Carole Page - In Search Of Her Own

“I’m an instructor at the university. Contemporary American literature. I’m finishing my third year of teaching.”

“Oh. one of those studious types—your nose always in a book?”

Victoria unconsciously lifted her hand to the back of her neck. “I suppose you could say that. I’m working on the thesis for my doctorate.”

“I’m impressed,” said Phillip. “My remark about studious types wasn’t meant as an insult. I admire intelligent women. It’s just that you don’t look like any of the teachers I had in school—you know, the old-maid schoolmarms with their hair in a bun and spectacles halfway down their noses.”

Victoria forced a laugh. “In just which century did you attend school, Mr. Anders?”

He accepted her mild rebuff. “All right, I’m exaggerating. But you look like you’d be more at home on the tennis courts or horseback riding in the country.”

Victoria sipped her coffee, then said, “I’ve never played tennis or been on a horse. I’ve spent most of my life in libraries and classrooms “

“Even when you were a child?”

“Yes. My parents were both professors at the university and, for as long as I can remember, they stressed the importance of education. They naturally expected me to become a teacher, too.”

“Doesn’t sound like you had much fun.”

“Fun wasn’t one of my priorities.” Victoria realized immediately how smug she sounded, so she added, “Learning was fun for me.”

“Well, for me it was just plain hard work. I got through law school by the skin of my teeth.”

“Then you’re a lawyer?”

“Not anymore,” he replied “I passed my bar exams and set up practice as an attorney, but after a couple of years of sitting in a stuffy office, neck-high in paperwork, I decided I’d had it. I closed up shop and began working as a private investigator.”

“Really? How exciting,” said Victoria.

“To be honest, it’s not as exciting as it looks on television,” said Phillip. “I’m rarely into the shoot-’em-up cops-and-robbers stuff. In fact, sometimes my job is downright tedious. And I still get bogged down with paperwork, but at least there’s a certain undercurrent of adventure that I didn’t have as a lawyer.”

“Exactly what do you investigate?”

“Missing persons. Kids mostly.”

Her breath caught momentarily. “Missing children?”

“Well, there’s always the husband or wife looking for a spouse who’s left town. But most of my clients are searching for children—parents looking for runaway teenagers or divorced people whose mate has stolen their children.”

Victoria’s interest perked. “Really? You mean, someone just comes to you and says, ‘My child is missing,’ and you go out and find their child?”

“Essentially yes. But it’s not quite that simple. Like I said, there’s a lot of paperwork involved, and I run into my share of roadblocks and dead ends. And frankly, sometimes there’s not a happy ending.” His voice trailed off. “Some kids end up dead.”

Victoria shuddered. “But most of the time you.you find the missing child?”

“Most of the time.” He chuckled. “I’m a very persistent man. I don’t give up easily.”

She sat forward, her pulse quickening. She could feel the rhythmic pounding in her ears. “How do you do it, Mr. Anders? Where do you begin?”

He laughed, a gentle, warming sound she found most appealing. “Really, Miss Carlin, you don’t expect me to give away trade secrets, do you?”

She sat back, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “I’m not trying to pry. It’s just so fascinating to think that you can go out and track down someone who’s missing. You must make a lot of parents very happy.”

He laughed again, mirthlessly. “And I’ve enraged a few, as well. But that’s another story.”

“But if someone were looking for someone,” she persisted, “you would be willing to go out and search for him—or her?”

“Well, I would need to know the circumstances, of course. I may push the boundaries at times, but I stay within the law.”

“Of course. That goes without saying.”

He studied her with a disquieting frankness. “Are you looking for someone, Miss Carlin? A missing child?”

She averted her gaze, her thoughts drifting off to a familiar darkness. Yes, I seek a nameless, faceless child—my sweet little boy lost, heart of my heart, my very life. I never stop looking, and yet I wouldn’t know him if I passed him on the street.

“Did you hear me, Miss Carlin? Do you know of a missing child?”

Victoria rotated her coffee cup between her palms. Her hands were trembling. “I never said that, now did I, Mr. Anders?”

His gaze remained unflinching. “Sometimes a person’s silences say more than their words.”

“I’m just very intrigued,” she replied with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I never knew a private investigator before. It must be a very challenging and rewarding occupation.”

“It keeps me busy. In fact, too busy at times.”

“Too busy?”

“Yes—when my wife was alive, anyway. Pauline and I didn’t have the time together we should have. I was gone a lot.” Phillip’s words fell away, as if he realized he was saying too much, revealing more about himself than he intended. He drained his coffee cup When the waitress walked by, he signaled her for a refill.

“Do you have children?” asked Victoria, knowing immediately it was a subject she shouldn’t be broaching. What if he turned the question back to her?

Phillip grimaced. For a moment he said nothing. Finally he looked away, a glint of pain evident in his sable brown eyes. “No, we never had children,” he replied somberly. “To tell you the truth, it’s the greatest regret of my life.”

Victoria looked away, discomfited by the man’s unexpected confession. “Well, there’s more to life than children,” she murmured without conviction, her words unnaturally stiff and precise. She quelled the impulse to admit to Phillip that she, too, knew how it felt to regret something deeply, to live daily with a raw emotional wound that ruptured at the slightest inadvertent prick. But exposing her own pain would serve no purpose. She and Phillip were, after all, virtual strangers.

“Well, now that I’ve bored you with my life story, I think it’s time for me to pick up the check,” said Phillip offhandedly.

“Thank you, but I really wasn’t bored,” she assured him with a heartfelt smile. Suddenly, illogically, she didn’t want their conversation to end, but she could think of no legitimate reason to linger, so she said dutifully, “I guess it is time to get back to my car.”

Phillip nodded, reached for the check and tossed a crisp one-dollar bill on the table. A contemplative silence settled over them as he drove Victoria back to her stalled automobile.

That evening Victoria couldn’t get Phillip Anders out of her mind. His presence lingered like an afterglow, baffling, disconcerting and yet undeniably pleasant. As she rattled around her small, modern condo, sorting her mail, putting away dishes and browsing through her latest educational journal, his image was never far from her thoughts. She turned on the late-night news, but the newscaster’s voice sounded so disturbingly similar to Phillip’s, she quickly snapped off the set.

Even as she drifted into a restless slumber shortly before midnight, she saw his face in her mind, his classic features as solidly chiseled as a Michelangelo sculpture—and those eyes, so expressive and compelling, seemingly reading her very heart. And his voice—surely it wasn’t the television now. In the hazy, rainbow reveries of her dreams she could hear the richness of his deep baritone and the mirthful ripple of his infectious laughter.