Second Chances (8 page)

George folded his hands in his lap and nervously tapped his thumbs together. All of this information was interesting, but it didn’t really reveal anything he probably couldn’t have found out himself with the help of Google. He’d hoped Pashmina would write her way to success. She’d worked hard and it seemed like that dream had been fulfilled.

“Now here’s where it gets interesting,” Dimitri said leaning towards him ever so slightly. “As I said, I had no real luck finding anything using your name or Pashmina’s. But then when I was reviewing her file I came across another name that I decided to try.”

“What name?” His mouth was so dry he could taste dust.

“Harry Lynch.”

George furrowed his eyebrows and tapped his thumbs against each other even faster. Harry. Why would Harry’s name trigger the secret door? Did that mean the baby Sophie spoke of was Harry’s baby? Then why was she so upset? Was this search just a huge waste of time? And where was this mystery baby? Dimitri hadn’t mentioned Pashmina having any children.

“What does Harry have to do with this?” he asked quietly.

“Well, I obviously discovered that Pashmina was married to Harry Lynch so I decided to run a search on Harry. He and Pashmina divorced sometime in 1979. Harry married Catherine Spencer, a resident of London in 1980.They were married for 26 years until Harry passed away a few years ago from cancer. Harry and Catherine had two boys, Sean and Jonathan. They live in England as does Catherine.” Dimitri reported as he looked over his notes.

“I still don’t understand what Harry’s name has to do with anything,” George mumbled.

“Well, when I looked at 1979 birth records from Boston hospitals I found Harry’s name. There was a baby boy born on October 15, 1979 at Brigham & Women’s hospital to a resident of Greece. The birth records were sealed. When I contacted the Massachusetts Open Adoption Registry I found an application for exchanging information. The registry exists for adopted children to connect with birth parents.” Dimitri took a deep breath, knowing that he was revealing a lot at once. George looked overwhelmed.

“So I applied to the registry for records pertaining to the baby boy born October 15th. It took a few days but finally I received a copy of the birth certificate. It lists the mother as Pashmina Smith and the father as Harry Lynch.”

“Pashmina Smith? Why Smith?” George asked.

“She was probably trying to keep her anonymity. It was Harry Lynch’s name that caught my attention.”

“What does that have to do with me?” George asked the knot in his stomach slowly unfurling. Clearly, this search had revealed nothing that concerned him. Pashmina and Harry had a baby. So what?

“Well, I asked to have the records faxed to me. When they arrived I discovered something very interesting,” Dimitri countered.

“What?” George asked already weary of the findings.

“When I received the actual birth certificate, Harry Lynch’s name had been crossed out. The father listed on the birth certificate was you.”

*   *   *

CHAPTER SIX

Amelia tapped the sheets of papers into a neat pile and placed them on the conference room table next to a tidy rainbow of pens and pencils. Satisfied her materials were in order she turned her sights to the plump leather swivel chairs and for the fifth time in as many minutes, arranged them into strategic positions. She sipped on her Diet Coke and laughed nervously. “Relax,” she chided herself, “it’s just a conversation. You can do this.”

Any minute now Pashmina would be here to review the manuscript, a standard part of the editorial process. Still, Amelia’s nerves threatened to get the better of her and she took another long and calming sip of soda. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she sighed heavily glancing at her watch. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Good morning.” Pashmina stood hesitantly in the doorway looking around the room. “May I come in or am I interrupting? I heard voices.”

Biting her lip to keep from laughing Amelia greeted her, “Hi! Those weren’t voices you heard, just me talking to myself. It helps me to think out loud some times,” she explained.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Understanding lit up Pashmina’s face. “I often converse better with myself than other people.”

Amelia motioned across the table for Pashmina to join her, “Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink before we start, coffee, tea, water?”

“I’m fine for the moment, thanks.” Taking Amelia by surprise she slipped into the chair beside her. “Do you mind if I sit next you?” she asked laying a gentle hand on Amelia’s arm. “It makes me feel like we’re tackling this as a team.”

