Now was the time to tell him about the e-mail. But no, things were going so well. It was a magical day. Why spoil it?
“No,” she lied. “Nothing at all. I was just thinking, you know—from a legal perspective. There could be lawsuits.”
“Of course. But there haven’t been. I think even when people get surprising or questionable results, they can just retake the test and confirm, and that’s pretty much what’s happened in any cases of doubt. And the test comes back exactly the same.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. She would forget about the e-mail.
It was just a mistake.
Chapter Seven
Where are you off to?” Rachel’s mother asked, having finally arrived to reclaim her cat. She was trying, with limited success, to lure Hugo back into his carrying case.
Rachel, halfway through packing her oversize duffel bag, debated whether or not to tell her mother the truth. She decided it would take more effort to be evasive. And why bother? Her mother wouldn’t care. She’d always been direct with her about her paternity. Very casual about it. Maddeningly so.
“I used the research department at the show to track down my father.”
“Get out! Did you find him?”
“Not him, exactly. But I found his mother. She lives in Provincetown, Massachusetts. I’m going to spend a few days there.”
“Intense,” said Fran, pulling a joint out of her handbag.
“Please don’t smoke in here,” Rachel said.
“It’s medicinal. I’m way hung over. Sean took me to a new place in Venice last night that supposedly served only organic wine, but I suspect it wasn’t.”
Rachel zipped up her duffel bag with an irritated flourish. She hated to admit it but she’d hoped her mother, upon learning about the trip, would have something insightful to say. But Fran seemed to exist only on the surface of life. Anything too heavy, and she tuned out. Their entire relationship had been less like a mother and daughter’s and more like sisters’. It would be too much to ask of Fran to actually mother her. This odd dynamic had been the envy of all of Rachel’s friends growing up. “Your mom is so cool,” they would tell her again and again when Fran scoffed at the notion of a curfew and didn’t bother checking Rachel’s report cards. Her idea of motherly advice was sharing the details of her one-night stand with Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
“Rach, is this whole trip about losing your job?”
“What? No. I told you, I’ve been researching my paternity for a while.”
“I don’t want you freaking out. Just try to find a new gig.”
“Are you seriously lecturing me about the job? You’ve never stuck with a career in your life.”
“You should do as I say, not as I do. When’s the last time you did yoga?”
“Okay, Fran. When I get back from the trip, I will find a new job. Don’t worry.”
Her mother, satisfied she had done her parental duty for the day, turned her attention back to the cat. Rachel was tempted to confide in her mother about the first leg of her trip—a quick stop in New York City to try to meet her half sister. Then she decided against mentioning it. She had her own doubts about it, and she didn’t want Fran to discourage her.
She knew she should maybe let it go for now and just be satisfied with the person she’d reached out to who did want to see her: her grandmother. Grandmother! Amelia Cabral of Provincetown, Massachusetts. But she couldn’t resist one last attempt to get through to Marin Bishop. This time she would do it face-to-face.
Fran lit her joint, and Rachel sighed.
She simply could not accept that her crazy mother was the only answer to the question Who am I?
“I have to get going, Fran. I’ll give you a call when I’m back.”
“Hugo seems to want to stay here,” she said.
“No one is staying here. We’re all leaving.”
After a final glance around the apartment, Rachel walked out with her stuffed duffel bag heavy on her shoulder.
It was against Marin’s nature to leave something unfinished. Friends had long teased her about her obsessive attention to detail, her determination to wrangle life into order. And so Monday morning, after a sleepless Sunday night, she knew she had to hear more from this Rachel Moscowitz person. Not that she thought there was any validity to what she was saying—she’d felt absurd even bringing it up to her mother. But until she was able to get new results from a second DNA test, the strange woman’s e-mail was just hanging out there, a big question begging to be answered. She couldn’t ignore it any more than she could leave work with a pile of paperwork on her desk.
At eight in the morning on a Monday, the office was still relatively quiet. Quiet enough for her to make the call without the risk of interruption.
She closed her door, pulled up the e-mail on her phone, and then dialed. Her heart beat fast, and in a weak moment, she prayed for voice mail. And she got it.
“Hi—this is Rachel. My voice mail, actually. Leave a message!”
“Rachel, this is Marin Bishop. Um, as I said in my e-mail, there’s clearly been some sort of error. But I did want to just ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” She left her number and hung up like her phone was on fire. It was only after she turned back to her computer that she realized that the 310 area code was in California, so it was only five in the morning where Rachel Moscowitz lived. Okay, she would have a few hours before she had to deal with a possible call back. She could relax.
A knock on her door.
“Come in,” she said, hoping it was Julian, knowing it wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t see or speak to him all day, and if they happened to pass each other in the halls, there was a good chance they wouldn’t even make eye contact.
The door opened. “Hilton would like to see you in his office.” It was Carol Rand, executive assistant to Hilton Wallace. Carol had been at the firm since before Marin was born. Marin wondered what that would be like—doing the same job for thirty years, never advancing, never being in a position of power. How did Carol get up in the morning?
Marin smiled. “Before the ten o’clock meeting or—”
“Now, if you can step away.”
Marin slipped out from behind her desk, smoothed her gray pencil skirt, and followed Carol to the elevator bank.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” Carol asked.
“Yes, thanks. You?”
The woman nodded. “Time with the grandchildren. Nothing beats that.”
The elevator, smelling faintly of coffee, whisked them up to the twentieth floor. The partner section of the firm was silent as a tomb, everyone working behind closed frosted-glass doors. Hilton’s office, which she rarely saw, was at the farthest end of the hall, a corner space with a view of the Freedom Tower. Carol opened the door for her.