Chapter Six
Sterling
What the hell was I doing, at midnight in an area of Brooklyn I would never frequent? Actually, there was no area of Brooklyn I chose to frequent—I failed to see the hype. Manhattan had everything I needed. And if it didn’t, I could order it.
Yet here I was, walking into some greasy restaurant straight out of an old Raymond Chandler novel, late on a Saturday night.
Why? Not for the story about the mayor cheating on his residency and taxes.
That I would relish, the prospect of which would even get me to go to Staten Island.
No, this, today, was information I’d first requested years ago at my first job in the newsroom at KLOS.
I’d been living on my own once I’d left for college, and it wasn’t the loneliness that ate away at my soul.
It was the deep-seated need to know where I came from, aside from the sleek and tanned loins of Dahlia Dumont.
There was no birth certificate with her name on it, only Marisel’s, which was a fake.
I’d confronted Dahlia, and she’d refused to tell me where she’d come from or who my father was.
But the issue had come up again because I’d needed my Social Security number, and I’d had to threaten her with blackmail to learn more.
A small town in the middle of Amish country, Pennsylvania.
A home birth with a midwife. No hospital records, only the family bible. That had been all she would give me.
I pushed open the door to the diner and spotted Tanner Robbins, the investigator I’d hired when I’d come to New York—the fourth one, in fact, the previous three having failed to breach the silent wall of mistrust the Amish community had for the “English” who came and tried to poke their noses into their lives.
I was frustrated at the lack of progress all these years.
From a booth in the corner, he raised a hand in acknowledgment, and I slid onto the ripped vinyl seat across from him. I tried not to touch the sticky Formica table. “Well, what did you find out?”
“Guess you don’t believe in pleasantries.
” He chuckled, the smile fading from his lips when I remained stoic.
He was a beefy blond guy who’d worked Intelligence in the Army before retiring.
I found his name the time I had to research for a report on missing children. He’d had success where others failed.
“Not at midnight.”
A dispirited server approached us, and I ordered tea.
“All right, then.” He pulled out his notepad. “Here’s what I was able to find out. Your mother, Rachel Younk, had an older English boyfriend she kept secret not only from her family, but the whole community. They would meet after school, or she’d find ways to slip out of her house after dark.”
“And she got pregnant.”
He blew out a sigh. “Looks that way. From what I’ve gathered, Rachel—Dahlia—was always a bit wild.
She was beautiful, and she matured early and was interested in boys.
At fifteen, she met Peter at a local grocery store where her family sent her shopping.
He was a delivery man, and they started a love affair. Peter was twenty-seven.”
Jesus. It was my family history but read like a bad novel.
“What happened?”
“She had to admit the affair because eventually she couldn’t hide her pregnancy. Being so religious, her family called her every name in the book, as you can imagine. Wicked, whore. They treated her like a pariah.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I wish I was. Her family was old-order Amish. The strictest and most closed off of the sect.”
What little I knew of them came from books or movies. I already knew the ending of her story, but I wanted all the facts.
“Go on, please.”
“They hid her on the farm until the baby was born. Her family was very influential in the church and found her a husband. A thirty-five-year-old widower with four kids.”
The horror story continued to get worse. Pity for Dahlia—Rachel—wasn’t something I’d expected, and I struggled against it.
“So she ran away. With me.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure of this story? How did you get all this detailed information when no one else could?”
He sipped his coffee. “Yeah, I’m sure. My wife was born into the sect but left after her Rumspringa—the time when Amish teens are allowed out in the English community to mingle and try new things.
She’s from Ohio, but they have family in Pennsylvania.
” He laughed. “Everyone is related somehow. Anyway, Sarah—my wife—decided she didn’t want to live the Amish life and left.
Moved to DC, got a job as a waitress, and we met. ”
“I didn’t ask for the story of your life, just how you got the information.”
His lips pressed tight. “Right. Well, Sarah’s cousin, Johanna, is married to one of Rachel’s brothers. I guess he would be your uncle. Johanna and Rachel were close friends, and Rachel confided the whole story to Johanna.”
A thought popped into my head. “So she was married to the older man before she left?” Was Dahlia a bigamist? Jesus, this was getting weirder and weirder.
Tanner shook his head. “No, the man wanted to wait until after the baby was born to make sure it was healthy. Supposedly, he thought God might punish her for her wanton ways by harming the baby, and in that case, he didn’t want to be responsible for taking care of it.”
Imagining what my life would’ve been like, living on an Amish farm, my sexuality denied, I suppressed a shudder. “Sounds like a charming person. Guess I got off lucky, then.”
“Of course, none of this information is legally verifiable. But I do have a written statement from Johanna if that helps.”
“I would like that, yes.”
He pulled a sheet of paper out of his leather portfolio and handed it to me. That was it. My history, reduced to a single sheet of paper.
“Thank you.” Without looking at it, I folded it in half and slipped it into the jacket pocket of my suit.
“One more thing you should know. Peter confessed that he and Rachel had sex, and he was arrested. Spent four years in jail for statutory rape.”
I froze. “D-do you know where he is?”
“I do. If you want his address, let me know. He’s still in the same small town, married with five children.”
About to say yes, I held off. What the hell would that accomplish?
Half brothers and sisters I had nothing in common with, plus I doubted my presence would be welcomed after forty years.
Most importantly, what twenty-seven-year-old man sleeps with a fifteen-year-old girl? My already sour stomach turned over.
“No. I’ll pass.” I glanced at my untouched tea. “Anything else?” I motioned to the server. “Check, please.”
The server tossed the paper onto the table. “Pay me.”
I took out a twenty. “Keep the change.” It was the least I could do, considering the crappy working conditions and lousy hours she had to work.
Her eyes widened. “Thanks.”
