Hot Streak

CHAPTER 28

H is security men behind him, Carey ran down the corridors and burst out the side door, sprinting for his car parked at the curb. Wrenching the door open, he leaped inside. “To Molly's,” he barked, and Jess began pulling away before the men behind Carey had caught up with him. Intent on his search for a weapon, he didn't look up when two of the security men threw themselves into the accelerating limo. He kept a small Beretta in the compartment under the seat and, pushing the sliding door aside, he felt for it. The feel of the cool metal was comforting, as if he suddenly had more control of his fear or at least an even chance with the Rifats of the world. Slipping the gun into his jacket pocket, he turned to the two men breathing hard beside him and said, “I saw Rifat's man.”

Even in his worst nightmares he'd never considered having his daughter involved in Egon's asinine scheme, and he passionately hoped his emotional reaction was the overreaction of a protective father. He hoped Rifat's aide was simply out to involve him somehow in Egon's problem. They couldn't know about Carrie. Could they? The story had only hit the newsstands today; they'd have had to leave Europe yesterday to be here this morning. He hoped they didn't know of Molly and Carrie, although he wasn't naive enough to think Rifat's right-hand man was in Minneapolis to enjoy the summer lakes. At best, he was the object of their visit; and the worst, he dared not contemplate. “Go through the light,” he ordered, and Jess accelerated to avoid another car bearing down on the intersection. The one-way street had only moderate traffic at that time of the morning, and Jess wove through the three lanes at a smooth ninety. He took the left onto Helseth Memorial Highway on two tires, and pushed the speedometer into the red zone when Carey said, “Step on it.”

As they neared the Merchandise Mart, the police cars were obvious.

Four of them were parked out front as though they'd skidded on ice to stop.

And a fire truck was half visible around the south side of the building.

Please God, Carey silently prayed, his hand gripping the revolver, the safety already switched off, she doesn't belong in any of this. Shutting his eyes briefly, he drew in a deep breath and asked any god who was listening for help. When his dark eyes opened, he spoke in curt phrases to the men beside him. “They're Turks. Don't give them an edge. Shoot first. We'll work up the defense later. If they're here at Molly's,” his voice was totally without emotion, “they're after my daughter, and I want them dead.” His hand was on the door handle as Jess braked, leaving tire marks on the pavement. “If you have any problems with this, stay in the car. I won't take offense.” And he was out of the backseat before the Lincoln came to a complete stop. Up the front steps in three loping strides, he dashed through the door and took the stairs because the elevators were too slow.

When he reached the second floor, the apartment door was open, the lock plate broken from the jamb, and he could see through the foyer and hallway to the light-filled living room. The apartment was empty, deathly quiet, and when he turned back to the men who'd followed him up, his face was set in a hard brutal mask. “Check out the apartment. I'll meet you downstairs.”

His heart was pounding in his ears. Damn Rifat! Damn predators like him who took their bloody barbarian ruthlessness to peaceful people in peaceful regions of the world. If Carrie was harmed… he wouldn't allow himself to think of possibilities beyond that. But flashback images of maimed children in Vietnam filled his mind, and he swore to drive away the searing vignettes, swore his revenge on Shakin Rifat for coming within a thousand miles of his daughter.

His Beretta poised, he surveyed the second-floor corridor swiftly, and took the backstairs down. The mezzanine floor was as quiet as the second, but he was cautious when he opened the stairwell door into the corridor. Nothing… no one. And the absence of people was foreboding. Three offices on the mezzanine were normally busy with activity. A uniformed policeman stood near the main floor office when Carey eased the ground floor doorway open. One policeman and four cars outside. It wasn't reassuring. Where was Carrie?

The inside of his mouth was dry as it had been when he'd patrolled the jungles of Vietnam, never knowing if his next step was going to be his last. Taking a careful breath to calm himself, and at the same time reminding himself this was not Vietnam, death was not wholesale insanity in Minneapolis, he slipped his Beretta into his jacket pocket and stepped out into the corridor. He approached the policeman with rapid strides. “I'm looking for my daughter,” he said. In a hurry to find out from this man where his daughter was or get past him in the least possible waste of time, he kept his voice impersonal.

