Hell Hath No Fury

Chapter 2

Price

"Chris, what's wrong?" asks Melissa. "You've been brooding all night."

"Are the girls in bed?" I ask. "I don't want them to hear any of this."

"Yes, they are" she replies. "Something is clearly bothering you. I think that you need to let go of it."

I sigh, knowing that she is right. And there is no one else that I can tell this to, explain this to. Melissa is my deepest confidante. She knows everything about me, all my secrets. She knows about Ella.

"I had a visitor today," I begin. "A private investigator. He had news about Ella."

"Ella?" she says quickly, her eyebrows shooting up in astonishment. "Is she looking for you?"

"She's dead," I answer bluntly. I can't tell it any other way. I just have to get it out. I then wait as Melissa soaks in the news.

I watch as a myriad of emotions cross her face, but like McBride, I decide to let her process things in her own time. The first expression is shock. The second is a sigh of relief or compassion. It is difficult to tell. She seems to be struggling with what she feels. Eventually, her eyes convey sympathy.

"I'm very sorry, Chris," she finally says. "I know what she meant to you. Do you know how she . . . went?"

"She died of a drug overdose twenty-four years ago," I reply. "She apparently had become a prostitute to support her crack habit."

"Crack?" whispers Melissa, as her face reverts to shocked. "But that doesn't sound anything like the girl that you have always described. Are you sure this isn't a mistake? A case of mistaken identity?"

"The investigator, a man named McBride," I answer. "Claims not. He told me to check out the facts for myself with the Michigan Bureau of Vital Statistics. She was . . . found in Detroit. I've already hired someone to look into it."

"Good," she nods. "You need to know for certain. This is terrible. I know how much you loved her. Can I do anything to help?"

I feel uncertain now. Of course, Melissa wants to help, to comfort me. But I need her advice about something first.

"Mel, there's something else," I say tentatively.

"What, Chris, what else?" she asks.

"I don't know," I admit. "I threw McBride out of my office before he could tell me. I was so angry. He left me his card. He said that when I was ready, when I had confirmed his story, that I should call him back and he would tell me."

Melissa is silent and once again, I watch as her face betrays her conflicted emotions. I know that she is thinking the same thing that I am. And I can see that it scares her. As always, her love for me wins out.

"If you confirm his story, Chris," she says quietly. "I think that you must call to McBride. If you like, I will be there with you, to support you."

I look into her beautiful blue eyes deeply. They reveal the deep love that she holds for me. My wife is my life. She is the mother of my three beautiful daughters. For the past sixteen years, we have shared everything. I know that wherever this leads, she will always be at my side.

"So you have confirmed my story?" asks McBride as he sits opposite Melissa and I in my office.

I decided that he should meet with us there. The girls, ages 14, 12, and 10 are at a very curious age and I don't want to take any chances of them eavesdropping or walking in on any private discussions. McBride wasn't at all surprised to see Melissa with me. But then everyone knows how close we are. He didn't have to be an investigative genius to figure that out.

"Yes, I have," I reply.

"I am sorry for your loss," he says, although it sounds more perfunctory than genuine. I wonder how many times he has had to say that in his long career. I steel myself.

"What else do you need to tell me?"

"Mr. Price," he begins gently.

Oh, this is going to be bad, I think.

"Mr. Price, when Ella . . . or Miss Gracy if you prefer?"

"Ella is fine," I say. "Please get on with it."

"When Ella passed away, she wasn't alone," he finishes. "She was found with a four-year-old boy, a son named Christian."

There is dead silence in the room. Finally, Melissa speaks.

"Christian?" she asks quietly, as if to confirm what she had just heard.

"Christian," he nods. "Among her papers there was a birth certificate for him, Christian Gracy, no middle name."

"And no father's name," says Melissa.

I am glad that she is with me. I don't feel capable of asking any of these questions for myself. McBride is clearly trying to tread lightly, not to impart his information too quickly for us to absorb.

"No father's name," he confirms. "He was born in May of 1983. But he was lucky. His mother did not begin her drug abuse until after he was born. However when he was found, he was living in appalling conditions. He had been with his mother's dead body for four days before her pimp found her and notified the authorities."

"Oh, my . . . " Melissa can't finish her words.

I can see tears forming in her eyes. I can feel them in my own eyes. My son, our son, my son and Ella's, were living in the squalor of some crack house in Detroit. My wife reaches over and holds me in her arms as I begin to shake with sobs. Ella, my Ella, was reduced to those circumstances. And my son, named after me, was dragged down with her. A thousand questions, a thousand recriminations bombard my brain.

Why didn't she tell me? We would have figured it out. I would have taken care of her. Why didn't I look harder for her? But what did I know? I was a kid myself. I assumed that her father would have. How did she end up like that? It was completely out of character for her. Why did this happen?

Once again, McBride sits before us quietly, patiently waiting for me to regain control of myself. Realizing that there is still more to learn, I settle myself and look up.

