The Concealers (12 page)

“Sounds wonderful,” Katherine said with a warm smile, returning a light touch to Preston's left arm, and eluding his eyes.

Preston and Katherine exchanged cell phone numbers. “You can see my office when you pick up your new car. I'd recommend a BMW 325 convertible. Just let me know what kind you'd like,” Preston said with a wide grin.

“You've given me a lot to think about,” Katherine said, uncomfortable with the feeling of being overwhelmed.

Preston nodded and said, “I understand.”

By then they were outside the restaurant, and again said good-bye. Katherine could sense that Preston wanted to do more than shake her hand, perhaps hug her, and she thought that maybe there should be more, and on one level wanted more, but she remained uncertain. In the end, they just stood there staring at each other for what seemed to her like a long time.

Finally, Katherine thanked Preston again, warmly offered her hand, which Preston took eagerly, and said, “Thank you, I'll see you tomorrow night,” and she briskly walked west on Fifty-Second to the nearest Starbucks, took out her pen and pad, and began to make lengthy notes.

Preston headed east to his condo, reliving the time just spent and assessing all that he was feeling. He could see Katherine was bright, energetic, and focused. Her mother was right: she wasn't going to let anything get by her. He'd love to have her working for him. By the time he reached home he'd decided:
If a man has to find out at my age that he has a daughter, this young lady's the one to have.

Katherine finished recording everything she could think of. She ordered a café latte and called Susan.

“Hi, you. What's happening?” Susan asked.

“Can you talk?”

“Give me a minute,” Susan said. “Okay, what?”

“I just finished lunch with my father. At 21, no less.”

“How did . . . ? What . . . ? Just tell me.”

“He e-mailed me. A good e-mail. We met, had lunch, talked.”

“And . . . ?”

“And, I learned a lot about my father and want to learn a lot more.”

“Take your work clothes off for a second. What did he look like? We know he's rich, but is he tall, dark, and handsome? Or am I being too insensitive? Yeah, probably am . . . question withdrawn.”

“You're just being jerky you, but I love you anyway. Actually, he is tall, trim, and handsome. If he has a dark side, it was not on display today. He was gracious and modest, and he truly seemed interested in me. He told me he wanted to get together again soon—we have a dinner date tomorrow night with his wife—at Trump Tower.”

“Wow, this is moving fast,” Susan said.

“That depends upon your perspective. Twenty-three years, no father. Two weeks, father.”

“How do you feel about it? Did you like him?”

“Yes, I have to say, I did. This has not been easy for him either. He has a wife, a one-year-old son, and, out of the blue, a twenty-three-year-old daughter. As I said, I think he really is trying.”

“Are you trying, too?” Susan asked.

“I am. I'm trying to get to know him better.”

“Did you hug him?”

“That's enough, Susan. How are you doing? Are you drinking?”

“Not at the moment. I've been clean. I'm okay. Stop asking. You're not my sponsor.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Do you need me? Need anything?”

“It'll be okay.”

“If you're sure . . . I'll call you the day after tomorrow.”

“Okay. I'm happy for you, Kat,” Susan said.

“Hey, Katherine. How goes the battle?” Simpson said, motioning for her to sit down.

“I'm here to report. I answered an ad on ire.org from a small weekly in the Hamptons.”

“
Twin Forks Press
?”

“No way. How do you know that?”

“Sol Kaplowitz called me. You didn't think he'd pass on checking references, did you? We worked together a few years back on a Gannett paper in Rochester. He knew that I joined Fletcher Thomas after I left Columbia, and he called to ask about you.”

“And you committed perjury?”

“Of course,” he said.

“I should have known; it seemed too good to be true when Mr. Kaplowitz offered me the job on the spot.”

“Cut it out. He's excited about you, and he should be. You've worked hard, and you've done well. He knows a good thing when he sees it. What drove your decision?”

“Well, it would have been tough to make the internship route work out. More importantly, as you know, I would never get the chance to report the way I want to unless I freelance or find the right editor with deep pockets who owns a weekly.”

“I agree. Congratulations. You look great, by the way. You have a boyfriend or something?”

Katherine hesitated and then dropped the bomb. “I have a father.”

Gerry sat quietly, then put his feet upon his desk and waited.

