Lisa Scottoline - Look Again

"Red is cherry."

"Do we have red?"

"No, I made green."

"Can't you make red?" Will looked at her with plaintive baby blues, and Ellen managed a smile.

"Not this time. Today, let's try green Jell-O."

Will scrambled to a kneeling position in his chair and leaned farther over the table on his elbows, sniffing the bowl. "Why doesn't it smell?"

"Give it a try and tell me if you like the taste."

"Do you like it?"

"I don't know, I never had it either." Ellen hated lime Jell-O, but didn't want to prejudice him. "I like to try new foods." She couldn't resist propagandizing, but Will ignored her.

"Why is it all flat on top?"

"That's how it comes out. Grab the bowl and give it a little shake."

Will did, giggling. "It wiggles! Just like on TV!"

"Fun, huh? Food you can play with." Ellen scooped some Jell-O into his dessert bowl and held her breath as he picked up his teaspoon, dipped the tip into the shiny green mound, then touched the tip of his tongue to the spoon. She said, "Give it a real taste."

"Do I have to?"

"Please."

Will put the Jell-O in his mouth, and for a minute, didn't react.

"Well, do you like it?"

"It's good!" Will answered, his mouth full.

Ellen spent the evening in her home office, figuring out where and how to find the proof that Will was or wasn't Timothy. It was nutty to try to prove something she didn't want to be true, but she didn't have to decide now what to do after she learned the facts. She could find out, then decide whether to keep Will or, inconceivably, to give him up. It was a process, and she could take it in stages. At stage one, all she wanted was the truth. And, happily, if it turned out that Will wasn't Timothy, she could stop driving herself crazy and put the whole thing behind her. She took her BlackBerry from the holster and pressed speed dial C, and Connie picked up.

"Hey, El, how are you?"

"Fine, thanks. I have a huge favor to ask you, Connie. Something big came up at work, and I have to leave town for a few days." Ellen hated lying, but she couldn't risk telling even Connie the truth. "Is there any way you can cover for me?"

"Sure. Where you goin"?"

"Couple of different places, I'm not sure yet. It's a big story, and I'm sorry, but it can't be helped." Ellen rarely went out of town on business, but she was praying she could sell Connie. She wasn't Don Gleeson's daughter for nothing. "I'll pay you overtime, whatever it takes. It's that important."

Connie hushed her. "I never worry about that. I can do it, but we're having people over tomorrow. Can it wait until Monday?"

"Yes, I really appreciate it."

"I'll pack my toothbrush. See you Monday, regular time. How many days will it be?"

God knows. "Just a few, the situation is fluid. Can you live with that?"

"Yep. See ya then."

Ellen hung up, with one more thing to do. She logged onto Outlook, skimmed her incoming email, and found one sender that surprised her. Marcelo. She clicked Open.

Dear Ellen,

I'm concerned about you. I hope you're feeling better. Please do call a doctor. We lack a human face without you!

Best, Marcelo

Ellen felt a little thrill. He was such a great guy. It was worth fainting to get him to hold her. She smiled at the memory of being cradled against his chest, but it faded when she thought of what she had to do next. She hit Reply and started typing, then stopped. It was the point of no return, and the stakes were the job she loved and needed. Still, she typed on:

Marcelo,

Thanks for your nice note, but unfortunately, I need to take this week off. I have plenty of vacation time coming, and I'll take the time out of that.

Ellen paused, not knowing whether to mention the think piece, which was still due Friday. She continued, typing:

I'm not sure if I'll get my piece finished by deadline, but I'll stay in touch with you about this. I'm sorry, and hope this doesn't cause too much of a problem. Thanks and best, Ellen

She clicked Send and swallowed hard. Taking a vacation with a layoff pending could be career suicide, but she had no choice. The situation with Will and Timothy put everything into perspective, and her job would always be second to her child.

"So be it," Ellen said aloud.

Oreo Figaro looked up at the sound, lifting his chin from his front paws, regarding her with disapproval.

Ellen awoke to the ringing of her BlackBerry, which she kept on the night table as an alarm clock. She grabbed it before it woke W. "Hello?" she asked, muzzy.

"It's Marcelo." His voice always sounded so soft on the phone, his accent more pronounced, and Ellen blinked herself awake, checking the digital clock. Sunday, 8:02 A.M.

"Oh, jeez, hi."

"Did I wake you?"

Yes. "No."

"Sorry to bother you, but I got your vacation request and I wanted to discuss it with you. It's a problem for us, right now."

"It's just that-"

"I'm going to be in your area tonight. I can stop by, if you like, and we can talk about it."

Marcelo, here? I'll have to vacuum. And put on makeup. Not in that order.

"Ellen? I don't mean to intrude-"

"No, it's fine, a great idea."

"What time is good?"

"Will goes to bed around seven thirty, so any time after eight o'clock."

"I'm free at nine. See you then."

"Great. Thanks." Ellen pressed End. Marcelo was coming here? Her boss, her crush? Was this a date or a firing? It was exciting and unnerving, both at once. At best, she'd have to lie to his face about where she was going on Monday, which wouldn't be easy. Especially if he wore that aftershave, eau d'eligible bachelor.

"Mommy?" Will called out, waking up in his bedroom.

"Coming, sweetie," Ellen called back, becoming a mom again.

"Marcelo, hi, come in," Ellen said, opening her front door onto a living room that looked as if no one lived there. Will's toys, books, and DVD'S had been put away, and the rugs had been vacuumed. Cat hair had been lint-rolled from the sofa cushions, and paw prints wiped from the coffee table. The house was so clean, it should be for sale.

"Thanks." Marcelo stepped inside, and Ellen edged back, suddenly awkward. She had fantasized about him walking through her door, though the fantasy didn't include vacuuming.

"Let me take your coat," Ellen said, but Marcelo was already sliding out of his black leather jacket, and she caught a whiff of spicy aftershave, a scent that spoke directly to her I'm-Very-Single cortex, bypassing the saner He's-Your-Boss lobe.

"What a nice house," he said, looking around. He had on a black ribbed turtleneck with nice brown slacks, and Ellen found herself wondering if he'd been on a date. He asked, "How long have you lived here?"

"Six years or so." Ellen brushed a stray hair from her eyes, surprised that even a single strand had escaped her product-heavy blow-dry. She had changed her outfit three times, only to end up in her trademark loose blue sweater, white tank underneath, jeans, and Danskos. She didn't want to signal that she considered this anything but a meeting between colleagues. "Would you like a Diet Coke or something?"

"Sure, great."

"Hang on a sec. You can sit down." Ellen gestured at the sofa cushion without hesitation.

"Let me help you. I'd love a house tour."

"Okay, but, it's a short one." Ellen waved awkwardly at the dining room. It was odd, having him in her house, standing so close to her when she wasn't even unconscious. "Speaks for itself, huh? And over here's the teeny tiny kitchen."

"Very nice." Marcelo followed her, looking around with his hands linked loosely behind his back. "It's warm and friendly."