PART 3: THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Julian spent most of the night in his car across from Clara’s building in Dorchester. It was a tired triple-decker with sagging porches, a cracked front step, and none of the quiet luxury of his Beacon Hill home.
At a quarter past seven, a lamp came on in a third-floor window. He watched Clara’s shadow cross behind the curtain, and then two small shapes began jumping on what had to be a couch.
He smiled before he realized it, and then his eyes burned. He had a shelf of industry awards and a dozen magazine covers framed in his office. He had missed every first word.
At eight, his phone buzzed. Russell Dunn, his business partner.
“Where are you? The Singapore group lands at ten. We need you at the table.”
The deal was worth seven hundred million dollars and had taken two years to assemble. Closing it would make Ashford Development the largest waterfront builder on the East Coast.
“I’m not coming, Russell.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m in Dorchester.”
“What on earth are you doing in Dorchester?”
Julian looked up at the third-floor window.
“Trying to get back the only thing I ever had that mattered.”
“If you don’t walk in that room, we lose it!”
“Then we lose it.”
He hung up, crossed the street, and pressed the buzzer marked WHITMORE.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Julian.”
The silence lasted long enough that he thought she would not answer. Then the lock clicked. Upstairs, Clara stood in the doorway in an old T-shirt, her hair piled up, dark shadows under her eyes.
“It’s barely eight.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She glanced toward the kitchen, where the boys were having breakfast. Through the door, Julian saw a small, spotless apartment, an upright piano against one wall, crayon drawings taped everywhere, and the warm smell of toast.
“Mommy, who’s here?” a voice called.
“A friend, baby.”
A boy in a navy hoodie came barreling out, jam on his chin, and stopped right at Julian’s knees.
“Hi! I’m Oliver.”
Julian crouched to his level.
“Hi, Oliver. I’m Julian.”
“Are you Mommy’s friend?”
“I’ve known your mom a long, long time.”
“Do you know how to build a block tower?”
Julian blinked.
“I build very big ones, actually.”
“Good! Finn’s are tall, but mine fall over.”
Then the second boy appeared in the kitchen doorway. Finn was smaller and quieter, a striped sweater hanging off one shoulder, a stuffed rabbit pressed against his chest. He studied Julian with serious brown eyes, and the dimple flickered when he frowned.
“Are you the man in the picture?”
Clara went still. Julian’s pulse jumped.
“Which picture, buddy?”
Finn padded to the bookshelf and came back holding a framed photograph. It was their wedding day on the steps of a little church in Rockport, Clara laughing, Julian looking at her instead of the camera.
“This one. Mommy’s pretty.”
Julian touched the edge of the frame.
“She was. She still is.”
Finn looked from the photograph to Julian’s face and back again.
“Then how come you’re not in our other pictures?”
Julian had no answer. Clara gently told Finn to finish his toast with Oliver, promising they would talk later.
When the boys were back at the table, Julian turned to her.
“Please. Tell me all of it.”
She sat him down at the kitchen table and pulled a thick green folder from a drawer. Inside were ultrasound printouts, birth records, hospital bills, and photographs from the boys’ first weeks.
One picture showed two tiny babies in neighboring incubators. One had a fist raised. The other was nearly hidden beneath wires and tubing, a bandage across his chest.
“Thirty-two weeks,” Clara said quietly. “Oliver was three pounds, ten ounces. Finn was under three.”
Julian could not look away. His sons had been fighting to breathe while he flew to London for a closing dinner.
“Were you alone?”
“Mostly. My friend Maggie came when she could. Walter brought soup to the hospital every Sunday.”
Julian set the photograph down, his vision blurring.
“I should have been there.”
“Yes,” Clara said. “You should have.”
She reached to the bottom of the folder and slid out a stapled document. On the last page was the signature of Gordon Pierce, the attorney Vivienne had chosen to handle their divorce, beside a clause forbidding Clara from contacting Julian about any matter whatsoever.
Before Julian could finish reading it, three sharp knocks rattled the apartment door.
Clara’s face drained of color. Through the peephole, Julian saw a sleek platinum bob and a pair of pearl earrings.
Vivienne had found them.
