The Concealers by James J. Kaufman

wonderful daughter. I’ve done my best to raise her,” Beth said unsteadily, tears flooding her eyes. She paused for a moment, blew her nose, and looked at the ceiling. “I’m really all she has. My dad does what he can at this point, but she needs a father. She has always needed a father. She needs one now more than ever.”
    Silence. Then Preston spoke in a low, firm tone. “This makes no sense. Forgive me, but if I’m hearing you right, how do I know that I’m the father?”
    â€œYou don’t, but I do . . . and you will.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” Preston asked. Beth heard incredulity, and irritation, rising in his voice.
    â€œIt means that I know you’re the father because we had sex in your limousine after we left The Limelight. My boyfriend at the time was in the Air Force—off somewhere—classified. There was no one else. You
are
the father.”
    â€œWhy should I believe you?” Preston shouted, truly angered now.
    â€œYou know that, or will, because I am sending you a DNA sample taken from Katherine as well as a sample of my own. You can have a paternity test to confirm the truth.”
    â€œThat sounds fishy. How do you just happen to have DNA samples?”
    â€œI know this is difficult. It’s not easy for me either. If I weren’t . . . if . . . I have DNA samples because I have the beginnings of macular degeneration, and the last time Katherine was with me I wanted to run a test on her to determine whether she was genetically inclined to develop the condition as well. My ophthalmologist took several scrapes from each of us, and I preserved a couple of each. I’d like to send them to you. Do you have a cell phone number, an e-mail address?”
    â€œYou’re crazy if you think I’m giving you that information. My wife—”
    â€œBelieve me, this is hard on me, too. Why don’t you think about it—meanwhile write mine down?”
    She spoke the information clearly for him.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about this anymore now,” Preston said. His voice edged with frustration. “I’m married, with a son. If I’m your daughter’s father, why didn’t you ever let me know you were pregnant? To call out of the blue nearly a quarter of a century later . . . ”
    â€œI understand. I’m sorry. I’m telling you this now. I’m trying to give you a heads-up. Katherine wants to learn about her father—and she won’t let this go. She’s like a dog with a bone, and she’s a sharp researcher. Sooner or later, she’s going to discover that my boyfriend was not her real father. And knowing her, she’s also going to figure out, somehow, who is. I wanted you to know first. I don’t want this to be any worse than it is. And I don’t want Katherine to be hurt any more than she has to be.”
    â€œListen, I don’t wish any pain on you or your daughter either—”
    â€œ
Our
daughter,” Beth managed to say before choking up entirely. “You know where to reach me, Mr. Wilson.”
*  *  *
    Preston marched out of the office, telling his secretary only that he would be gone for the rest of the day, and barked at one of the salesmen to drive him to Trump Tower. In the back of the Bentley demo, Preston uncharacteristically did not speak to the driver. At the Tower he went directly to his thirty-eighth-floor condo, without a word to the doorman either. He hoped he’d find the place empty, if Marcia had taken P.J. in the stroller to the park, but no such luck.
    â€œHey, surprise,” said Marcia, “P.J.’s asleep. Isn’t that great? What’s going on?”
    Preston poured himself a scotch, double, neat, and sat down slowly on the leather love seat. “We have to talk,” he said.
    Marcia walked over, sat down beside him, and put her arm on his shoulder. “You look like the end