Chapter 15
Harper
I hurry across the lobby, but the woman has disappeared. I’m about to ask the concierge if he knows which direction she might have gone when, from the corner of my eye, the gold chain of her bag catches the sunlight. She’s waiting for her car outside.
I hurry out and call, “Ms. Fletcher, wait!” She turns around, her brow wrinkled—then realization dawns across her face.
“I’m Harper,” I say, holding my hand out. “Baptiste’s friend. Can we talk?”
She shakes my hand, peeking over my shoulder. “Is he…?”
I wince. “I’m sorry, he’s not coming back.”
She sighs, her eyes downcast. “That’s okay. I knew it was a long shot. I really shouldn’t have come. I have no right,” she adds quietly, almost to herself.
A stab of pity lodges in my chest. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Want to grab a cup of coffee?”
Her face relaxes. “Sure.”
She tells the valet to cancel her car, and we stroll down the sidewalk to a coffee shop around the corner. We order our drinks and sit at a corner table, away from the windows.
“I feel terrible now,” she says. “I knew this wouldn’t turn out well. But reading that interview, and him being in town… I just couldn’t resist. I thought it was a sign or something.”
“So, you live in DC?” I ask, wrapping my hands around my frozen latte.
“I do. Well, my company is based here. I also have a house in Connecticut. I split my life between the two. I’m usually in Connecticut this time of year, but with the semiquincentennial, we have a lot of events planned that I have to attend.
” She pauses. “Being so close to him… it was hard to resist the temptation. I read the article published by the New York Chronicle, and it just tugged at something in my heart. He seems happy—but also lonely.”
I nod along, careful not to mention that I’m the one who wrote the article. The second she learns I’m a journalist, her defenses will go up. And besides, I’m not here chasing a story. I just want to help Baptiste.
“He has friends,” I say. “And I do think he’s happy. But his career is demanding. It’s not easy for pro hockey players to balance personal life and work.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” she says, her gaze lost in her tea. “I’m still coming down from the emotional shock. He looks so much like my dad.”
I fiddle with my latte, measuring my next words. “Can I ask, um, why—”
“Why I abandoned him?” she says with a sad smile. “It’s normal to be curious. I was prepared to give him the full story. Maybe I can give it to you instead.”
I encourage her with a nod.
“Well, I wasn’t always like this. Calm. Collected. Successful.” She chuckles softly. “When I had Baptiste, I was a mess. Fitting, since that’s where I lived back then—Metz, in the northeast of France.”
I freeze.
How does she know that?
I’m almost certain his true birthplace has never been mentioned anywhere. The articles always say Strasbourg.
“Forgive me,” I say carefully. “But are you French? I don’t hear an accent.”
“Oh no,” she says with a smile. “I’m American.
My dad took part in the D-Day landings. That’s when he met my mom, who was working as an army nurse, and they decided to stay in France after the war.
But my mom got sick when I was young, so I never really knew her.
It was mostly just Dad and me.” Her eyes glisten.
“He passed away shortly before Baptiste’s birth.
My boyfriend decided a baby was too much to handle, so he was out of the picture.
And when I lost my job while I was pregnant, I found myself alone with a newborn—no place to live, no income—at thirty-three. A real mess.”
“That must have been tough,” I say softly.
“I just wanted him to have a chance,” she continues.
“Something I didn’t believe I could give him.
They assured me he’d be adopted and placed with a loving, stable family.
They said clean breaks are usually better for everyone, so I didn’t leave a name behind.
” Her eyes brim with moisture, and a single tear escapes.
She turns away to wipe it. “Anyway… they were right. Just look at him now.”
“But you got yourself together eventually?” I prod.
She gives a small shrug. “I did. I’m a late bloomer. A lot of failures until I started this company, and things finally clicked. Now I make a good living, but it wasn’t too long ago I was still struggling.”
“And you never got married or had other kids?”
She shakes her head slowly. “No. I never wanted to.”
“And how long have you known Baptiste was your son?” I ask carefully. “How did you find out? The interview?”
A small crease forms in her forehead, and for a brief second, I wonder if I got made. Maybe I need to cool off on the questions.
“Sorry,” I add with a chuckle. “I’m just trying to piece everything together. I’m too curious for my own good.”
Her green eyes soften. “That’s okay. I understand. You want to make sure my story checks out. That’s to be expected. Honestly, I’m glad he has a good friend like you in his life.”
A smile tugs at my lips. Friend. I guess we are.
That’s how I introduced myself to her, after all.
Still, the term feels so foreign. I’ve been working with the same colleagues for years, and I still don’t call them my friends.
Yet Baptiste feels close even though we’ve only known each other for barely two weeks.
She takes a sip of her tea. “Yes. I read the interview, and the pieces came together—his eyes, how much he looked like my dad, the fact that he was born in France and placed in foster care.”
“But the interview says he was born in Strasbourg, not Metz.”
She smiles. “Yes, and that threw me off at first. But it’s only a couple of hours away. When I looked him up and saw his date of birth, that was all the confirmation I needed. I’ll never forget that day.”
“I see,” I mumble, leaning back and finishing my drink.
It’s a compelling story—one that could definitely be true. But what if it’s just a well-rehearsed and well-researched speech? I’ve seen far more sinister things in my career, and I’ve learned never to trust first impressions.
“I’m curious, why didn’t you say he was from Metz in your article?” she asks, surprising me. “Did he ask you not to?”
I blink, dumbstruck for a few seconds. “What gave me away?” I blurt, half amused, half impressed. “My interrogation techniques?”
She chuckles. “That, and your name. I remembered the article was written by a Harper. And when I interrupted you earlier, you were putting a tape recorder back in your bag.”
I smile. She knew this whole time, and she still told me the truth. At least, I’m pretty sure she did.
“Observant,” I say. “I respect that. Yes, he asked me to keep the name out of the article.”
“I understand. And I appreciate you taking the time to hear me out.”
We stand up from the table and start walking back toward the hotel. The later afternoon sun is still blazing, turning the pavement into a griddle and making every step feel a little more dramatic than necessary.
“Listen,” I say as we step under the hotel awning, but I trail off when a black car pulls away from the curb. I frown, losing my train of thought. Victor?
“Are you okay, dear?” Helen asks.
“Yes, sorry.” I shake my head. “What I wanted to say was, I’ll try talking to him. But I don’t know how he’ll react. He was furious earlier. I’d never seen him like that before.” I wring my hands. “The thing is, you’re not the first one who’s claimed to be related to him.”
She swallows hard. “I figured as much. It’s okay. At least now he knows I exist.” She hesitates, then hands me a sleek business card. “Thank you for listening, Harper. Here’s my card, in case you ever want to get in touch.”
I nod softly. “Take care, Helen.”
Once the valet brings her car around and she leaves, I stand in front of the revolving doors, staring down at the business card.
Everything about her story feels real. I didn’t detect any of the usual signs of dishonesty—no evasiveness, no over-explaining. She looks like him. She knows his birthplace. And she didn’t even fake a French accent, which would have been the obvious move for a scammer.
There has to be something to this.
I need to talk to Baptiste. If I had the chance to see my parents again, I know I’d take it.