I'll Be Seeing You (21 page)

The doctor nodded. “Good, I hope. On checking your blood type, your wife's, Jonathan's and the baby's, we find that the baby certainly could be your biological child. You are A positive, your wife is O negative, the baby is O positive.”

“Jonathan is A positive.”

“Which is the other blood type consistent with the child of A positive and O negative parents.”

“I don't know what to think,” Don said. “Dina's mother swears the baby looks like her own brother when he was born. There's red hair on that side of the family.”

“The DNA test will establish absolutely whether or not the baby is biologically yours, but that will take four weeks minimum.”

“And what do we do in the meantime?” Don asked, angrily. “Bond to it, love it and maybe find out we have to give it to someone else from the Manning Clinic? Or
do we let it lie in a nursery until we know whether or not it's ours?”

“It isn't good for any baby in the early weeks of life to be left in a nursery,” Doctor Neitzer replied. “Even our very sick babies are handled as much as possible by the mothers and fathers. And Dr. Manning says—”

“Nothing Dr. Manning says interests me,” Don interrupted. “All I've ever heard since the embryo split nearly four years ago was how the embryo of Jonathan's twin was in a specially marked tube.”

“Don, where are you?” a weak voice called.

Anderson and Dr. Neitzer went back into the room. Dina and Jonathan were both awake. She said, “Jonathan wants to see his new brother.”

“Honey, I don't know . . .”

Dina's mother stood up and looked hopefully at her daughter.

“I do. I agree with Jonathan. I carried that baby for nine months. For the first three I was spotting and terrified I'd lose it. The first moment I felt life I was so happy I cried. I love coffee and couldn't have one sip of it because that kid doesn't like coffee. He's been kicking me so hard I haven't had a decent sleep in three months. Whether or not he's my biological child, by God I've earned him and I want him.”

“Honey, Dr. Neitzer says the blood tests show it may be our child.”

“That's good. Now, will you please have someone bring my baby to me.”

At two-thirty Dr. Manning, accompanied by his lawyer and a hospital official, entered the hospital's auditorium.

The hospital official made a firm announcement. “Dr. Manning will read a prepared statement. He will not take questions. After that I request that all of you leave the premises. The Andersons will not make any statements, nor will they permit any pictures.”

Dr. Manning's silver hair was rumpled, and his kindly
face was strained as he put on his glasses and in a hoarse voice began to read:

“I can only apologize for the distress the Anderson family is experiencing. I firmly believe Mrs. Anderson gave birth to her own biological child today. She had two cryopreserved embryos in the laboratory at our clinic. One was her son Jonathan's identical twin; the other his sibling.

“Last Monday, Helene Petrovic admitted to me that she had had an accident in the laboratory at the time she was handling the Petri dishes containing those two embryos. She slipped and fell. Her hand hit and overturned one of the lab dishes before the embryos were transferred to the test tubes. She believed the remaining dish contained the identical twin and put it in the specially marked tube. The other embryo was lost.”

Dr. Manning took off his glasses and looked up.

“If Helene Petrovic was telling the truth, and I have no reason to doubt it, I repeat, Dina Anderson today gave birth to her biological son.”

Questions were shouted at him. “Why didn't Petrovic tell you at that time?”

“Why didn't you warn the Andersons immediately?”

“How many more mistakes do you think she made?”

Dr. Manning ignored them all and walked unsteadily from the room.

Victor Orsini called Phillip Carter after the Saturday evening news broadcast. “You'd better think of getting lawyers in to represent the firm,” he told Carter.

Carter was just ready to leave for dinner at the Drumdoe Inn. “I agree. This is too big for Leiber to handle, but he can probably recommend someone.”

Leiber was the lawyer the company kept on retainer.

“Phillip, if you don't have plans for the evening, how about dinner? There's an old saying, misery loves company.”

“Then I've got the right plans. I'm meeting Catherine and Meg Collins.”

“Give them my best. See you Monday.”

Orsini hung up and walked over to the window. Candlewood Lake was tranquil tonight. The lights from the houses that bordered it were brighter than usual. Dinner parties, Orsini thought. He was sure his name would come up at all of them. Everyone around here knew he worked for Collins and Carter.

His call to Phillip Carter had elicited the information he wanted: Carter was safely tied up for the evening. Victor could go to the office now. He'd be absolutely alone and could spend a couple of hours going through the personal files in Edwin Collins' office. Something had begun to nag at him, and it was vital that he give those files a final check before Meghan moved them out.

Meghan, Mac and Phillip met for dinner at the Drumdoe Inn at seven-thirty. Catherine was in the kitchen where she'd been since four o'clock.

“Your mother has guts,” Mac said.

“You bet she does,” Meg agreed. “Did you catch the evening news? I watched PCD, and the lead story was the combination of the Anderson baby mix-up, the Petrovic murder, my resemblance to the woman in the morgue and the warrant for Dad's arrest. I gather all the stations led with it.”

“I know,” Mac said quietly.

Phillip raised his hand in a gesture of helplessness. “Meg, I'd do anything to help you and your mother, anything to try to find some explanation for Edwin sending Petrovic to Manning.”

“There is an explanation,” Meg said. “I believe that and so does Mother, which is what gave her the courage to come down here and put on an apron.”

“She's not planning to handle the kitchen herself indefinitely?” Phillip protested.

“No. Tony, the head chef who retired last summer,
phoned today and offered to come back and help out for a while. I told him that was wonderful but warned him not to take over. The busier Mother is, the better for her. But he's in there now. She'll be able to join us soon.”

