Part 2 – The Man Who Had Been Looking for Me
Part 2
There are sentences that require context.
I think we should see other people.
The test results came back.
Your mother is at the door.
And then there was:
There’s a reason I’ve been looking for you.
Spoken beneath a banquet table by Chicago’s most feared alleged Mafia boss while our mothers stood six feet away discussing whether we should marry each other.
I stared at Vincent Marino.
He still held my hand.
His palm was warm, his fingers large enough to almost completely cover mine.
I whispered, “That is possibly the worst sentence you could have chosen.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
“I had limited time.”
“You had every word in the English language.”
“Most seemed inadequate.”
Outside our tablecloth fortress, my mother’s heels clicked across the floor.
“Evelyn cannot have gone far.”
Vincent’s mother sighed.
“Neither can Vincent. He left his jacket in the ballroom.”
Vincent looked down at himself.
White dress shirt.
Rolled sleeves.
Tattooed forearms.
No jacket.
I narrowed my eyes.
“You planned this badly.”
“I wasn’t planning to hide under furniture.”
“That makes two of us.”
Our mothers moved toward the opposite side of the room.
Vincent leaned closer.
“Whatever you hear next, don’t react.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s reassuring.”
Margaret Hartwell—my otherwise intelligent mother—said, “Perhaps introducing them isn’t such a terrible idea.”
Mrs. Marino answered more quietly.
“I’ve wanted them to meet for years.”
My amusement disappeared.
Vincent’s hand tightened around mine.
Mom said, “You promised Anthony.”
A change went through Vincent.
Not dramatic.
Just stillness.
“Who is Anthony?” I mouthed.
His eyes stayed on the tablecloth.
Then Mrs. Marino answered for him.
“Vincent’s father.”
My stomach tightened.
Mom sighed.
“And I promised Daniel.”
My father’s name.
I forgot to breathe.
Daniel Hartwell had been dead eleven years.
Beside me, Vincent whispered, “That’s why.”
I turned sharply.
He put one finger to his lips.
My mother continued.
“They were ridiculous men. All those years pretending not to trust one another.”
“And yet they built the foundation together,” Mrs. Marino replied.
Foundation?
I knew absolutely nothing about any foundation.
Mom’s voice dropped.
“Evelyn still doesn’t know.”
Neither woman spoke for several seconds.
Something cold moved through me.
My father had kept very few secrets from me.
At least, that was what I’d always believed.
Mrs. Marino finally asked, “When were you planning to tell her?”
“When she was ready.”
“She is thirty, Margaret.”
“I am aware.”
“Then perhaps you’re the one who isn’t ready.”
Vincent looked at me.
That landed.
My mother changed the subject.
“What about Vincent?”
“He knows part of it.”
Part?
Fantastic.
Apparently everyone in Chicago knew my family history except me.
The women began walking away.
When the door clicked shut, I ripped the tablecloth upward and crawled out.
Vincent followed more slowly.
I stood.
My heels were somewhere beneath the table.
I didn’t care.
“Talk.”
He rose to his full height.
This was unfair.
No man should be permitted to deliver potentially life-altering information while being six-foot-four and looking like that.
“What foundation?”
Vincent rubbed his jaw.
“I was hoping our mothers would tell you.”
“They’re currently arranging my marriage like it’s a hotel seating chart.”
“Fair point.”
“Vincent.”
He glanced toward the closed doors.
“My father and yours knew each other.”
I stared at him.
“My father was an accountant.”
“Yes.”
“A very ordinary accountant.”
A strange expression crossed his face.
“Daniel Hartwell was many things. Ordinary wasn’t one of them.”
The words irritated me.
“You never met him.”
“I did.”
Everything stopped.
“What?”
Vincent pulled a chair away from the banquet table.
“I met your father when I was nineteen.”
“You’re thirty-five.”
“Yes.”
“That would have been sixteen years ago.”
“Yes.”
“My father never mentioned your family.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because he asked us not to contact you.”
My anger arrived quietly.
That was always the dangerous kind.
“Why?”
Vincent held my gaze.
“To keep you outside my family’s world.”
There it was.
The dark name.
Marino.
Chicago newspapers had spent years turning it into a synonym for organized crime, whispered influence, old loyalties, and unanswered questions.
I crossed my arms.
“And now?”
“Now the situation has changed.”
“How conveniently mysterious.”
He almost smiled.
I did not.
His expression sobered.
“My father died eighteen months ago.”
“I know.”
Everyone in Chicago had known.
Anthony Marino’s funeral had closed three downtown streets.
“Before he died,” Vincent continued, “he gave me a key.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
He took something from his trouser pocket.
A small brass key.
Old.
Plain.
A strip of faded burgundy ribbon was tied through the top.
Stamped into the metal were two initials.
E.H.
My initials.
I stared at it.
“That could mean anything.”
“It could.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Your father.”
My knees suddenly felt less dependable.
Vincent placed the key in my palm.
It was heavier than it looked.
“Anthony said Daniel gave it to him shortly before he died.”
I closed my fingers around it.
“And nobody thought I might want to know?”
