Money wouldn't do it, but at least with this inheritance he could buy her everything, give her the kind of life she deserved. For himself, he had everything he needed, corny as that sounded. But Carol… money couldn't buy her what she needed and wanted most.
"And even if we don't get our own," he told her, "there's plenty of kids available right here."
She only nodded absently.
"Anyway," he said, "if that job at the hospital is getting you down, you'll be able to quit. No sweat."
She smiled crookedly. "Don't get your hopes up too high. With our luck there'll be a thousand other 'sons' of his waiting in line at the reading."
Jim laughed. That was the Irish in Caroclass="underline" For every silver lining there had to be a cloud, invariably dark and rumbling.
"Nice of Bill to search the records for you," she said after a while. "Especially after we missed his ordination and all."
"You had appendicitis, for chrissake!"
"You know that and I know that, but does he? I mean, knowing the way you feel about religion, maybe he thinks we just made it up as an excuse not to come see him made a priest. Maybe he's hurt. After all, we haven't seen him in years."
"He knows better. It's just your Irish guilt projecting."
"Don't be silly!"
Jim smiled. "It's true. Even though you were hospitalized, you feel guilty as hell about missing his ordination."
"Swell choice of words, Jim."
5
Bill hurried back to the interview room, wondering why he was in such a rush. He didn't have anything to tell them. It had taken him only an hour or so, but he was sure he had found all there was to be found.
Was it Carol?
She looked good, didn't she? Her hair was longer, straighter, but her face was the same, that same sharp, upturned nose, thin lips, fine sandy hair, the same natural high coloring in her cheeks.
Was he in a hurry to see her again?
Not likely. She had been a teenage infatuation, a stage in his adolescence. That was all over and done with.
So why this sense of urgency to get back to where she was waiting?
As he entered the little room he pushed the question away. He'd think about it later.
"Sorry," he said, dropping into a chair. "Couldn't find a thing."
Jim slammed his fist against his thigh. "Damn! Are you sure?"
"I started the search somewhere around three years before your drop-off date and went through every year since. The name Hanley doesn't crop up a single time."
Jim obviously wasn't satisfied. Bill could guess what was on his mind. He was probably looking for a delicate way to question how thoroughly anyone could have combed through three decades of records in a little over an hour.
"That's an awful lot of years, Bill. I'm just wondering…"
Bill smiled. "A lot of years, yes, but not a lot of contributions, I'm afraid. And the name Hanley doesn't appear in any of our index files or on our mailing list." As he saw Jim's shoulders slump, he added, "But…"
"But what?"
"But just ten days after you were left here, St. F.'s received an anonymous contribution often thousand dollars. One whale of a sum in those days."
"It's nothing to sniff at these days, either, let me tell you!" Jim said, animated again. "Anonymous, huh? How unusual is that?"
"Are you kidding? Even today we occasionally get twenty-five or fifty, or rarely, a hundred bucks anonymously. But the rest of the time everyone wants a receipt for tax purposes. A five-figure donation that won't be written off is unheard of."
"Guilt money," Jim said.
He nodded. "Heavy guilt."
Bill glanced over at Carol. She was staring at him. Why was she looking at him that way? It made him uncomfortable.
At that moment a mailman stopped in the hall at the door. He held up an envelope. "Care to sign for this, Father? It's certified."
Bill took the envelope and dropped it on the table as he signed the receipt. When he turned back, Jim was on his feet, clutching the envelope in his hand.
"Look at the return address! Fletcher, Cornwall & Boothby! That's the same law firm that contacted me!" He shoved it toward Bill. "Open it!"
Propelled by the infectious urgency in Jim's voice, Bill tore open the envelope.
After skimming the astonishing contents, he handed the letter to Jim.
"They want St. F.'s to send someone to the reading of the Hanley will!"
Jim glanced at the letter and grinned.
"Same letter I got! I knew it! This clinches it! Let's celebrate! Dinner's on me! What do you say, Bill?"
Bill took back the letter and shook his head.
"Sorry. I can't get away just now. Maybe some other time."
Partly true. With Father Anthony out, he couldn't simply walk off and leave the boys without supervision. Of course, if he really worked at it, he could probably find somebody to cover for him, but in a strange way he was glad to get out of it. He was finding it difficult to keep his eyes off Carol. And every time he looked her way, she was looking back.
Like now. Carol was staring at him again.
She said, "A rain check, then. We'll owe you one."
"Sure. That'll be nice."
The good-byes were protracted, with much handshaking and promises of keeping in touch this time and getting together soon. Bill breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he finally closed the door behind them, figuring his insides would begin to quiet down now.
But they didn't.
6
Carol waited for Jim to start the car but he just sat behind the wheel, staring straight ahead.
She shivered with the cold.
"If we're not going anywhere, Jim, how about just starting the car and getting the heater going?"
He shook himself and smiled. "Sorry. Just thinking."
He turned the ignition and the ten-year-old Nash Rambler shuddered to life. He steered it toward Queens Boulevard.
"Thinking what?"
"How pieces are starting to fit together. Won't be long before I know who I am."
Carol leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I know who you are. Why don't you ask me?"
"Okay. Who am I?"
"The man I love. A great guy, a talented writer, and the best lover on the East Coast." And she meant every word of it.
He kissed her too. "Thanks. But just the East Coast? What about the West Coast?"
"I've never been to the West Coast."
"Oh." He braked at a stop sign. "Well, where do we eat?"
"Can we really afford it?"
"Sure. I got paid for the God Is Dead series today. We're 'in Fat City, ' as our president is wont to say."
"About time they paid up."
That explained the dinner invitation. Jim was about as modern as could be, but he remained mired in the fifties when it came to spending her salary on luxuries.
"We can go that way"—he pointed east, toward home— "and catch some seafood at Memison's, or we can try someplace in the city." He pointed toward the setting sun.
Carol wasn't really hungry—hadn't been hungry for days, in fact. She couldn't think of any food that would appeal to her, but she knew that Jim was a pasta freak.
"Let's try Little Italy. I feel like Italian tonight."
"Funny… you don't look Italian."
"Corny. Drive," she said.
As they approached the ever-graceful Queensboro Bridge, an idea struck Carol.