The man looked him over with an appraising glance. “Who're you?”

“Carey Fersten; my daughter lives here. There're four police cars outside. Why?”

“Don't know anything about your daughter.” The man showed no emotion. Even his voice was a monotone without intensity or force, the audible expression of the principle: This is only a job. When my eight hours are over, I go home. I plan to live until retirement.

“Four black-and-whites?” Carey persisted.

“We answered a burglar alarm and a fire alarm. I was assigned to keep the office secure when the building was evacuated. Most everyone headed out back. The rest of them went down the basement 'cuz someone here saw two men running that way.”

Carey felt ludicrously like a reporter. “No one's seen a couple of young girls?” Lucy had decided to keep Carrie company that day. A special treat for her birthday.

“Sorry, can't help you.” And he looked at his watch.

Carey's pulse was still racing, but he turned away with a casual nod. Passing the officer, he sprinted toward the basement stairs. At least, he thought, the police were there. Even if Rifat's men had come… he paused with sudden alarm. They could have been here, snatched Carrie, and left already.

As though a computer had short-circuited in his brain, fragmented mental impressions raced through his mind: What the hell was that aide's name? Damn Egon and his drug habit; damn Sylvie for ever walking into his life. Could he shoot the Turks with the police around? Maybe Carrie was safe with Lucy, playing the video games at the Savoy Hotel down the street, maybe Kiray, that was his name, was only at the press conference as a precaution, keeping track of him to keep track of Egon. That was it. Right, God? Jesus, he was losing it. But he'd only just found his daughter, and she was more precious to him than he'd ever imagined possible.

How many years had he tossed off the casual disclaimer to the familiar question about children? How many times had he said: “The world will survive just fine without any more Ferstens.” And all he wanted to do right now was find Carrie, wrap his arms around her, and weep with relief.

But in the next pulsebeat, he wanted to track down Rifat and “neutralize” him, as the intelligence agencies so euphemistically put it. Was that a normal paternal instinct? Or perhaps an overprotective response nurtured by too many special assignments with Mac and Ant and Luger during the winding down of the Vietnam Era, as the Defense Department referred to the fiasco that would otherwise have to be acknowledged as a lost war. But for the first time since arriving back home, Carey appreciated the lethal skills he'd acquired with Mac, Ant, and Luger. He intended to use them on Rifat.

The basement was typical of turn-of-the-century buildings. Heavy, rough-cut stone served as foundation, and the musty accumulation of nearly a century worth of dirt, dust, and darkness struck him halfway down the stairs. The silence at the bottom of the steps unnerved him, as if the vast rabbit warren of dark corridors and walled sections had swallowed up four cars of policemen. And it reminded him of the tunnels in Vietnam.

He moved slowly down the narrow passageway, weighing risk against survival. His was the kind of caution developed in deserted VC camps where a booby-trapped map if picked up would blow you away, or a dead buddy would be detonated to go off when you lifted his dog tags. His Beretta was out front as he checked each room he passed.

A faint sound reached him; had he heard a child's voice-or was he fantasizing? Straining his ears, he waited to hear the high-pitched tone again. There.

Then men's voices, low and muted, joined the child's, the undecipherable masculine resonance turning into an occasional audible word-and then many. Hurt, he heard, and then gun… Yes, yes, yes, a child's voice, and the thunder of his heart intensified. He ran without caution, racing toward the human voices, no longer weighing the risks.

A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor, emitting a cool white fluorescent light in a neat geometric pattern on the floor and wall. Sure that his daughter was behind the door, he charged through it.

Across the room, a policeman squatted before a small, dark-haired girl dressed in yellow shorts and a DisneyWorld T-shirt, surrounded by several other uniformed men. His eyes quickly scanned the men. Seven police; there were seven policemen and Lucy. But no Carrie!

