10
New Orleans. It was the last time I’d see Mark.
It had been four months. An eternity since Maui. And yet, I felt like we’d known each other all our lives. I could tell what he was feeling by the tone of his voice. Similarly, he knew me, knew what made me laugh or cry.
Inevitably, he’d be time zones ahead of me, yet would stay up until the early hours of the morning, drinking whiskey or gin on the nights he couldn’t stand missing me, when only alcohol dulled the pain. I’d hide from the boys when they got home from school, setting out a snack to keep them occupied, while Mark’s voice was in my ear. Missing him was a constant, acute pain.
I found out I was pregnant a week before we met in New Orleans. There was no doubt in my mind that the baby was his. Frank and I hadn’t had sex in months, though I was quick to rectify that once I knew.
He was staying at the Ritz. Room 704. I’ll never forget. I showed up at his door close to midnight, my heart pounding in anticipation of seeing him again. He’d yanked open the door and in another second, I was in his arms, his mouth on mine, and every day I’d spent waiting for this moment faded away.
I didn’t tell him that night. I couldn’t. We were so happy. We stayed up most of the night, making love, drinking champagne, and talking. It was heaven.
We spent the next day touring the St. Louis Cemetery. Perhaps not romantic, but it was the cool weather of late fall and the tourists had departed. We walked hand in hand and he’d stop every so often, just to pull me close and kiss me. The world faded away when he kissed me. I couldn’t bring myself to spoil it.
It wasn’t until the next day that I realized—I couldn’t tell him. If I did, he’d never let me go. He had no children, had never been married. But he’d spoken of them, sort of wistfully. They were something he felt was beyond his reach. If he knew I was carrying his child, he’d move hell and earth to keep me with him, and then what would happen to the boys?
I had to say goodbye. Forever. And I couldn’t tell him about the life we’d created. Together.
We had dinner at Ophelia’s. It was our last night together. I was overly quiet. He was almost manic in his desperation to be upbeat. We drank too much and barely touched our food.
The walk back to the hotel was somber. I was barely holding it together. We walked with our arms around each other, not wanting a moment to pass without touching. He asked if I wanted a cocktail, but I said no, I just wanted him.
We made love slowly, drawing it out as long as possible. Tears leaked from my eyes as I held him, feeling him inside me. There’s nothing more heartbreaking than finding your soul mate, and realizing you can’t spend the rest of your life with them.
My flight was in the morning. We didn’t sleep. I hadn’t said anything, but he knew me so well, he realized something was wrong. I finally gave voice to the dread sometime in the middle of the night.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I said. “I can’t keep doing this. It’s killing me. We have to end it.”
There was silence, and when he finally spoke, the pain in his voice made me want to cry.
“You’re leaving me. Forever.”
“Yes.” I could barely force the word out. “You know it’s what must be done. We can’t keep on like this.”
“Why not?” Anger and fear. “Don’t you love me?”
I rolled on top of him, my heart beating against his, and looked into his beautiful gray eyes. “You’re my life. My everything. But my children need me. Every time we part, it gets harder. Until one day, I won’t leave at all. And I’ll regret it.”
His fingers combed through my hair, and he didn’t speak. His eyes were bright. Too bright. I hated to think I’d made my strong man—my dream man—cry.
“I’d do anything for you,” he said at last. “I’d go anywhere. Give up anything. Just say the word. I’ll come live in Bumblefuck, Iowa, if it means I can still see you. Just don’t end this. Don’t end us.”
Tears dripped down my face onto his chest. He carefully brushed my wet cheeks, wiping away the tears.
“Please don’t make this harder than it is,” I whispered. “It’s killing me.”
He didn’t speak then, just made love to me, both of us knowing it was the last time.
I left while he slept, exhausted. I took the coward’s way out, unable to say the word to him: goodbye. It was excruciating. A hundred times I wanted to turn back, fly back into his arms, and run away with him and our baby. Only by putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, was I able to board the plane that took me away from him forever.
I never heard from him again. My baby girl was born—the girl I’d waited so long for—and she had his eyes. I lived for her. She was living proof that what Mark and I had was real. He’d loved me, and I him.
I don’t regret anything, though I know that I let happiness pass me by. Responsibility and a mother’s love for her children take precedence over personal happiness. I was . . . content. And China. Dear China. Named for the place I met the man I’d never forget. She was how I could keep going.
