Page 263 of Mad Girl

“Why do you think John was so upset about Libby’s pregnancy? When he’d begged Cassandra to go through with hers?”

Eleanor considered her answer. “I think he’d hoped to find Cassandra again—hoped to find she hadn’t terminated the pregnancy, after all—and she would allow him to be in the child’s life.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, because of the way he hung around that bar where she’d worked. The bar owner forbade John to come back because he wouldn’t stop questioning everyone who worked there—everyone who had ever worked with or befriended Cassandra. He wanted her new address, a working number to reach her by. This was before social media, you see, when it was much easier for people to disappear. It seemed to me that John couldn’t accept this new baby coming into the world until he figured out what had ever become of the other one.”

My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh my God,” I whispered, tears springing to my eyes. Not only had John known you existed, Casey, he’d tried to find you—and there you’d been, for more than two years, living right down the street from him.

“When Michael was born,” Eleanor said, “Nicholas practically lived at Libby and John’s apartment. He said John would sit and stare at Michael for hours with tears streaming down his face, and neither he nor Libby could ever work out why. But I personally felt like he might’ve been grieving the child he didn’t get to know—which isn’t to say he didn’t love the one he did. John had Michael in his arms or strapped to his chest every time I saw him. In fact, your dad and Libby had a hard time peeling John away from Michael after that first year, when it was time for John to go back to college. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave that baby with a nanny or miss a single moment of Michael’s life. To be so young—to practically be a kid himself—John was a great dad. It came so naturally to him. So I suppose the tragedy I’m referring to is the one where he was never given the opportunity to be the father Casey deserved, too.”

“Yeah,” I said, suddenly angry on your behalf. John’s, as well. “And you’re partially responsible for that. I mean, you knew all this—you knew what a complete wreck John was, you knew he was trying to track Cassandra down—and you boarded a plane with his baby, anyway? You gave his baby away without telling him?”

“It wasn’t my decision to make,” Eleanor said, gaze flashing. “I did what Cassandra wanted, and like I said, I tried talking her out of it. At the very least, I tried convincing her to tell John she’d decided to have the baby—to give him some choice in the matter of where the baby ended up—but Cassandra was insistent. And then, somehow, she learned of Libby’s pregnancy, and there was absolutely no convincing her after that. She was determined to go through with the adoption and leave John in the dark.”

“Speaking of which,” I said. “Charlotte—Casey’s adoptive mom. I saw the letter you wrote to her after you took Casey to England. How did that happen? How did you even meet Charlotte?”

“We met in London,” said Eleanor with a shrug. “Your grandfather had business there around Christmastime, and London at Christmas is beautiful, so he asked me to go with him. Our divorce had just been finalized, but we were having second thoughts. Nic had said some upsetting things and…” She drifted off, looking regretful and pensive for a moment. “Anyway, a few days into the trip, I ran across Charlotte at a charming little coffee shop.”

“A coffee shop,” I repeated, eyes narrowed.

“Yes. Gabe was busy closing the deal on a property nearby, so I spent the afternoon with a good book, and at the table next to mine sat this woman having coffee with an old friend. I overheard her telling the friend how badly she wanted another baby after years of trying with no luck. They’d tried everything, she said. They’d sunk their entire savings into multiple failed rounds of IVF, which meant they could no longer afford to adopt, and her husband wanted to give up. When her friend left, she stayed and ordered another tea. Soon after, I noticed her wiping tears from her face, so I offered her a tissue from my purse. She smiled and thanked me and, when she noticed my American accent, began to ask me about myself. Then she quickly apologized, worried she might be disturbing my afternoon. But I told her there was no need to apologize, she hadn’t interrupted anything—in fact, I’d like to talk to her more, because it just so happened I knew of a baby who would need a good home by spring. Initially, she was pretty shocked—I was shocked by the suggestion myself, but I had a feeling about her. From the moment she looked into my eyes and started speaking, I just knew she was special. She was the one. And, besides, this would solve my problem of how to keep the Harris boy far away from Boston, where he might inadvertently run into his own family or try to locate his birth parents, later causing me trouble with the Harrises—or so I thought. Anyway, Charlotte grabbed her stuff and moved over to my table and told me to start talking.”

