have been an amazing man.”

“I would be happy to have you visit with me, Katherine. When would you like to come?”

“I know this is short notice, but I have a window of opportunity before beginning my new job. Would Tuesday or Wednesday of next week be possible?”

“Possible? Dear, I'd welcome the company. That will be fine. Are you going to fly or drive?”

“I'll be driving. Besides, I'll have Hailey, my golden retriever, with me.”

“Oh, how delightful. She'll have to meet Buck, Joe's dog—now, my dog.”

“What kind of dog is Buck? How old is he?”

“He's a German shepherd. A gem, nearly as old as I'm feeling these days.”

“You don't sound old to me,” Katherine said.

“Oh, bless your heart. You might like to stay at the Live Oak Inn. It's a lovely old place. If you like, I can talk to the folks over there, get you a discount. And I'll tell them not to give you any nonsense about Hailey.”

“That would be wonderful, Alice. I think it's going to be about a fifteen-hour drive. I may get in late and I don't want to disturb you. Could we meet on Tuesday morning?”

“Sure. You and Hailey can come to my house, visit a while, and then have lunch if you like.” Alice gave Katherine her e-mail address, and they agreed to touch base once she left for Braydon. Katherine was elated at the prospect.

As Katherine worked her way north on Interstate 81 through Pennsylvania and into New York, she was increasingly aware that morning of the changing colors and shading of light, as the rays of the sun rippled through the evergreens, occasionally bouncing off the waters of the creeks, rivers, and lakes along the way. She wanted more, and reset her navigation system, heading west from Binghamton along Route 17 and then north through Horseheads to Watkins Glen.

Katherine's grandfather followed the development of racing at Watkins Glen, and often talked to her about the old days, his excitement when the Formula One cars came in 1961 for the first Watkins Glen U.S. Grand Prix, a tradition that continued through 1980, the financial difficulties of the track, ending in bankruptcy, and how upset he was when the track was allowed to deteriorate. Adrian Kelly had followed the racecourse's later rebirth just as eagerly with NASCAR and the Winston Cup Series; today he kept pictures of Jeff Gordon and his Number 24 race car all over his den.

Katherine's interest increased when the Budweiser at the Glen, which her boyfriend called
the Bud
, grew to become New York State's largest motor sports event, and compelled the attention of all the guys in Marion. Katherine would never forget her grandfather taking her to Watkins Glen years ago to watch the races and explore the Glen.

She loved the trip, riding in her grandfather's pickup truck to the end of Seneca Lake, seeing the track she'd heard so much about, exploring the Glen, and staying at the Seneca Lodge, where her grandpa knew the owners. She could still see the tavern room in her mind: a real nickelodeon, laurel wreaths from the Formula One races that her grandfather talked about hanging behind the bar on arrows shot into the wall by ace archers and those lucky enough to bag a deer when hunting with the owner. She prayed it was still there. She asked her communication system, the number rang, and she heard a pleasant female voice.

“Seneca Lodge, this is Gloria. May I help you?”

“Hi, Gloria. My name is Katherine Kelly. My grandpa, Adrian Kelly, and I stayed at your lodge years ago and really enjoyed it. I'll be coming through Watkins Glen—probably early afternoon—and wondered if you are open for lunch.”

“Sure, Katherine. I think we can find something for you. We look forward to seeing you.”

Katherine arrived at the lodge just after 2:00 p.m. and met the owners at the reception area to the left of the entrance. Gloria and Jim escorted her through the dining room to meet their son, Brett, who was tending bar. The room was pretty much as she'd remembered, the oak floor, with pegs in the planks, and the wide oak bar with the laurels and arrows. After taking in the whole room, she went straight to the nickelodeon, deposited a nickel, and clapped her hands for joy when the honky-tonk music began to play.

After a delicious and surprisingly inexpensive lunch, Katherine thanked everyone, said good-bye, and once again headed north along the west side of Seneca Lake. She could see and smell the rolling green hills to her left, covered with evergreens, red and silver maple trees, silky dogwood among them, and occasional vineyards, and the sun shining through them all the way to the deep clean waters of the lake to her right.

As Katherine drove through Geneva, passed Hobart and William Smith colleges on her left, and proceeded along the narrow roads and through the small villages of Phelps and Newark on the way to Marion, she contemplated how different her life would have been if she had accepted William Smith College's offer of an academic scholarship, and if she'd stayed in upstate New York. She pondered the New York City directness and dimensions of Marcia's question at dinner . . .
What was it like growing up in a small upstate village
? That thought intensified as she proceeded along Hydesville Road, County Road 220, Mill Road, and into her hometown of fewer than six thousand people, the genesis of so many wonderful childhood memories.