6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
As August dawned, I realized I had been in New York for almost a year. Things were going well at work. I was quiet, respectful, and damn good at my job as Auburn Bouvier’s driver and personal security agent.
I smiled at the thought of him. The past few months had been pretty eventful in his life. Auburn met a woman, and it wasn’t that horrible girlfriend he’d dated on and off for years, Magdalena Lewis. I’d driven her a few times, and she was a complete shrew. I was so glad he was done with her.
Auburn’s new lady was much younger than him, an intelligent woman named Gianna Moschella who didn’t take one bit of his grumpy shit. And the billionaire was head over heels in love with her. They were still keeping their relationship a secret because Gianna’s father was Tony, Auburn’s personal assistant, but it was only a matter of time before he locked her down and made her Mrs. Bouvier.
I only wished I could find a woman like that. Well, I had, but she was taken. Yes, I was still harboring a crush for Lehra Kincaid, even though she was still dating that Dwight character. I knew I should move on, but I couldn’t bring myself to find interest in any other woman.
Changing out of my suit, I dressed in a royal-blue polo shirt and jeans in preparation for my Monday night dinner. My eyes found the shoebox on the top shelf of my closet, and I pulled it down, feeling the weight of it in my hands.
I opened it and stared at the letter on top, noting the slight yellowing of the envelope, which wasn’t surprising, given that it had been written over two decades ago.
As my fingers brushed lightly over the faded writing, I flashed back to last year when I’d accidentally come across this box in my mother’s home.
“Thank you for doing this, mi tesoro,” my mother says, kissing my cheek. “I didn’t want to have to call a plumber.”
“No need, Mama. I’m perfectly capable of changing out a hot water heater. I stopped by Home Depot and bought one on the way.”
“Give me the receipt, and I’ll pay you back,” she insists.
“Make me a few dozen tamales, and we’ll call it even. The guys in my unit love them.” I’m a member of Houston’s Special Weapons and Tactics detail, better known as SWAT, and my teammates live for Estrella Estrada’s tamales.
Correction: Stella Estrada, which is what she’s gone by since marrying my father because she said her full name sounded estupido.
“I’ll make them this weekend. Now, do you need me to get the tools out for you?”
“Mama,” I said sternly, “I know where everything is. Go to work. You have a business to run.”
My father was a private investigator, and my mother worked with him for many years. After he died from a heart attack last year, Mama had gotten her P.I. license and took over the business. I was so fucking proud of her.
Once she’s out the door, I flip the electrical breaker and turn off the water going to the old hot water heater. Then I drain it before disconnecting the hoses and electrical conduit. Using a dolly, I wheel the leaky heater out of the small closet and load it into my truck.
Deciding to clean the floor before I install the new one, I grab the broom and mop from Mama’s pantry. While I’m mopping, I notice a couple loose floorboards and pull the hammer and some nails from my father’s old red toolbox, intent on hammering them back in place.
I’m not sure what makes me drop to my knees and lift the floorboards, but I do, peering down into the hole by the light of a flashlight. A blue shoebox rests inside the opening.
“What the hell is this?” I mutter, lifting the box and setting it on my lap.
There are letters inside, hundreds of them, addressed to Benjamin Estrada, my father. All of them have a return address in New York, from someone named Paul Bouvier.
Who the hell is Paul Bouvier? I think, opening the envelope on top and reading the handwritten words on the enclosed page.
I frown at the letter and read it again. Who is this guy? Some friend of my dad’s? Or maybe an estranged family member? From the tone, he’s obviously someone my mother doesn’t approve of.
And the bike… I remember my dad coming home with a blue bike for my sixth birthday, and it had a silver horn with one of those big black rubber bubbles I could squeeze to make it honk. It was loud as hell and sounded like an old car horn. I absolutely loved it.
Flipping through the rest of the envelopes, I notice they were sent to a post office box and not to my parents’ address. Was my dad hiding these letters from my mom? Is that why they were concealed beneath the floorboards in the water heater closet?
I rub a hand over my lips as I stare down at the multitude of letters. Would it be wrong to go through these? I mean, my dad’s been dead for over a year, but does death negate your right to privacy?
