Chapter 2
He placed it on the table.
“I won’t contact you unless you want me to.”
I stared at the card.
“That seems convenient.”
“No.
Convenient would be demanding that you trust me immediately.”
He stood.
“I would like to come to a doctor’s appointment someday, if you decide that’s appropriate.
I would like to know our child.
And I would like the chance to explain everything I should have explained months ago.”
Our child.
The phrase settled somewhere deep.
“But,” he added, “none of those things happen because I want them.
They happen if you decide I’ve earned a place in your life.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
He glanced toward the café.
“And Amanda?”
“Yes?”
“What he said to you in there…”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not going to tell you how you should feel.”
I waited.
Joseph’s voice softened.
“I just want you to know that when I looked at you today, the first thing I thought was that I had missed half your pregnancy.”
That was worse than a compliment.
Because it reached the exact place I had been protecting.
He left.
I sat alone for almost ten minutes before realizing I was going to be late.
That evening, Elena found me cross-legged on my living-room floor surrounded by paint samples.
She listened without interrupting.
That alone told me she was stunned.
When I finished, she said, “Joseph Raldi?”
“Yes.”
“Your Joseph?”
“I don’t know if anybody qualifies as ‘my Joseph.’”
“The scrambled-egg Joseph?”
“Yes.”
“The one who carried my broken patio chair down three flights of stairs because the elevator was out?”
“Yes.”
“The extremely wealthy Joseph?”
“Yes, Elena.”
She stared.
“And he’s the father?”
I threw a paint card at her.
She caught it.
“I’m processing.”
“So am I.”
She sat beside me.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you believe him?”
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“Some of it.”
Over the next four days, Joseph kept his promise.
He did not call.
He did not appear at my apartment.
He did not send flowers, gifts, money, or dramatic messages.
Nothing.
I found myself checking my phone anyway.
On the fifth morning, I received an email from an unfamiliar address.
My heart jumped before I opened it.
It wasn’t Joseph.
It was from a woman named Margaret Chen.
Ms.
Blake,
My name is Margaret.
I worked as executive assistant to Joseph Raldi until February.
I recently learned that you may have attempted to contact him during the period when his personal communications were compromised.
I believe you deserve to know something.
If you are comfortable speaking with me, please call.
A number followed.
I read it three times.
Then I called Joseph.
He answered before the second ring.
“Amanda?”
“Who is Margaret Chen?”
Silence.
Then, “Where did you hear that name?”
“She emailed me.”
Another pause.
“What did she say?”
“That she worked for you and that your communications were compromised.”
Joseph exhaled.
“She did work for me.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She was fired.”
“By you?”
“No.”
“By who?”
“My father.”
The answer created more questions.
“Why?”
“She was accused of accessing confidential files.”
“Did she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“The evidence appeared clear at the time.”
“At the time?”
Joseph’s voice became careful.
“Amanda, don’t meet her alone until I understand why she contacted you.”
“I’m capable of deciding who I meet.”
“I know.
That came out wrong.”
I walked toward the kitchen window.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m trying to tell you things in an order that makes sense.”
“That sounds suspiciously like another way of saying you’re deciding what I’m allowed to know.”
He went quiet.
“You’re right.”
I hadn’t expected that either.
Then he said, “Margaret was the person who arranged my flight the morning I left you.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“She knew about me?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“That I had been seeing someone named Amanda.”
“Did she know my last name?”
“I don’t remember.”
I looked back at Margaret’s email.
There was one detail I had overlooked.
The address she used to contact me was the private email I used only for translation clients and close friends.
It was not on my website.
It was not on my public profiles.
I had never given it to Joseph’s assistant.
“How did she get my email?”
Joseph didn’t answer immediately.
“Amanda.”
“What?”
“I think you should forward me what she sent.”
A soft knock sounded at my apartment door.
I froze.
Elena wasn’t coming until evening.
No delivery was scheduled.
“Amanda?”
Joseph said.
Another knock.
Gentle.
Two taps.
I moved toward the door and looked through the peephole.
A woman in her late fifties stood outside holding a thin cardboard document envelope.
“I think,” I whispered, “Margaret Chen is standing outside my apartment.”
Joseph was silent for one second.
Then he said, very calmly, “You don’t have to open the door.”
I considered that.
Then I remembered something else.
I was tired of other people deciding when I was ready to know the truth.
I kept the security chain in place and opened the door a few inches.
“Ms.
Blake?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
Her face showed relief.
“I’m Margaret Chen.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for coming without permission.
I wasn’t sure you would call.”
“I did.”
Her expression changed.
“You called Joseph.”
“Yes.”
She looked down at the envelope.
“Good.”
That surprised me.
“You wanted me to?”
“I wanted you to hear his side.”
“And yours?”
“Yes.”
Margaret slid the envelope carefully through the opening.
“This belongs to you.”
I took it.
“What is it?”
“Something I found after I left the Raldi office.”
I looked down.
My name was handwritten across the front.
Amanda Blake.
Underneath it was a date.
Five months earlier.
The same week I had discovered I was pregnant.
I opened the envelope.
Inside were printed copies of two emails.
My emails.
The ones I had sent Joseph.
Both were marked as opened.
Neither had ever reached him.
Attached to the second was an internal message from Joseph’s old account.
Archive sender.
Block future correspondence.
My stomach turned.
I looked at Margaret through the narrow opening.
“Who wrote this?”
Margaret’s expression was sad.
“I spent months believing I did.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
She pointed to the bottom of the page.
There, almost hidden beneath the routing information, was a digital authorization code.
Margaret said quietly, “That code belonged to only one other person in the company.”
I heard Joseph’s voice through my phone.
“Amanda, who?”
May you like
Margaret looked directly at me.
“Joseph’s father.”
