The Match Page 5

  Why was he here this time?

  Matthew was a freshman at the University of Michigan. Or at least, he had been. If he was back in the area, Hester assumed the school year was over. It was May. Was that when school ended? She didn’t know. She didn’t know that he was back either, which disturbed her. Neither Matthew nor his mother, Laila, had told her that her grandson was back. Laila was Hester’s daughter-in-law. Or would the correct terminology be former daughter-in-law?

  What do you call the woman who was widowed when your youngest son died?

  “All rise.”

  Hester and Richard Levine stood as the jury headed out for deliberations. Richard Levine kept his eyes forward. “Thank you,” he whispered to her.

  Hester nodded as the guards took Levine back into custody. At this stage of momentous trials, most attorneys enjoy playing pundit, breaking down the case’s strengths and weaknesses, trying to read the jury members’ body language, predicting the outcome. Hester made her living—part of it anyway—doing just that on television. She was skilled at it. It was fun too, a mental exercise with no real-world implications, but when it came to her own cases—cases like this where so much of her heart and soul was invested—Hester let go. Juries were notoriously unpredictable, as, when you think about it, is most of life. Think about those “genius” talking heads you see on cable news. Do they ever get anything right? Who predicted a man in Tunisia would set himself on fire and start an Arab uprising? Who predicted we would be staring at smartphones for half our waking life? Who predicted Trump or Biden or COVID or any of that?

  As the old Yiddish expression goes, “Man plans, God laughs.”

  Hester had done her best. The jury’s decision was out of her hands. That was another key thing she had learned with age: Worry about what you can control. If you can’t control it, let it go.

  That was her serenity prayer without the serenity.

  Hester hurried toward her grandson. It never got easier to see the echo of her dead son David in this handsome boy-cum-man. Matthew was eighteen, taller than her David had ever been, darker skinned since Laila was black and so her grandson was biracial. But the mannerisms, the way Matthew stood against the wall, the way he looked around and took in the whole room, the way he walked, the way he hesitated before he spoke, the way he looked to his left when he was mulling over a question—it was all David. Hester relished that and let it crush her all at the same time.

  When she reached Matthew, Hester said, “So what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Hester gave him the skeptical-grandma frown. “Your mom…?”

  “She’s fine, Nana. Everyone is fine.”

  He had said that last time he’d surprised her like this. It hadn’t proved accurate.

  “When did you get back from Ann Arbor?” she asked.

  “A week ago.”

  She tried not to sound hurt. “And you didn’t call?”

  “We know how you get at the end of a trial,” Matthew said.

  Hester wasn’t sure how to counter that, so she skipped the reprimands, opting to wrap her arms around her grandson and pull him close. Matthew, who had always been an affectionate boy, hugged her back. Hester closed her eyes and tried to make time stop. For a second or two, it almost did.

  With her eyes still closed and her head pressed against his chest, Hester once again said, “So what’s wrong?”

  “I’m worried about Wilde.”

  Chapter

  Five

  I haven’t heard from Wilde in a long time,” Matthew said.

  They sat in the backseat of Hester’s Cadillac Escalade. Tim, Hester’s longtime driver and quasi-bodyguard, veered the vehicle onto the lower level of the George Washington Bridge. They were heading to New Jersey, more specifically the town of Westville, a mountain suburb where many years ago, Hester and her late husband, Ira, had raised their three boys: Jeffrey, a dentist living in Los Angeles; Eric, a financial analyst of some kind residing in North Carolina; and the youngest, Matthew’s father David, who was killed in a car crash when Matthew was seven years old.

  “When was the last time you spoke?” Hester asked.

  “When he called from the airport and said he’d be gone for a while.”

  Hester nodded. That would have been when Wilde left for Costa Rica. “So nearly a year.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how Wilde is, Matthew.”

  “Right.”

  “I know he’s your godfather.” Wilde had been David’s best friend—in Wilde’s case, David was probably his only friend. “And yes, he should be doing a better job of being there for you—”

  “That’s not it,” Matthew interjected. “I’m eighteen.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m an adult now.”

  “Again: So?”

  “So Wilde was always there when I was growing up.” Then Matthew added, “Other than Mom, he was around more than anyone.”

  Hester leaned away from him. “Other than Mom,” she repeated. “Wow.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Other than Mom.” Hester shook her head. “Low blow, Matthew.”

  He lowered his head.

  “Don’t pull that passive-aggressive nonsense on your old grandma. It doesn’t play with me, do you understand?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I live and work in Manhattan,” she continued. “You and your mom live in Westville. I came out as often as I could.”

  “I know.”

  “Low blow,” she repeated.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…” Matthew looked her in the eyes and they were so like David’s that she almost winced. “I don’t want you to attack him, okay?”

  Hester looked out the window. “Fair enough.”

  “I’m worried, that’s all. He’s off in a foreign country and—”

  “Wilde came back months ago,” Hester said.

  “How do you know?”

  “He was in touch. I got someone to take care of that metal tube he calls home while he was gone.”

