Chapter 29 Surprises
Three days later, there’s a knock on the apartment door. Believing Jake has returned, my heart races, and I dash to the door, boot notwithstanding. Flinging open the door, I find Carol in the hallway, looking like she has bitten into a lemon.
“Carol?” I squeak.
Brushing past me, she murmurs, “Hello, Emma.”
I perch awkwardly on one of the kitchen chairs and watch her apprehensively. “Would you like coffee or something?” God, what am I thinking? I shouldn’t be offering her anything.
She shakes her head, her eyes sliding past mine, and exhales. “Look,” she begins softly, “I shouldn’t have said what I said. If I had known who you were, I would never have said such a thing.”
She wouldn’t have said it out loud, at least.
“But Jake should have told us who you were. I’m not sure if it was you or Jake who was hiding . . . everything.” She waves her arm dramatically.
I start to respond but stop myself before any words come out.
She slips an envelope out of her purse and slides it across the table, still not looking me in the eye.
“This is for you, if you agree to disappear and forget this whole thing.
I mean you can move back to your parents and all.
Just no more engagement or anything like that.
This is for your future so you can move on and live the life meant for you.
My good hand slowly reaches for the envelope and picks it up.
I’m repulsed by my actions, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
I need to know the Henderson’s assessment of what my future is worth.
Jake wanted to talk about my future when he got back, but his mother clearly couldn’t wait for him to return to share this plan.
The envelope is unsealed, and I pull out a check.
I count the zeros. $10,000. One part of me is relieved, as I feared my value would be a lot less.
But then a wave of nausea hits me. This is so messed up—Carol with her perfectly coiffed hair, rigid posture, and manicured nails and hatefulness.
Regarding her, in a voice that isn’t mine, I say, “Please leave.”
Gaping at me, Carol gets up clutching her purse. “So, we have an understanding. The money is yours; you just need to forget all about this.” She waves her hand around again.
Sitting perfectly still, I repeat coldly, “I understand. Now please leave.”
Carol bolts up and practically runs to the door. When she reaches the safety of the open door, she regains her composure and, with a good bit of irritation, says, “This is for the best, really.”
I nod and she yanks the door closed behind her.
Clasping the check to my chest, I turn my eyes heavenward and beseech, “Jake, how could you? My God, please no.”
The memory of Jake saying, We need to keep the peace, flashes through my mind. A knife slides into my heart and twists. The pain is searing but slowly lessens as I breathe in and out. The voice in my head starts gaining traction. There is no future with Jake. This is actually good. A clean break.
I put my head in my hands. I won’t take their money. I can’t take their money. Unseeing, a tear falls onto the check. The check’s pain is too deep for a thousand tears to erase. But as tears stream down my face, I realize I’ve got to try. I deserve that.
The next morning, I wake and think, Yoga.
That’s what I need. I’m able to do only the most basic moves because of my boot and cast, but it is something.
I have two more weeks until I’m out of both, the doctor says.
Pulling on my leggings, I’m glad I haven’t let Carol’s visit completely unhinge me.
I smile thinking like Vee, if I get to yoga, it means today will be okay, and that is all I need right now.
As I’m heading for the door, the phone rings. It’s the landline in the kitchen, which hasn’t rung for the three months I’ve been living here.
I walk over and pick up the phone gingerly. “Hello?”
A man’s voice snaps, “Hello, is Jake there?”
“No, I’m sorry, he’s traveling right now.” I fumble with the handset. “Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Yes, yes of course. This is Arnie, his poor overworked agent. Any chance he’s in the middle of Central Park updating his guidebook?” He laughs.
“Guidebook?”
“Yes, The Birds of Central Park. Please tell me he’s working on it.”
I move the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Is this some sort of joke or am I dreaming? I put the phone back to my ear. “The guidebook by John Foster?”
“Yes, John Foster.”
“The—the author?” I stammer.
“Yes, the author. Really, I must find him. It’s really getting urgent.”
Trying to calm my racing heart, I ask, “Why would you think he is here?”
“Well, I know it’s a long shot, but Jake listed this phone number as an emergency contact years ago, and I’ve given up trying his cell. It just goes straight to voicemail.”
