The Concealers (5 page)

Casey, looking battle-worn and munching on a Snickers candy bar, ambled into Preston's corner office overlooking Ninth Avenue and settled his girth into one of the two tan leather chairs in front of the boss's desk. Austin Disley, tall and dapper in a seersucker suit and bow tie, bounded in and took the other chair. Preston always got a kick out of seeing his longtime pal from prep school, whom he'd hired six months earlier to lend Casey a hand.

“What do you need, Pres?” Austin asked, notebook at the ready.

Casey rolled his eyes.

“Just looking at these figures,” Preston replied, “especially the bottom line. Mercedes is okay, but the Bentley numbers are in the basement.”

Casey peeled the wrapping from his second Snickers, still chewing on what was left of the first. “We've talked about this,” he reminded Preston. “Either it's a loss leader or you sell it. In a recession, buyers don't want the luxury image—they're stepping down to Porsches and BMWs.”

Austin jumped in. “But we can use the loss to offset the gains in the other stores. Right?”

Preston glanced in Casey's direction and rubbed his chin. It was an idea.

After a few hours of uneasy sleep, Beth rose, had breakfast, and called the hospital to report that she would not be in that day. She then went to her desk, pulled out the thin pocket file secured with a string closure, and retrieved the Manhattan business phone number she had obtained from her Internet research. She calmed herself and dialed.

“Preston Wilson, please.”

Beth gave her name when asked by the receptionist, and as to the nature of the call, simply replied that it was a personal matter. He would know. She waited what seemed like an eternity, fighting the urge to hang up, when a man's voice, polite and pleasant as she remembered, but deeper, came on the line. “This is Preston. Beth Kelly, is it? How may I help you?”

Beth could not speak.

“Hello? Are you there?” Preston asked.

Beth replied faintly but steadily, so as not to be mistaken, “Yes, I'm here. My name is Beth Kelly. It has been a long time, Mr. Wilson. How are you?”

“Do I know you?” Preston asked. “Forgive me, but I don't recognize your name.”

“Yes, you know me, but as I said, it's been a long time,” Beth said in a trembling voice, reading from the script she had written out for this moment. “I appreciate your taking this call. Close your eyes and think back to when you were twenty-three years old—”

“This is ridiculous,” Preston said. “Tell me why you are calling me or I'm going to hang up.”

“You need to hear this. Roosevelt Hospital. June 1988. Misdiagnosis of diverticulitis. Actual diagnosis, food poisoning. Your mother was there with you in a VIP room. You were discharged two days later, and you insisted on taking a young nurse to dinner . . . in a limousine.”

Beth waited a bit for Preston to make the connection, but not hearing a response, continued. “We went to The Flame Restaurant for a bite to eat, to temporary living quarters for a quick change, and on to a club called The Limelight. Any memory of that?”

The phone was silent for several beats, but Beth did not hear a click on the other end. He was still there.

“Yeah. I do sort of remember that. And you were that nurse? Yeah,
Beth.
That
was
a long time ago. Are you in town? How're you doing?”

“I'm fine.”

Preston laughed. “Great. So, why are you calling me?”

“I'm in Marion, New York. I live here and work as a nurse at Rochester General Hospital.”

“Okay,” he said. “I'm trying to figure out . . . how I—we—can be of service to you? Are you looking for a car?”

“That's not why I'm calling . . . I mean . . . I don't want anything, this is not about me. I have a daughter, Katherine, who lives in New York City. She went to Columbia University and is about to receive her master's degree from the Fletcher Thomas School of Journalism.”

“Well, congratulations. You must be very proud,” Preston said.

Beth then heard him tell someone the conference was over, to leave the room, shut the door, and not disturb him.

“I am,” she said, “and you should be, too. She's a fine young lady, Preston. Smart as a whip and with a heart of gold.”

Again Preston did not speak for a few seconds, but Beth could hear the sound of his breathing. Finally he asked, “What are you saying?”