He couldn't catch his breath. A sudden chill struck him like an arctic gale, and he stopped dead as though he'd come up against an invisible wall. He was too late. Rifat had her.

“Drop it, mister,” a gruff voice said. The statement was harsh, without room for discussion. When Carey refocused on the group near Lucy, he saw seven handguns aimed at his head.

Ignoring the guns, absorbed totally with the loss of his daughter, he said, “Lucy, what happened to Carrie?”

“Fucking drop it, asshole, or you're going to lose it.”

I already lost it, asshole, he wanted to say, you're too late. And he blamed himself a thousand ways for not anticipating Rifat's treachery. She was in his hands. He couldn't breathe when he thought of his daughter at Rifat's mercy. A man without mercy. He was sick with guilt and despair.

“Daddy!” He heard her first, and his head swiveled toward the sound at laser speed. A small blond head appeared from behind a burly policeman's leg, and then a slender tanned shoulder. Followed by the whole beautiful sight of her looking like a summer rose in a pale flowered sundress.

Quickly setting down his Beretta, Carey dashed toward her. Scooping her into his arms he hugged her, gratitude and gladness rushing through him like the answered prayers of childhood. For long moments he simply crushed her to him, breathless and deliriously happy. Something moved on his cheek, and he reached up to brush away the wetness, thinking somewhere in the disconnected emotions of hope and fear and joy crashing through his mind, that he'd never cried in sheer happiness before. And he learned in those few moments of deliverance that his happiness was bound forever with this small child and her mother. It was not entirely news. After all, it had been the source of much of his former misery.

A polite cough returned him to the circle of policemen in the starkly lit room… and Carrie's breathy, high rush of words which tumbled out the moment he transferred her to a perch on his left arm. He wasn't about to set her down. He held her as if her security were guaranteed only in his arms.

“There were bad guys, like in your movies… these bad guys pushed in the front door,” she excitedly disclosed, “but Lucy and I ran as soon as they started banging through the door.”

“We took the backstairs,” Lucy interjected, tugging on Carey's sleeve.

“And ran for Theresa's office,” Carrie finished.

“But one of the scary guys came out of the elevator before we got there.” Lucy's eyes were huge as she recalled their flight.

“So we changed our minds and ran for the basement.” They couldn't talk fast enough, each finishing the other's sentences.

“Carrie pushed the burglar alarm at the top of the stairs… and the fire alarm down the basement.”

“Then I headed for the old coal cellar Mom and I found last year. It's so dark back there, no one could ever see us. Not even the monster from Friday the 13th.”

“And they didn't,” Lucy breathlessly added. “But they sure were looking.”

“They didn't talk English,” Carrie offered. “Who are they?” she asked, confident that Carey would know.

“I'm not sure,” he lied, not inclined to share his suspicions with the local police. Kiray's men were probably long gone, and his own security men could protect Carrie now that he knew Rifat's intentions. He didn't have a lot of confidence in the power of a Midwestern police department over a man who had outmaneuvered every intelligence agency in the world.

“Any idea who they might be, mister-”

“Fersten,” he volunteered. “Carey Fersten. No, I'm sorry, I don't.”

“Do you have a license for that side arm?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice altered into that sincerity he'd found convenient when dealing with military officers and police the world over. “Were any of the men chasing my daughter apprehended?”

“Well, mister,” one officer said quietly out of the corner of his mouth, reminding Carey of a young Humphrey Bogart. “It's possible these girls have seen one too many TV shows. If you ask me, I'd say childish imagination and hysteria. Either of these girls hyperactive?” he soberly inquired, switching to a concerned doctor role.

Hysteria would be a convenient explanation, Carey thought, eager to avoid further dealings with the police. Just as he was about to agree with the officer's interpretation, another policeman noted, “Someone busted that apartment door. No finesse. The jamb was in splinters.”

All the men's eyes traveled to Carey's Beretta lying on the floor, and the spokesman for the group who was apparently an amateur actor, ominously said, “You know the guys chasing these girls?”