  “Wait. So he’s back in the woods?”

  “I assume so.”

  “But you haven’t spoken to him?”

  “Not since he’s been back. But before last year, I hadn’t spoken to Wilde in six years. That’s how it is with me and him.”

  Matthew nodded. “Now I’m really worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wasn’t home six months ago. I’m home now. I’ve been home a week.”

  Hester saw where he was going with this. When Wilde lived in the mountain forest behind their home, he would watch over Matthew and Laila, mostly from a hidden perch in the hills, sometimes sitting in the backyard by himself in the dark, and sometimes—at least for a brief period—from Laila’s bed.

  “If he’s back in the country and okay,” Matthew continued, “he would have said hello to us.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Not for sure,” Matthew agreed.

  “And he’s had a rough go of it.”

  “How so?”

  Hester wondered how much to tell him and then figured what’s the harm. “He found his birth father.”

  Matthew’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was he? What happened?”

  “I don’t really know, and if I did, it wouldn’t be my place to tell you. But I don’t think it went well. Wilde came home, threw away the disposable phone I was using to reach him, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

  Tim veered onto Route 17 North. For three decades, Hester had made this commute to and from Manhattan. She and Ira had been happy here. They had managed the balance of career and family as well as any couple she knew. When the boys moved out, Hester and Ira sold the Westville house and bought a place in Manhattan. This had been Hester and Ira’s long-term plan: Work hard, do your best by your kids, spend your “golden years” in the city with your spouse. Alas. Not to be. Hester may like the expression “Man plans, God laughs,” but an offshoot translation—“If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans”—seemed more apropos in her case.

  “Nana?”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you reach Wilde last time?”

  “You mean, when you asked me to find Naomi?”

  Matthew nodded.

  Hester let out a long breath and considered her options. “Is your mother home?”

  Matthew checked the clock on his phone. “Probably. Why?”

  “I’m going to drop you off. If it’s okay with her, I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay with her?”

  “Maybe she has plans,” Hester said. “You know me. I’m not one for prying.”

  Matthew burst out laughing.

  “Nobody likes a wise mouth, Matthew.”

  “You’re a wise mouth,” he countered.

  “Exactly.”

  Matthew smiled at her. The smile cleaved Hester’s heart in two. “Where are you going after you drop me off?”

  “To see if I can find Wilde.”

  “Why can’t I come?”

  “Let’s do it my way for now.”

  Matthew was not thrilled with that reply, but his grandmother’s tone made it clear that resistance would be futile. They headed off the classic New Jersey highway near a bunch of car dealerships, and two minutes later, it was like they’d entered another world. Tim made a right, then a left, then two more rights. Hester knew the route too well. The beautifully bloated log cabin was carved into the foothills of the Ramapo Mountains section of the Appalachians.

  There was a Mercedes SL 550 parked in the driveway. “Mom get a new car?” Hester asked.

  “No, that’s Darryl’s.”


  “Who is Darryl?”

  Matthew just looked at her. Hester tried not to feel that deep, hard pang in her chest.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Tim pulled to a stop behind Darryl’s Mercedes.

  “You’ll let me know if you find him?” Matthew asked.

  “I’ll call.”

  “Don’t call,” Matthew said. “Just come back when you can. I know Mom wants you to meet him.”

  Hester nodded a little too slowly. “Do you like Darryl?”

  Matthew’s reply was to kiss his grandmother on the cheek and slide out.

  Hester watched her grandson walk toward the front door with the same gait as his father. She and Ira had built this home forty-three years ago. The cliché holds—it felt like forever ago and like it was yesterday. They had sold the house to David and Laila. Hester had been hesitant about that. It seemed odd to raise your family in the same house in which you’d been raised. Still, it made a lot of sense for a lot of reasons. David and Laila loved the place. They completely transformed the interior and made it their own. Ira also loved keeping the house in the family and would come out often so he could still hike and fish and do all that outdoorsy stuff that Hester so didn’t get.

  But then again, even if you don’t believe in the butterfly effect, what if she had insisted that David and Laila buy someplace else? It drives you nuts to think of such things, and intellectually she understood that none of this was her fault, but if she had done that, the world’s timeline would have changed somewhat, right? David wouldn’t have been on that mountain road when it was so slippery. The car wouldn’t have gone off the edge. Ira wouldn’t have died of a heart attack—heartbreak, in her eyes—soon after.

  So much for letting go what you can’t control, she thought.

  “I guess Laila has a boyfriend,” she said to her driver, Tim.

  “Laila is a beautiful woman.”

  “I know.”

  “And it’s been a long, long time.”

  “I know.”

  “Also, Matthew’s at college. She’s all alone now. You should want this for her.”

  Hester made a face. “I didn’t hire you for your empathetic insights into my family dynamics.”

  “I won’t charge you extra,” Tim said. “Where to?”

  “You know.”

