Page 32 of Close Match
“Then you don’t need my help sending an email to your daughter. You’re a bright guy with a lot of love to share.” Crossing the room, I do something I haven’t done in too long, and I hate that I haven’t. I drop a kiss on the top of his head. “Love you, Ev. Let me know how it goes.”
I make my way toward the double doors that guard Ev’s study when I hear his cracked voice call out, “Monty?”
I stop in my tracks. “Yeah?”
“I love you too, son.”
I let the reminder of that seep through me, igniting parts of my soul that have been slowly losing their light. But I flick up my hand in a quick acknowledgment before I leave Ev to his email, knowing he’ll show me what he wrote before he hits Send.
ACT 2 – I’m positive.
Twenty
Evangeline
August
“I’m a mess,” I confide in Bristol. I’m pacing the Newsroom: Rise Up Suite in the Hamilton Hotel in Washington, DC. After a month of emailing back and forth, Rhett suggested meeting in a neutral location. He generously offered to pay for my ticket to fly down and back, which I politely declined.
Due to the sensitivity of why I’m coming, I decided to charter a jet and fly in and out of Teterboro using their private jet service, which helps reduce the possibility of being followed. And right now, I need every ounce of anonymity I can hold on to. I don’t know if the minute I walk through the door at Georgia Browns—a restaurant I’ve enjoyed in the past when I’ve performed at the Kennedy Center—whether or not I’ll be recognized.
I hope not.
“Linnie, will you calm down? I would hardly call Rhett a stranger. You just haven’t met him yet,” she points out diplomatically.
“What if I walk in and I forget everything I want to ask, everything I want to say?” Bristol starts laughing. “It’s not funny, damnit.”
“It sure as hell is. When was the last time that Evangeline Brogan ever flubbed a line?” she teases me.
I open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out but a grunt, which sets her off further. “At least help take my mind off of it. How’s my future niece or nephew cooking in there?”
“Wonderfully. Simon is freaking out. He’s looking into animal chipping right now.” Bristol’s voice is serene.
“Animal chipping?” I repeat to make sure I heard her correctly. There’s a clatter on the other end of the phone as someone puts me on speaker.
“You know, like a geolocation chip? The things they put into cats and dogs to find them?” My lips curve as Simon’s exasperation comes through loud and clear. “If a pet can have it, why can’t my kid?”
“Are you feeding him too much cilantro? That freaking food must do something over time to mess with the brain,” I muse.
“Not helping, Linnie,” Simon grates out. Bristol doesn’t bother to reply; she’s laughing too hard. I take pity on my brother-in-law and try to calm him down.
“Simon, I trust so few people around us, it’s a wonder the counting doesn’t stop on my middle finger.” I’m outright grinning when I hear him snort. “That doesn’t mean I believe your son is in imminent danger.”
“She will be when she’s sixteen and looks like her mother,” he argues. Aww, now that’s sweet. Simon’s hoping for a little girl.
“Then you can track he or she down by her phone or whatever technology is available at that time. In fact, wouldn’t that be a better use of your time? Maybe by learning how to become a little more internet savvy? Don’t be one of those parents who are so easy to fool you become an embarrassment. God, Bris, it wasn’t until Rhett brought it up that I remembered how awful Mom was at the computer,” I think back nostalgically. Mom was so computer illiterate that she even guilted Bristol and me to do her online shopping for her. We taunted her one Christmas with one of those phones that had only four buttons on it. Imagine our surprise when she started using it.
No wonder Rhett was shocked when I said she owned and operated a “communications firm,” I think derisively. But thoughts of Rhett lead me back to my current problems. “Maybe I should call and tell him I couldn’t make it,” I whine.
“Maybe you should woman up and realize the search for your father is almost done. After tomorrow, you can choose to have everything or nothing to do with him ever again,” Bristol says brutally.
“I hate when you’re logical.”
“I hate when you’re emotional. This is why we work.”
“I hate when you both won’t shut up and let me look at microchips for my kid,” Simon interjects. There’s a momentary pause before we both start giggling.
“Now, tell me what you plan on wearing,” Bristol asks.
