CHAPTER 26
Cate
That stormy weekend in the Hamptons, Joe and I talked endlessly about the future. He made the final decision to quit his job, and I resolved to get my GED, attend college, and help with his campaign.
We also decided to keep our engagement a secret from the press. To that end, I would wear my ring on my right hand and deny its significance—which would be more believable because of the ring’s nontraditional design. We called a few close friends and family with our news, including Elna, Wendy, Peter, and Genevieve, who already knew of Joe’s plans, along with his grandmother, mother, Berry, and Curtis, swearing them all to secrecy. Sadly, I did not call my own mother. With Chip in the picture, it just wasn’t safe for her to know. In the back of my mind, I wondered if we could even invite her to our wedding. When I mentioned this to Joe over coffee on Sunday morning, he looked horrified.
“What? Your mother has to be there,” he said. “We’ll find a way to get her there safely without him.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible. It might be too risky,” I said, envisioning Chip calling the media and blowing everything up. Or worse.
“We can do it,” Joe said, stirring more sugar into his mug. “Don’t worry about that.”
“Or…we could just elope?” I said.
“Is that what you want?”
I hesitated because in some ways it always had been what I wanted, even before I knew I would be marrying into the highest-profile family imaginable. There were just too many things missing in my life for a traditional wedding, including a father to walk me down the aisle. Weddings also cost a fortune. I had some money saved, but it still felt like a waste. “Well, eloping sure would be easier,” I finally said.
“Forget about what’s easier,” he said. “Is that what you want?”
I sighed, then shook my head and said no, mostly because I knew that wasn’t what he wanted—and I didn’t think it was fair to him to have any of my issues cloud our decision. That wasn’t the way to start a life together.
“Good. Because I want to see you walking down the aisle. So badly.”
I smiled. “Okay. But I don’t want a huge wedding, either,” I said, thinking of Wendy and Genevieve and how the planning sometimes seemed to take away from the underlying sentiment of marriage.
“I agree. I’d rather have something small,” Joe said.
“Will your mother be okay with that?”
“She’ll have to be,” he said. “It’s our wedding.”
I smiled.
“So…what do you envision?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, looking down at my gorgeous ring, feeling overwhelmed. I looked back up at Joe and said, “Something intimate and very private.”
He gazed into my eyes and said, “Go on.”
“Well…let’s see,” I said. “I picture just two attendants. A best man and maid of honor.”
“Elna and Peter?”
“Yes. Elna and Peter,” I said, thinking Wendy might be hurt, but she’d get over it.
“Will we be in a church or outside?” he asked, like a little boy at story time.
“Either one. But maybe a church would be nice,” I said, thinking that it would also eliminate the possibility of the paparazzi filming our ceremony from a helicopter. We wouldn’t have to worry about weather, either.
“Where is this church?”
“Somewhere remote and secluded…maybe a small wooden chapel with only a few pews inside,” I said. That would be the last place anyone would suspect that Joe Kingsley would marry.
“Ohhh, yes. I like that. A lot…What else?” he said, his expression growing softer by the second.
“Well…let’s see…. We’ll exchange vows after dark…by candlelight…because there might not be any electricity in our little church.”
Joe closed his eyes and inhaled. “Yes. Candles covering the altar.”
“Yes. Filling the church…” I said. “And the pastor might need a flashlight, too. To read from the Bible.”
His eyes still closed, Joe said, “What’s the season? Summer?”
“Maybe,” I said, imagining a warm breeze coming through the open windows of the church, rustling my bouquet and hair. Or maybe there would be a chill in the air. I’d always loved the idea of a winter wedding with snow falling outside. I could wear a faux-fur stole and long gloves. “Any season could work.”
Joe opened his eyes. “Will there be music?”
“Yes. Of course. But nothing elaborate or loud. No organ. Maybe a vocalist or a violinist.”
“What about a harp?”
I laughed and said, “No. There won’t be room for a harp. The church is too small.”
“Will you wear white?” he asked, looking hopeful, perhaps because he’d recently overheard me telling Genevieve that I loved untraditional wedding gowns—whether short or with color.
“Yes. I’ll wear white,” I said—because it was clearly what he wanted. “But I can’t tell you anything else about my dress. It’s bad luck.”