“As you know, my father died in the Air Force before I was born. At least, that's what I was told by my mother, and, of course, what I believed but I have always longed for more information about my father. I felt incomplete in some way, and I always wanted to know more. I pestered my mother for details of his death but never received them, which just made the hole deeper. Recently I saw a documentary on a military mission in Central America involving Noriega—with U.S. Air Force support. I wondered whether the air support could have been from the same unit my father served in.”

Katherine explained how she discovered that Airman Manning could not have been her father—and how she discovered who was.

Gerry put his feet on the floor, walked around his desk, and put his hand on Katherine's shoulder. “I guess I can't know how much you have missed having a father all these years, and now discovering that you have one. What must that be like? Where do you go from here? Have you talked to him? Have you met him?”

“He e-mailed me. I was moved by what he said and how he said it. We had lunch yesterday, and I'm going to have dinner with him and his wife tonight. Stay tuned.” The moisture in Katherine's eyes contradicted the flippant tone of her last remark.

Gerry nodded and returned to his desk. “Would you like some coffee? Some whiskey?”

Katherine rose from her chair, reached for her briefcase out of habit, and laughed at the realization that this was the first trip to her mentor's office without it. She looked at Simpson with an expression of deep gratitude.

“I'll pass on both, although the whiskey sounds good. I have to go. You've been a great teacher and a wonderful friend. By the way, I have not forgotten the last assignment. In addition to finding a father, I think I have found the person of influence. I'll get you the paper.”

“That's great, Katherine. Remember, the paper's for you, not for me.”

Katherine gave Gerry a big hug. “Thanks for always being there for me, Gerry.”

“Get out of here. This is getting too mushy,” Gerry said.

Dressed up more than usual, Katherine took a cab from Union Station to Fifty-Sixth Street. She had been in the lobby of Trump Tower a couple of times, window-shopping the expensive stores. She had marveled at its over-the-top, pink-white vein marble, its brass and mirrored entrance, its seven-story retail atrium and the waterfall. But she had never until now had reason to enter one of the exclusive condominiums.

In accord with Preston's instructions, she walked to the private entrance on East Fifty-Sixth Street, where a tall doorman in his late thirties dressed in tails and a top hat peered through the glass door wearing on his face what could only be called a “what-do-you-want?” expression. He opened the door slightly, as if to protect the lobby against even the eyes of anyone without the right to be there, and unkindly asked Katherine what she wanted. She explained that she was a guest of Mr. Preston Wilson and that he was expecting her. He told her to wait outside, and in a minute or two, returned, this time with a broad, insincere smile, he opened the door with considerable ceremony and ushered her in and to the elevators, which she took to the thirty-seventh floor.

Marcia answered Katherine's soft knock and welcomed her with a warm hug. Nonetheless, Katherine, taking in Marcia's dark-haired good looks, designer outfit, and classic jewelry—the real stuff, Katherine guessed—felt distinctly shabby. She wondered how in the world this was going to work.

She appreciated Marcia's smooth manner, which helped dispel her anxiety. “Finally,” Marcia said, “I get to meet the young lady Preston has been talking about nonstop since your lunch yesterday. Preston is saying goodnight to P.J., and he will be out in a minute. I'm so happy you are here. Would you like a drink?”

“Are you having one, Mrs. Wilson?”

“I'm having wine. Please call me Marcia.”

Marcia led Katherine from the elegant foyer to the living room filled with antique furniture, a solid cherry built-in bookshelf along the wall to her left and floor-to-ceiling windows facing her. “Come, sit down next to me,” Marcia said, sitting on an expansive striped satin couch and pouring glasses of merlot for Katherine and then herself. “Preston has told me so many nice things about you.” Katherine commented on the condominium, the view, and particularly the bookcase. She asked Marcia what she liked to read, and they each shared their feelings about their favorite books and authors. Ten minutes later, Preston joined them in the living room and greeted Katherine.

“You look beautiful,” he assured her.

“Thank you,” Katherine said, thinking that she had waited twenty-three years to hear those words.

“Would you like some wine, Pres?”

“Yes, but I'll have it at dinner,” he said. “The nanny is here. P.J. is settled.”

Turning to Katherine, Preston asked, “What is your favorite food?”

“Unfortunately—everything. If I had to pick one, it would definitely be Italian.”

“I knew it. I've made reservations at Armani's. It's just across the street, Katherine, and inasmuch as it's Thursday, I'd like to get there before eight so that we can take the stairway to the restaurant.”