“Did you say Jake or John Foster?” I ask, getting more flustered by the minute.
The man laughs. “Well, both or either. Jake Henderson or John Foster. One and the same.”
I inhale sharply. “What do you mean one and the same?”
“Well, Jake is John and John is Jake. Now, is he there or not?”
“They are the same person?”
The man sighs but responds patiently, “Why, yes. Jake Henderson uses the pseudonym John Foster for his books. Now, who am I speaking to? I assumed this was the number of a close friend. I shouldn’t be spouting out such information to just anyone.”
I reply automatically, “I’m his fiancée. Well, Jake’s fiancée. Oh, and I guess John’s too. I didn’t know he was John Foster, so maybe I’m not John’s fiancée.”
Ugh! Stop saying fiancée. I sound completely deranged.
“Oh, the mysterious fiancée. Well, nice to finally meet you and hey congratulations! Jake is a wonderful guy. So glad he’s settling down.
He deserves to be happy. But what matters now is whether he’s there or not.
He needs to sign his latest contract, or the publisher is going to kill him or me. So, is he there?”
“Well, no. He left on an emergency trip. Something to do with a special project. It was unexpected. He will be back in, let’s see . . . six days.”
“Okay, that could be okay. He must be out in the middle of nowhere, as usual, with no cell service. I just don’t get it, but I guess that’s why I’m an agent and not a famous author.
Can I stop over and drop the contract off, so he’ll have it as soon as he gets back?
He needs to sign it and then needs to call me and I will come pick it up—or the little bastard can drop it off in my office. Tell him no snail mail.”
Laughing, I give him Vee’s address.
“I’ll bring it over tomorrow afternoon, since there’s no rush now that I know Jake won’t be signing it for a while.”
“Okay,” I agree dazedly, and hang up the phone.
Forgetting about yoga, I sit on the couch, mulling over this unbelievable turn of events.
Jake is John Foster. Playing things back in my head, I remember all the times, he told me to stop spouting John Foster quotes.
All that time, they were his quotes. And then I clap my hand over my mouth and gasp out loud. “Jake is a birding expert!”
How did I miss that? He spotted the palm warbler walking to Vee’s that first time.
And there was the birdfeeder in his bedroom window.
My God, it is so obvious now. He knew about the snowy owls and even taught me the fancy word irruptive.
I thought everyone must know the word because regular old Jake knew it.
Probably only John Foster knows that term and how to use it.
Suddenly, I picture Jake showing me how to focus and spot a bird with my new binoculars.
A famous birder taught me to use binoculars. Wow! That is very cool.
Cool but really annoying.
Cringing, I remember going through my little life list with Jake. He probably laughed at my pathetic list compared to his. But he didn’t seem to be laughing at me back when I was sharing it.
Then there was the time I told him my magpie story.
I was maybe eighteen and had just gotten my book—his book—when I saw a woman with binoculars looking up in a tree. I approached her and asked what she was looking at.
She responded with barely a glance at me, “A group of magpies are up in the tree.”
When I got to this part of my story, Jake laughed and then immediately responded that the woman was being a jerk.
He knew immediately the women was being mean.
Back when it happened, it wasn’t until I went home and looked up magpies and discovered they weren’t anywhere around here that I figured out she was being rude.
But Jake knew right away. Of course, John Foster knew that magpies aren’t found in Central Park.
How did I miss all those clear signs that Jake was John Foster? Well maybe not that he was John Foster, but at least that he was a real birder. He knew too much about birds not to be.
Sitting quietly for the rest of the day, I consider this revelation from every angle. Even after hours of this, I can’t figure out if I’m angry or really impressed.
Marching into work the next day, I demand, “Professor, why didn’t you tell me Jake was John Foster?”
Squinting up at me through his bushy eyebrows in surprise, Professor Montgomery leans back in his chair.
“Well, Jake keeps the John Foster thing tight under his wing, as we birders like to say. Never really understood it; what I gathered is it has a lot to do with his parents. Or his stepparents. Glad he finally told you. I thought it was strange when he swore me to secrecy. I mean, you’re his fiancée, for goodness’ sake. ”
I don’t correct him, and he continues.
