The Concealers by James J. Kaufman Page A

of the world has come,” she said. “Is it something with the firm?”
    â€œNo, I got a phone call today, out of the blue, from a woman named Beth Kelly. It was a strange call. I asked her what I could do for her. She told me . . . This is not good, Marcia. She told me that . . . that I have a daughter.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Marcia said, maintaining a steely cool. “Not good. Go on.”
    â€œShe said she’s a nurse up in Rochester, that I’d met her twenty-four years ago . . . apparently at Roosevelt Hospital in Manhattan. I vaguely remember being in the hospital, something that turned out only to be food poisoning. My mother made a big stink, insisted on a fancy room and all of that. I remember her arguing with the doctors.”
    â€œPres, tell me about the
your daughter
part.”
    â€œI’m trying to, Marcia. This just happened, for God’s sake.”
    Preston got up slowly, replenished his drink, and sat down again, looking like a deflated version of one of those roadside hot air balloon figures. Marcia had moved to the far end of the love seat, wearing her iciest expression. Preston confessed the circumstances of his brief encounter with Beth Kelly twenty-four years earlier.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Preston, did you have sex with this woman or not? Or don’t you remember?”
    â€œShe says we had sex . . . in the back of a limo.”
    â€œThat sounds about right,” Marcia said, convinced now. “You were what . . . twenty-three at the time? Of course, you had sex. Did you?”
    â€œYes. It was her idea, if that helps.”
    â€œThis is the first time you’re hearing from this woman in all this time? Something’s wrong here. I wouldn’t be surprised if an extortion threat wasn’t next.”
    â€œShe . . . she was warning me so I wouldn’t be blindsided. Or at least that’s what she said. And she’s trying to shield her daughter from hurt when she discovers the truth about the man she thought was her father.”
    â€œSo she lied to her daughter then,” Marcia said. “And now the wheels are coming off. You know, I can understand how awful it must be for this Katherine, whoever her father is. What are you going to do?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t know if I’m the father.”
    â€œAre you going to find out?”
    â€œWhat do you think I should do?”
    â€œDon’t put this off on me, Preston. Just tell me what
you’re
going to do.”
*  *  *
    Preston left the tower and took a long walk in Central Park. He passed the joggers, people walking their dogs, parents pushing kids in baby carriages, people sitting on the park benches, all of whom seemed blurred and otherworldly. He came to the lake and sat down on a bench, staring first at the water and then at the sky, as though answers might be found there. Two hours floated by without any.
    Preston fought the confusion in his mind, to find a sense of order and peace. He’d grown weary of the conflict with Marcia over P.J., and now this. He hated to be in a box. How in the world could he decide what to do without knowing whether, in fact, he was the father? One part of his brain argued for finding out—making sure. Another part clamored for caution.
Will I be admitting something just by having a test? What kind of record does that leave? Who sees it?
He came to one conclusion: he needed some confidential advice from the right lawyer. Again.
    Preston called his corporate counsel, said he had a close friend with a serious matrimonial problem, and asked him to find a sharp, discreet lawyer in that field. Preston dismissed his lawyer’s inquiry as to what was really going on with a “just do it” admonition, and directed him to set up an appointment as soon as possible, preferably first thing in the morning.

 
CHAPTER SIX
P reston walked into the law offices of Forsyth and Forsyth, on