Katherine, having read an article about the Armani Store and Restaurant, felt a twinge of excitement. Marcia and Katherine rose from the couch.

“We can continue this at dinner, my dear,” Marcia said, and the three of them left the apartment and took an elevator to the lobby.

They walked across the street, around the corner, entered Armani's through the store entrance, and walked slowly up the magnificent circular lighted stairway to the third floor.

They passed the retail clothing section to the left, turned right, passed by the elaborate display of fine chocolates on one side of the corridor, with other fine items displayed on the right, and headed for the reception area across from the elevators. There they were warmly greeted by two ladies and a gentleman. One of the ladies picked up three menus and ushered them into the dining room, past the bar on the left and to a corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the far right.

Katherine was immediately taken by the ultra-modern décor, with its mixture of black, brown, and white, which seemed to her at once elegant and mysterious. As Katherine walked to the table, she felt the effect of the soft carpet, matching table settings, and furnishings, the indirect in-point ceiling lighting, followed by the breathtaking view through the special window covering. Preston held her chair and then Marcia's, as they sat for dinner.

“This restaurant is delightful,” Katherine said.

“We love it,” Marcia said. “The food is good, and it's so convenient. We're so happy you could join us.”

A thin young waiter with a pleasing manner and a strong Italian accent explained all the choices and specials, while an attendant poured water for everyone at the table. After ordering wine and examining the expansive menu, they each made selections from the antipasti, salads, and entrées, leaving the decisions about elaborate desserts for later.

“I know you and Pres have talked a great deal, but if you don't mind, I'd really like for you to tell me about yourself,” Marcia said. “I already know that you had the good sense to go to Columbia, and they had the good sense to grant you a scholarship. I used to teach at Columbia, by the way—psychology. Why did you not go to Columbia's School of Journalism for your master's?”

“I thought about that, but in the end, I was intrigued with Fletcher Thomas, particularly because of its small size and the opportunity for one-on-one learning. I was fortunate to have Professor Simpson as a mentor, and honestly, I loved the program.”

“What was your master's project?”

“An exposé of fraud and abuse and cost containment within Medicare and Medicaid.”

“What piqued your interest in that?” Marcia asked.

“I was fascinated by the 1997 big-tobacco litigation throughout the United States, and particularly, in Florida, the first true arena for the battle with tobacco firms. Florida's legislature had eliminated the traditional legal defenses, leaving only fraud and abuse and cost containment, therefore causing these areas to receive extraordinary attention. I hated the fraud and abuse, yet was intrigued by its multiple moving parts and Medicaid's gross insensitivity to the need to contain the cost. It was like looking inside a complicated watch to determine why it had stopped working.”

“Very interesting,” Marcia said. “Quite analytical.”

Their appetizers arrived and they ate, after which Preston excused himself from the table.

“I must tell you, Katherine, that color looks stunning on you, and your necklace is perfect,” Marcia said.

“Thank you, Marcia. I don't mean to be rude, but is your dress a Valentino?”

“Why yes, it is.”

“I thought I remembered seeing it in a magazine ad. It's really beautiful.”

Preston returned to the table and explained that he wanted to say hello to a friend, just as the salads were being served. They sat quietly for a while, enjoying the food.

Katherine scanned the dining room, noticing the two stylishly dressed, thirty-something women at the table to the right and an older group seated in the leather couches at the larger table in the middle of the room, obviously enjoying their meal and having fun.

“I love this city,” she said.

“Well, it has its merits. What was it like growing up in a small upstate village?” Marcia asked.

“I liked it. Everyone knew each other and helped each other. Cheerleading, dances after the games, skinny dipping in Canandaigua Lake, boating, water skiing at Sodus Point. I had an eighteen-foot Penn Yan with a Johnson 25. There was lots of snow, big hills, skiing, and ice skating on a frozen pond under the moonlight with my boyfriend.”

Katherine, warming to fond memories, was on a roll and didn't want to stop. “It's one of the most beautiful areas in the state—the heart of the Finger Lakes, rolling high hills, vineyards, deep clean lakes, hiking in the summer, snowmobiles in the winter. Have you ever been upstate?”

“We New Yorkers think of upstate as Westchester,” Marcia said. “But Preston, as a young boy, spent some time with his father hunting in the Adirondacks and made a trip back there not long ago. Right, Preston?”