“I know this comes as a shock, and I'm sorry about that. What I'm telling you is that you have a wonderful daughter. I've done my best to raise her,” Beth said unsteadily, tears flooding her eyes. She paused for a moment, blew her nose, and looked at the ceiling. “I'm really all she has. My dad does what he can at this point, but she needs a father. She has always needed a father. She needs one now more than ever.”

Silence. Then Preston spoke in a low, firm tone. “This makes no sense. Forgive me, but if I'm hearing you right, how do I know that I'm the father?”

“You don't, but I do . . . and you will.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Preston asked. Beth heard incredulity, and irritation, rising in his voice.

“It means that I know you're the father because we had sex in your limousine after we left The Limelight. My boyfriend at the time was in the Air Force—off somewhere—classified. There was no one else. You
are
the father.”

“Why should I believe you?” Preston shouted, truly angered now.

“You know that, or will, because I am sending you a DNA sample taken from Katherine as well as a sample of my own. You can have a paternity test to confirm the truth.”

“That sounds fishy. How do you just happen to have DNA samples?”

“I know this is difficult. It's not easy for me either. If I weren't . . . if . . . I have DNA samples because I have the beginnings of macular degeneration, and the last time Katherine was with me I wanted to run a test on her to determine whether she was genetically inclined to develop the condition as well. My ophthalmologist took several scrapes from each of us, and I preserved a couple of each. I'd like to send them to you. Do you have a cell phone number, an e-mail address?”

“You're crazy if you think I'm giving you that information. My wife—”

“Believe me, this is hard on me, too. Why don't you think about it—meanwhile write mine down?”

She spoke the information clearly for him.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore now,” Preston said. His voice edged with frustration. “I'm married, with a son. If I'm your daughter's father, why didn't you ever let me know you were pregnant? To call out of the blue nearly a quarter of a century later . . . ”

“I understand. I'm sorry. I'm telling you this now. I'm trying to give you a heads-up. Katherine wants to learn about her father—and she won't let this go. She's like a dog with a bone, and she's a sharp researcher. Sooner or later, she's going to discover that my boyfriend was not her real father. And knowing her, she's also going to figure out, somehow, who is. I wanted you to know first. I don't want this to be any worse than it is. And I don't want Katherine to be hurt any more than she has to be.”

“Listen, I don't wish any pain on you or your daughter either—”

“
Our
daughter,” Beth managed to say before choking up entirely. “You know where to reach me, Mr. Wilson.”

Preston marched out of the office, telling his secretary only that he would be gone for the rest of the day, and barked at one of the salesmen to drive him to Trump Tower. In the back of the Bentley demo, Preston uncharacteristically did not speak to the driver. At the Tower he went directly to his thirty-eighth-floor condo, without a word to the doorman either. He hoped he'd find the place empty, if Marcia had taken P.J. in the stroller to the park, but no such luck.

“Hey, surprise,” said Marcia, “P.J.'s asleep. Isn't that great? What's going on?”

Preston poured himself a scotch, double, neat, and sat down slowly on the leather love seat. “We have to talk,” he said.

Marcia walked over, sat down beside him, and put her arm on his shoulder. “You look like the end of the world has come,” she said. “Is it something with the firm?”

“No, I got a phone call today, out of the blue, from a woman named Beth Kelly. It was a strange call. I asked her what I could do for her. She told me . . . This is not good, Marcia. She told me that . . . that I have a daughter.”

“You're right,” Marcia said, maintaining a steely cool. “Not good. Go on.”

“She said she's a nurse up in Rochester, that I'd met her twenty-four years ago . . . apparently at Roosevelt Hospital in Manhattan. I vaguely remember being in the hospital, something that turned out only to be food poisoning. My mother made a big stink, insisted on a fancy room and all of that. I remember her arguing with the doctors.”

“Pres, tell me about the
your daughter
part.”