Shit. The hysteria theory was out. Now how much of the truth was necessary to appease them? As little as possible. Talk of terrorists and international arms dealers would provoke endless interrogation… not to mention all the auxiliary agencies who would race in to take a piece of the action. And in the meantime, Rifat was safely in Italy, anyway.

“It's possible my ex-brother-in-law was involved… an obsessive practical joker-”

“This was a joke?”

Carey shrugged. “He takes drugs, he's wealthy, and he's got too much time on his hands. He shouldn't have come over here.”

“From where?”

He could see they were all thinking Colombia or Jamaica. “Germany. His family owns the Von Mansfeld Munitions Works.” His inclusion of Egon's last name was deliberate; he'd discovered at a young age that titled folk were like baseball stars or Hollywood actors, attractive celebrities treated with a combination of insatiable curiosity and awe. And Sylvie's name had been a star attraction in the tabloid story, as well as in today's press conference.

“You the guy on TV today?”

Bingo. And now we alter course away from terrorists and kidnapping. Carey nodded.

“And she's…” The man hesitated, slightly embarrassed when he recalled the headlines repeated on TV.

“My daughter.”

“I suppose your brother-in-law thought it would be a good time-”

“To play one of his irritating pranks on me. He probably heard about the press conference. Ex-brother-in-law, by the way.”

“Sylvie von Mansfeld's your ex-wife, then.”

“Yes.” He knew what they were thinking; he could tell by the smiles forming on their faces. Sylvie's early films had been well publicized, and her nubile young body was as familiar to the world as it had been to him. “We've been divorced for several years,” he politely added.

“Just a prank, hey?” La Dolce Vita after thirty years in the press was an accepted reality. How many thousands of photos and sensational stories had been published throughout the world depicting the amoral and bizarre amusements of the leisured money class? While most people worked their way toward retirement one predictable day at a time, the beautiful people looked for ways to amuse themselves.

“I'm afraid so. Look, if I could make amends for your inconvenience…” He turned on his most charming smile. “Say a contribution to some police fund? It's the least I could do for all your hassle.”

And after a few more moments' discussion they traded business cards, Carey apologized one more time, and said his business manager would send a check. “Thank you very much for responding so promptly to my daughter's call for help.” Carey and the two girls waved good-bye from the building entrance.

Theresa and the office staff were introduced to the two security men who would be, Carey said, “keeping an eye out for photographers.”

Then Carey and the girls returned to the apartment, where he called Allen first, then talked to Molly, apologizing for leaving so abruptly. He explained that he'd recognized someone in the crowd. Yes, everything was fine, and he'd see her in ten minutes when Allen brought her home. The birthday girl, he reminded her, was waiting for the party to begin.

While Allen and Molly were driving over, he helped the girls prepare for Carrie's party, and then went into Molly's drafting room to make some calls. Although Kiray was probably halfway to Rome, Carey couldn't be sure another attempt might be tried. And if it wasn't Carrie's birthday today, he would have immediately removed her from any possible danger. The split second after he knew Pooh was safe, he had decided to take Molly and his daughter away to safety. Although his decision was firm, he realized diplomacy would be required when he told Molly.

Tomorrow morning he intended to bring Molly and Carrie north to his father's estate. Bernadotte had a sophisticated security arrangement to protect his home, thanks to all his old contacts in MI6. An intelligence officer attached to the British army in the last years of WWII, he'd never lost his love of gadgetry.

The most difficult task was going to be convincing Molly to leave her business for a time. Perhaps he could coax her with the idea of a family vacation in which he and Carrie could become better acquainted. He could already hear Allen screaming about overruns. “Fuck it,” he muttered and called his father.

Their conversation was simple, but Bernadotte understood his son's purpose once Egon's name was mentioned. “By all means,” he said, “stop by and see me.”