Meghan felt Mac's eyes on her and looked down to avoid the compassion she saw in them. She had known that tonight everyone in the dining room would be studying her and her mother to see how they were holding up. She had deliberately chosen to wear red: a calf-length skirt and cowl-neck cashmere sweater with gold jewelry.

She'd made herself up carefully with blusher and lipstick and eyeshadow. I guess I don't look like an unemployed reporter, she decided, glimpsing herself in the mirror as she left the house.

The disconcerting part was that she was sure that Mac could see behind her façade. He'd guess that in addition to everything else, she was worried sick about her job.

Mac had ordered wine. When it was poured, he raised his glass to her. “I have a message from Kyle. When he knew we were having dinner together he said to tell you he's coming to scare you tomorrow night.”

Meg smiled. “Of course; tomorrow's Halloween. What's Kyle wearing?”

“Very original. He's a ghost, a really scary ghost, or so he claims. I'm taking him and some other kids trick-or-treating tomorrow afternoon, but he wants to save you for tomorrow night. So if there's a thump on the window after dark, be prepared.”

“I'll make sure I'm home. Look, here's Mother.”

Catherine kept a smile on her lips as she walked across the dining room. She was constantly stopped by people jumping up from their tables to embrace her. When she joined them, she said, “I'm so glad we came here. It's a heck of a lot better than sitting at home thinking.”

“You look
wonderful,”
Phillip said. “You're a real trouper.”

The admiration in his eyes was not lost on Meg. She glanced at Mac. He had seen it too.

Be careful, Phillip. Don't crowd Mother, Meghan thought.

She studied her mother's rings. The diamonds and emeralds she was wearing shone brilliantly under the small table lamp. Earlier that evening her mother had told her that on Monday she intended to hock or sell her jewelry. A big tax payment was due on the inn the following week. Catherine had said, “My only regret about giving up the jewelry is that I so wanted it for you.”

I don't care about myself, Meg thought now, but . . .

“Meg? Are you ready to order?”

“Oh, sorry.” Meghan smiled apologetically and glanced down at the menu in her hand.

“Try the Beef Wellington,” Catherine said. “It's terrific. I should know. I made it.”

During dinner, Meg was grateful that Mac and Phillip steered the conversation onto safe subjects, everything from the proposed paving of local roads to Kyle's championship soccer team.

Over cappuccino, Phillip asked Meg what her plans were. “I'm so sorry about the job,” he said.

Meg shrugged. “I'm certainly not happy about it, but maybe it will turn out all right. You see, I keep thinking that nobody really knows anything about Helene Petrovic. She's the key to all this. I'm determined to turn up something about her that may give us some answers.”

“I wish you would,” Phillip said. “God knows
I'd
like some answers.”

“Something else,” Meg added, “I never got to clear out Dad's office. Would you mind if I go in tomorrow?”

“Go in whenever you want, Meg. Can I help you?”

“No thanks. I'll be fine.”

“Meg, call me when you're finished,” Mac said. “I'll come over and carry things to the car.”

“Tomorrow's your day to trick or treat with Kyle,” Meg reminded him. “I can handle it.” She smiled at the
two men. “Many thanks, guys, for being with us tonight. It's good to have friends at a time like this.”

In Scottsdale, Arizona, at nine o'clock on Saturday night, Frances Grolier sighed as she put down her pearwood-handled knife. She had a commission to do a fifteen-inch bronze of a young Navaho boy and girl as a presentation to the guest of honor at a fund-raising dinner. The deadline was fast approaching and Frances was totally unsatisfied with the clay model she had been working on.

She had not managed to capture the questioning expression she had seen in the sensitive faces of the children. The pictures she had taken of them had caught it, but her hands were simply unable to execute her clear vision of what the sculpture should be.

The trouble was that she simply could not concentrate on her work.

Annie. She had not heard from her daughter for nearly two weeks now. All the messages she'd left on her answering machine had been ignored. In the last few days she'd called Annie's closest friends. No one had seen her.

She could be anywhere, Frances thought. She could have accepted an assignment to do a travel article on some remote, godforsaken place. As a free-lance travel writer, Annie came and went on no set schedule.

I raised her to be independent, Frances told herself. I raised her to be free, to take chances, to take from life what she wanted.

Did I teach her that to justify my own life? she wondered.

It was a thought that had come to her repeatedly in the last few days.

There was no use trying to work any more tonight. She went to the fireplace and added logs from the basket. The day had been warm and bright, but now the desert night was sharply cool.

The house was so quiet. There might never again be the heart-pounding anticipation of knowing that he was coming soon. As a little girl, Annie often asked why Daddy traveled so much.

“He has a very important job with the government,” Frances would tell her.

As Annie grew up she became more curious. “What kind of job is it, Dad?”

“Oh, a sort of watchdog, honey.”

“Are you in the CIA?”

“If I were, I'd never tell you.”

“You are, aren't you?”

“Annie, I work for the government and get a lot of frequent-flyer miles in the process.”

Remembering, Frances went into the kitchen, put ice in a glass and poured a generous amount of Scotch over it. Not the best way to solve problems, she told herself.

She put the drink down, went into the bath off the bedroom and showered, scrubbing away the bits of dried clay that were clinging to the crevices in her palms. Putting on gray silk pajamas and a robe, she retrieved the Scotch and settled on the couch in front of the fireplace. Then she picked up the Associated Press item she had torn from page ten of the morning newspaper, a summary of the report issued by the New York State Thruway Authority on the Tappan Zee Bridge disaster.

In part it read: “The number of victims who perished in the accident has been reduced from eight to seven. Exhaustive search has revealed no trace of the body of Edwin R. Collins, nor wreckage from his car.”