Griffin seems equally perplexed, though I’m not exactly sure why. After Carl invites us out to lunch, we go into the living room to wait for his mom to get home. And when she arrives, it’s clear that, looks-wise, anyway, it’s she who Griffin takes after.
She’s tall, and has the same jet-black hair, which has been swept up on top of her head. Her eyes are a paler shade of blue than Griffin’s, but her nose is the same, and the mouth.
“Darling!” she exclaims, dropping an armload of shopping bags. “I was hoping I’d be back before you got here. I just spoke with your brother; he’s stuck in meetings downtown and won’t be able to make it, but he told me to send his regards. And that he’ll try to catch up with you later.” She gives him a hug, the bangles on her wrist jangling. “How was the flight? How long are you here for? What plans do you have?”
She lets go of him and he turns to me. “Mom, this is my girlfriend Jill. Jill, this is my mom.”
I stand up and we shake hands. She appraises me, quickly, coolly, but apparently she deems me acceptable because she smiles.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says.
“I thought we could all go out and get something to eat,” Carl says, appearing in the doorway. “We can go have a nice lunch and get all caught up.”
“Let me just go freshen up,” Griffin’s mom says. She gives him a kiss on the cheek and leaves the room in a flurry. Carl, Griffin, and I stand there, saying nothing.
“Did you have a place in mind?” Griffin asks.
“There’s a good steakhouse that just opened,” Carl says. He looks at me. “Do you eat meat, Jill?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think this is the perfect place.”
Griffin’s mom comes back a few minutes later and we leave, Carl keeping his eye on me the whole time.
Lunch is like a game of cat and mouse that only Carl and I are aware we’re playing. He asks me questions and I give him vague answers. Where did you grow up? What does your father do for work? How did you meet my son?
Griffin and his mother seem oblivious, though occasionally I’ll catch Griffin looking at Carl in surprise.
“So what is it that you do?” I ask after our salads are brought out.
“I’m a businessman,” he replies, as vaguely as I responded to his questions.
“Clearly a successful one,” I say.
He pauses, his drink halfway to his lips, and he gives me a look as though he can’t tell if I’m being sarcastic or not.
“So, I must’ve missed it, but tell me again,” Griffin’s mom says, “How did the two of you meet? Was it over in Thailand?”
I defer to Griffin on this. Carl downs his drink and says nothing.
“Well,” Griffin says. “My Thailand trip got cut short, actually. Another story for another time though.” He shoots a look at Carl, who has folded his hands in front of him and is looking off into the middle distance. “Jill and I met out in California, near the horse ranch she works at. The place I’ve been working at, too.”
“Oh, darling, you got a job! You didn’t tell me that.”
“Yeah, it’s actually a lot of fun. I’ve been having a good time.”
His mom smiles and pats his arm. “You always did like being outside. A job and a girlfriend! How lovely.”
Carl is mostly quiet for the rest of the meal. Whenever I look in his direction, though, he is looking right at me, and he doesn’t avert his gaze when I return the stare. I’m still not sure if he knows exactly who I am, but just the way he’s acting tells me that he knows something.
*
I wake up while it’s still dark, and for a while I lie in bed next to Griffin and watch the sky turn from inky, midnight blue to a light gray. If I’m going to do something, I might as well do it now. There might not be another chance.
I slip out of bed. Griffin stirs but does not wake. His mouth is slightly open, one arm thrown above his head. He looks entirely at peace.
I walk down the hallway to Carl’s study. I pause outside the door and listen; everything’s quiet. I peek in. The built-in bookshelves are lined with leather-bound tomes. The desk sits at the back of the room, by the windows. There are paintings on the walls, and I wonder, as I step into the study, if there’s a safe hidden behind one of them.
I go over to the desk. I don’t know what I’m looking for, maybe something that might somehow shed some light on anything, but I am suddenly overcome with the certainty that there is something, and I’ll know it when I see it.
I open a few drawers. There are papers, documents, one drawer full of pens and paper clips. I ruffle through the papers and see nothing that really makes any sense. I get to the bottom right hand drawer and pull. It doesn’t budge.
I straighten, and look around the room. If there’s a key, he probably keeps it on him, or in his briefcase or something. I open the top middle drawer again and extract the silver letter opener. Picking locks was never one of my specialties, but I’d done it on a few occasions and hoped I might get lucky once more.
I slide the letter opener into the lock when I hear a noise behind me. I freeze, thinking that maybe it’s someone just walking past the study, but out of the corner of my eye I see Carl step into view.
“Isn’t this interesting,” he says. “I’d ask you what the hell you thought you were doing, but I don’t think you’d give me an honest answer.”
I stand. “I’m looking for something.”
“For something,” he repeats. “And what might that something be?”
I say nothing.
“I knew you looked familiar,” he continues. “You’re a dead ringer for your father. And then I asked Griffin what your last name was. Freyss-Charon . . . your father was Michael Charon, wasn’t he?”
He has the oddest look on his face. Like he’s happy and perplexed and extremely agitated all at the same time. He chuckles. “My son finally finds a decent woman to be with and she turns out to be the daughter of Michael Charon. Am I correct, Jill? Is Michael Charon your father? And your mother . . . Annabel Freyss? Is that correct?”
I nod, and he laughs, a deep belly laugh even though, as far as I can tell, nothing funny has been said.
He stops laughing and takes a step toward me, then another. I back up, narrowly missing the edge of his executive desk.
“There’s something I want you to understand,” he says. “I am a very wealthy man. Wealth is a good thing. Unfortunately, you can’t always amass large amounts of wealth by only doing good things. Sometimes, the things you must do are . . . less than desirable, shall we say. It’s simply a fact of life. It has always been that way, and it will continue to be that way until the end of time. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.” He rubs his palms together. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Jill?”