  Tim nodded and circled through the cul-de-sac and back out. It took longer to find than she would have thought. Wilde always kept the hidden lane off Halifax Road camouflaged and hard to locate, but now it was overgrown to the point where Tim couldn’t turn the Escalade onto it. He pulled the car onto the shoulder.

  “I don’t think Wilde uses this anymore.”

  If that was the case, Hester was out of ideas. She could talk to Oren, her beau, about having the park rangers comb the area for Wilde, but if he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be—and if something bad had happened to him, then, coldly put, it would probably be too late.

  “I’ll take the path on foot,” Hester said.

  “Not alone you won’t,” Tim replied, rolling out of the driver’s side with a speed that defied his bulk. Tim was a big slab of a man in an ill-fitted suit and military-style crewcut. He buttoned his suit coat—he always insisted on wearing a suit to work—and opened the back door for her.

  “Stay here,” Hester said.

  Tim squinted and scanned the surroundings. “It could be dangerous.”

  “You have your gun, right?”

  He patted his side. “Of course.”

  “Wonderful, so watch me from here. If someone tries to abduct me, shoot to kill. Wait, unless it’s a hunky man, then bid me adieu.”

  “Isn’t Wilde hunky?”

  “An age-appropriate hunky man, Tim. Oh, and thanks for being a literalist.”

  “Also, do Americans still say ‘hunky’?”

  “This one does.”

  Hester headed toward an opening in the thicket. Last time she’d been here, there’d been enough room for the car to slide through. Tim had driven in, setting off whatever motion-detector sensors Wilde used. They’d waited and he soon appeared. That was how it worked most of the time with Wilde. He took living off the grid to an art form. Part of it was for reasons of personal safety. During his years of clandestine work in both military and then private security with his foster sister Rola, Wilde had made his share of enemies. Some would like to find him and see him dead. Good luck with that.

  But most of it, Hester knew, stemmed from Wilde’s childhood trauma. Somehow, as a small boy, going back as far as he could remember, Wilde had been alone, in these same woods, fending for himself. Think about that. According to the young boy himself, the only person he had spoken directly to in all those years was another about his age, a little boy Wilde had spotted playing alone in his backyard and so little Wilde approached and the two struck up a strange and clandestine friendship. When the little boy’s mom overheard her son talking out loud, the boy would claim it was his imaginary friend, and the mother, naïve in so many ways, would believe him. It was not until Wilde was found that the truth came out.

  The little boy—spoiler alert—was Hester’s youngest son, David.

  The perimeter was indeed overgrown and neglected, but the clearing inside of it—where Tim had parked the car last time—was still there. Hester wasn’t sure what to do. She looked for motion detectors or cameras, but of course, Wilde was too good to let any of them be visible. She debated calling out, but that wouldn’t be how Wilde would set it up. Either he was okay and would appear soon, or he was in trouble. She would know one way or another.

  After about fifteen minutes, Tim fought his way into the clearing and stood with her. Hester checked for messages on her phone. The Levine jury had finished for the day. No verdict, which was no surprise. Deliberations would resume in the morning. Matthew texted twice asking for updates and to reassure her that it would be good to stop by the house.

  Another fifteen minutes passed.

  Hester swung between worry (suppose Wilde wasn’t okay?) and anger (if he was okay, why had he abandoned his godson?). On the one hand, she got it. The textbook diagnosis: Wilde had never gotten over his abandonment as a child and so he still couldn’t form true attachments. That made sense, she guessed, except she also knew that Wilde would lay down his life in a moment for Matthew or Laila. Wilde loved those he cared about fiercely and protectively—and yet he couldn’t live with them or be with them on a steady basis. It is a paradox, a contradiction, and yet that is what most of us are, when we think about it. We want to make people consistent and predictable and simple, but they never are.

  Hester looked over at Tim. Tim shrugged and said, “Long enough?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  They headed back through the thicket. When they turned to the car, a bearded man with long hair was casually leaning against the hood with his arms crossed.

  “So what’s wrong?” Wilde asked.

  * * *

  Hester and Wilde stared for a few seconds. Tim broke the silence.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” he said.

  Seeing Wilde again opened the floodgates. The memories rushed at Hester, pouring toward her in unceasing waves, the kind of waves that hit you at the beach when you aren’t looking and every time you manage to get up, another pulls you back under. She saw Wilde as the little boy found in the woods, as the teen in her kitchen with David, the high school sports star, the West Point cadet, the groomsman looking so out of place in his tux at David and Laila’s wedding (Wilde probably would have served as best man, but Hester more or less insisted that David choose his brothers for that role), the godfather holding baby Matthew after the birth, the man who kept his eyes down as he told her that David’s death was his fault.

  “You grew a beard,” Hester said.

  “You like it?”

  “No.”

  He was still gorgeous, of course. When the little boy was found in the woods, the newspapers had called him a modern-day Tarzan, and physically it was almost as if he grew into that role. Wilde was all coiled muscles and stony angles. He had light brown hair, eyes with gold flecks, a sun-kissed complexion. He stood very still, panther-like, as though preternaturally ready to pounce, which, in his case, might be accurate.