"If you wish," he says gently. "I can return tomorrow, or another time. This is a lot to take in at one time."

"Please, tell us something," says Melissa. "Something that is positive about this."

"I can do that," he replies, seeming to be relieved by her question. "Young Christian was adopted by an affluent couple. He has been well-cared for since."

"Thank God for that!" Melissa breathes a deep sigh of relief, reflecting my own emotions.

"Mr. and Mrs. Price," he says. "I think that I should return tomorrow, to finish the story. But I do have one question. I am assuming, Mr. Price, that you are accepting that this child may be yours?"

"Who's else could he be?" I ask.

"Well," he says tentatively. "Just because she wasn't using drugs during her pregnancy, doesn't mean that she wasn't a prostitute at that time. If you have any doubt about paternity . . ."

"No doubt!" I snap back at him, pleased at the opportunity to vent some of the anger that is beginning to mix in with my sorrow. "I can do the math. Ella was with me, only me, if she gave birth in May of '83. I won't have anyone thinking otherwise, no matter what happened later."

"I see," he nods. "I was just trying to establish the facts. As I said, I specialize in finding long lost loved ones. But there is nothing worse in these kinds of cases if there are doubts, or there may be some kind of deception, even inadvertently, on my part."

"Tell me," I ask. "Has my son been looking for me?"

He shakes his head.

"Then how did you end up on this case?" I ask sharply.

Now he looks a little uncomfortable.

"I am not at liberty to reveal that, sir," he states. "But I can assure you that there is no malicious intent on the part of the person who hired me. Just to be sure, I am going to suggest a DNA test to irrevocably establish paternity."

"We've established paternity," I state coldly.

"I'm not sure that your lawyers would agree," he replies. "You are a very wealthy man."

Now I roll my eyes, but Melissa lays her hand on my arm.

"I think that it is a good idea, Chris," she says quietly. "It may be required for the . . . boy to accept you."

"He's not a boy anymore," I say thoughtfully. "He's a 28 year old man. You're probably right."

"I take it that you will want to meet him?" asks McBride in surprise.

"Of course," answer Melissa and I together.

He gives us a quick nod.

"DNA test," he says firmly. "And then the rest of the story. I am very sorry that I have brought you this news, but I do not wish to bring you any more grief until we are sure."

"We are sure," I say tightly, as Melissa nods.

"One step at a time," he insists.

We have no choice but to agree. He takes a quick swab from the inside of my cheek and is on his way. Melissa looks at me sadly.

"I am so sorry, Chris," she says simply.

"Why?" I ask. "You had nothing to do with this. All this happened long before we met."

"I'm sorry that you have to go through," she replies quietly. "But the girls and I will stand beside you."

"The girls?"

"Will have to know," she finishes. "But not until the tests are back, until we know for sure."

I put my head in my hands. In my shock at this most recent revelation, I had forgotten about them. They have always wanted a baby brother. We wanted another child too, but it just hasn't happened. I wonder what they will think of a big brother, a big, 28 year old brother who their father abandoned years ago.

Elena

No malicious intent? I think to myself. I really have snowed McBride well. Well, no malicious towards Price anyway, or Christian for that matter. He is going to be shocked to discover who his fine upstanding father is, not the asshole hat he always thought that he was. And the fact that Price and his wife want to meet him is just icing on the cake. There is no doubt that meeting his real father is going to upend Christian, but the person who is really going to be thrown is Grace. She and Carrick are both going to have to answer a lot of questions.

It wasn't really all that difficult for McBride's firm to trace Ella back to Traverse City and then to find old schoolmates of her and Price. Anyone with half a brain back in 1987 could have done it easily with Christian's birth certificate and then finding the homeless shelter for women where Ella had ended up before she had the baby. And luckily, the woman who helped her through and to whom she had confided her life story still worked there a few months ago when I started the search.

McBride assured me that Price was sufficiently devastated that if he had known about Ella and/or her son he would have taken care of them. But then, no one had wanted to look too hard when the potential adoptive parents were so eager and had the money to take him in right away. The idea of looking for family members had only extended to Ella's family anyway. There was no father's name on the birth certificate. And by the time that Ella was dead, her father had long moved away from Traverse City. I guess that no one else cared.

Price's wife's eagerness to stand by her man is a bonus. She could have been an obstacle to my ultimate goal of reuniting father and son. What will Christian do when he discovers that rather than being a pimp or a John, his father is actually a wealthy, big-hearted philanthropist who lost the love of his life because of the lies his homecoming date told her.

I could almost feel sorry for Ella if she hadn't been so stupid. Any normal woman would have gone to her boyfriend and asked him what the hell he was doing fucking around with the girl that he had claimed that he had been forced to take to the big dance. I guess that that's what happens in these small towns. Instead she takes her broken heart off to the big, bad city and ends up dead a few years later.

