Brad jutted out his lower lip. “I can’t. As your campaign manager, I can’t let you do this. Your dad will kill me if he finds out the unnecessary risk to the campaign. Hell, my dad will kill me. You know how much this election means to both of them.” Brad scowled suddenly. “And for what? All you have to do is pretend you never read the letter. After November eighth, you can do whatever you want. But not now.”
“And what if my hunch is right? What if the letter is something more than a guilt-stricken woman writing to her long-lost son? What if she’s after something? Blackmail, maybe?”
“Then I’ll handle it. I’ll go.” Brad looked at him wryly. “Though I think you’ve been watching too many episodes of House of Cards.”
“Bradley.” Anton rose to his feet and pulled himself to full height. “I’m going. With or without your help. So the question is whether you will get me a plane or whether”—and here he played his card, knowing Brad would never let him take so heedless a risk—“I call one of our donors and ask for a political favor.”
As he’d guessed, Brad took the bait. “You’re being reckless,” he said, wrinkling his nose as if he’d smelled something foul. “You keep this up and Joe Irving will be the next governor of this state.” But his voice was mild, and he pulled on his lower lip, a sure sign that he was already plotting how to make Anton’s getaway possible. “What’re you gonna tell your dad? And Katherine? That you’re just skipping town?”
“I’ll tell Kat,” Anton said. “She’ll understand. But I’m not saying a word to Dad.” He grinned suddenly. “Actually, we’re gonna tell Dad and Uncle Connor that you and I are going out of town for some R and R.”
“Oh yeah? And what about when—”
“They won’t see you around town during the weekend, Bradley, because you’re going to stay in your beautiful house all day Friday and maybe Saturday, too. Just make sure you have enough groceries.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Yup.”
“You arrogant son of a bitch.”
“Yup.”
“It means that much to you to go see her? That you’d jeopardize . . .”
“Yup.”
Bradley sighed heavily, searching his friend’s face. “Okay, then. Let me make a few calls. And now get your ass out of my house and get some sleep. Okay?”
“Okay. And Bradley?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Get out of here, you fucker.”
“I’m going.”
“You crazy, obsessive, maniacal son of a bitch.”
Anton nodded. “Yup. I love you, too.”
“Go get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Georgia was beautiful. Wildflowers everywhere. Bloodred earth, which felt as familiar as his bones, even though he had no recollection of having seen it before. Big white clouds in a flawlessly blue sky. Every few minutes Anton felt his heart soaring as the sheer beauty around him blew away thoughts of why he was here. And then he would remember, and something in his chest would tighten. And so he drove, his heart soaring and pinching, forgetting and remembering his reasons for being on this road, in this borrowed car, making his way from the private airport in Augusta where he had landed to 322 Cherry Lane in Ronan, Georgia.
As he drove, he rehearsed what he would say to his mother—but he wouldn’t call her that, wouldn’t even think of her in that way, because that was a trap. Then what would he call her? What demeanor would he present? He thought it through, how he would conduct himself, and finally arrived at matter-of-fact. Not threatening but stern. Firm. To the point. He had to convince her that there was nothing to be gained from going to the press with her falsehoods. That nobody would believe her. And that running for governor or not, he wasn’t the kind of man who could be blackmailed by a junkie who had sold her only child down the river. Convince her of this and then get the hell out of Dodge.
But here, his determination broke. The truth was, it was hard to know, really, what he’d do when he saw her face-to-face. What sort of condition he would find her in. Fallen down drunk or spaced out? Or had she gotten her shit together? Married or living alone? Other kids? Good God, half brothers or sisters? And his grandma. Where was she? Dead or alive? Well, he would know the answers to all these questions in just a while longer. Without meaning to, he stepped on the gas.
To his great chagrin, Katherine had sided with Brad. “I don’t know why this can’t wait until after the election,” she’d argued. “In any case, there’s nothing in this letter that sounds like blackmail. It—she—actually sounds sweet.” He had been unable to meet her eye. “I have to,” he’d mumbled, and then he’d hated the way she’d cocked her head and given him that quizzical look, as if she could see right through him, as if she knew some truth that eluded him.
“If you want to go see your mom, honey, that’s totally legit. But for God’s sake, just say so,” Katherine had said, and he’d felt the blood rush to his face as he looked from her to Brad, who sat staring at a point over Anton’s shoulder.
“She’s not my mom,” he replied, aware that he was stammering, angry with Katherine for causing it. “And in any case, that has nothing to do with it.”
He’d sneaked out of his home and into Brad’s car early this morning, and they had arrived at the airport hangar while it was still dark. And now here he was, in the state where he’d been born but didn’t remember, less than a half hour away from the woman who had abandoned him.
If she was even home, that is. If not, he’d have to ask around, which could blow his cover. The People article had put him on the map in unexpected ways. Folks recognized him in faraway places. Maybe he should’ve allowed his oldest friend to come along; Brad was much better at strong-arm tactics. But he hadn’t, couldn’t, let him. No, this first meeting, however it went, was between him and her. For a moment the tears blurred the road ahead of him, and he took his foot off the gas pedal. Damn. After all this time, it still hurt like a son of a bitch, what she’d done. No wonder he never, ever thought about those days. But here she was, popping back into his life at the least opportune time. Things were going well with Katherine, the campaign was finally humming along, he was already meeting with aides to plan the first month’s agenda should he become governor, and now he had to sneak out of town to deal with this unsavory matter. Apart from the mental distraction, there was the risk. If the media got hold of the news, there would be a lot of explaining to do. At the very least, it would remind white voters that despite the Coleman name, he was adopted, the illegitimate son of a junkie. It was the weirdest thing—despite his complexion, his kinky hair, poll after poll showed that voters in his state didn’t think of him as black, per se. They knew he was biracial, of course—but it was as if Pappy and Dad cast a shadow so deep, it hid his blackness.