The Match (Wilde, #2)(17)
Hester looked over at Tim. Tim shrugged and said, “Long enough?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
They headed back through the thicket. When they turned to the car, a bearded man with long hair was casually leaning against the hood with his arms crossed.
“So what’s wrong?” Wilde asked.
*
Hester and Wilde stared for a few seconds. Tim broke the silence.
“I’ll wait in the car,” he said.
Seeing Wilde again opened the floodgates. The memories rushed at Hester, pouring toward her in unceasing waves, the kind of waves that hit you at the beach when you aren’t looking and every time you manage to get up, another pulls you back under. She saw Wilde as the little boy found in the woods, as the teen in her kitchen with David, the high school sports star, the West Point cadet, the groomsman looking so out of place in his tux at David and Laila’s wedding (Wilde probably would have served as best man, but Hester more or less insisted that David choose his brothers for that role), the godfather holding baby Matthew after the birth, the man who kept his eyes down as he told her that David’s death was his fault.
“You grew a beard,” Hester said.
“You like it?”
“No.”
He was still gorgeous, of course. When the little boy was found in the woods, the newspapers had called him a modern-day Tarzan, and physically it was almost as if he grew into that role. Wilde was all coiled muscles and stony angles. He had light brown hair, eyes with gold flecks, a sun-kissed complexion. He stood very still, panther-like, as though preternaturally ready to pounce, which, in his case, might be accurate.
“Has someone else gone missing?” Wilde asked.
That had been the case last time she’d come to him like this.
“Yes,” Hester said. “You.”
Wilde didn’t reply.
“Guess who reported you missing,” she continued. “Guess who was so worried about you that he asked me to find you.”
Wilde nodded slowly. “Matthew.”
“What the hell, Wilde?”
He said nothing.
“Why are you ignoring your own godson?”
“I’m not ignoring him.”
“He loves you. You’re the closest thing he has…” Hester just let the words peter out. She changed subjects for a moment. “I did everything you asked, right?”
“Yes,” Wilde said. “Thank you.”
“So what happened when you found your father?”
“Dead end.”
“I’m sorry. So what’s the next step?”
“There is no next step.”
“You’re giving up?”
“We’ve discussed this before. Finding out how I ended up in the woods won’t matter.”
“What about Matthew?”
“What about him?”
“Does he matter? I know we are all supposed to shrug off your eccentricities as ‘Oh, you know how Wilde is,’ but that’s no excuse for ignoring Matthew.”
Wilde thought about that. Then he nodded and said, “Fair.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Matthew’s in college.”
“He’s home on break.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Hester nodded. “You’re still keeping an eye on them.”
Wilde did not reply.
“So why…?” Hester shook her head. “Never mind. Get in the car. We’ll drive over together.”
“Nah.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ll be in touch before the end of the day,” Wilde said. “Tell Matthew.”
He turned and started toward the woods.
“Wilde?”
He stopped.
Hester tried to keep her voice even. Hester hadn’t planned on raising this, not yet anyway. She’d hoped to see him a few times, ease into it, but that wasn’t her style and it wasn’t his style, and part of her feared that confronting him on this now, the tragic event that bonded them forever, would just lead him to disappear deeper into the woods. “Right before you left the country”—she heard the crack in her tone, tried to stifle it—“I made Oren take me to that spot up Mountain Road. To the embankment.”
Wilde didn’t move, didn’t turn and face her.
“A makeshift cross is still there. On the side of the road. All these years later. Weathered and faded, I guess, but it still marks the spot where David’s car went off the road. You probably know that. That the cross is still there. I bet you visit sometimes, don’t you?”
Wilde still wouldn’t face her.
“I looked down that embankment. Where the car skidded off. I let myself picture it all—the whole thing. The icy road. The dark.”
“Hester.”
“Do you want to tell me what really happened that night?”
“I told you.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You always said it was your fault.”
“It was.”
“I don’t believe that anymore.”
Wilde did not move.
“I mean, I never fully believed it, I don’t think. I was in shock for a very long time. And I didn’t see a need to know the truth. Like you. With your past. What’s the difference, you always tell me—you’ll always be the boy left in the woods. What’s the difference, I told myself—my son will always be dead.”