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The driver takes the downtown exit off the highway, and my brain is working on overdrive, trying to connect all the dots.
Are there dots to connect?
Blake Laboratories.
Multibillion-dollar company.
Foster Blake.
I know a Foster Blake—and his penis—but he couldn’t possibly be associated with the business the woman to my left is describing.
“This is for a huge campaign, Evelyn,” my mother stresses again as the vehicle brakes at an intersection. “And I’m confident you will help your father in any way you can.”
“Of course,” I say on autopilot. “Absolutely.”
Two more blocks down the street, our car stops in front of a historic hotel. The driver opens the door and assists us to the sidewalk. My mother then struts confidently through the revolving doors of the old building like she owns the town with me fast on her heels. We check our coats at the host station of the restaurant, and then a tall woman leads us to the back of the dining room, opening a set of mirrored doors to a private space.
Talking within the room ceases.
Everyone turns to greet us.
Time stands still—or maybe it never truly started.
Five people sit at the formal table, dressed and suited for business.
I recognize all of them, save for one—a young man. I assume he is Harold Blake.
I see Foster.
My Foster.
My Fozzie.
I’m at a loss for words. He doesn’t move, and neither do I—caught in this surreal moment of secrets, half-truths, and the mother of all coincidences.