Carey hadn't mentioned Carrie or Molly in the event the phone was tapped. He respected Rifat's intelligence. But Bernadotte knew from experience that Carey never called ahead to discuss his impending visits. Apparently something was in the air. When he replaced the receiver, he smiled and went to find his housekeeper. They were going to have houseguests. And if he interpreted his son's tone of voice properly, one was going to be a female houseguest. An unprecedented event for Carey.

In the few short moments since the police had departed, the entrance to the Merchandise Mart was awash with reporters who'd trailed Carey from the press conference. His abrupt departure hinted prominently at another story, and a crowd of reporters were milling about on the sidewalk. The two security men were hopelessly outnumbered.

When Allen's car pulled up, reporters surged over to it like a wave of curiosity. Allen and Molly alighted from the sleek black car, and the security men did their best to clear a path through the jostling throng.

“Did ya have a lovers' quarrel?”

“Hey, Allen, are you the lady's new escort?”

“Where's the little girl?”

“Is Carey here?”

“Has Carey skipped town?” He was not known for his faithfulness. The nasty barb was punctuated by the whirring click of camera shutters.

“Leave the lady alone, guys,” Allen said as he shoved his way through, one arm protectively around Molly's shoulder. “You heard all the news at the press conference.”

“You gonna be able to keep him, lady, in your love nest?”

Molly's face flushed pink at the crude question and her temper began a slow simmer. Now instead of some duchess being chased from a hotel or a starlet photographed nude on a secluded Adriatic beach, she was the newest object of their attention. The situation was without precedent in her extremely normal life and it annoyed her. Because of Carey's reputation, she became an occupant of a love nest. Personally, she viewed her old factory turned Merchandise Mart as an energetic business employing forty some people, catering to wholesalers in the approximate neighborhood of a quarter million customers a year. Hardly the accepted connotation of “love nest.”

Once inside the gate, Allen withdrew his arm. “Sorry, Molly. They must have followed Carey here.”

“There're more photographers than ever. Is this normal for him?” She straightened the belt on her dress, which had been grabbed as she pressed through the crowd.

“He's newsworthy, I guess.”

“His love life's newsworthy, you mean.”

Allen wasn't about to touch that with a ten-foot pole. “The entertainment business attracts attention-unfortunately.” He fell back on the platitudes.

“Carey Fersten's tastes attract attention even more.” There was a distinct snappishness in the softly spoken words.

Allen gauged the distance to the door and straightened his baseball cap in a nervous gesture. Normally he ran interference with Carey's irate females, but Molly Darian didn't fall into the usual category of transient playmate. He was treading on very delicate ground. “Try and ignore the reporters, Molly. They just like to sensationalize everything.”

“And with six nude starlets and Carey on a secluded Greek isle a year ago, sensationalizing is hardly required.” He'd been smiling, damn him, his hair still wet from the sea, she remembered, looking athletic and capable, as if one girl or several were no trouble at all.

Allen opened the door to Molly's stairway entrance with relief. Clearly, she wasn't in the mood to be pacified, and in any event, that week in April would be impossible to unsensationalize, anyway. No one had slept for more than a few hours the entire week. Although, come to think of it, Carey had spent time occasionally brooding alone on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea. But then he'd never been one to appreciate female company for an extended period of time. Including his wife's. In fact, Sylvie's major complaint had been Carey's long, incommunicative periods when he'd refused to come out of his study. Who the hell would have, though, when Sylvie was in one of her moods? With her acid tongue, she could incite a saint to murder.

Enlisting in the marines and marrying Sylvie-Carey had always said they were the two major blunders in his life. “Which I survived,” he'd say, “thanks to the grace of God and chemicals.”

“Carey asked me to bring the birthday presents in,” Allen said, opting for the coward's way out. The numerous presents could have been carried in by the driver, but leaving Molly now avoided discussion of Carey's lovelife. Christ, what was he supposed to say? “Tell Carey I'll be right up,” Allen hastily said and escaped.

