The Baby Miracle Page 8

  Aunt Mariel was right. How long would I have let things go on without noticing if she hadn’t told me? Even though everything feels worse now—more complicated, more confusing, and a hundred times more stressful—I’m glad I know. And even though there’s nothing remotely resembling a plan in my head, I know instantly that I’m going to keep the baby.

  It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t even a surprise I was prepared for. And I’m still not sure how I feel about it. But I also know that I can’t stand the idea of always wondering about the baby I gave up.

  It’s unexpected. But I was an unexpected baby too. And as my aunt reminded me, my mother stepped up and gave me everything she could in life.

  “I wonder all the time what you would do, Mom,” I whisper. “Every day I wonder. Every decision I make. It’s so hard not knowing if you would agree with my choices or not. But this time I do know.”

  The tears are coming again, but this time they’re quiet, peaceful. Almost happy.

  “You would keep the baby. I know because that’s what you did when it was you and me.”

  I laugh shakily. It’s amazing. I feel closer to my mom than I have since she died. It’s almost like she’s here in the room with me. And I can feel her smiling.

  God. I’m really going to be a mother.

  And Chase is going to be a father.

  The thought smacks into me like a two-by-four. He’s the only possible candidate. He’s the only guy I’ve been with in months. And that means Aunt Mariel is going to get her wish. He deserves to know. I’m going to have to reach out to him and let him know that he’s going to have a child.

  Chapter 12

  Kendall

  It’s a shame to have to leave Applewood only two days after arriving, but between one thing and another, I have to admit that I’m glad to be back in Chicago. At least some things never change. The familiar surroundings are reassuring, and it’s nice to be in my own apartment.

  Not that any surroundings could make the phone call I’m about to have to make any easier.

  Up until now, I’ve been able to lose myself in the excitement of the investigation. I love hunting for the details of a story. It was fascinating to research Chase online, to find the details of his modeling career. But a couple of years ago, he just dropped off the map. It’s as if he vanished.

  He didn’t, of course. I’m carrying proof of that.

  I rest a hand on my stomach momentarily and try to imagine myself with a baby. It’s definitely a strange picture, but there’s something intriguing about it all the same.

  Finding Chase’s old modeling agency was the first break. I called them, but the woman who answered said that she couldn’t give me any information about a former client, except to confirm that he was no longer affiliated with them. That was just a minor setback, though. For the past several hours, I’ve been perusing their website, looking for anything that might help. And finally, after an exhaustive search, I found it. A behind-the-scenes picture of Chase drinking coffee and looking over a schedule with a younger man.

  An assistant.

  I cropped the assistant’s face and ran an image search. Most of the hits were irrelevant, of course, but I found one that looked like a professional headshot of him. It came from the personal website of Wylie Egerton, on which he advertises personal assistant services in the Chicago area. And there was a contact number.

  The very same number that’s typed into my phone right now, waiting for me to summon up the nerve to hit the call button.

  In a few minutes’ time, I could be talking to Chase, and I still have no idea what I’m going to say to him.

  Taking a deep breath, I press the button. I’m already half hoping this call will go to voicemail. I know I have to be proactive about trying to contact Chase—this is a time-sensitive situation, after all—but I don’t feel ready.

  “Wylie Egerton speaking.”

  Crap. This is it.

  I summon my confidence. “Mr. Egerton, my name is Kendall Wrightwood. I’m trying to get in contact with Chase Harker.”

  “How did you get this number?” he asks, his tone suddenly suspicious.

  Light stalking? No. Think.

  “I’m a journalist,” I say, my confidence dipping. I struggle to rally. “I found your number on your website. I’m trying to contact Mr. Harker about—”

  “Mr. Harker doesn’t speak to journalists,” Egerton cuts me off. “He’s a very private person. I’d think even a little bit of journalistic research would have uncovered that fact?”

  “Well of course I know that—” I knew that before I even slept with him that night. It’s the one thing about Chase Harker that everyone seems to know.

  But the assistant cuts me off again. “Then frankly, I’m not sure why you’re wasting your time. Move on to something else. Have a nice day.” And the phone goes dead.

  I stare at my phone, my heart racing. To have come so close, only to be turned away! But I can’t deny that a part of me is relieved that I won’t have to speak to Chase yet. It’s a temporary reprieve, but I’ll take it.

  I’m caught by surprise as the phone rings again in my hand. My heart beats wildly. Could this be Wylie Egerton calling back? Is it possible he changed his mind about connecting me with Chase?

  “Hello?” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady.

  “Kendall? Is that you?”

  I go limp with relief at the false alarm. It’s not Wylie Egerton, it’s Georgia Walsh. My editor.

  “Hey, Georgia.”

  “You’re not sick, are you?” she asks. “Your voice sounds different.”

  It must be the anxiety. I take a couple of seconds to steady myself. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss your deadlines,” she says.

  That’s a little unfair. I’ve never missed a deadline, regardless of health. But Georgia’s like that—fast-paced and no-nonsense.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m on schedule.”