My brain wars with itself. On one hand, my father wouldn’t have kept these letters for so long if they weren’t important. The first one dated back to when I was six, and I seemed to be the subject. But on the other hand, he wouldn’t have hidden them if he wanted anyone to look at them.
Fuck. I’m so torn. Huffing out a breath, I close the lid and carry the box out to my truck. I have to get this heater replaced and then get to work. I’ll sort through all this in my mind and decide what to do later.
“Hey, Mama. How is the hot water heater working?” I ask when she picks up the phone the next morning.
“Fantastic. Thank you again for being such a good son.”
“It’s what I’m here for, Mama. I want to take care of you.”
“I know you do, mi hijo, but I’m doing okay now. I still miss your father every day, but I feel like the fog is lifting a little. Like the world has finally started turning again. So you can stop fussing over me so much like a mother hen.”
I chuckle. “Is that your way of telling me I’m getting on your nerves?”
“Never, but I worry about you, Cruz. You never do anything with your friends. You’re young and handsome so you shouldn’t be sitting at your mama’s house every weekend.”
“Some of the guys invited me out for Friday night. I was thinking about joining them,” I say thoughtfully.
“You should. But don’t drink and drive,” she adds quickly. “You call me, and I’ll come pick you up. Day or night. No questions asked.” That was exactly the same thing she used to say to me when I was a teenager.
I fight back a snicker. “Okay, Mama. Or I could just call an Uber like a normal person.”
“It’s not nice to tease your mother,” she scolds.
“Just pointing out that I’m thirty years old and fully capable of finding a ride home.”
“I know how old you are. I gave birth to you, remember? Almost ten pounds. In labor for twenty-seven hours.”
Before she could retell the entire story of my birth—because that was where this was headed—I break in. “Mama, did you know the floorboards were loose in the water heater closet?”
She gasps. “Nooo, there weren’t mice in there, were there?”
I chuckle. My mother hates rodents of any kind. “No, there weren’t any mice. I just didn’t know if you were aware that the boards were loose.”
“No, I never go in that closet. Your father—God rest his soul—took care of all that stuff. Do I need to call a handyman?”
“No, ma’am. I nailed them back down.”
“Oh, okay. Well, thank you, son.”
She seems completely unconcerned about me finding the hidey hole with the letters in it. I’m pretty sure that means she knows nothing about it.
We say our goodbyes, and once home, I reach beneath my bed for the shoe box. I’ll just read a couple more to see if I can figure out who this Bouvier man is in relation to my father and why he sent me a bike.
Papa was a Marine for two years before he was discharged due to an injury. Maybe Bouvier served with him.
Opening the second letter in the stack, I begin reading.
My gaze goes back to the second paragraph. I read it seven more times before those two words sink in and begin to make sense.
My son.
Only, it doesn’t make sense at all. I’m not this man’s son. Benjamin Estrada is my father. Though I’ve always wondered why I have blue eyes and the rest of my family has brown eyes.
But no. It can’t be. Dread seeps into every bone in my body, making them feel soft. My legs barely hold me up when I stand and find my computer, and my hands shake so badly, I have trouble typing the name into my search engine.
Paul Bouvier.
Articles flood my screen. Apparently this man’s famous in the fashion world, and that’s when I remember the fancy suit Papa had given me for my high school graduation. It was a charcoal-gray Bouvier suit.
Fuck.
I click on the images tab, and photos of the man spread across the screen. He appears older than my parents, and he has salt-and-pepper hair and…
Goddammit.
The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. But in actuality, I have seen those eyes. Many times.
Every time I look in the mirror.
I stood outside the restaurant and peered into the window. I always had to do that before my Monday night dinners, simply to ground myself before meeting my dinner companion. It was easier than it was the first time, which was almost a year ago.
Leaving the heat of the August evening behind me, I entered the cozy bistro, my face cooling from the blast of air conditioning that met me. The hostess looked up and smiled.
“He’s already here,” she informed me.
No surprise. He was always here before me. I made my way to our regular table nestled in the back, out of view of most of the other diners.
He stood with a huge smile on his face, and I walked toward Paul Bouvier.
My biological father.