“I'm trying to, Marcia. This just happened, for God's sake.”

Preston got up slowly, replenished his drink, and sat down again, looking like a deflated version of one of those roadside hot air balloon figures. Marcia had moved to the far end of the love seat, wearing her iciest expression. Preston confessed the circumstances of his brief encounter with Beth Kelly twenty-four years earlier.

“For God's sake, Preston, did you have sex with this woman or not? Or don't you remember?”

“She says we had sex . . . in the back of a limo.”

“That sounds about right,” Marcia said, convinced now. “You were what . . . twenty-three at the time? Of course, you had sex. Did you?”

“Yes. It was her idea, if that helps.”

“This is the first time you're hearing from this woman in all this time? Something's wrong here. I wouldn't be surprised if an extortion threat wasn't next.”

“She . . . she was warning me so I wouldn't be blindsided. Or at least that's what she said. And she's trying to shield her daughter from hurt when she discovers the truth about the man she thought was her father.”

“So she lied to her daughter then,” Marcia said. “And now the wheels are coming off. You know, I can understand how awful it must be for this Katherine, whoever her father is. What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. I don't know if I'm the father.”

“Are you going to find out?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Don't put this off on me, Preston. Just tell me what
you're
going to do.”

Preston left the tower and took a long walk in Central Park. He passed the joggers, people walking their dogs, parents pushing kids in baby carriages, people sitting on the park benches, all of whom seemed blurred and otherworldly. He came to the lake and sat down on a bench, staring first at the water and then at the sky, as though answers might be found there. Two hours floated by without any.

Preston fought the confusion in his mind, to find a sense of order and peace. He'd grown weary of the conflict with Marcia over P.J., and now this. He hated to be in a box. How in the world could he decide what to do without knowing whether, in fact, he was the father? One part of his brain argued for finding out—making sure. Another part clamored for caution.
Will I be admitting something just by having a test? What kind of record does that leave? Who sees it?
He came to one conclusion: he needed some confidential advice from the right lawyer. Again.

Preston called his corporate counsel, said he had a close friend with a serious matrimonial problem, and asked him to find a sharp, discreet lawyer in that field. Preston dismissed his lawyer's inquiry as to what was really going on with a “just do it” admonition, and directed him to set up an appointment as soon as possible, preferably first thing in the morning.

Ben greeted Preston on time and warmly in the waiting room, making Preston feel as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. They walked to Ben's office, where the attorney closed the double doors, turned, and stood facing Preston, appearing to take his measure. He then gave Preston a brief summary of his practice and they agreed on the ground rules, including the understanding of the protections, application of privilege, and strict confidentiality of their communications and relationship. Preston suggested they move to a small table and chairs.

After they settled in, Ben said, “What's going on, Preston, and how, specifically, can I help?”

“I assume you have knowledge of my background?”

“Yes, to the extent your corporate counsel has filled me in, what I see on your website, and what you have told me today. I understand you want to talk about a matrimonial problem that concerns . . . a friend of yours.”

“Actually, I told my lawyers that because this is very personal. It's not a matrimonial problem, but it is a surprise event in my life.” Preston told his new lawyer about Beth Kelly's phone call. “I guess at this point I need to know if I'm in the right place. Is this the kind of thing you handle?”

“Yes,” Ben replied. “Paternity cases often go hand in hand with domestic relations, as you may imagine. You've obviously given this some thought. Do you believe this woman?”

“Well, after the shock of the call, I did remember the . . . encounter. Whether that makes me the father? I don't know. And why she chooses to tell me twenty-four years after the fact is beyond me.”

“It's usually driven by money. But I didn't hear you say that she asked you for money.”

“Not in so many words. She did say she didn't want anything, that it was not about her. But I don't know this woman. Money changes people. She may be setting me up. Maybe this is all a scam.”