I smiled, picturing a sheath gown and a simple veil. Maybe just a crown of flowers in my hair.
“Will I wear a tux?”
“No,” I said. “It won’t be that formal.”
“Ah, right…So just a suit?”
“Yes. A dark suit. Perfectly cut.”
“How about the one I bought from you?”
I nodded and said yes that would be perfect, along with a pale blue or silver necktie, perhaps with a hint of shimmer.
Joe stood up from the table and came around to pull me to my feet. “Tell me about our first kiss…as husband and wife,” he said, as his arms encircled my waist.
“It will be perfect,” I said, gazing up at him. “Not too short, not too long. Just right.”
“Should we practice?”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” I said, closing my eyes. I felt his warm breath on my face and his lips brushing softly against mine.
“Like that?” he whispered.
“Mmm. That’s close,” I said. “But I think we should try again.”
He kissed me a second time, a little longer and harder. “Like that?”
“Oh. Yes,” I said. “Exactly like that.”
—
The next couple of months were, quite simply, the happiest of my life. It was also the first time I can ever remember truly enjoying the holidays—at least since I was a little girl, before Chip came on the scene. Joe and I put all of our planning for the future on a brief pause and went full throttle on all the romantic activities that I’d always wistfully watched other couples do.
We went to see the Christmas tree lighting at Rockefeller Center and the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. We ice-skated at Wollman Rink and went sledding on Pilgrim Hill. We had tea at the Pierre and hot chocolate at Junior’s. We wandered the toy aisles at F.A.O. Schwarz and perused the elaborate winter wonderlands behind the department store windows, from Macy’s to Saks to Lord & Taylor—which Joe referred to as the pièce de résistance of window displays. There was something so endearing about how much he embraced it all, including activities that many denigrated as touristy. Nothing was beneath him, and I fell more in love with every passing day.
—
As we rolled into the new year, Joe finally resigned from his job and began quietly putting together his campaign team. Meanwhile, I signed up for the GED exam, ordered college brochures, and gave my notice to Wilbur. It was a bittersweet moment. As sad as Wilbur said he was to lose me, he seemed to understand that my current role with the company was no longer feasible. He was over the moon when I told him that Joe and I were engaged.
As we sat in his swanky corner office, I cleared my throat and asked the question that had been on my mind. “Will you make my gown?”
Wilbur’s jaw dropped, and it took a second for him to speak. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “I’m serious.”
“Are you sure? There are way bigger designers out there—”
“I want you. Just say yes.”
“My goodness, yes. Yes!…It would be the greatest honor!”
Wilbur was prone to exaggeration, but as he pressed his hand to his heart and blinked back tears, I could tell he meant it.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No. Thank you,” he said, immediately standing and pacing around his desk the way he always did when he was excited about a project. “So tell me. When and where will your wedding take place?”
I cleared my throat and said we were thinking about June or July—so as not to preempt Peter and Genevieve’s spring wedding—and that we had chosen a small, historic church on Shelter Island called Union Chapel in the Grove.
“Oh, I love Shelter Island!” Wilbur said.
“Me too. Joe took me there over New Year’s,” I said, thinking of the romantic weekend we had spent at the Ram’s Head Inn, a bed-and-breakfast looking out over Peconic Bay. I told Wilbur how we’d accidentally stumbled upon the little chapel on the western bank of the island. It had been established as a Methodist prayer hall back in 1875.
“How perfectly quaint,” Wilbur said.
I smiled and said, “Yes. That’s what we’re going for. Cozy and understated and private…so all of this is top secret.”
“Of course! I swear,” Wilbur said, holding up his right hand and placing his left on an imaginary Bible. “You know discretion is my middle name.”
I smiled.
“Do you have a florist? A caterer? Where will the reception be held?”
“We’re not sure yet. We’ve only made a few calls to the inn and the church. That’s as far as we’ve gotten—”
“Oh, honey. You’ve made calls? This is going to leak so fast,” Wilbur said, looking worried.
I shook my head and told him about our aliases—Sylvia and Dean Bristol—after his grandmother, my father, and the Parisian hotel where we first kissed.
“I love it,” Wilbur said, sitting back down at his desk. He pulled a sketchbook out of the top drawer and flipped it open to a blank page. Then he grabbed a sharpened pencil from a pewter cup next to his computer and gazed over at me. “So, let’s talk about the dress. What are you thinking?”