Tanner and I got to our feet and shook hands. “If you need any other information, I’m always available.”
For the money I paid him, both for the information and his silence, I bet he was.
I gave a curt nod and watched him walk out.
Always cautious about who was watching, I waited several minutes, then left the diner.
The night air wasn’t as cool as it had been upstate, but for some reason, I couldn’t stop shivering.
I reached into my pocket to get my phone to call a car.
“Cold, mon ami?”
Stunned, I spun to face a smirking Denis Bouvier. He raised a brow at my silence.
“Oui. C’est moi. In the flesh.”
“Were you…did you follow me?” I gritted out. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Funny enough, the world does not revolve around you. I happen to live not far.”
“Really?” I snorted. “You live near here.”
“Close enough.”
“And you just happened to be walking on this block. Where I am.”
That infuriating grin grew wider. “You know what they say. New York is just a small town.”
“No,” I snapped. “I’ve never heard that. And I don’t believe anything you say.”
He loomed over me, his handsome face dark. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m not calling you anything at all. I’m going home.” I took out my phone to get a car. To my horror, he plucked it from my fingers.
“No. I think you’re going to come with me.”
“Give me my phone.” I tried to grab the phone, but he held it out of reach.
“You’ll get it when you come to my apartment and see I’m not lying.”
“Fine, I believe you. Please. Just leave me alone already.” At this point I’d say anything to get rid of him. I was too emotional and worn out from the earlier news to fight.
The teasing light vanished from his eyes, and he peered closely into my face. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
The chance of me telling Denis Bouvier what I’d discussed was about as likely as me fucking him on a public street. “Nothing. I’m tired. It’s been a hell of a day. I need to go home and be alone.”
“You’re lying. Something happened between you and that man who left right before you.”
I had little strength left to fight, much less speak. “Please stop,” I murmured.
“Come with me. You can’t go home like this by yourself. You’re ready to fall apart.”
I allowed him to take my arm, and we walked to a giant building overlooking the river. We entered the sleek, modern lobby.
“Hello, Denis.”
“Frank, how goes it?”
I averted my face, turning it into Denis’s biceps, hoping the concierge didn’t recognize me.
“Very well, thank you,” Frank replied. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Still hiding my face, now almost in Denis’s armpit, I was led into an elevator and whooshed up twenty-five floors. He unlocked the door, and we walked inside. I caught a glimpse of huge windows overlooking the harbor and the Statute of Liberty. Denis led me to a chair at his gigantic island.
“I’ll make coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
He chuckled. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I have a sense of humor?” I left the chair and headed to the windows.
My forehead pressed against the cool glass.
It was all too much—the drinking today, this sad discovery, and now I was trapped with an infuriating, exasperating and—God help me—desirable man who wouldn’t leave me alone.
I wished I could sail away into the pitch black and disappear.
Denis stood beside me. “Not in the least. But you do look upset. And sick to your stomach. Drink this.”
Without even bothering to look, I shook my head. “I said I don’t drink coffee.”
“I heard you. This is tea. Green tea. My nutritionist recommends it. Go on. It’s burning my hand.”
I took the mug, and he wasn’t lying. It was green tea. Blowing on it first, I took a tentative sip. “It’s good. Thanks.”
“Were you afraid I’d poison you? Really, mon cher, that would be the height of inappropriateness.”
“I suppose you think you’re funny. Charming, even.”
“The thought has crossed my mind. Many times, in fact.”
His dark eyes sparkled. Did they always glitter like onyx, or was it the overhead lighting?
It wouldn’t surprise me if he had special bulbs created to accentuate his good looks.
But I’d sooner cut my tongue out than ever admit to those thoughts.
At the moment, the one and only thing I had to do was find a way to leave.
“Look, Denis. Thank you for the tea, but I have to get home. It’s very late, and I’m exhausted. I have work to prepare for Monday. I’m not on a six-month vacation like you, free to hang out and do nothing but play around while I wait for the games to start again.”
A switch in his eyes flipped, and his lips curled in a sneer.
“Perhaps you should learn to count. It’s now mid-June, and the preseason begins in September.
As for doing nothing…” His hair hung in his face, giving him an almost ferocious appearance.
For whatever reason, it turned me the fuck on, and my biggest fear was that he could hear my heart thundering.
“I train every day.” He ran a hand over his chest down to those rock-hard abs.
“Perfection like this is only achieved through hard, physical work. Many days I exercise in the park. It’s hot. Sweaty. You should come watch.”
I was caught in the deep recesses of his unreadable gaze. “I-I have my own routine in the summer.”
“Do you?” His teeth flashed white. “What is it?”
“I run and bike. Practice yoga.”
“How flexible of you.” His lips twitched, and he was unable to contain a chuckle. “I’d like to see it in action.”
Dammit, my face burned. Why was it that only with this boorish idiot did I lose my cool? “I’m leaving. Good-bye.” I strode away from him, returning to the kitchen, where I set the mug on the island.
I pulled open the door, but he called out to me. “I also do a lot of charity work. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just another pretty face.”
I let the door slam behind me. I needed to get away.
I wanted him to come after me.
God, what the hell was wrong with me? I didn’t lust after men.
I barely thought about sex. My work had kept me satisfied all these years.
It was what drove me every day. That and the search for information about my mother’s past and anything concerning my father, hoping maybe there would be a possible connection we might grow.
Now that I knew the history of my birth, I wiped all further thoughts of looking for him from my mind.
The car dropped me off, and I was finally home.
I dumped my clothes on the chair to be picked up for dry cleaning, showered, and got ready for bed.
I was safe here. Safe from being lied to, safe from being hurt.
Spending the day surrounded by people, making conversation, being on all the time when I only wanted to turn off, was fucking exhausting.
I had enough of that every day at work and on camera.
I was and always would be better off alone.