So many wonderful memories. I cherish them. I relive them. What Mark and I had was beautiful and rare. It doesn’t come twice in a lifetime. I’m grateful I was lucky enough to find it, however briefly. As Tennyson said, “’tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” And we did. We loved.
The next morning, I dressed on autopilot, packing my backpack and suitcase. Jackson wasn’t in bed when I woke up, and I didn’t go looking for him. I was compartmentalizing. Some things had to be done, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Emotions had to take a back seat, even if it killed me.
When I came out of the bedroom, Jackson was sitting at the table on his laptop while Clark was just exiting the other bathroom. He must’ve taken a shower. His hair was still damp and he was barefoot. He wore jeans, but his shirt was unbuttoned. I swallowed and forced my eyes elsewhere.
“Can we talk?” I asked them. “All of us?”
Both men assumed their best poker faces and took chairs opposite where I sat on the couch. I took a moment to study them, memorizing their faces and postures. Clark was sitting in his customary sprawl, his knees spread and an elbow resting on the chair’s arm. The shirt had fallen open, revealing his chest and chiseled abs. I tried not to stare.
Jackson was in his relaxed-but-in-charge state, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, sitting upright with his arms resting on the chair. He was impeccably dressed in slacks and a shirt, the creases still fresh from the laundry-service ironing.
I took a breath, though I felt as if I needed a drink instead. “I can’t do this anymore. With either of you.”
Silence.
Jackson frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s too much,” I said, struggling to explain. “I can’t be responsible for hurting either of you anymore. I can’t . . . I just can’t do it.”
“I’ve tried to tell you—” Jackson began, but I interrupted.
“I know, that it’s your decision and it’s all on you if things don’t work out,” I said. “But that’s a lie to both of us. And this . . . quest I’m on, to find out what happened to my mom . . . it’s dangerous. If something happens to me, I don’t want either of you around to see it.”
Jackson said nothing. Clark was stone-faced.
I blundered on. “I’m going to find out if my mom was murdered or if her death was an accident. If she was murdered, it had to be for the money. And if Danvers did it”—I took a deep breath—“then I’m going to avenge my mother.”
“No fucking way.” Clark finally spoke, his voice hard. “You’re not going to try to hunt down Danvers and kill him. Did you not just give me shit last night about killing Andrei ‘in cold blood’?” He used air quotes for that last part.
“Who the hell is Andrei?” Jackson said. “And you dragged China with you to kill him? After what she’s been through?”
“Her face didn’t get that way when she was with me,” Clark retorted. “In case you forgot.”
“China,” Jackson said in his best let’s-be-reasonable tone, “we already know this information is dangerous. It’s extremely unwise for you to continue pursuing this, especially alone. Think it through logically. Your emotions are overly influencing your decision.”
That stung—probably because it was true—but I didn’t want to think about that. So I went into Defense Mode. “I don’t care. It’s my decision.”
“Did I or did I not let you come with me last night because you insisted I needed backup?” Clark asked.
My face flushed, but I remained resolved. “And look how that turned out,” I said. “You even told me yourself it was a bad idea. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.”
“Oh, so now you decide to listen to me. Your timing is fuck all, Mack.”
It hurt to hear Mack instead of baby. Maybe he meant to hurt me. Maybe not. I couldn’t blame him if he did. I’d certainly hurt him enough.
“Logically, you both know that this can’t end well. Someone wins, someone loses. It all ends now.”
“So we all lose.”
Clark’s flat words made me flinch.
Jackson uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “China, I know you’re upset, but I care about you . . . and so does Clark.”
That last part took longer for him to say, and I had that sense of regret—again—that I’d been careless in my relationships with them. I’d made a decision I hadn’t wanted to make, but I knew it would come to this.
“I know,” I said. “But I’m saying goodbye. To both of you.”
Jackson just looked at me. Clark, likewise, said nothing.
My gut was churning like I was going to vomit, and I had to swallow and take a long, slow breath. I knew how persistent my men were, and I guess that’s how I’d come to view them. Mine. But the world didn’t work like that. I needed to convince them absolutely that it was over, to make them move on. Though it was going to feel like cutting off my arm.
