I’d discussed all of these findings with Brooke as I uncovered them, but she’d wanted nothing to do with it. She’d insisted on raising Lily as a single mother and abiding by the terms of the original donor agreement.
But Brooke was no longer here. I was now Lily’s guardian, and I needed to do what I thought was best for her. And I was completely convinced that Lily’s father should be a part of her life—now more than ever.
It took me a while, but I found a folder labeledNew Orleans Cryobankin Brooke’s file cabinet. I pulled it out, my heart fluttering as I opened it. Taped to the inside of the folder was a photo. I stared at it, and my hands began to shake. It was a picture of a young boy who looked so much like Lily that I nearly dropped the file. He even had the same dimple in his left cheek.
This was it—the file about Lily’s father! I quickly riffled through the contents. There were brochures about the cryobank and a three-page form about the donor. I rapidly scanned them. Apparently he has blue eyes and brown hair and he’s six foot two. He’s of English, French, and Scandinavian descent, with no history of heart disease or cancer in his immediate family at the time of his donation. As Brooke had said, there was no name, phone number, or address. No picture of him as a man—just the photo of him as a child.
I pumped my fist in the air—I learned about fist pumps when Brooke taught Lily how to do one when she first ate broccoli. I’dread the rest of the information more carefully later, but I already found what I was looking for, right there at the top of the page: “Donor 17677.”
That’s it—the donor number for Lily’s father! I’d found the golden ticket.
CHAPTER THREE
Zack
Thursday, May 9
KANSAS CITY DANhad come to New Orleans to get some nookie.
The realization dawned on me about three-quarters through the unnecessary meeting.
I’d wondered why the beefy-faced client insisted on traveling to our law offices with his assistant, when the corporate merger negotiations were basically finished and all that remained was a tedious last-draft slog through minutiae, a task better suited to email.
And then I stretched out my legs and ran smack into the reason: Dan was playing footsie with his blond assistant under the long oak conference table. I quickly pulled back my feet, straightened in my chair, and put on my best poker face.
“There you have it,” I say now as I flip over the final page of the document. “Any questions?”
“I think that wraps things up,” Dan says. “Just wanted to make sure we touched all the bases.”
My guess is you’ll do that tonight. “Well, then, I believe we’re all done.” I turn to the lawyer representing the selling party. “Unless you have anything to add?”
“Nope.” He’d told me beforehand that he thought the meeting was a waste of time.But, hey,he’d said,it’ll accomplish my two key goals—keeping my clients happy and accruing billable hours.He closes his laptop now and pushes back his chair. “I’m good.”
“Well, it’s been great doing business with you,” I tell Dan. We all stand, shake hands, and exchange the expected pleasantries. Itake my time gathering up my things until the conference room empties.
I’m not opposed to mixing business with pleasure, but Dan and his assistant are both wearing wedding rings, and I know from previous conversations that they’re not married to each other. I try not to be judgmental, but I don’t like the concept of cheating. I don’t like the idea of a boss having an affair with an employee, either; the power differential makes things lopsided.
Come to think of it, I don’t like much of anything about Dan. He’s an executive with a national chain of funeral homes, and he makes his money from charging grieving people exorbitant prices. Plus he exhibited zero sympathy for the local businessman who’s selling his family-operated mortuaries because he has a terminal illness. I give Dan plenty of time to clear out before I step into the hallway so I don’t have to interact with him any further.
Steve Schoen, the senior partner at my firm, approaches the conference room as I’m leaving. He’s a fit, silver-haired man who looks like an older version of Anderson Cooper. He greets me with a broad smile. “Great job on the Shipman Energy contract, Zack. That was partner-level work.”
I get a rush of satisfaction, like I used to feel in high school when I nailed a long pass. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Are you sure we can’t persuade you to stay?”
I blow out a sigh. I’ve worked at Schoen, Roberts, Moreau, and Associates for ten years, ever since I graduated from law school. Up until about a year ago, I would have given my eyeteeth to make partner, but I recently notified them I’d be leaving.
“If it were just me, I’d be all over it,” I say, “but Jessica has a great opportunity in Seattle, and her family lives out there.”
“I hate to see you go, but I understand.” Steve gives a rueful grin. “Happy wife, happy life, right? Especially for a two-career couple who’re probably ready to start a family. It’s hard to beat doting grandparents who live nearby.”
I smile and nod. It’s funny, how everyone assumes you can havea child anytime you want. But then, I haven’t said anything about the infertility problem Jessica and I have been dealing with for the last couple of years. What the hell would I have said?We’re going through a soul-sucking black hole of disappointment that’s bled all the joy out of our marriage?
“You’ll do great in Seattle,” Steve says. “The firm you’re going to is stellar.” He shoots me a thumbs-up. “I appreciate that you’re staying here through the Henson merger and the Tripp acquisition.”
“No problem.” I’d brought in the two pieces of business, and I wanted to see them through—plus I’m working on a pro bono case for a seventeen-year-old from a disadvantaged background that I want to get settled.
The truth is, I hate leaving New Orleans, but Jessica needs a change. She’s the one who’s had to deal with hormone shots and mood swings and invasive procedures, and it’s really taken a toll on her.