“Fine by me.” Pashmina’s vulnerability was touching. One more reason she was growing so fond of her.

“Good, then let’s get to work. I’m sure you have a lot of questions for me.”

Taking another sip of soda Amelia contemplated her next step. This was the moment she’d been dreading, the moment she dared to challenge the Grand Dame herself. She’d been so excited to read the famous author’s manuscript, feeling a little thrill each time she turned a page so crisp and smooth---
she
was editing Pashmina Papadakis’ book!—she didn’t even notice the difference, at first. But several pages in, after her initial excitement had tempered and she was in full force editor mode, it was obvious. This new book wasn’t like all the rest. It was dark, dangerous, and violent, a far cry from the lighthearted fun of a traditional Papadakis mystery.

Totally thrown, it took a while for her to adjust to the new style and even then she wasn’t sure what to think. Sure, she liked it but it was more than that, something was missing and that something was Pashmina. A random thought crossed her mind; did Pashmina really write it? She hated herself for even thinking something so improbable. But not impossible. Didn’t Stuart say Pashmina had asked for an extension of her deadline? She’d been struck with severe writer’s block. But then at the last minute, she’d delivered on schedule and Amelia, the most competent editor available had earned the job.

Lucky her or maybe not since she now had the dubious task of figuring out if the manuscript was really Pashmina’s. There was no way around it. Before they went any further the question had to be asked. Resigned, Amelia got right to the point. “Actually, I only have one question,” she paused, “but it’s a doozie.”

Pashmina laughed. “Sounds ominous; go ahead, shoot.”

“Well, the story is good but not what I expected,” she said choosing her words carefully. “It’s so different from anything else you’ve done that I’m not quite sure what to make of it.” Pashmina sat poised and calm. With a nervous laugh, Amelia summoned the courage to continue. “Is this manuscript even yours?”

Pashmina considered her answer carefully, silently batting it about like an inflated beach ball. Was the book hers? Yes, in every way but one. She’d sacrificed everything for it, she’d earned it. But she didn’t write it, it was more like a gift, an opportunity to shed the pain and despair she’d been in since seeing George.

For months afterwards she’d been in a funk, reliving their fateful meeting over and over again, wondering how her life had gone so off course and wishing desperately it had been different. But it wasn’t. George had seen to that, betraying her as she’d betrayed Harry, in the end neither one of them getting what they wanted. And then there was the baby, sweet and precious, the only innocent in the whole affair. If any good came out of this mess it was the beautiful child lost to her.

Even now it was hard to think about and she blamed George for that as well though the guilt and shame of her own actions haunted her too; mostly at night when her dreams took her places her waking mind dared not go. She imagined what the baby would look like now, no longer the tiny infant she’d held for an instant but an adult, fully grown. She imagined her child happy, the type of person who made others happy just by being around them, and good. Lord let them be a good person she thought, a person of character, not like her and George.

But the evening bliss always dissipated at first light and in the morning she’d wake up, tears dried and sticky on her face, her heart heavy in her chest. Pashmina knew she couldn’t go on like this any longer. She had to restore balance to her life, put the past behind her and though he didn’t know it yet, George was going to help her do it. In a million years she’d never forgive him for all that he’d taken from her, but if her plan worked she might manage to forget just a little and move on with her life.

The plan for her salvation had come to her in a dream, swift and sudden telling her exactly what to do. It was simple really. She’d publish George’s manuscript as her own thereby fulfilling her commitment to Dewes and let fate take it from there. If it caused trouble for George, tough, payback’s a bitch. She’d consider it his way of making up for all the pain and upset he’d caused.

Pashmina met Amelia’s inquisitive gaze and wondered how long she’d been waiting for her to answer. The girl was fidgeting slightly in her seat, growing anxious and Pashmina felt bad for keeping her waiting. She liked Amelia very much and was growing fonder by the day. Amelia was kind, and clearly concerned that Pashmina might be stepping into harm’s way. Gentle in demeanor but strong too, she had the courage to ask the tough questions and was astute enough to know which ones to ask. But not quite all of them.