“Let's separate the issues,” Ben said, looking at his yellow pad full of notes. “First, is there sufficient evidence to conclude that in all probability you are the father? DNA, assuming the samples are correct and the procedures are followed, is probative of paternity. From what you've told me, she has a sample—and is willing to provide it. What we don't have is proof of the chain of handling of this sample. In other words, what is the scientific proof each step of the way from the taking of the sample from your alleged daughter to your receipt of it? We can only assume that the sample is what this woman says it is, and how she took it from her daughter and so on.”

“Do DNA samples have to be refrigerated or kept in a certain way?” Preston asked.

“No, they don't have to be refrigerated. But if the sample could be confirmed as coming from the young woman, genetic profiling of DNA establishes paternity with a ninety-nine percent or higher probability. In short, if those things hold true, it's almost certain you're the father—and the court would agree.”

Preston's jaw tightened as he considered the implications. The lawyer continued.

“The daughter, however, is, as I understand it, of maturity—over twenty-one years of age—and emancipated. That would lead to the next piece of analysis: what are your financial and/or legal obligations to this young lady?”

“What are my options?” Preston asked.

Ben Forsyth spelled them out in careful lawyer-speak. “This woman, Beth Kelly, and her daughter, Katherine Kelly, have the burden of proof as to paternity and any support obligation. Practically speaking, Beth Kelly would not be in a position to assert such claims against you for herself at this late date. Your options include: one, doing nothing and waiting to see what action, if anything, is brought against you; two, engage in negotiations with Beth and/or her daughter to determine what claims, if any, are being contemplated. From what you have told me, initially, an optimistic read would be that Katherine's mother wanted you to know so you could determine what, if anything, you felt you might like to do.”

“That's sort of what she said. I don't know if I can believe her. But I will say, I felt like I could. Actually, she was really being . . . she was . . . I thought she was looking out for her daughter, who needed a father, and she wanted me to know before her daughter found out. She thought that would be better for her daughter and for me.”

Ben nodded and continued with his options. “Three, you could have a DNA sample taken, have it compared to the one you have, and see whether you are the father. And, finally, you could also ask the mother to have her DNA taken.”

“Beth says she has samples for herself and her daughter.” Preston quickly explained the mother's recent diagnosis and concerns.

“Obviously, the mother in this case is either incredibly clever or otherwise being quite helpful,” Ben said.

“She's apparently a good nurse.”

“Look, if she has the samples, and sends them to you, the tests will tell you whether you are the father or not. If you aren't, you could either forget the entire matter, or let Beth Kelly know the results. If she does not accept the results, she could still claim paternity on behalf of her daughter and sue you—or have her daughter sue you—and you would have a defense. If you are the father, then you'd be in a position to evaluate how you want to handle the situation going forward.”

Preston fell back on his favorite decision-making strategy. “What do you advise me to do?”

“Make the decisions based on the input I've given you.”

“What would you do?”

“I'm not in your situation, and I hope I never am. I'd rather you make the decision after you're fully informed. It sounds to me like Beth Kelly now believes, for whatever reason, her daughter needs a father and wants to make it easy for you by sending the samples. Sometimes things are as they seem and people do the right thing in life. If you trust her and think you may be the father, I'd have the test done and rule it in or out. But, it's up to you.”

“If I have the test done, is the result confidential?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for your input,” Preston said getting up, walking around the room, and stopping to look out the window. “I have to process all of this. Can't believe I'm in this situation. I have a one-year-old son—who can't hear—and now I may have a twenty-three-year-old daughter I've never seen.”

The lawyer put his hand on Preston's shoulder and told him that he understood and was sorry he was going through all of this. Ben picked up one of his business cards from the desk, wrote his cell phone number on the back, and told Preston to feel free to call him at the office or on his cell phone anytime.

Preston continued to stare out the window, not wanting Ben to see the tears in his eyes.

He reached for his iPhone and tapped out a message to the address he'd been given:
Send the samples.