The Arrival
Chapter 6: The Arrival
Catherine Cole arrived at St. Joseph's at 8 PM.
She came because Nathan's phone had been off for six hours, which was unusual. She'd called his office — he'd left at noon. She'd called his apartment — no answer. She'd called three friends, two colleagues, and his regular barber before someone at his gym mentioned they'd seen him leave in a hurry around lunchtime, looking like he'd gotten bad news.
Catherine didn't know about the delivery. She didn't know Nathan was at the hospital. She had come to St. Joseph's because it was the hospital closest to Nathan's office and because Catherine Cole was a woman who, when she couldn't locate her son, went looking for him with the systematic efficiency of a search party.
She walked through the maternity ward entrance in a camel coat and heels that clicked on the linoleum like a metronome. She saw Nathan's jacket draped over a chair in the hallway. She saw the closed recovery room door.
And then she saw Margaret Reeves.
Margaret was sitting in the hallway, drinking coffee from a paper cup, looking at her phone. She looked up when she heard the heels.
The two women regarded each other.
They'd met once — at a dinner, early in Nathan and Sophie's relationship, a dinner that had been civil on the surface and glacial underneath. Margaret had come away from it saying, "That woman looks at my daughter like she's reviewing a rental application." Catherine had come away from it saying nothing, because Catherine didn't share her assessments with people who couldn't act on them.
"Margaret," Catherine said.
"Catherine."
"Where is my son?"
"In the recovery room. With his girlfriend and his newborn son."
The words were precise and deliberate. Margaret had been sitting in this hallway for hours, preparing for this moment, arranging each word like a surgeon arranging instruments before a procedure.
Catherine's face did something subtle. Not the dramatic crack that Victoria Ashworth's face had shown in the earlier story of another wealthy woman confronted with truth. Catherine Cole was better at this. Her face simply tightened — microscopically, around the eyes — and then smoothed.
"Newborn," Catherine said. "I see."
"A boy. Six pounds, two ounces. He has Nathan's eyes." Margaret stood up. "And a blood condition that nearly killed him because the father's medical history wasn't available, because the father had been told — by someone — that the baby wasn't his."
"Margaret, I don't know what Sophie has been—"
"I'm going to stop you right there." Margaret's voice was the same voice she'd used when she slapped Nathan — controlled, certain, carrying thirty years of maternal authority. "Because I know. I know about Genova Diagnostics. I know about Gerald Foss. I know about the fifteen-thousand-dollar wire transfer from the Cole Family Trust. And I know about Rachel Donovan."
Catherine's face tightened again. Less microscopically this time.
"I also know," Margaret continued, "that you went to my daughter's apartment in July and offered her fifty thousand dollars to sign away her child's paternity. And that when she refused, you told her — to her face — that the DNA test was fake and that you'd produce more if she made trouble."
"That's a serious accusation."
"It's a factual statement. Backed by bank records, lab records, and a private investigator's report that I will be sharing with the district attorney's office on Monday morning."
"You're bluffing."
"Catherine." Margaret stepped closer. Close enough that Catherine could smell the hospital coffee on her breath. "I am a fifty-five-year-old woman who has spent the last nine months watching my daughter carry a baby alone because your son believed your lies. I've held her when she cried. I've driven her to every appointment. I've watched her work two jobs at eight months pregnant because the man who should have been there was sitting in his mother's house being told that evidence matters more than love." She paused. "I am not bluffing. I have never been less of a bluffer in my entire life."
Catherine looked at Margaret. She looked at her with the evaluating gaze of a woman who has spent decades managing people and situations and who is, for perhaps the first time, encountering someone she cannot manage.
"Where is Nathan?" Catherine said.
"Behind that door. With the family you tried to erase."
"I want to see him."
"No."
"He's my son."
"And Sophie is my daughter. And that baby is my grandson. And you are the reason all three of them spent nine months in hell." Margaret sat back down. She picked up her coffee. "You can wait here. Or you can leave. Those are your options."
Catherine stood in the hallway. Her heels were still. Her face was still. Everything about her was still — the stillness of a woman who has always been the most powerful person in the room and has just walked into a room where she isn't.
She sat down. Across the hallway from Margaret. Six feet of linoleum between them.
May you like
They didn't speak.
They waited.
