Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(95)

    EVIE


MR. DELANEY INSISTED UPON DRIVING. I couldn’t decide if he thought a woman in my delicate condition shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car, or if he was just one of those guys who had to be in control.

I had wanted to meet with Dr. Martin Hoffman, the department chair during my father’s tenure at Harvard. My mother had implied he’d know all my father’s associates, so I thought he’d be the best place to start. Unfortunately, he hadn’t answered his phone. I’d left a message but then decided I was too antsy to wait. I’d dialed Katarina Ivanova next, locating her office number on the department website. Interestingly enough, she’d answered and, after a moment’s hesitation, had agreed—rather coolly, I thought—to meet with me.

I had looked up her photo online. She was indeed beautiful, thick, wavy locks of hair, darkly lashed eyes, golden skin. Everything my platinum-blond mother wasn’t.

Personally, Katarina’s photo sparked few reactions for me. Vaguely familiar. I probably had met her at one of the Friday poker parties. But I couldn’t bring any specific memory to mind. Just the mildly shocked reaction that such a gorgeous woman was a Harvard math professor, an ironic generalization from a fellow female math geek who should know better. Just because I complain about the system doesn’t mean I’m immune to it.

Now Mr. Delaney and I drive through Cambridge in comfortable silence. The Harvard campus isn’t far at all, a matter of miles. Given the narrow, congested streets of Cambridge, it’s probably a faster walk than a drive. But this time of year, with the frigid temps and slushy sidewalks, driving it is.

We make it another creeping half a mile; then I just can’t help myself:

“Are you and my mom seeing each other?”

Mr. Delaney takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me an arched brow. The car in front of him stops short for a pedestrian darting across the street. Mr. Delaney slams on his brakes, then throws up an arm as if to keep me from flying through the windshield. I’m wearing my seat belt, not to mention we’re barely moving, but I appreciate the protective instinct.

“Why do you ask?” he finally says.

“Why don’t you answer?” I counter, having seen the lawyer at work before. “I’m not saying I care. I just want to know.”

“Your mother’s a beautiful woman,” he concedes at last.

I nod in encouragement. Mr. Delaney and my mother. The more I think about it, the more I don’t mind. It’s good for my mother to have someone in her life. I know better than anyone that my father had been her entire world. The years since have been rough for her. I’m glad she has someone like Mr. Delaney in her life.

“I would be honored to be in a relationship with her,” Mr. Delaney continues now, “if I was the kind of guy interested in a relationship with a beautiful woman.”

It takes a moment for me to register what he has just said. The car ahead of us begins to move again. We edge forward. I feel like my head is in spin cycle, my brain the image of the whirling symbol on a smartphone as it struggles to load content. Wait a minute. Does that mean?

Suddenly, with a little click, I get everything I never truly noticed before. The incredibly handsome man beside me who never married, never had children of his own. Flirted shamelessly with every female in the room but never arrived or left with any one woman on his arm. I had watched ladies’ interest in him and, given his charming smiles, assumed he was a player of the highest order. But again, for my entire childhood, then adulthood, no girlfriend, no serious relationship.

I feel ridiculously stupid.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He smiles gently. “It’s not something I talk about. My parents weren’t exactly open-minded on the subject.”

“Haven’t they passed away?”

“Old habits die hard. Close friends and associates know my preferences, but it’s not something I advertise.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Whatever for?”

“Because … Because you shouldn’t have to say who you are. You shouldn’t have to feel self-conscious. And you shouldn’t have to explain yourself to an idiot like me. Not that I care,” I hasten to add, then realize that came out wrong. “I care about you,” I correct. “I don’t care about who you date.”

“As long as it’s not your mother?” he asks slyly.

“Ha. Please tell me I don’t have to ask about my father.” I roll my eyes, clearly joking.

The look he gives me has me going wide-eyed.

“What? Wait! No way.”

He starts to laugh, and just like that, I know he’s played me. Good God, I have to start sleeping more, because every time I think I’m starting to understand my family, my worldview gets turned upside down again.

“Both my parents knew?” I ask, trying to regain my bearings.

“I understood who I was by the time I got to college. Your father figured it out first. As I said, it wasn’t something I advertised. His complete and total acceptance was very dear to me, at a time in my life when I was still struggling to be comfortable with myself.”

I almost say I’m sorry again, then catch myself.

“Your mother … She toyed with me for months. Had eyes only for your father, of course, but felt a need to keep me in the mix, most likely in an attempt to make him jealous. We didn’t bother to correct her. It was too much fun to watch her work. I believe when I finally broke the news, she slapped me—for lying—then hugged me in sheer relief that there was a good reason I hadn’t yet succumbed to her charms. Your mother is a complicated woman.”