  “Perfect. I was actually calling to talk about the piece you sent in last Wednesday.”

  “Was there a problem?”

  “Not at all. It was very impressive, actually. You really put a human face on the story, and when you’re writing about the founder of a chain of banks, that can be hard to do.”

  Wow. A real-life compliment from Georgia Walsh.

  “I can’t take all the credit,” I say. “The man had a really interesting story.”

  “Well, you told it compellingly. In fact, the whole series has been better than I expected when you pitched it. Covering American entrepreneurs seemed like a retread of a tired idea, but you’ve really put a fresh spin on it. And the articles are getting a lot of traction with readers as well. So I wanted to reach out and tell you to keep up the good work.”

  Suddenly, an idea springs fully formed into my head. I have an opportunity here. I could kill two birds with one stone.

  “Actually, Georgia, I’m glad you called. I have what I think is a pretty good idea for my next piece.”

  “Oh?”

  “Have you ever heard of Chase Harker?”

  “Isn’t he that model who retired young? I’ve heard of him. He’s in the tech industry now, isn’t he?”

  “Something like that. I was thinking of profiling him next. It would get a lot of attention, right? Because he’s already famous.”

  “That would definitely be a value add,” Georgia muses.

  “Exactly. I could write the story of why he retired from modeling and what he’s been doing since. I bet it’s fascinating.”

  “What exactly has he been doing?” she asks. “All I know is that it’s tech-related. Do you have any of the details pieced together yet? Because I wouldn’t want to see you waste your time on some nothing story if it turns out he’s just been chasing his pipe dreams.”

  I almost have to laugh. Georgia’s never minded seeing me waste my time on nothing stories before. Maybe she’s finally starting to appreciate me. If sh
e meant what she said about liking my recent work and the results it’s produced, things could finally be starting to turn around in my career. Of course, it couldn’t come at a worse time…but I can’t think about that now. I have to focus on finding Chase.

  “I don’t know what he’s been doing yet,” I admit. “But my preliminary research indicates that his net worth has increased since his modeling days, so that’s got to be a good sign, right?”

  “True enough,” she says.

  “I’ve heard the same essentials you have,” I say. “He retired, and now he’s in tech. But what I’d like to do is explore his motivation. It’s rare, isn’t it, for a successful model to just spontaneously retire at such a young age?”

  I’m flying by the seat of my pants here. I’m completely improvising. But I must be doing a good job, because I think Georgia is starting to be swayed.

  “It’s a good idea,” she says. “And you’re right that readers would eat it up. I’m looking at analytics right now, and his name is searched pretty often. And you’re a strong enough writer to put together a compelling story that would rank well.

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling a little breathless. My work must really be paying off.

  “But isn’t he sort of reclusive?” Georgia asks. “He’s searched often, but there aren’t really any stories about what he’s been up to in recent years.” I can hear her mouse clicking. “Everything I can find on him is old. And that supports the rumors I’ve heard that he doesn’t give interviews and keeps himself out of the press.”

  “I’ve heard that too,” I say. “But doesn’t that make it the perfect opportunity for a scoop? There aren’t any competing news stories. If I could break it, I would get a huge readership.”

  “I don’t know, Kendall. I think this might be a waste of time. If he’s not going to give an interview…”

  “He will. I’ll get the interview, Georgia, I promise.”

  She hesitates for a second. “No,” she decides. “Not right now. Establish yourself a little more first. Your work is on the rise, and if you wait a few months, your name will carry a bit more weight. We’ll talk about it then. Right now, though, I don’t think you’d get a foot in the door.” Her voice softens just a touch. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. I do. But let’s be smart about it.”

  “Right,” I say, feeling defeated. “Okay. In a few months, then.” As if I have a few months to spare.

  I say goodbye and hang up, wondering what on earth I’m going to do now.

  I reach for my laptop and type Chase’s name in again. I’ve done so many searches on him lately that the keystrokes have become almost as familiar as typing my own name. If I can’t get to him through Wylie Egerton and I can’t leverage my connections as a member of the press, I’m just going to have to figure something else out. Why couldn’t he have left me a phone number or an email address? Isn’t that what normal people do after a one-night hookup?

  As if I’d know. The one time I try to have a one-night thing, I get both pregnant and feelings. I’m the worst at this.

  So, okay. If I can’t connect with him through his modeling history, maybe there’s some way to get in touch with him using his business dealings. The problem, of course, is that’s the part of his life no one knows about.

  It takes a long time, several hours, and my detective work definitely escalates from light stalking to obsessive, but I finally have a breakthrough when I find a two-year-old photo of Wylie Egerton on social media with the location tagged as Tala, a small island in the Middle East. It might just be a vacation, but on a hunch I start looking up successful tech startups from around the same time.

  There are hundreds, of course, but I eliminate the highest profile ones—Chase wouldn’t be able to live in such secrecy if he was affiliated with anything that big. Then I make a pot of tea and start going through them, beginning with projects headed by people with Arabic names.