“John Foster is his birth name, and when his mom remarried, his stepfather adopted him, so he changed his last name from Foster to Henderson. His legal first name is John, but everyone calls him Jake. I never could quite follow it. I think he liked the idea of publishing under his real name, and it served the most important purpose of avoiding his parents’ wrath.
As the book became popular, he became a little paranoid and wanted to ensure his parents didn’t find out about it.
I think because his parents hate the idea of Jake’s chosen profession and also, he knew using his real name would not sit well with them—or, rather, one of them. The whole thing is a little asinine.”
“His chosen profession?” I squeak.
“Yes, well, he’s a pretty good bird guy. As soon as he finishes his thesis, he’ll officially be an ornithologist. One day, he’ll give me a run for my money. He’s good, and his students love him.”
I squeak, “Jake teaches classes on birds?”
“Why, yes, of course. What did you think he taught?”
Shaking my head, I say dumbly, “I thought he was a doctor . . . He’s not a doctor?”
“Well not a medical one, but he’ll have his PhD, so he is a bird doctor, as we like to call ourselves.” He laughs quietly.
“Oh dear.” I pause disconcerted. “Wow! This is so weird. It’s as if I don’t know him at all.”
“Of course, you know Jake,” Professor Montgomery says firmly. “He’s your fiancé. He certainly dotes on you. I’ve never seen him happier.”
Feeling even more confused, I take my seat at my little desk and fail miserably at filling in this week’s progress reports.
In the apartment in the afternoon, the doorbell rings. When I open the door, a massive giant stands in the doorway. Everything about him is big: his hands, his head. A custom-made, light brown suit fits his massive waist.
He delicately shakes my hand and asks, “Emma?”
“Yes, I’m Emma.”
He enters, ducking his head as he comes through the doorway. “I’m Arnie, Jake’s agent. We talked on the phone yesterday.”
“Yes, of course, nice to meet you.”
Arnie smiles and taps a folder of papers, “So, you must promise as soon as Jake returns, he must sign this and call me. I will pick them up immediately.”
I nod obediently.
Arnie continues, “So, you are the one who’s captured Jake’s heart.
I wasn’t sure if he was so distracted due to his darn dissertation or due to you.
But now that I’ve met you, I believe I have my answer.
I’ve been hounding him to work on his update to the bird guide for months and he’s been ignoring me which isn’t like him at all. ”
I turn a bright red.
“Oh my, a blushing bride. How quaint.” Arnie pats my arm gently and says, “Dear, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Collecting myself, I ask, “Can I get you a coffee or tea perhaps?” and I direct him toward the couch.
Arnie sits down with a loud exhale and waves a hand in my direction. “Maybe I will sit for a quick minute. Coffee would be great—light milk, with two sugars, if you would be so kind.”
I hurry off to the kitchen, and in short order bring back a cup of coffee for Arnie and tea for me.
As soon as I sit down across from Arnie, I can’t stop myself, “How long have you known Jake?”
“Well, it was back eight or nine years ago. Jake came wandering in off the street into my agency with his idea of a guidebook for Central Park birds. I have a soft spot for birders, as my mother loved to feed the birds back on Long Island. He pitched me the book idea and I called my mother on the spot and asked her if she would buy such a book. She said absolutely, so I signed Jake right then and there.” He takes a large gulp of coffee and nods appreciatively.
“He was still wet behind the ears, but my mother knew. Now, the book isn’t a bestseller, mind you, but every spring and fall migration, it has steady sales and that’s been true for years. Have you seen the book?”
“Oh yes, I’ve seen it,” I say eagerly. “It was the first book I bought and that was before I even knew Jake. It’s my bible—oops, I don’t mean that.” I hurriedly cross myself and do a quick “I’m sorry” under my breath.
Arnie watches me with interest, causing my blush to start anew. Then he finishes his coffee in one long slurp, sets his cup down on the table, and heaves himself up.
Leaning over and tapping the paperwork he left on the coffee table, he demands with a smile, “Promise, as soon as Jake gets back!”
I nod my head solemnly. “Promise.”