“You’re both incredibly special to me,” I continued, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. “But it’s too hard. I thought I wanted to marry Jackson, then hurt him when I wanted to see what Clark and I could have. Then I hurt Clark when I said I only wanted to be Friends with Benefits.”
Jackson’s brows flew upward. “Seriously?” he blurted. “You actually said that?”
I threw my hands up in exasperation. “See what I mean? Even Jackson knows that was a Bad Thing. It took me hurting you,” I looked at Clark, “to figure it out. It’s obvious I’m not meant to be in a relationship. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how I’m feeling or supposed to feel. I just hurt people.” I got to my feet and slung my backpack onto my shoulder. “So . . . this is goodbye.”
Unable to bear looking at them, I turned and headed for the door, suitcase in tow. My glasses were on, but everything was blurry.
“China, wait!”
Jackson’s voice stopped me. I turned around. Both men were standing. Both had an expression on their faces that ripped through me. I knew I’d never be able to forget it.
“I know you’re hurting about your mom,” he said. “You’re afraid you might follow in her footsteps. That the one you choose might betray you. But doing this—going alone to try to kill your father—that’s not how to solve this. I know you know that.”
That arrow struck too close to home, so I ignored it. I was excellent at doing that.
I forced myself to speak past the lump in my throat. “I’m going to go off the grid for a while, so don’t try to find me.”
“You, of all people, can’t go off the grid,” Clark said. “And why would you want to?”
“Because to find Danvers, I’ll need to be bait. And to do that, I’ll need to see him coming.” I paused. “And nowhere that either of you can find me.” I turned the doorknob before I lost the will to do so. “Goodbye.”
I went out the door and they didn’t follow. I wasn’t sure if what I felt was relief . . . or disappointment.
The Shangri-La Home for Convalescence was a sprawling building surrounded by carefully tended gardens and lawns. The sidewalks were in good repair without uneven slabs or cracks. There weren’t a lot of flowers, and I guessed probably because of bees. But the shrubbery was well tended, some even pruned into artful shapes.
I checked in at the front desk and asked for a William Adams.
“And you are?” the receptionist asked.
“He was my mom’s boss,” I explained, “years ago. She’s passed, but wanted me to find him and give him a memento of hers.” Total BS, but I’d gotten better at fibbing lately. Perhaps it was the company I kept.
“You know he’s quite ill,” she said. “He may not remember your mother.”
I nodded. “I’d still like to see him.”
“Have a seat.”
The reception area was pretty and well decorated, with nice carpet and leather furniture. Realistic-looking potted plants and greenery made it feel less like a medical facility and more like a residence. Yet there was an aroma that always lingered in old folks’ homes, and it made me sad. Getting old had to suck, even more so if you couldn’t care for yourself and had no family who could—or would—be there for you.
An African American man dressed in an all-white uniform of slacks and short-sleeve shirt walked up to me. He was bald, wore thin-framed glasses, and had a discreet name tag that said Harry. “You’re here to see Bill?” he asked.
“I am. Is he . . .” I didn’t know how to politely ask if “Bill” was cognizant enough to talk to me.
“You’re in luck,” Harry said with a smile. “He’s having a good day. Follow me.”
Harry led me out a back exit to the grounds. The sun was shining and it was a clear, beautiful spring day. The air smelled of freshly mowed grass, and birds were singing. For someone whose total exposure to the outdoors was when I had to collect Amazon boxes off my doorstep, it was deeply disconcerting. I glanced warily up at the bright sun. Should’ve worn sunblock.
An elderly man was sitting on a bench next to a small pond. Ducks waddled around him, and as we grew closer, I saw he was feeding them—tossing down a handful of bread crumbs now and then. They were loud quackers, voicing their impatience if he was too slow. It should have been a serene scene, but their agitation and jockeying for better positions with each other just made it irritating.
“Bill, did you sneak out some bread again?” Harry chastised good-naturedly. “Those ducks are spoiled.”
Bill glanced up and I saw recognition in his eyes. He smiled. “The ducks need me,” he said. “It’s good to be needed.”
“I guess even ducks need to be spoiled sometimes,” Harry replied. “Bill, I’ve got a visitor for you today.”
Bill’s smile faded immediately as he glanced at me.
“Now don’t worry,” Harry continued. “You don’t know her. Never met her before, she says. Her name’s China.” He motioned me forward.
