Introducing Daddy. Alaina Hawthorne
unable to wait until after work to indulge in their cigarettes.
Evie thought the people looked as gray and threatening as the sky. The women wore dark power suits, chopped-off hair and sculpted nails, and the men glided among them as smoothly and gracefully as sharks. At least it seemed that way to her.
She shrugged her yellow slicker a little higher on her shoulders and hefted up the basket. On both sides of her face, her wiry hair seemed to be trying to claw its way out of the hood by itself. More than anything Evie wanted to put the damn basket down and shove the ugly mess back under her hood, but there was nowhere to stop.
The One Shell Plaza lobby was a gleaming expanse of white, echoing marble with polished brass appointments and ruthlessly tamed ficus trees standing obediently erect in their architectural planters. The seating edge of the planters didn’t look inviting at all. In fact, Evie wouldn’t dare sit down on one. She had a feeling that there was a ficus guard lurking somewhere who’d leap out, grab her by her collar and make a humiliating example of her in front of all the frostyeyed MBAs and their administrative assistants. No, she thought, best to just hurry up and get this over with as soon as possible.
When the elevator doors closest to her slid open, she practically lunged in. She ignored the disapproving looks and noises from the people she’d shoved past, but this was an emergency. Besides, she told herself, the predatory downtown atmosphere was contagious; here it was every man for himself. God, if she didn’t hurry up and get out of here she’d turn into one of them.
She elbowed the button for the thirty-eighth floor and then pressed herself to the back of the car. In the close quiet of the little space she became aware of noises she hadn’t noticed earlier—the crackle of the cellophane, the squishy noise of her soaked sneakers and the cheap rustle of her yellow slicker. She felt a slight itch, just a tickle really, just alongside her nose.
Somewhere between the thirty-first and thirty-third floors a particularly loud and long roll of thunder rumbled outside. The lights flickered and the elevator car hesitated. One of the passengers groaned.
“Not again.”
“Did you hear? Melvin got stuck in the elevator for an hour on Saturday.”
“I’d lose it.”
“We could have taken the stairs.”
“Are you nuts? Forty-some-odd floors?”
While the others swapped elevator war stories, Evie kept her head ducked and counted the minutes. Every time the car stopped passengers changed; some got off, some on. She pressed herself as deeply into her corner as she could and tried not to see the people, not to hear them. She wished she could look at her watch. Had it been fifteen minutes? Did the security guard really mean he’d have the van towed in fifteen minutes or he’d call to have it towed in fifteen minutes?
Again the car stopped and this time the elevator disgorged nearly all its passengers. Before the doors closed two men stepped on—charcoal gray legs and khaki legs. Khaki Legs said, “So, are we on for Wednesday?”
“Wednesday’s good for me.”
That’s all he said. Just “Wednesday’s good for me,” but Evie’s body underwent the same reaction it had the first time she’d heard that voice fourteen years earlier. The hair on her nape stood, and her stomach erupted in a storm of butterflies.
Oh, please, no. Don’t let him see me. Please. I’ll go to Mass, to confession even. I’ll make the nine first Fridays. I’ll join the Altar Society. Hail, Mary, full of grace—
Another boom of thunder seemed to make the whole building shudder, and the lights flicked off for a full three seconds.
“That was close,” Adam Rabalais murmured. “Think it struck the building?”
“Could have,” his companion answered. “Happens all the time.”
Evie held her breath. I’ll stay on until he gets off. I don’t care if I have to ride this thing to the moon.
Something told her he was looking at her, noticing her. But how could he not be curious? There were only three of them in the elevator—two smartly dressed businessmen and one extremely short person who wore squishy sneakers, rumpled, rain-soaked jeans and carried an enormous Burmese hamper. That same person was obviously cowering under an old, yellow rain slicker and had frantic blue-black ringlets of hair crawling out of her hood.
Why? she wondered. Why is this happening? It’s like a nightmare or a horrible movie. Evie bowed her head against the basket. The cellophane crackled maliciously.
When the elevator car creaked to a stop Khaki Legs exited. “I’ll call you Wednesday when I’m on my way,” he said.
“Right. Wednesday, then,” Adam replied. Evie recognized the thoughtful tone in his voice.
She felt bereft. She almost wanted to follow dear old Khaki Legs out but she had no idea what floor they were on. She didn’t dare to look up to check, either. Besides, if she started to get off, Adam would notice that there was still another floor punched. He might speak to her, and if she answered, he’d recognize her voice for sure. And her height. She was so damned short.
Why didn’t I wear tall shoes, she wondered. Oh, right…wet blue jeans and pumps. Just what all the delivery drivers are wearing. What could possibly be more low profile? Please, God, she prayed, please don’t let him talk to me.
“That’s a beautiful basket, but it’s nearly as big as you are.”
You just have to be Mr. Friendly, don’t you? Why can’t you leave me alone? “Mmmm,” she answered, trying to disguise her voice and ducking her head even lower. She wished she could hide her bony little hands and the frenzied hair that refused to stay wadded up inside her hood.
A moment of cold, pregnant silence ensued, during which Evie sent up one more desperate prayer that Adam hadn’t recognized her voice—that he wouldn’t try to make her say anything else and give herself away completely. She swallowed and kept her gaze riveted to the floor. The angle of his gleaming wingtips told her that he’d turned to face her.
“Who’s it for?”
Oh, God, he knows. Evie didn’t answer.
“I said, who’s it for?” This time his voice was peremptory and demanding.
Evie looked up hot-faced and unashamed of the sheen in her eyes. “Your fiancée, Adam.”
For a fleeting instant a look of joyful disbelief flashed across his face, and he stepped toward heralmost reflexively. Then his look hardened.
Evie took a deep breath to make sure her voice was steady. “By the way, when were you planning to tell her that you’re still married to me?”
Evie’s heart slammed in her chest as Adam nailed her with a cold glare.
“I’m surprised to hear you ask that, Evie. Since when do you care where I go or who I spend time with?”
She glared right back into his eyes. The first time Mrs. Alexander had seen him, she’d remarked, “Gray as rain. Even when he laughs he looks so sad. His eyes are the color of tears.”
Evie raised her chin and tried to make her face hard. “I don’t care,” she said. “I’d just find it a little embarrassing to be married to a bigamist.”
“Well,” he said, “thanks so much for your overwhelming warmth and concern.”
Evie scowled at him, then faced the door. The elevator shuddered, and a deep, faraway rumble told her the storm still churned overhead. I’m not going to look at him. Maybe this isn’t happening. Maybe I’m having a horrible nightmare.
She