I gaped at my grandmother, absolutely aghast. “You offered John’s baby to some random woman you met in a coffee shop?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Elliot. I did my due diligence. I kept in contact with Charlotte over the course of several months. I ran background checks on her and the husband. I interviewed their family and friends, running background checks on them, too. I hired a private investigator to look into the family and follow them around for twelve weeks. I even visited their home, and it looked like something out of a Nancy Meyers film, for crying out loud.”

“This sounds like the whole plot of a Nancy Meyers film!” I exclaimed.

“Listen, I know. But I spent a good bit of time with this woman—in her home—getting to know her family. The little girl? Claire? She was charming, intelligent, and clearly adored. Believe me when I say this, Elliot: to know Charlotte was to love her. She was that kind of person. She was light incarnate. A wonderful woman. Her family was her life. That little girl was her life. Everyone I met said so. Everyone I met talked about what wonderful parents they both were. Something always seemed a tiny bit off about the husband—I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. He was wary of me, that was obvious from the very beginning, but then…I had come out of nowhere. And, yes, we’d met in a coffee shop! Of all places! So I dismissed his behavior. I thought, Of course he’s wary! He’s right to be wary! I wouldn’t have given a baby to just anyone. Charlotte was perfect—for any child. Cassandra thought so, too.”

“She did?”

“Yes. They met. Several weeks before Casey was born, Charlotte flew out here to meet Cassandra. They spent a few days together, getting to know one another and talking about the life Cassandra wanted her son to have. She wanted to be sure she was making the right choice, and when Charlotte left, Cassandra believed herself to be making the correct choice. We both did. And given what I’ve learned of Charlotte from Casey so far, she was everything we hoped she’d be. She was a great mother. I can see so much of Charlotte’s goodness in Casey—so much of that same light she exuded in the short amount of time I knew her. She raised Casey well. How could I possibly have known she would die so young?” Tears leapt to Eleanor’s eyes. “On his birthday? Or that her husband—that horrid man—would wind up making me regret ever delivering Casey to England in the first place? I firmly believed I’d done the right thing. Until your dad filled me in on the horrible circumstances of Charlotte’s death.”

“Horrible circumstances?” I asked. I didn’t know if Eleanor meant the car accident that had killed your mom or the tragedy of her dying on your birthday. Both sounded equally horrible to me, but the tone of Eleanor’s voice made me think there might’ve been more to it.

“I can’t talk about this anymore,” she responded, reaching for the flask of brandy in her bag. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured, the loud glug, glug, glug filling the room. She swiftly lifted the teacup and gulped most of it down—in a manner definitely unbecoming of a woman like Eleanor. “By the way,” she added, china tinkling as she lowered the teacup back to its saucer, “defacing those campaign signs was deplorable, Elliot.” She shot me a wicked smirk. “But I have to admit: Libby definitely had it coming to her.”

I leaned back, both shocked and confused. “What do you⁠—?”

“Hush now,” Eleanor said, pointing the remote at the TV, turning up the volume. “It’s time for the victory speech.”

But I didn’t want to hear it. I told Eleanor I needed a glass of water and to go to bed, but I actually poured myself a glass of Nic’s scotch and went to your bed.

Propped against your headboard, I sipped the scotch, repeatedly lifting your pillow to my nose. It smelled like you—like the minty eucalyptus smell of your soap, like clean hair and sleep—and I decided that was my new favorite smell. Maybe my favorite smell in the whole wide world.

As the scotch slinked its way through my veins, I wondered why I’d never waited up for you in your bed before, the thrill of being there almost more than I could bear—but maybe that was due to the alcohol, because normally I could contain myself. Not that I spent—to use your word—loads of time hanging out in your bed or anything. Because I totally didn’t. I swear.

Anyway, my goal was simple: get you to talk to me again.

At some point, however, I’d obviously drifted off, because the creak of your door snapped me back awake.

“Shit,” you said, lurching back with your eyes closed. I’d scared you.

I leaned forward, still clutching your pillow.

“What are you doing in here?” you demanded.