“No, sir.”
He swallowed. He had no idea how Connor had made this happen, what strings had been pulled, which warden had been involved, in bringing the woman here late in the evening in an unmarked van. They had approached Smithie only a week ago for his help with a meeting place, knowing he could keep a confidence, and true to form, he had agreed without asking too many questions. Connor had wanted to use a proxy to get a message to Juanita Vesper. But David had refused, knowing that nobody else could make his case for him. He was taking an awful risk, he knew, with this clandestine meeting. But he also knew that the very recklessness of such an encounter, its sheer improbability, would protect him. Now, as he eyed the woman sitting beside him, he felt his face soften. How terrifying it must be for her, being whisked out of prison without explanation and brought to an empty office building where she had been greeted by an unknown white man and was now sitting across from another. Did she think she was being kidnapped? He could see the tremor in her lower lip, how frightened she was and how she was fighting to keep her composure. This was apparently another trait Anton had inherited from his mother.
“I’m David Coleman,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m Anton’s foster dad.”
The woman’s face brightened, as if it had been flooded with light. “Anton,” she said. “Lord have mercy. How is he?”
Her response was so genuine and spontaneous, it warmed his heart, destroying the last of his defenses. Delores had been right. This was mother love that he was witnessing. The pleasure that she derived from hearing Anton’s name made the encounter feel egalitarian, both of them united by their love and concern for the boy.
“He’s fine,” he said. “Actually, he’s more than fine. He’s thriving.”
Juanita nodded matter-of-factly. “He’s very smart,” she said, tapping the side of her head. “Takes after his dad, I guess.”
He looked at her, surprised. He hadn’t expected her to know who Anton’s father was. “You know him?” he blurted out, and then blushed as she fixed him a look. “I mean, who is he?”
She tightened her lips in a way that reminded him of Delores. “He was a doctor,” she said shortly. “But he’s crossed over.”
“Crossed over?” he said stupidly.
“He’s passed.”
He wanted to ask more questions but held himself in check. Juanita’s eyes had gone opaque and her face was shuttered. And really, what did it matter? Far more important to get to the business at hand.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she got there first. “Is he here?” she asked, looking out into the dark hallway. “Anton? He’s come to see me?”
“What? Oh. God, no. No, he’s not here.” And then, for a reason he never understood, he added, “He didn’t want to come.”
Juanita’s eyes flickered as she absorbed the blow. She swallowed once and then said, “He’s still angry at me?”
David shrugged. “He’s upset,” he said vaguely.
“That’s why he’s never come to see me in jail? Or write to me?”
“He wrote a few times, didn’t he?” David remembered that Delores had made Anton write a few letters in the early days, so that he could stay in touch and also practice his spelling. But the letters that came back from prison, David had intercepted, over Delores’s vociferous objections. As time went by, he had managed to convince her that it was in the boy’s best interest to keep the letters from him.
“A few times. But when I wrote back, there was no answer.”
What was it that he was hearing in Juanita’s voice? Suspicion? Hurt? Doubt? Whatever it was, he had to move her away from this line of questioning. Nip it in the bud.
He cleared his throat as if preparing to render a judgment in court. “Ms. Vesper,” he said, “you can’t really blame the boy for being angry, can you?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head vigorously. “Can’t blame him at all.” Her voice grew plaintive. “But I says I was sorry so many times. He still never wrote back.”
Anxious to change the subject, he reached for his briefcase and pulled out a folder. “On a happier note, here are some pictures of Anton today.” He had deliberately chosen photos that showed Anton in places and activities that would be alien to the woman sitting next to him—Anton at the helm of Pappy’s sailboat at the Cape last summer; Anton in his red ski jacket, staring directly at the camera; Anton posing with Brad and three of their friends, all of them dressed in chinos and polo shirts.
He heard her gasp as she flipped through the pictures. “That’s my baby boy? He looks so grown.” She looked up at him. “You’ve done gone and kidnapped my son.” But she smiled as she said it. “Sweet Jesus. He looks like a . . . a—” She cut herself off.
But David heard what she hadn’t said: He looks like a young prince. A handsome young prince.
He sat back in his chair and surveyed her, the last of his hesitation gone. “Yes, we’ve been fortunate. We—my wife and I—have been able to give young Anton a very good life. Frankly, it’s a life that other children, well, other children can only dream of.” He looked at her with slight hostility, as if defying her to contradict him.
Juanita folded her hands in a gesture of humility. “Thank you. I will always be grateful. I worry day and night about my son. You know, when you’re in prison, every thought you have is an ugly one. So much evil in this world.”
David bit down on his tongue to keep from saying the obvious: You weren’t so worried when you left your son home alone during a heat wave. He was surprised to find that his earlier liking of this woman was dissipating. How curious, he thought, but then he realized why. Juanita and he could never be friends. They were natural rivals. Whether the woman was aware of it or not, they were competing for the same prize.
He gathered the photographs from her, shuffling them as if they were playing cards. Just as he was about to place them back in the file folder, she asked shyly, “Can I have one?”
He hesitated, not wanting to leave a paper trail from this illicit meeting, but then he looked at her again, small and pitiful in the office chair, and he thought, Who will ever know? Who will ever believe her? And so he smiled and pushed the photographs back toward her. She chose the one of Anton on the ski slopes. “Baby boy,” she murmured, still clenching the picture. “I’m counting the days before I see you again.”
It stuck in David’s craw how effortlessly, how dumbly, this woman assumed that she would reclaim her son even after seeing visual proof of how Anton had bloomed under David and Delores’s care. Did she really think that love would conquer all?