Echo(56)

“Did you have any problems finding it?” Lachlan asks when he opens the front door after I pull up to his house.

“I’m in a foreign country,” I tease. “I always have problems when I drive here.”

He laughs, and as I approach, he remarks with jest, “Well, you appear unscathed, and the car still looks to be in one piece.”

“Lucky car,” I respond with a wink before stepping into the foyer.

The walls are bathed in rich taupes, ivories, and wines with hardwood floors and large bay windows. The house is airy with lots of natural lighting.

“Lovely home.”

Walking past me, I follow Lachlan through the house to a formal sitting area.

“Can I get you a drink?” he offers.

“No, thank you.” Slipping off my coat, I drape it over the couch and take a seat with Lachlan sitting adjacent to me. “Impressive.”

He laughs, saying, “You’re being generous. One could say I was slumming it when compared to the likes of your man’s Brunswickhill.”

“My man?”

“Isn’t he?”

Continuing the light banter, which tends to come easily between the two of us, I say, “Well, for anyone who knows Declan, you’re instantly aware that no one stakes claim on him. He operates on the contrary.” Crossing my legs, I chuckle, adding, “Total control freak.”

“Try working for him.”

His words perplex, and I question, “You work for him?” and when he nods, I note, “You failed to mention that.”

“You failed to ask.”

“Is there anything else I’ve failed to ask that I should be aware of?”

“Oh, yes,” he exaggerates in humor. “But where’s the fun in transparency?”

“Man of mystery.”

He smiles, and I laugh.

“So, tell me, Lachlan. What is it that you do for Declan?”

“I manage his finances among other things. And what about you?”

“Me?”

“What do you do for a profession?”

His question perturbs, and I deflect, “I prefer to dabble instead of commit to a singular entity.”

“Entrepreneur?”

“Isn’t that just a fancy word for unemployed?”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Honest and straight forward,” I tell him. “No reason to dress up the truth because when people realize the crudité is just a veggie platter, they feel cheated and the culprit looks like a fraud.”

He laughs, but little does he know, I’m the crudité here. I’m a distorted hyperbole. At least that’s what I have been. I’m trying to shed the guise because I need a solid ground of understanding to figure out who I am. What are the true fibers from which I’m woven?

And then I remember why I’m here, and I wonder, Am I ready for this? Do I really want to know? He told me he found her, the mother I’ve never known, and a multitude of questions begin to rain down: Did she ever love me? Did she love my dad? Why didn’t she want me? Did she know my dad was in prison? Did she know I was in foster care? Why didn’t she come for me? Why didn’t she save me? How could she just dispose of me?

“Are you okay?” Lachlan questions, his voice thick with concern.

I flick my eyes up to him, realizing I let my mind drift and pull me away.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” I shift, and leaving the humor behind, I say, “I’m a little uneasy.”

“How so?” His voice mellows with the change in mood.

“Wondering if I want to open this door that’s been closed my whole life.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he tells me. “If you’ve changed your mind or you want to wait . . . it’s up to you.”

“Seems weird,” I remark. “Sitting here with you—practically a stranger—and yet you know about my mother when she’s nothing more than a question mark for me.”

“She doesn’t have to be a question mark. But if you’re not ready . . . ”

“I thought I was. Now I’m not so sure.”

He stands up, walks over to the credenza, and picks up a manila envelope. My eyes follow him as he moves to me and sits by my side. Placing the envelope on my lap, he says, “I don’t believe there’s a right or wrong choice here, but if you do find yourself wanting to open the door to the mystery, it’s all in there.”