Before Preston could answer, their next course arrived. Katherine sensed that Preston welcomed the interruption and that he looked forward to an opportunity to say a few words himself. They all watched as their dishes were expertly prepared and served and then were quiet for a while as they delved into the succulent food.

As they delighted in the dinner and the continued replenishment of the wine, Preston said, “Marcia is referring to my trip to the Adirondacks with Casey Fitzgerald, my CFO, to find Joe Hart, the one I spoke to you about yesterday at lunch. You seemed to want to know more.”

“Joe helped my husband and me out of a big mess,” Marcia said, interrupting Preston.

Katherine sensed for the first time some tension between Marcia and Preston and wondered what drove it.

“Preston told me about that,” Katherine said, “and he's right. I did ask him if he would tell me more about Mr. Hart, what he did for him . . . for you both.”

Katherine was pleased to see Marcia retreat, momentarily at least, and allow Preston to provide some backstory, to recount how his lawyers were convinced that bankruptcy was the only option and how Casey's search had come up with Joe as an attorney with the unique skills to save his business.

He told Katherine about Joe's wife being murdered, how he had escaped to the mountains, how Preston had found him and practically begged him for help. He explained that Joe agreed to take his case, providing Preston would commit to fulfilling an unspecified condition in the future—to which Preston, out of desperation, reluctantly agreed.

Preston outlined how Joe miraculously accomplished a turnaround with the banks and businesses and then, when Joe called in the IOU, how Preston had to find, earn the trust of, and care for a group of Joe's friends—“the Collectibles”—each flawed in some way. Preston gave a brief summary of Missy, Tommy, Johnny, and Corey, four of Joe's friends he had met, and the challenges they each faced. He then described Joe's funeral, seeing them and Harry, a fifth damaged soul, at the funeral.

Katherine could feel the intensity in Preston's remarks and could tell he had been moved by the experience. Marcia was apparently also moved, but Katherine's intuition suggested in some other way, how she could not fully understand. She wondered whether it was the subject, their relationship, or both, and perhaps more.

Preston signaled the waiter, who promptly brought the dessert menus, explained the elaborate choices, and made recommendations. They made their selections, and the course was soon served. After finishing and ordering coffee, Katherine thanked Preston for sharing all of that with her.

“What a story,” she said. “And I guess if I understand this right, the story is not over. What is your relationship like with these folks? Are you still seeing them and caring for them now? How did you feel about reaching out to Missy, Tommy, Johnny, and . . . ”

“Corey and Harry. Those are good questions,” Marcia said, “and a subject I've explored with Preston many times. I can tell you, Preston did help Johnny, who is mentally challenged. Preston arranged for a speech therapist to work with him, and it made a big difference. Alice produced a lot of background that helped in that effort.”

“Alice?” Katherine asked.

“Marcia, please, let me answer the questions,” Preston said, clearly annoyed. “Alice Hawkins was Joe's legal secretary. Joe's wife, Ashley, had done considerable work in education and helping mentally challenged people, including helping Joe help Johnny. Alice introduced me to Johnny down in Braydon, South Carolina. She had some files of Johnny's background from Ashley's research, and some files of Joe's, that helped point me in the right direction.” He nodded at his wife. “Marcia helped me as well.”

Preston explained to Katherine how he'd met Missy and Tommy in Las Vegas, Corey in South Carolina—but that he had not been able to connect with Harry since the funeral. “I was informed that Tommy and Missy got married in Las Vegas,” he added.

Marcia responded to Preston, “We were informed by an invitation. You chose not to attend.”

“I gathered from what you told me yesterday, Preston, that Joe had a substantial influence on you and your life. Is that correct?”

“Yes, he did,” Preston said.

“That's an open question,” Marcia inserted. “Preston's evolving on the subject.”

Katherine knew she had struck a nerve.
There it is.
She had to know more. How had Joe influenced Preston? At least, she wanted to hear what he had to say about that. And she wanted to hear the other Collectibles' responses to that question as well. Alice sounded like the gatekeeper; Katherine thought she would start with her and decided to ignore—for the time being—Marcia's comment about Preston's
evolving
. As Gerry had often said, “Some stories never end.” She wondered whether she would ever be able to complete the assignment.

“I would like to meet these people. Would you be willing to help me do that? I'm totally blown away by what Joe asked you to do. It's sort of a pay-it-forward thing.”

Preston appeared to be in thought for a minute and then replied, “Of course I would.”