  I’m on my third cup of tea when I strike gold. It’s a gaming app, the kind that allows the user to link up to their bank account and gamble directly with real money. The developer is native to Tala, and in an interview he mentions an American investor who helped him get started.

  I grab my phone again, find the app, and download it, feeling like I’m about to come out of my skin. Sure enough, in the settings menu is a little icon offering to show the credits. I tap it and read the developer’s name in bold white letters. Beneath it, in smaller font, is a list of contributors. And there at the bottom is what I’m looking for: C. Harker.

  This app came out right after he retired. This must be his first big success post-modeling. I’m momentarily thrilled.

  Then I realize that this information gets me exactly no closer to Chase.

  Unless I use it, that is.

  I grab my phone again, open my recent call log, and hit redial on Wylie Egerton’s number, my heart in my throat. After a moment he answers.

  “Wylie Egerton speaking.”

  I steel myself and lower my voice an octave. “Mr. Egerton, this is Georgia Walsh,” I say. Please let this work.

  Immediately his voice changes. He’s excited bordering on obsequious, anxious to please. “Ms. Walsh! What can I do for you?”

  I knew it! It was Georgia’s comment about my name not being enough to get me in the door that opened my eyes to the possibility. I may not be anybody, but Georgia Walsh is a well-known editor, and someone like Wylie Egerton is definitely familiar with her work. I’ll get a lot farther this way, I’m sure of it. I’d just better hope she never finds out I pretended to be her.

  “Well, I’m glad you asked,” I say, striving to keep a businesslike tone. “My publishing company is in talks to produce a biography based on the achievements of someone who I believe you’ve worked closely with, and I’m hoping you’ll help us connect.”

  “Absolutely,” he says. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Chase Harker.”

  “Oh…” Egerton hesitates.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Egerton?” I’ve never tried to sound stern and authoritative before. I hope it’s working.

  “Well, it’s just that I’m not authorized to give out personal contact information for Mr. Harker,” he says. “And to be honest, he wouldn’t want a book like that published. I’m sorry.”

  I grit my teeth. Now comes the part where I really have to sell it.

  “Well, it’s going to be published, whether he likes it or not,” I say. “We already have a team of researchers piecing together the story. The chapter on his breakout investment deal on the island of Tala is particularly riveting.”

  “You would publish an unauthorized biography?” Egerton sounds scandalized.

  “I publish what the people want to read, Mr. Egerton,” I say, hoping I sound haughty and indifferent.

  “But that’s a gross invasion of privacy! And the content will be speculative at best.”

  “If Mr. Harker would like to ensure that we get our facts correct, he’s welcome to connect with me for an interview,” I say. “In fact, that’s what we’d prefer. We do want to tell the true story, Mr. Egerton, and we want to honor the man for his accomplishments. I’m hoping you’ll see that.”

  “I am not giving you Mr. Harker’s personal contact information,” Egerton snaps. “He just wants to live a quiet life.”

  “Oh, calm down,” I say. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want you to talk to him,” I say. “I know you’re in contact with him, so tell him about the book. Tell him we’d like to get his perspective. Just see what he says. When he realizes the book is going to be written, maybe he’ll choose to be a part of the process. He should have that opportunity.”

  Egerton is silent for a long time.

  “Will you tell him?” I prompt.

  “I’ll tell him.” He sounds sulky, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to talk to Chase! “How can I contact you once I have his answer?”

  No way. I
’m not giving him the opportunity to blow me off. If this plan is going to have any chance at working, I need to stay fully involved. Besides, if he does even a speck of verification work on any of this, I’m screwed.

  “Call him now,” I say firmly. “I’ll wait.”

  “Right now?”

  “Publishers have deadlines, you know,” I inform him. “We can’t wait around forever on Mr. Harker. If he wants to be involved, it’s going to have to be soon.”

  Ooh, that’s good. Make him feel like you’re the one doing him a favor.

  And indeed, Wylie Egerton sounds cowed when he speaks again. “All right, Ms. Walsh. May I place you on a brief hold?”

  And now he’s working for me. “Of course,” I say.

  The ambient noise on the other end of the line gives way to flat dead air. I lean back against my pillows and press my face into my palm. I can’t believe it. This crazy idea is actually working. Wylie Egerton is passing my message along to Chase right now. Pride at my own cunning and skill mingles with spiking nerves as I contemplate the possibilities.

  He’s probably going to say no to the interview.

  I brace myself for that outcome. Chase Harker doesn’t talk to journalists, after all, and I can only imagine that giving an interview for a biographer would be just as off-limits for him. And after years of invisibility, why would he break his silence to talk to someone who’s threatening to violate his privacy?

  Maybe this was a horrible plan.

  A click in my ear alerts me to Egerton’s return. “Ms. Walsh?”

  “Yes?”

  “I just hung up with Mr. Harker,” he says. “I don’t know what happened, but something you said must have convinced him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s agreed to the interview.” Egerton sounds as stunned as I’m feeling. “It’s frankly bizarre given his years spent avoiding the press. This wasn’t the answer I expected to be giving you.”

  This isn’t the answer I expected to be getting.