Carey was pacing before the windows facing the downtown skyline, his jacket and tie discarded, his shirt open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up. His energy always startled her; there was raw vitality in every fluid movement of his muscular body, as though leashed lightning lay just beneath the surface. When he saw her enter the room, his smile flashed in welcome.

“Darling, forgive me for rushing off. Everything's fine. Carrie's fine. Sorry about the press. How are you feeling?” He crossed the width of the room. Reaching out, he took her hands in his and looked at her with a quiet scrutiny, as though he hadn't seen her for years instead of merely minutes. Carrie's safe, you're safe, he thought, comforted by the warmth of her touch-and her presence. He relaxed completely for the first time since spotting Kiray at the back of the conference room.

“I'm feeling tense-and why shouldn't Carrie be fine? The press is obnoxious as usual, and I'm in a frame of mind that would prefer a soothing answer rather than the literal truth.”

He bent to kiss her gently on the cheek. “I'll have the press cleared away soon, I'm sorry you're tense, and Carrie and Lucy are primping in their best eight-year-old fashion for the birthday party. I hope you don't mind-I invited Lucy to stay the night. She's Pooh's ‘most absolute favorite best friend,' to quote a phrase.” And he grinned with fatherly amusement when he recalled Carrie's excitement in adding Lucy to her family party. “Come, sit, relax, if that's possible after that press melee, and I'll soothe your temples or massage your toes or pour you a wicked belt of bourbon-whatever would do the most good for your strung-out nerves.”

“A mild explanation of your abrupt departure would do, for starters,” Molly quietly said, “and then if possible,” she added with a smile, “a denial of all the past women in your life would go a long way toward invalidating the last question I was asked before the garden gate closed downstairs. ‘You gonna be able to keep him, lady, in your love nest?' Feel free to lie.” Pulling her hands away, she walked the few feet to her favorite overstuffed chair and collapsed into it, feeling as though she'd plowed the back forty in ninety degree heat with a single mule and a dull plowblade.

Oh shit, Carey thought. The reporters were just as diplomatic as usual. “You're the only woman in my life,” he said, standing tanned and blond and handsome in the middle of her living room. “You've always been the only woman in my life. And, with the exception of a temporary case of insanity overcoming me during my brief marriage to Sylvie, I swear, I've never looked at another woman.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, her blue-eyed gaze veiled through half-lowered lashes. His powerful body was enhanced somehow by the stark simplicity of his white shirt and navy slacks. Larger than life, striking, he resembled some modern-day pagan god.

“Your servant, ma'am,” Carey replied, the gentleness of his tone a contrast to the breadth of his shoulders, the primitive strength of his body. “I left the conference room,” he went on, his dark eyes trained on Molly, “because I caught sight of a man I'd met once at Cannes. He shouldn't have been in Minneapolis.” He hadn't moved, his stance as controlled as his quiet voice. “It's beyond his normal venue, so I panicked and came to check on Carrie.”

Molly sighed. “I don't want to know this, do I?” Too much had happened in the last few days, too much public attention and rude questioning, too much upheaval in her life. Carey had brought his world with him when he'd reentered her life, and the turmoil and adjustments were peaking today.

“Nothing happened.” His voice was reassuring, but he still hadn't moved and his posture betrayed his uneasiness.

“Was the man French? From Cannes?” A morbid curiosity overcame her fatigue and weariness. “Was he a reporter?”

“No.”

“No? That's it?”

“Allen's going to be here any minute, along with Carrie and Lucy. Could we discuss this-” he paused and half smiled “tonight?” He'd need time to explain all the intricacies of his relationship to Egon. Time to decide what to reveal and what to omit. And most of all, time to determine whether he should explain the threat to Carrie. When she didn't protest, he walked over and touched her hand where it rested, small and pale, on the chair arm. “I love you, Honeybear,” he murmured, squatting beside her chair so he could look into her eyes. “More than anything… and today's our baby's birthday. Give me a smile now, and I promise to zap all those reporters before evening for my Honeybear.”