I pushed my glasses up my nose and did my smile. “Hi, Bill. Can I sit with you for a little while?”
Bill hesitated, then nodded. “Best now. I get worse as the day wears on.”
Harry shooed away the ducks, who reluctantly waddled into the pond amid a great grumbling of quacks, then he headed back to the building.
“What’s a young woman like you want with an old man like me?” Bill asked.
I judged him to be in his early seventies, with deep lines in his forehead and around his eyes. He still had most of his hair, though it was white, and he wore a fleece tracksuit that fit too loosely on his thin frame.
“I’m here because you used to work with my mom,” I said. “In the late nineties.”
Bill watched the ducks swimming. “Did I now?”
“You were her handler,” I continued. “Her name was Kimberly. She went by her maiden name of Duncan.”
Bill’s gnarled hands were resting on his thighs. They curled into fists at the mention of my mother’s name.
“I’m trying to find out more information about her last job,” I continued. “She died shortly thereafter in a car accident. But I’ve had reason to believe lately that it might not have been an accident.”
“You think your mother was murdered,” he said.
“I do,” I admitted. “She left me . . . information. About her last job. The one with Fortress Securities.”
Bill finally looked at me. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that yes, you’re correct. Your mother was murdered.” He looked unbearably sad.
Even though I’d known that hoping otherwise was futile, it still was a blow to have the information confirmed. I swallowed, my throat dry. “But why? And who?”
“An agent went rogue,” he said. “Someone we trusted. Your mom and he were to arrange to kidnap the Chinese operative and fake his death. We wanted to negotiate protecting him and offering him immunity as well as asylum in exchange for working with us to offset what he’d done.
“But that wasn’t what happened. The Chinese agent disappeared, then there was Kim’s . . . accident.”
My stomach was in knots. “Who did it?” I prompted.
Bill’s gaze turned to the pond again. “His name was Danvers. Mark Danvers. He was a trained operative, and they’d worked together before, a job in China.” He paused, glancing at me. “That’s your name, isn’t it? China?”
I nodded.
“How odd,” he mused. “Anyway”—he sighed—“they were supposed to work together, but he turned. He had a well-placed asset inside the PRC that he’d had for years.” He paused, adding, “People’s Republic of China,” in case I didn’t know what he meant. “Very valuable asset, especially as the lease on Hong Kong was ending. So many wanted asylum before it was handed back to the Chinese.
“That asset was compromised shortly thereafter,” he continued. “Damn shame. We finally found Chen, too. Dead. He’d been tortured beforehand. We thought it was for the backdoor information. And Danvers . . . well, he was in the wind. Has been ever since, as far as I know. Losing his asset must’ve just sent him off the deep end. Who the hell knows why he did what he did?”
I sat very still, the impact of all he’d said rolling through me like a tidal wave. My very worst suspicions were confirmed. My mom had trusted Danvers, but rather than help her eliminate the threat, he’d seen a golden opportunity to make a lot of money. All he’d had to do was kill Chen . . . then kill my mother—his former lover and the mother of his child.
My stomach rolled and bile rose in my throat. How could my mother have been so naive? Had she really been that blinded by love that she could look Danvers in the eyes and not see that he was planning to kill her? Her journal painted such a completely different picture of him, it was almost impossible for me to reconcile her words with his actions. It made zero sense. Unless he was just that cold and calculating of an actor to pull off a betrayal of that magnitude.
Bill went quiet for a long time, which was fine with me. I was dealing with emotions I’d never felt to this degree before. Rage, bitterness, fear, hopelessness.
Grief.
How much of me was my mother’s daughter? And how much Danvers’s? I couldn’t trust myself or love. My father had loved my mother. She’d loved him, too, in a way. But she’d fallen in love with Danvers, who’d used that love against her. Had played her. How could I be sure I wouldn’t use Jackson’s or Clark’s love against them? I’d been right to leave. It was safer, better, this way.
Bill looked at me, his gaze far away. “You look like her,” he said. “Kimberly.”
“Thank you. Do you have any idea how I could find Danvers?” It was a long shot, but I had to ask.
“Why would you want to?” he asked, frowning. “He’s dangerous. Perhaps even dead by now.”
I hoped not. “He’s my father.”