I smiled and said, “Well. You know my taste as well as I do.”
“Yes,” he said. “Elegant, streamlined simplicity.”
“Yes. I want simple. No lace or beading or other embellishments.”
Wilbur nodded. “Sleeveless?”
“Yes. But not strapless.”
“Spaghetti straps?”
“Yes,” I said. “Maybe a silk slip dress, cut on the bias? Floor length but no train.”
Wilbur nodded, his pencil flying over the page as he began one of his infamous croquis drawings.
After a few seconds, he looked up and said, “Veil or no veil?”
“Veil, I think,” I said. “And maybe long white gloves? For a hint of glamour?”
“Oh, heavens, yes…and your bouquet?”
“Lilies of the valley,” I said. “They’re Joe’s favorite—and his mother carried them when she got married.”
“Fabulous,” he said. “A nod to the Kingsley tradition.”
“Yes,” I said. “But we really want to do things our way—”
“Yes,” he said. “A modern-day Cinderella.”
I laughed and asked if that made him my fairy godfather.
“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Wilbur said, waving his pencil like a wand.
—
From that very first sketch, my gown—and our wedding plans—came together quickly and covertly. We used our aliases whenever possible—and when it wasn’t possible, we had vendors sign ironclad confidentiality agreements. All the while, my happy streak continued.
More striking than my feelings of happiness, though, was the complete absence of self-doubt and my usual relentless brand of cynicism. For once, I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. Why had I always kept my expectations so low? I wondered. How could I have believed that true love didn’t exist in the world—or that somehow I wasn’t worthy of it? With Joe at my side, and his ring on my left hand (or my right when I was out in public), nothing could stop us.
Or so I thought until that cold but sunny March morning in the park.
I had just completed my two-loop jog around the Reservoir and was doing my usual stretching by the South Gate House when I saw a man approaching me. I’m not great at remembering faces, but I could have sworn I’d seen his before. He had an unusually full head of golden hair given his middle age—and combined with his strong jawline, blue eyes, and weathered skin, he gave me a Robert Redford vibe. A downtrodden version of Robert Redford, that is, wearing a baggy olive-green sweatsuit.
As he got closer, he kept his eyes on me, and I grew uneasy. There was no sign of a camera, but I suspected that he might be a reporter. Then again, I was wearing my standard park disguise of oversize sunglasses and one of Joe’s wool caps. I’d even tucked my ponytail into the back of my fleece jacket, as I’d learned it was my hair that typically gave me away. So it was a long shot that anyone would recognize me—unless he’d followed me from my place.
I told myself I was just being paranoid, that he was probably only innocently people-watching the way a lot of New Yorkers did. Sure enough, he stopped a few feet away from me, then leaned on the chain-link fence that Joe always referred to as a blight on the park and stared out over the water. Clearly, he was minding his own business, and I needed to do the same.
I finished my stretching, then walked past him, my thoughts moving on to my to-do list for the day. But no sooner was he gone from my mind than he reappeared out of the corner of my eye, walking alongside me in perfect lockstep. At that point, I got a chill. He was definitely following me. The only question was whether he was a reporter—or some sort of stalker.
My heart pounding in my ears, I began to run. He did the same, then called out my name. Cate. Please stop. I just want to talk to you. Please.
His voice was low and calm, and there was something about the way he said please that defused my fear, replacing it with run-of-the-mill annoyance.
I stopped, turned, and looked him straight in the eye. “Stop following me!” I demanded. “Now!”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I need to talk to you. Just for a minute. Please.”
I shook my head, but he kept talking. “It’s not what you think. It’s not about Joe or anything like that,” he said.
“Then what’s it about?” I asked, my hands now on my hips.
“Can we sit down? Please?” he said, pointing over at a bench. “I promise I only need five minutes—”
I hesitated, wanting to say no. But my curiosity got the better of me, along with his blue eyes. They looked kind. I reminded myself that Ted Bundy had kind blue eyes, too, but still said, “Fine. Five minutes.”
He thanked me, then walked over to the bench, sitting on one end. I followed him, sitting on the other end, waiting for him to speak. I glanced at my watch, letting him know that he was on the clock.