She smiled then, despite herself. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” And he meant it. He'd given orders to his security chief: No matter how many men it took, he wanted the entire block cleared by evening. When Molly looked out the window, any window, she was not to see a single reporter.

His security chief Matt Black had said, “You know they can file assault charges if we come on too strong.”

“Let them,” Carey replied, “we'll be gone early in the morning. All I need from you is one quiet night. Do what you have to do.”

But before Molly could inquire further, Carrie and Lucy came running into the room, both dressed in party dresses.

“Mom, Mom,” Carrie excitedly exclaimed, the jonquil ribbon in her hair bobbing as she bounced from one foot to the other, “you'll never guess what happened. Some men tried to get into the apartment, but we wouldn't let them in because you've always said, ‘Never let strangers in.' And Mom, when we saw them through the peephole they were gruesome, I mean, all funny-looking like this.” She pressed her cheeks back and stretched her mouth into a grimace. “So we ran away down the backstairs and rang the burglar alarms and fire alarms. And then the police came, and then Carey came. And we never saw the bad men again, even though they came down the basement looking for us.”

Molly's fingers had tightened perceptibly over the chair arms as her daughter's recital unfolded.

“Carey told the police,” Carrie went on, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “he's got a brother-in-law-”

“Ex-brother-in-law,” Carey swiftly interjected.

Carrie took a much needed breath. “Ex-brother-in-law who likes to play jokes.”

Molly's gaze quickly swung to Carey. “Jokes?” she murmured with a cool skepticism.

“It's Egon,” Carey offered, as if the name alone was explanation.

“Connected with the man from Cannes?” Molly inquired in a tone that was a trifle too soft.

“Sort of.”

“Carey Fersten, is this dangerous?” she asked.

“No,” he quickly replied, his glance sliding sideways toward the girls.

“The policemen shook hands with Carey-er-Daddy,” his daughter amended with a smile, “afterward. They know his wife.”

“Ex-wife,” he carefully amended.

“And everyone was friends,” Lucy added.

Molly's eyebrows rose. “How nice.”

“Look-” Carey began to say, only to be interrupted by a crashing sound from the vicinity of the hallway.

Allen stood holding two packages while the remainder of those he'd been carrying were scattered in colorful disarray at his feet.

“For me!” Carrie squealed.

At which point Jess came puffing up the stairs from the garden entrance ladened with more presents.

“Mom, Mom! Look at all my presents!” Carrie danced and hopped in delight, her eyes filled with joy. “Wow, wow, wow, wow!”

It was impossible not to share in her daughter's elation, impossible not to marvel at the pride and doting affection in Carey's expression. After all the years of Bart's blatant indifference as a father, a warm pleasure filled her heart. Maybe the reporters weren't so far wrong when they chose bizarre terms like love nest and love child. Carrie was their love child, conceived in love and adored. And with Carey in her home, busy with the girls and Allen and Jess in picking up the packages, his teasing making the girls giggle and laugh, maybe it was a love nest, indeed.

And a second later he was beside her, reaching for her hands and pulling her up from her chair into the curve of his arm. “I'll never be able to thank you enough for giving me Carrie,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her cheek, “if I live into the fifth millennium.”

“I'm happy you're her father,” Molly said, lacing her arm around his waist.

“Not as much as I,” Carey murmured, feeling complete and whole for the first time in his life.

“Can I open them now?” Carrie screamed, disturbing her parents' idyllic moment. Carey turned with an immediate, “Yes,” while Molly simultaneously answered, “After you blow out your candles.”

“Yes, after you blow out your candles,” Carey amended with a wide smile. “Now let's get this special nine-year-old's birthday show on the road.” With a quick squeeze he released Molly. “Come on, Mom, our birthday girl's impatient.”

Allen and Jess politely attempted to excuse themselves in the event they were intruding, but were coaxed to stay. The candles were lit on the cake, Happy Birthday was sung with boisterous cheer, and nine candles were blown out with a pinch to grow an inch.