His face blanched in shock, and I thought maybe I’d said too much. In the next moment, that was confirmed. His eyes lacked focus as he looked at me.
“Kim? Is that you?” Before I could respond, he grabbed my arm. For an old guy, he was surprisingly strong. “You have to run. You’re in danger.”
“I’m not Kim,” I said, trying to soothe him. “I’m her daughter. It’s okay.” It was as though I were speaking to a wall.
“You have to go!” He was getting increasingly agitated. “They’re coming. For both of us!”
“No one’s coming,” I said. He was bruising my arm. “It’s okay. We’re safe, Bill.”
The use of his name seemed to penetrate his panic, and he fell silent. He looked back at the pond, and I gently pulled out of his now-lax grip.
We watched the pond for a while. I found I was reluctant to leave. Bill was the only person besides Danvers who’d known my mom’s other life. Even if his mind wasn’t what it used to be, there was a chance he might be able to tell me more about her.
After a while, he turned and saw me, reacting with some surprise. “Who are you?” he asked.
I thought of Clark having to endure the same question from his own mother, over and over again, and my heart hurt for him. “I’m China,” I said. “Kimberly Duncan’s daughter. Do you remember her?”
His face cleared. “Ah, yes, Kim. Such a nice girl. So smart.”
“Do you know why she joined the CIA?” I asked.
“Joined?” he asked. “Oh, she didn’t apply. They recruited her. IQ level off the charts. Got her straight out of college. She was a linguist, you know. Could pick up languages the way most people learn a favorite song.”
I hadn’t known that. Mom had never spoken to me about being especially smart or above average in anything. But I’d been young.
“Like most, it didn’t take her long to become disillusioned. The idea of sacrificing for your country can be more appealing than having to deal with the politics and bureaucracy that keep you from doing your job.
“She met a nice man, a farmer, who fell head over heels for her. She was fond of him, too. She told me he was safe. A good man. A simple man. She could have a family and a quiet life, in Nebraska of all places.”
Fond. Mom had been fond of Dad. That was safest, wasn’t it? To love someone less than they loved you? Because then they couldn’t hurt you. Not like Danvers. She’d fallen hard for him, and she’d paid the ultimate price for that love.
“But once they get their hooks in you, it’s almost impossible to get out. She knew Chinese, you see. Standard and Mandarin. Could speak it like a native. And that was too valuable in an asset not to tempt her back a few times. Of course, one of those times was one too many . . .”
He gazed at the water again, sadness marking his features. Then he seemed to shake himself from his reverie. “And you’re her daughter?”
“I am.”
He patted my knee. “So good of you to come. Tell Kim I said hello.”
I didn’t want to upset him again by reminding him that she was dead, so I just smiled and rose. “It was nice talking to you.”
Bill smiled faintly and waved, the recognition in his eyes fading. I looked around and saw Harry not far away, helping another patient make her way slowly to a grouping of chairs where another elderly woman waited. He glanced up and I waved, indicating I was leaving. He nodded in acknowledgment.
I walked back to my rental car, deep in thought. I’d been working on a plan for luring Danvers out of wherever he was hiding. But I needed a base of operations and some equipment.
As I drove, I stopped at an ATM and withdrew as much cash as it would let me from my accounts. Then I did that at four more ATMs until I had a decent amount to live on for a few months.
The nearest computer store had the rest of what was on my list. I bought a new laptop and two firewalls, plus three routers, cabling, and some extras, then I was back on the road. I returned the rental car, then took an Uber to a used-car lot, where I paid $2,000 in cash for a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla standard, with no bells or whistles.
Digging in my backpack, I pulled out my travel pack of Clorox Wipes and proceeded to wipe down the interior of the car.
“What’re you doing?” the salesman asked. He was middle-aged, with thinning hair and what Mia would call a “molest-ache.”
“I have no idea how many people have driven this car, and I certainly don’t want their germs,” I said, carefully cleaning the steering wheel.
The salesman grumbled something and walked away. I didn’t pay any attention. Now I had everything I needed to disappear for a while.
I had no illusions that Danvers would kill me if he could, especially once he found out I knew his secrets. I’d learned from my mother’s blindness. Love and trust were powerful weapons that went hand in hand. Give them to the wrong person, and you may not live to regret it.