Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(91)

Paul dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, hell. Fine. One time. I may have forgotten to use a rubber one time. But how could she have gotten knocked up with three kids from one time?”

“Teens and women over the age of thirty-five are more likely to give birth to twins and triplets than women aged twenty to thirty-five.” When he stared at me in disbelief, I shrugged. “It’s called science. Look it up.”

“Well, if you think you’re getting a cheek swab out of me for a paternity test, you’re—”

I leaned forward and lifted the wineglass from which Paul had been drinking. I poured its remaining contents into the floral centerpiece, then wrapped the glass loosely in my napkin and tucked both glass and napkin into my bag.

“They can lift DNA for paternity suits from all sorts of things these days, Paul,” I explained. “It costs a bit more, and takes a bit longer, but they can do it.”

Paul looked as if he was about to have a coronary. “You can’t . . . I’ll . . . My lawyers will . . .”

“No, they won’t. Because the test’s going to come back positive. Those girls are your daughters, and they’re already starting to need special care. They can’t tell the dead from the living.”

“What do you want from me, Suze?” he asked, spreading his hands wide, palms up. “I think it’s pretty clear I’m not going to be any help to them. I’m not mediator material.”

“No, you aren’t. Fortunately they have a doting aunt who’ll help teach them those skills, now that I know that’s what they are.”

He looked relieved. “Fine. No problem. You did a great job with my kid brother, Jack. He doesn’t even speak to me, but whatever. So what do they need, then? Money?”

“No. They already have parents—and grandparents—who love them and will provide all they need in that department . . . for now. But you still need to step up. I don’t think it’s ever occurred to Debbie that you’re the father of her children, or if it has, she’s never seriously considered pursuing it. But she may now that you’ve been going around buying up property all over Carmel. Things aren’t going so well between Brad and Debbie. A chunk out of your wallet would probably go a long way toward helping her with some of the stress of raising rambunctious five-year-old triplets who see dead people. Then suddenly you’ll be saddled with them. And with Debbie, of course. Maybe I should mention to her that—”

He blanched. “You’re bluffing. Brad’s only your stepbrother, and you know he’s a chump, but you still love him. You’d never put him through something like that.”

“Wouldn’t I? I’m not so sure. Maybe he has a right to know. And I’m sure Debbie Mancuso’s father, the Mercedes King of Carmel, would be delighted to find out his granddaughters are yours and not Brad Ackerman’s—”

“Fine, Simon. I get it, okay? If you promise not to tell anyone about me possibly being the father of those kids, I won’t tear down 99 Pine Crest Road.”

“Oh,” I said. “You’re definitely not tearing down 99 Pine Crest Road. Do you want to know why? Because you’re giving it to me.”





treinta


Paul was right about one thing. Jesse was waiting for me outside the restaurant.

I almost walked right past him . . . not because I wasn’t expecting to see him. I was. Or at least, I’d hoped he’d be there . . . but because when I noticed the dark figure standing in the shadows of the porte cochere, there was a red glow coming from its mouth.

“Jesse?” I nearly dropped my bag in astonishment. “Are you smoking?”

“Susannah.” He leaned forward to stamp out the cigarette in one of the fairy-lit planters. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“We decided to skip dessert. Well, I decided to. Since when do you smoke?”

He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I don’t. Well, I do, obviously, sometimes. But not often. It sets a bad example for the patients.”

“Now who’s been keeping secrets?”

I studied him in the dim lighting. It was late, and so cold out the valets had gone inside to keep warm. We were alone in the cool night air. Now that he’d put out the cigarette, he had his hands shoved into his jacket pockets to keep warm, and was regarding me with a look I could only describe as wary.

“Well?” he asked, finally. “Where is he?”

“He’s paying his four-thousand-dollar dinner bill,” I said. “We’re leaving. Here.”

He looked down at the decorative plastic sack I held toward him as if it might contain explosives. “What is that?”

“It’s a homemade banana nut muffin. Mariner’s makes them for all its dinner guests. You’re supposed to have it for breakfast tomorrow. You left without yours.”

His mouth twisted into a grimace. “That’s all right. You can have mine.”

“What’s the matter, Jesse?” I asked lightly, dropping the muffin into my bag. “Don’t you care to remember your dining experience at Mariner’s?”

“I do not.”

“I don’t particularly want to remember it, either.” I held out my hand. “I’m sorry.”

For a few agonizing heartbeats, we stood there beneath the porte cochere, my hand stretched toward him across the red carpet. There was no sound except for the waves crashing against the beach a few dozen yards below.