Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

Dear God, Esther thought, Greg made that pledge almost two years ago. Why hasn’t it been paid? Carefully she chose her words. “Let me look into it,” she said, her voice professionally calm.

“Esther, that isn’t good enough.” His voice was rising. “The word is getting around that the Gannon Foundation is announcing grants that it has no intention of fulfilling, or at least not fulfilling until they have been so watered down that the purpose for receiving them is defeated. I and several of my associates insist on having a meeting with Mr. Gannon and with anyone and everyone on the foundation board. We want to tell them they simply can’t do this to the children we serve and hope to serve in the future.”

Monday afternoon, after his first day at his prestigious new law firm, Scott Alterman went for a run in Central Park. Over the weekend, he had been constantly berating himself. It had been a stupid and serious mistake to show up at the brownstone where Monica lived. He had startled her, maybe even frightened her, and that was not the way he intended to pursue her.

He knew that four years ago he had come on much too strongly to her and should have had the brains to realize that Monica would never even think of dating her best friend’s husband.

But now Joy and I are totally split, he thought, as he jogged through Central Park, enjoying the crisp autumn breezes. It was an amicable divorce and Joy even admits that getting married six months after we met was crazy. We didn’t really know each other. She came to work for the firm fresh out of law school and before it made sense I had bought her a ring and we’d made a down payment on a co-op facing the Common.

It’s one of the reasons we put off having a family, he reflected, as he began to build his case to present to Monica. Joy realizes now that it was hurt pride that made her so adamant about trying to save our marriage. It didn’t do any good, of course. Three long years of being in counseling and trying to make it work were a waste. But I knew I’d never have any chance with Monica until Joy agreed that the marriage was hopeless. Now Joy admits that she never really believed Monica had been seeing me on the side. In the year we’ve been split both of us have been much happier…

I wonder if I could get Joy to call Monica and explain that to her? Joy even said that I was more than generous in the settlement, turning over the condo and all the furniture to her. The paintings, too. They’re worth a lot more than when I bought them. I have an eye for good art. I’ll start a new collection.

Joy has the condo, a healthy bank account, a good job. Before I told my partners I was leaving I asked them to consider making her a partner and I think they may do it. She’s grateful to me for that, but she’s also a darn good lawyer and deserves it. I know she’s happy that I’ve left the firm. She doesn’t want to run into me every day. I’ve heard that she’s been dating different people, which is all to the good. God bless my successor.

Scott had started his run on the West Ninety-sixth Street entrance to Central Park. He’d gone south to Fifty-ninth Street, then up the east side of the park to 110th Street, then down on the west side back to Ninety-sixth Street. With a glow of satisfaction at how easily he had handled the run, he returned to his rented apartment, showered, changed, then, sipping a scotch, settled in a chair that overlooked the park.

Even without Monica in the equation I was happy to make the move, he thought. There’s more visibility for a trial lawyer in Manhattan than in Boston.

Monica . As always, when he allowed himself to think about her, her face in every detail filled his mind. Especially, he thought, those incredible blue-green eyes that had looked so warm and loving when she told Joy and him how much their kindness to her father in the nursing home meant to her, and how she hoped that someday she would meet someone exactly like Scott. But those eyes had withered him with scorn when he had been fool enough to ask her to have dinner with him alone.

Scott did not like to remember how dumb he had been to keep calling her, thinking she would change her mind. But she did have some feelings for me, he told himself. I know she did, he thought defensively.

When did I fall in love with Monica? When did I stop seeing her as Joy’s best friend and start looking at her as a desirable woman, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with?

Why didn’t I tell her to listen to her father’s suspicions about his parentage? She saw the photos her father had compared and immediately dismissed them. “Dad always tried to find his birth parents, Scott,” she had said. “He always used to point to a photo in the newspaper of someone whom he resembled, and wonder whether it was his own father. It was a sad, running joke. His need to know was so great, and of course never satisfied.”

Scott felt his sense of well-being begin to slip away. There has to be a way to trace Edward Farrell’s birth parents. The resemblance between him and Alexander Gannon is absolutely startling. Gannon never married, but in 1935, he wrote a will which never mentioned a wife, but significantly left his estate first to his issue if any existed, and only then to his brother. There’s a good chance her father was right about his suspicions. Maybe telling that to Monica is the way to get her to see me. I want to marry Monica, but if that doesn’t happen, he thought ruefully, second best would be to represent her in court. As her lawyer, I’d receive a healthy percentage of any money she received.

Scott cast a disdainful eye on the serviceable but ordinary furniture in his rented co-op. I’ve got to get busy finding a place I want to buy, he thought, a place where Monica might want to live someday.

It isn’t just about the money in the Gannon Foundation that may be hers. I want her and I want everything for her.

On Monday evening, retired detective John Hartman phoned his neighbor Nan Rhodes. By now he knew that she sometimes met her sisters on Monday evenings, but he wasn’t sure whether it was a weekly commitment.

A childless widower who had been the only child of two only children, Hartman, despite his wide circle of friends, often regretted that he had not been born into a large family. Tonight for some reason, he felt particularly down and was immeasurably cheered when at seven thirty Nan answered her phone on the first ring.

At his suggestion that he half expected her to be at dinner with her siblings, Nan laughed. “We meet once a month,” she told him. “Weekly, and we’d probably be resuming old battles like ‘Remember when you wore my new sweater before I even had a chance to wear it myself?’ It’s better this way.”

“I’ve kept the picture of Dr. Farrell longer than I intended,” he said. “The fingerprints on it don’t match any known felon. Shall I slip it under your door?” Why did I make that suggestion? he asked himself. Why didn’t I ask if I could drop it off?

He was delighted to hear Nan’s response. “I just made a pot of tea and sinful as it’s now considered, I bought a chocolate layer cake at the bakery. Why don’t you just come in and sit down for a few minutes and share it with me?”

Not realizing that Nan was at once shocked at her invitation to him and pleased that he had accepted it, Hartman hastily grabbed a freshly cleaned cardigan from his closet and buttoned it over his casual shirt. Five minutes later he was sitting opposite Nan at her dinette table.