She turned out to be a selfish bitch in the end. She should have given up Christian for adoption when he was born, like the woman at the shelter wanted her to. Then, she turned to drugs to cope and let her pimp abuse her son when she was too fucked up to notice. Of course she also let him beat the shit out of her. No doubt about it, she would have made a great sub. But then again, no Dom is going to want a little kid tagging along for the ride.

At least McBride has fallen for my story hook, line, and sinker that I want to remain anonymous because I don't want any credit as the benefactress. All I want is to reunite a long lost father and son. He'll keep my secret. And Christian won't find out either. I know all about Welch and his capabilities. I know exactly how to fly under the radar. And while I'm not going to have a ringside seat for the main event, I am sure that the press will have a field day.

Lucky thing that before Christian broke it off with me that I took the precaution of getting a "sample of DNA." I have the test results and McBride will be able to match them with Price's. Even though Price might not need a test, Christian sure as hell will want proof. That's the way his mind works. But at least he won't be able to accuse his biological father of being a fortune hunter. Daddy dearest is way up there on the most wealthy list with sonny boy. The more that I think about it, the better it gets.

Christian

"John, I'm still worried about whether or not I'm going to be a good father," I say in answer to Flynn's opening question.

Flynn laughs.

"Christian," he replies. "I hate to tell you, but so does every other man who finds out that he is going to be a parent for the first time."

"Even you?" I ask skeptically.

"Even me," he nods. "It's one thing to listen to other people's problems and try to solve them. It's another when its your own. No one can know ahead of time whether or not they will be a good parent or even that the choices you make once your child is born will be correct. All you can do is try to do the best that you can."

"That's what Ana says," I admit.

"Listen to her," he suggests. "I bet that she is scared too."

"Yes, she is," I agree reluctantly. "But it's different for her."

"In what way?" he asks.

"Well, Carla may be a bit of a fruitcake," I explain. "But she is a loving mother. And her Dad did the right thing and married her when she got knocked up. But, me, well, my father."

"You're talking about your biological father now," he says.

"Of course, my Dad is, well, he's perfect," I reply. "You know what I mean."

Flynn looks at me closely. He is deep in thought.

"Christian," he finally says. "I think that you're feeling that old dilemma of nature versus nurture. Your biological father, whoever he was, abandoned your mother, presumably either because she was as she was, or she became that because she was abandoned. We'll never know now, will we? But you've been raised by a very good man. From what I can see, Carrick is not a bad role model for you to follow."

"But he's perfect and I'm not," I reply.

"So we're back to this again, are we?" he asks. "Your family is perfect and you don't fit in with them because you're damaged goods. Christian, at some point you're going to have to get over that. And for the record, I don't think that Carrick is perfect."

"Of course he is," I say.

"No," Flynn shakes his head. "He's no more perfect than you or I. Perfection is a very high standard to hold anyone to, even your father and mother. Now you have every reason to idealize them because they most certainly rescued you from a hellish existence. But you also need to allow them to be human."

I'm still not entirely comfortable with this line of reasoning, and I can't hide my skepticism.

"Christian," he continues. "Most of us parent in two ways. Unconsciously, we tend to model our parents' behavior. In that case, you're in luck, because you have to excellent role models. But we also have a tendency to reject some of the ways that our parents raised us. That's because they might not have worked."

"I'm not sure that I know what you mean," I reply.

"Well," he says. "Let's first of all stay away from your birth mother's issues since there is no way that you would replicate those behaviors. Let's use a hypothetical model. Let's say that you had a father, or mother, who was a workaholic and was never at home for you. Your inclination as a parent, hopefully, would be to be a greater presence in your children's lives."

"That makes sense," I nod.

"In your case, you know absolutely nothing about your biological father," I continues.

"More like sperm donor," I add bitterly.

"If you like," he concedes. "In this case, it's better not to try and draw any comparisons with him. Logically, the lesson that you have learned from him is not to abandon the mother of your child, yes?"

"There's no chance of that happening," I say defensively.

"Of course not," he says soothingly. "Therefore, whatever your biological father may or may not have been is immaterial as to how you parent your own children."

"That does make sense," I admit.

"Good," he says. "So it's perfectly normal that you should worry about whether you will be a good father or not."

"Come again?"

"It's normal, Christian," he says emphatically. "I know that you generally don't associate that adjective with yourself, but it's time for you to realize that sometimes you do actually display normal tendencies and behaviors."

"Normal," I repeat and turn the word over in my mind.

Flynn is right of course. I never have considered myself normal. But now that things have really gotten good in my life I guess that I am kind of becoming normal. I have a great wife, a comfortable existence, and a baby on the way. And I'm worried about being a new father because it's normal. I look up and smile at Flynn.

"I guess there's hope for me yet," I say.

"No guessing involved, Christian," he laughs. "There's always been hope."

"Yeah, no thanks to the no good, son of a bitch sperm donor who fathered me," I say bitterly.

"You have to walk before you can run," he shakes his head again.

I'm not exactly sure of what he means by that. But if he thinks that I'm ever going to forgive the bastard for what he put me, and my birth mother, through, then he might as well give up hope.