After a consenting nod from her mother, wrappings were feverishly torn off and Carrie squealed, oohed, and aahed as she opened her presents. Carey had been calling orders into New York for days, not to mention the shopping he'd had Allen handle for him here in town. She received enough frilly dresses and play clothes to open a store, red cowboy boots with her initials embossed on the sides, a string of miniature pearls and tiny pearl earrings in an unusual golden shade (to match her hair, her dad smilingly remarked). There was also a baby doll from France with real hair, complete with doll wardrobe in its own matched set of Hermиs luggage.

“Are you too grown up for baby dolls?” Carey inquired with an indulgent smile.

“Nope,” Carrie replied, cradling the lifelike doll against her flushed cheek. “I've always wanted a brother or sister.”

The portable compact disc machine with earphones was greeted with an ecstatic cry of delight, and the carrying case with a dozen discs was quickly perused. “How did you know all the cool bands, Dad?” Carrie asked.

“Even us old folks know one or two hot tunes, sweetheart,” Carey replied, his hand covering Molly's on the lace-covered table, his dark eyes filled with delight. Last week he'd controlled his impulse to bring in a band from L.A. for her birthday, knowing Molly preferred a smaller celebration.

Molly had bought Carrie the canopy bed she'd always wanted, complete with ruffled buttercup-yellow bedcover. She'd slipped a picture of it into a card saying: Delivery tomorrow, Happy Birthday from Mom.

“Oh, Mom!” The swoon in her voice was reflected in her expression. “Thanks, thanks, thanks. It's exactly the exact one I've always wanted. Exactly!” And Molly realized how little control “parenting” had on the power of the gene pool. Her daughter viewed the world with unrepressed enthusiasm, which she as a mother had neither bequeathed nor imbued in her. Turning to Carey with a smile, she said, “She's like you.”

Smiling back, he seemed to understand. “I know,” he said.

And when their daughter saw the documents tied with pink ribbons making her the owner of her own two-year-old Arabian horse, the birthday proceedings came to an instant standstill, only to explode a moment later.

“My own horse, my absolute own horse! Where is she? When can I see her? Who's going to teach me to ride? Mom! Look! Look!”

“A horse. How wonderful,” Molly said to her daughter, who was waving the papers in front of her face. When Carrie raced away to show them to Allen and Jess, Molly turned to Carey and said, “A horse?” in an altogether different tone of voice. “Here, in the city?”

“No, darling, it's up at my father's farm.”

“Do you still race?” She had forgotten about his love of horses.

“Occasionally,” said the only man in twenty-seven years to win the triple crown in steeplechase.

“Your dad can teach you to ride,” Jess said, “and Leon can help out.”

“Leon's my dad's trainer, Pooh,” Carey explained. “He's the best teacher in the world. And as soon as you can, we'll go up north and see your horse.”

“Mom… did you hear? When can we go?”

Allen and Carey exchanged glances.

“Whenever your Mom says the word,” Carey replied, “we'll head north.”

“Can Lucy come? It's summer vacation. Lucy, your mom will let you, won't she?” and in a quick succession of rapid fire dialogue between the young girls, it was agreed Lucy's mother might be amenable.

Molly merely smiled and said, “We'll see about going, darling.”

The rest of Carrie's presents turned out to be riding gear: boots, a jacket, jodhpurs, a silk shirt, and a small velvet hat.

Carey thanked his lucky stars he'd selected a horse for one of Carrie's gifts; it gave him an excuse for suggesting a trip north and means for taking them to safety without alarming Molly. And his daughter was proving to be a great help in his plan.

She gathered up all her riding equipment and announced, “Lucy and I are going to try all this on now, and then we're going to learn how to ride. Right, Dad?” And in her inimitable fashion, assuming the world would recognize her onward motion as its own, she added before she and Lucy ran from the room, “I can hardly wait!”

Allen looked at Carey.

Jess looked at Carey.

Molly looked at Carey.

“It was a real nice party, wasn't it?” he said with a smile.