Meanwhile, he crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, like he couldn’t quite get comfortable. Or maybe he was just stalling. Another few seconds passed as he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket and offered me one.
I shook my head.
“Is it okay if I smoke?” he asked, sounding really nervous—and not at all predatory.
I relaxed a bit more, then shrugged and said go ahead, watching as he lit his cigarette, took a long, slow drag, then exhaled.
“Okay. Do you mind telling me who the hell you are?” I said, waving away the smoke.
“You really don’t know?” he said, meeting my gaze.
“No clue,” I said, though he really did look eerily familiar. “Have we met?”
Silence stretched between us as I stared at him, waiting.
“Yes, Cate,” he finally said. “I’m your father.”
Bolting up from the bench like it was on fire, I took a few steps away from it, then glared down at him, something snapping inside me. “You’re a real sicko, you know that?”
“Cate—”
“Nice try,” I said. “My father died when I was three years old.”
He shook his head. “No, Cate. I didn’t die…. Shit…is that what your mother told you?”
“Yes. That’s what she told me,” I said, my voice shaking, my world spinning. “Because that’s what happened. My father was in a car accident. He’s dead. You are not my father.”
“Yes, I am, Cate,” he said, nodding, a desperate look on his face. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it out in the dirt at his feet, then looked at me again. “I was in a car accident—an accident that I caused. I’d been drinking and driving…and I…I killed a man and his pregnant wife. I got charged with three murders…and I went to prison. For twenty-two years. I just got out—”
I shook my head, thinking that there was no way—no possible way. But as he stared back at me, I remembered where I had seen his eyes. They were the eyes from the photograph. The only one I had of my father.
“Oh my God,” I heard myself say. My knees buckled, and I collapsed back onto the bench.
The next few minutes were like a dream, his voice coming in and out. He talked about the letters and birthday cards he had sent me from prison and how they came back as undeliverable. He told me about his grief and guilt. How not a day went by that he didn’t think about that couple and their unborn baby. He talked about finding God, and praying for forgiveness, and living for the day when he could see me again.
Hot tears streamed down my face as anger bubbled up from deep within me. Anger at him for drinking and driving and killing people. Anger at Chip for taking his place. Anger at my mother for lying to me all these years. “Why didn’t she tell me?” I said. “Why?”
“I don’t know, honey.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said.
“I’m sorry….”
I took a few gulps of air, then said, “Does my mother know you’re out of prison?”
He nodded. “Yes. I found her first—”
“And?”
“And it didn’t go well. She begged me not to look for you.”
“Why?” I said, although I knew exactly why. To cover for herself and her lies. I wondered if Chip even knew the truth. I bet not—or he would have rubbed this in my face long ago.
But this man gave me a different answer. “Because of Joe—and your beautiful life. She didn’t want me to ruin things.”
“She told you about Joe?”
“No. I saw her in the National Enquirer. A buddy of mine recognized her—and showed me…. That’s how I tracked her down….”
I closed my eyes as the bitter, shameful reality sank in. It was worse than I’d ever thought. Joe was a Harvard alum running for Congress with a father who had died an American hero. I was a high-school dropout with a father who had taken three lives and spent most of his life in prison. This was so much worse than Chip; Chip had never murdered anyone. And he wasn’t my blood.
I thought of what the tabloids would say about me when they found out. What Joe’s mother would say. It was too much—way too much—and every feeling of self-doubt and inadequacy I’d ever known came rushing back. Joe was too good for me, plain and simple, and even if he could get over the horrible truth about where I came from, I knew that I never would.
“I have to go,” I said, getting to my feet again.
“Cate—” he pleaded, staring up at me, his own tears spilling. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you—”
“Sorry won’t bring those people back.”
“I know. God, I know…but I have atoned as much as possible for what I did. And the victims’ families have forgiven me. I just hope you can, too—”
“You’ve been gone my whole life. My whole life.”
“I know. But you’re still a young woman…. It’s not too late—”
I shook my head and backed slowly away from him. I didn’t want to hear another word. “Yes, it is. It’s way too late.”
“Cate. You’re the only thing I’ve ever truly cared about. I’m your father—”
“No! You’re not my father. I don’t have a father,” I said. “Or a mother. You are both dead to me.”
Then I turned and ran away from him as fast as I possibly could.