She straightens her shoulders. “All I’m saying is this can go a million different ways. Right now you’re a ship drifting at sea, waiting for a wave to carry you somewhere. But if you get behind the wheel of that ship and steer it yourself, you can get exactly where you want to be.”
“Thanks for the analogy, captain.”
“This is what I’d do,” she continues. “Call the clinic, have them put you in touch with him, and if he’s still in town, invite him over tonight to meet Lucia. Make it clear it’s a once-in-a-lifetime meeting. Maybe take some pictures for Lucia to have when she’s older so she doesn’t end up hating you for keeping him away. And then the two of you can talk about this. At the end of the day, you’re a family. Maybe not a traditional family. But you’re in this together and you can figure this out together. That’s what families do.”
Scooping my baby into my arms, I trace my thumb across her perfect dark eyebrows and sweep a lock of her wispy hair from her forehead.
“You’re thinking with your heart, sis,” she says. “And I know the idea of everything changing is terrifying. But you need to think with your head on this one. Step back and make a rational decision with Lucia’s best interests in mind. I know you can do it.”
My sister says a lot of crazy things. She drives a bright yellow Mini Cooper she lovingly calls Rupert, occasionally highlights her hair various shades of unnatural colors, and dreams of opening a solar-powered greenhouse someday called Plant Parenthood. She’s always marched to the beat of her own drum, and I love her for it. She’s never been one to dole out nuggets of wisdom, but she has a point.
“If you sit back and think about it, there are way more pros than cons here,” she adds.
Dragging in a breath, I slide my phone from my back pocket, close my eyes, and gather my composure.
With sweaty palms and trembling fingers, I dial the clinic and ask for Rhonda Bixby.
Chapter 6
Fabian
* * *
I’m reclined in a leather arm chair, bouncing a tennis ball off the hotel suite wall, when my phone rings.
“Rhonda, hi.” I answer after checking the caller ID.
“Mr. Catalano,” she says. “So glad you answered. I’m calling with good news.”
“If this is about the settlement, I would advise you to call Steen and Farber. They can relay any information to me.”
“No, no.” There’s a rush of excitement in her tone. “I just got off the phone with your recipient—she’s decided she’s open to a meeting after all.”
Never mind that we already met …
Wonder what changed?
Sitting forward, I release the yellow ball, which rolls out of sight. Then I make my way to the expansive windows overlooking a gray Chicago skyline. Just when I was thinking this entire trip was a waste of valuable time, it seems I may be proven wrong.
“She’d like you to call her,” Rhonda says. “Let me know when you have a pen and paper handy.”
Trotting to the writing desk in the corner, I grab a pad of hotel stationery and a monogrammed ballpoint pen. “Ready.”
“Okay, her name is Rossi Bianco and her number is 555-786-8851.”
“Got it.” I end the call and dial her number. There isn’t much in this world that makes me nervous, but pacing the window as the phone rings, a subtle burst of nausea floods my middle.
“Hello?” A soft-sweet voice answers.
“Rossi,” I say, her name foreign on my tongue. “It’s Fabian.”
“That was fast … I hung up with Rhonda not five minutes ago.” She chuckles into the receiver.
“I’m only in town for tonight,” I say, a feeble attempt to cover my enthusiasm. I wouldn’t normally jump at an opportunity to call someone back, but this someone isn’t just any someone. “Rhonda said you were open to meeting?”
“Yeah. I thought about it a little more,” she says. “But before I agree to anything, I wanted to get some clarifications on expectations.”
“Naturally. Go on,” I say.
“Just want to make sure we’re on the same page as far as legal obligations and rights.” She chooses her words carefully and delivers them at a slower-than-normal pace. “I’m okay with you meeting your biological daughter, and if you decide you want to be a part of her life in some capacity, we can discuss that. But I don’t want a dime from you. And I want your word that you’re not going to sue for custody or anything crazy.”
I stifle a laugh at the idea of me palling around the world with a baby in tow. I would never subject a child to my lifestyle, nor would I compromise my lifestyle by adding a kid into the mix.
“Rest assured, Rossi, that custody is the last thing I want from this situation,” I say.
“Good. Sounds like we’re on the same page then …”
“Same word of the same line of the same paragraph.”
Some people visualize their futures and instantly know they want to be a parent. They picture the kids. Make a mental list of names. Envision themselves at baseball games or dance recitals. There’s no doubt that’s what they want. They don’t question it twice. At thirty-seven, I keep waiting for that paternal urge. I find myself glancing at strangers’ babies in passing, wondering if or when it’ll finally hit me. But that desire never comes. There’s never been an itch to scratch there. Never an inkling of longing.
“I’m not trying to be a burden,” I tell her. “I’ve got no plans to disrupt what you have going on. Honestly, I’ve never wanted children and I’m the first to admit I’d be a terrible father. But knowing I have one out there … I’d be remiss if I didn’t use the opportunity to meet her just once, especially if I’m here.”
If I didn’t, it could haunt me the rest of my life. All I’d have is that five-minute exchange in the parking lot with her beautiful mother. It’d be one of those memories that come at random, that take up residence in the back of my mind. It’d feel like a movie I never finished and never will. An unsettled incompleteness.
“I appreciate this more than you’ll ever know,” I tell her.
Dragging my hands through my hair, I finger comb it back into place, ignoring the niggling voice in my head wondering if this is all some kind of extortion ploy. In my earlier, more naïve days, I met a sweet, unassuming Mary Sue type. Shy in a sexy way. She happened to be in my path when I was plastered at a hotel bar after a grueling tournament in London. We screwed for hours like a couple of sex-depraved animals, and I left before the sun came up the following morning to catch a flight. A month later, she’d reached out to my PR rep claiming she had a sex tape of us as well as a handful of compromising photos she was going to leak to the press if I didn’t give her half a mil in cash.
I didn’t give in to her, and my attorneys were able to get to the bottom of her blackmail scheme, but I learned early on to keep even the nicest people at arm’s length. Money tends to draw in the crazies like flies to honey.
“I thought we could do this at my home,” Rossi says. “It’d be private, which I’m sure is important to you—it’s important to me, too.”