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I swallow and look up at her. “So you looked at this picture.” I raise my voice to be heard. “I mean, youandyour mother looked at this picture, and you agreed that this child could not possibly be mine?”
“I didn’t—”
“He’s practically my clone! You don’t even know what Charlotte looks like, so even if this boy looked absolutely nothing like me, what excuse could you possibly have for not telling me? Andshewould never lie to me. She’d never—”
“She’sbeenlying to you for a long time, Simon. Let’s at least get that straight. If that is your child, then sheisa liar.” I have nothing to say, and Samantha senses an opening. She’s nothing if not determined. “And why now? Why after all this time is she reaching out to you?”
I get up to leave. There’s somewhere else I need to be, and I’m itching to rid myself of this arrogant, manipulative daddy’s girl. “Maybe I’d know if I’d had the chance to read that letter.”
Mrs. Westfield comes out and puts her hand on my arm as I’m reaching for the doorknob. “Simon.”
“Please don’t.” I’m still too angry and disappointed to look at her when I add, “Tell your husband I said that I’m sorry and I’ll call him when I can.”
“Hello, Charlotte.”
I practice the words standing in front of my mirror. I came back here to shower, to throw a few things into a duffel bag in the hopes she’ll allow me to stay nearby for a few days, and to look at that picture again.
I hold the one of Ethan, my son, up next to it. The sandy blond hair is the same as mine, same as Mike’s. The dimple in his left cheek matches the one in my own. The only difference is the eyes. He doesn’t have blue eyes like us Wade boys. No, his are a warm hazel brown like his mother’s. In this picture, he’s knee deep in snow, a black and white pup by his side who looks like a trustworthy friend. Ethan is smiling, making the dimple crease in a way that makes me long to reach out and touch his cheek.
He is mine.
There is no doubt in my mind.
As my truck grinds its way up and out of Illinois, up past Green Bay with another three hours still left to go, I busy myself imagining how it’s going to be. Anything is possible. I haven’t seen Charlotte in nearly four years. And I don’t know what was in that letter. Was it an angry letter, or was Samantha telling the truth, that Charlotte is seeking me out? Don’t know, because when it comes to Samantha, I can no longer believe so much as a word she says.
Maybe she won’t be the serious, sweet girl I once knew. Maybe the years have hardened her. Maybe she’s with that guy, Lawrence, or worse, married, and they’re happy together. Maybe he’s been playing the role of father to my son for the past few years. Worry turns to anger when I think of some faceless stranger teaching my son to catch a ball, some random guy reading to Ethan before his bedtime, soothing him when he cries.
She’s been lying to you for a long time.
I’m angry, but then I think back to the day I left, the scene playing out like a movie in my mind. Her face as I shoved that paper bag into her hand. The desperate way she reached for me as I backed away from her. Her voice when she told me she loved me.
Don’t do this to me. I remember saying those words. What an ass, like somehow I was the aggrieved party. What did I leave in my wake when I ran off?
What have I done to Charlotte?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charlotte
A couple of months ago I would have been prepared, but as the weeks passed, expectation turned to uncertainty, disappointment, resentment, and then finally, resignation.
A hurricane is raging inside of me, and though I feel unsteady, I’m acutely aware that I’m rooted in place. Neither one of us speaks. He goes to open his mouth but then closes it just as quickly. I know I should greet him, invite him in, do something besides stand here like a statue, but I can’t seem to take action.
Lawrence slows as he gets closer to the porch, clearing his throat. “Charlotte, you going to introduce us?”
I do not move or speak or breathe.
Simon turns to Lawrence and offers his hand. “I’m Simon Wade.”
“I know who you are, son.” Looking down at the cooler he’s holding, he says, “I’d shake your hand if I could, but the trout were practically jumping into my boat today.” He looks between me and Simon, then says, “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” as he passes through and walks into the house.
Simon takes one step closer. “Hi.”
I breathe the word back to him. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I didn’t have your number and I…”
When he trails off, I find my voice. “No, it’s fine. I’m glad you came. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you. I’m just…”