“Yes, the book is mine,” she said at last. “I know it’s a different style for me but think of it as an experiment. I take full responsibility for “
Family Secrets
.”

Her conviction was contagious, melting away Amelia’s nervous tension. “I believe you and I trust you,” she said simply. “Now let’s get started.

*   *   *

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chadwick Brown strode confidently through the hallways of Brown Books surveying his domain like a proud king measuring his realm. In the few years since he and Abby had inherited the reins of power from their father, they’d wasted no time flexing their youthful muscles to flip the ultra-conservative firm on its head. Under their direction, more aggressive operating procedures were now in place as well as an exciting new roster of fresh and contemporary authors giving the company a unique progressive edge.

He glanced around approvingly. Yes, they were doing well, but the competition was never far behind and heavy-handed pressure from the Board, i.e. his Chairman father never stopped. He had the ulcers to prove it.

Behind a massive desk his secretary Lauren sat like a sentry guarding the inner sanctum that was his office. She looked up as he approached a pile of pink message slips in one hand, a steaming cup of coffee in the other. “Good morning Mr. Brown,” she smiled handing him both items at once. “Your father called. He’d like to speak with you about the agenda for the upcoming Board of Directors meeting.” Chad grimaced and sighed, “Anything else?”

With a sympathetic smile Lauren deftly changed the subject of his father to something far more dangerous. “Careful drinking your coffee,” she warned. “It’s so hot I almost melted my tongue. Oh and your 9:30 appointment Mr. Smith is waiting in your office.”

Damn. He’d forgotten Tim was coming in today. “Thanks,” he said glancing at the message from his father. This conversation with Tim would have to be short. He didn’t have time to think about someone else’s problems, he had enough of his own. “Do me a favor?” he asked Lauren. “Buzz me in half an hour and say I have another meeting or something Ok?” Flashing his brightest smile Chad headed to his office.

*   *   *

Surveying the city skyline from the 360-vantage of Chad’s 20th story office, Tim felt powerful, invincible and he liked it. This was where he belonged, at the top calling the shots. After all, there’s no ‘I’ in team but there is in ‘Tim’. He chuckled softly at his own joke turning as the door opened and Chad entered the room.

He looked older than Tim remembered noting the distinguished gray already dusting Chadwick’s temples and the crow’s feet fanning from the corners of his colorless eyes; eyes that could appear as clear as a mountain spring on a sunny day or as dark as a raging sea depending upon his mood. Right now they were neither light nor dark just a little cloudy and distant like his mind was elsewhere. He was impeccably dressed as always in a pewter gray pin-striped suit custom-fit to his long lean frame with a silver gray shirt and black silk tie. He reminded Tim of a Navy destroyer, strong, bold, menacing.

“Hey Tim, how long’s it been?” Chad asked hastily shaking Tim’s hand and guiding him to a chair in front of his desk.

“I’ve been trying to figure that out myself,” he replied giving his best impression of a friendly smile and ignoring Chad’s obvious efforts to give him the bum’s rush. “I guess that means too long.”

“Well you look good.” He gave Tim a cursory once-over. “Not a single gray hair in that obstinate head of yours.” Self-consciously he smoothed a hand across his own silver strands. “Hard work and stress, they’ll get you every time,” he added as if to explain.

Tim bristled. Chad was in rare form lobbing insults like tennis balls before they’d barely said ‘hello’. “Not to mention the painful trappings of legacy,” he countered looking pointedly around the lavishly handsome office. “Must be Hell.”

Chad scowled, so briefly Tim thought he might have imagined it until he met the other man’s granite stare. Shifting uncomfortably in the chair he cursed his stupidity, this was no time for a pissing match with Chad, not when he needed his help. “Sorry,” he apologized ruefully, hands raised in surrender. “Bad joke.”