As she approached, I intercepted her as gracefully and non-threateningly as I could managed.
“Faye?”
She paused and nodded, her face giving absolutely nothing away. I guess she’d had years to practice that skill.
“I’m Sean Reilly, Colin’s son.” I watched and saw her eyes fill with recognition, then surprise, before settling on a forced confusion. “Can we please talk? Just for a few minutes?”
She made a move to get past me. “I don’t know who that is.”
I put my arm out while giving her a relaxed, warm smile. “I hope you lie better in court.”
She fixed me with a firm, no-nonsense look. “I never lie in court. I leave that to the cops.” She scrutinized me more closely. “You’re a cop yourself, aren’t you?”
She tried to step around me again, but I blocked her. “Faye-”
“I’m expected in court.”
I knew I had only one chance to get through to her.
“I’m not a cop,” I told her. “I’m with the FBI. And from what I’ve read, you and I share something else with my dad. Your whole life is about fighting for justice in the face of huge odds. About the greater good rather than personal gain. He would have been proud of you. I hope he’d be proud of me, too.”
She was quiet for a moment. “What do you want?”
“Just to talk. Give me ten minutes. Please.”
Her eyes flicked down to her watch then back to me. She sighed. “OK. Ten minutes. This way.”
She gestured east along the street and we headed in that direction. She eyed me as we walked, sizing me up, but more than that-like she was looking for something in me. It made me wonder if, somewhere in her mind, she was twenty-four again and walking with my dad.
“You’re from here, aren’t you?”
“Look, I know you probably know more about me than I remember about myself. Just do me a favor and don’t tell me how, OK? ’Cause I’d really rather not know.”
We covered the block in silence. I thought about the fine line between how a tragedy can either define your life-make everything about that one moment-or give your life crystal-clear definition, as it seemed to have had with Faye. The jury was still out on which applied to me, because although my life had definition for many years, over the past few months everything had become defined by what had happened to Alex and by my father’s suicide. I just hoped there was a way to get back to the other side.
I followed her across Twelfth Street and into the Reading Terminal Market, which occupied the lower levels of a nineteenth-century train shed. She led me through the market stalls-most of them only just open for the day-till we arrived at Old City Coffee.
I asked her what she wanted and ordered, then carried our coffees over to an empty table at the edge of the seating area where we took seats opposite each other. She sat in silence for a moment, then turned toward me.
“You look like him,” she said as her gaze danced around my face. “Not just the eyes. The expression.”
I nodded, half-smiling. “So I hear.” I paused for a breath, then I asked her, “Were you together?”
Much as she tried to mask it, I could see her breath catch and her eyes flare. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
“I’m sorry, but-I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t important. And I’m not some troubled soul looking for some kind of closure related to his parents, believe me. This has to do with an investigation.”
“Into what?”
“His death.”
This time, she didn’t try to hide her surprise. “What are you talking about? And why now, after all these years?”
“Tell me about you and him first,” I said.
A solemn sadness spread across her face. “We were together,” she said, averting my gaze. “Very much so.”
Even though I suspected as much, the stark, unabashed confirmation still hollowed out my stomach. The idea of my dad, a dad I hardly got to know, someone I’d idealized despite the way he died, maybe even more so because of it, the idea of him, leading a double life, cheating on my mom-it was a tough image to accept, even after all this time.
I asked, “How long were you together?”
“Just over a year,” she answered without hesitation. “I’m sorry if this is disappointing to you, but I feel you want the truth.”
“I do. And I appreciate your candor.”
She nodded and looked away, into the distance. “I never recovered, you know. He was very special. A big part of me died with him. I never forgave myself either.”
“For what?”
She took a strengthening sip of coffee. “Your dad was drifting through life when I met him, Sean. He and your mother… they loved each other, but they weren’t in love. Do you understand what that means? I mean, really understand?”
“Time affects all couples, married or not,” I countered. “It’s only human, right?”
“Yes, but your dad… he was a man of passion.” She visibly blushed, then shook her head. “I don’t mean it that way,” she said. “Not that he wasn’t-what I mean is, he expected a lot out of life. Big gulps of it. And, over time, his life with your mom had gone stale. A lot of it was her fault, he felt.” She paused a bit, hesitated, then added, “You know she had a miscarriage?”
And the hits keep on coming. I had no idea. “No.”
“I’m sorry… she did. A girl. Six months in. She would have been around four years younger than you.” She took a breath, watching me, clearly judging whether to keep going. “It was bad. Colin said she was never the same after that. He said there was a sadness in her that was always there. And Colin couldn’t blame her for it. It was just bad luck. But it took its toll on them. On him, too, first because of the miscarriage, then because of how your mom couldn’t come out of it. I mean, he understood she’d feel devastated. He was too. But, year after year, she stayed that way. He could see it in her eyes. He ended up morose, dour. His spark was gone.”
“And that changed when you came into his life?”
She seemed increasingly uncomfortable.
“Please, Faye,” I said. “It’s fine. I’m not judging you, not at all. I just need to know. It’s important.”
She nodded, willing herself to keep going. “He came back to life. He told me that’s how he felt, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave your mother. Or you. He said it was out of the question. He cared for you both too much. He couldn’t do it.”
“But you wanted him to?”
I watched as she allowed the memories to rise to the surface-feelings she maybe hadn’t allowed herself for over three decades. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him all to myself. But, above all, I wanted him to be happy. And part of his appeal was about how good a person he was. I know it sounds perverse, but his firm commitment to you both-it just made me want him more. And then, a few weeks before he died, he told me he’d decided to leave your mom. He was worried about her-worried about you, even more-but he felt he only had one life to live and he’d done everything he could to try and make things better and that maybe she’d be happier having a fresh start with someone else, without that baggage. He asked if I’d wait for him to find the right moment to do it. I know, a lot of guys say that, right? It’s like Meg Ryan’s friend in When Harry Met Sally, the pathetic mistress who’s totally delusional about her guy leaving his wife for her and they keep reminding her, ‘He’s never going to leave her for you.’ But your dad wasn’t like that. He wasn’t lying about that. And I was in no rush.” She dropped her eyes, and her voice broke a touch. “Afterwards, I felt so guilty about what happened. I thought that maybe if nothing had happened between us he wouldn’t have… I never imagined it would make him do what he did.”