“My father believed your mother’s promise came first.”
“What promise?”
“To leave you out of whatever they’d built together unless circumstances forced the truth.”
“What circumstances?”
Vincent hesitated.
That hesitation frightened me more than a dramatic answer would have.
“The Hartwell-Marino Foundation is about to be dissolved.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Your father named you successor trustee.”
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“Of a foundation I’ve never heard of?”
“Yes.”
“How much money?”
Vincent’s eyes stayed on mine.
“Approximately eighty-four million dollars.”
I sat down.
Very abruptly.
He crouched in front of me.
“Evelyn?”
“Eighty-four?”
“Approximately.”
“What kind of foundation has eighty-four million dollars?”
“One that owns property, investments, scholarship funds, and several community programs.”
“And I’m responsible for it?”
“Not yet.”
I stared at the key.
“Why are you?”
“My father named me the other successor trustee.”
Of course he did.
I looked at Vincent.
He looked back.
Somewhere beyond the room, a string quartet began playing.
“You’re telling me,” I said carefully, “that our fathers secretly created an eighty-four-million-dollar foundation, made us responsible for it, told neither of us the complete truth, and our mothers are currently trying to arrange a romantic introduction?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question.”
“No. Why were you looking for me?”
His expression shifted.
“Because three weeks ago someone petitioned the foundation board to liquidate its oldest property.”
“What property?”
“Harbor House.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“It was your father’s first project.”
“What kind of project?”
“A residence on the South Side. Temporary housing, legal assistance, childcare, job placement.”
“For whom?”
“Families trying to start over.”
I looked down at the key.
My father had built that?
The man who made terrible coffee, wore the same brown cardigan every Sunday, and once spent forty minutes trying to remove a squirrel from our kitchen with a laundry basket?
Why had he never told me?
Vincent continued.
“The documents state Harbor House cannot be sold unless both successor trustees approve.”
“You and me.”
“Yes.”
“And someone wants it sold.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“That,” Vincent said, “is what I was hoping to discover before I found you.”
I looked toward the ballroom.
“Was tonight planned?”
“Not by me.”
“Our mothers?”
“Almost certainly.”
“You were supposed to meet Bianca.”
“So I was informed.”
“And I was supposed to meet yacht man.”
“Tragic.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Vincent saw it.
His expression softened.
I immediately stopped.
“Don’t use your sandwich charm on me.”
“My what?”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“I was eating poultry.”
“You complimented my laugh.”
“That wasn’t strategy.”
Something in the way he said it made my stomach perform an unhelpful little turn.
I stood.
“Where is Harbor House?”
“Twenty minutes away.”
“And what does the key open?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“Then we find out.”
“Tonight?”
“Are you busy?”
“My mother is trying to marry me to Bianca.”
“Mine has a widower on standby.”
Vincent considered.
“We should probably leave.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Together?”
“No.”
His mouth twitched.
“Why not?”
“Because if our mothers see us leaving together, they’ll order wedding invitations before dessert.”
“Reasonable.”
We made it precisely twelve steps into the hallway.
“Evelyn!”
I stopped.
Mom stood at the far end.
Beside her was Vincent’s mother.
Both women looked at us.
Then at my bare feet.
Then at Vincent’s rolled sleeves.
Then at the banquet room behind us.
Then at our hands.
I looked down.
Apparently Vincent and I were holding hands again.
Neither of us had noticed.
I dropped his immediately.
Mom’s eyes widened.
Mrs. Marino smiled.
Not a polite smile.
A victorious one.
Vincent muttered, “We’ve made a catastrophic error.”
“You think?”
My mother marched toward us.
“Where have you been?”
“Under a table.”
She stopped.
Vincent’s mother looked delighted.
“Together?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Vincent said at exactly the same time.
I glared at him.
He shrugged.
“Accuracy matters.”
Mom pressed two fingers against her temple.
Then she saw the key in my hand.
Every trace of irritation disappeared.
Her face went white.
“Where did you get that?”
I held it up.
“Vincent.”
She looked at him.
“You gave it to her?”
“It belongs to her.”
My mother closed her eyes.
That was confirmation enough.
“What does it open?” I demanded.
Mom looked older suddenly.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like a woman carrying a secret too long.
“Evelyn…”
“No. No more when you’re ready. No more protecting me from a life that apparently has my initials stamped into the keys.”
Vincent’s mother touched Mom’s arm.
“Tell her.”
Mom swallowed.
“The key opens a deposit box at Harbor House.”
“What is inside?”
She looked directly at me.
“A letter from your father.”
My chest tightened.
“That’s all?”
“No.”
She glanced at Vincent.
Then back to me.
“And a marriage certificate.”
The hallway went silent.
I stared at her.
“Whose marriage certificate?”
My mother answered so quietly I almost didn’t hear.
“Mine.”
I frowned.
“I already know you married Dad.”
Mom shook her head.
“No, Evelyn.”
Beside me, Vincent became completely still.
My mother looked at Mrs. Marino.
And suddenly I knew.
Whatever waited inside that box was not about the marriage I’d always known.
It was about one neither Vincent nor I had ever been told existed.
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