Chapter Nine: Searching for Fake Jack

"I can't believe I agreed to do this," Kit says the following Saturday. She's wearing an adorable pink romper with her hair in braids, and she's already received three "hey, babies," from touristy college bros on our way to the brunch place where I met Fake Jack last week.

Try as I might, I haven't come up with a better name for him.

"Do what?" I ask as we take our seats, one table over from where I sat with Jack. "Have brunch with me?"

"As if that's all we're doing." She picks up her menu. "What's good here?"

"Not the croissant. We ended up sharing my Eggs with friends benefits."

Kit makes a face. "Ugh, punny titles."

"I think they're cute."

"You would."

"Yeah, yeah."

Janie walks up with a pencil and ordering pad in her hand. "What can I get you?"

"Janie, hi. Chloe. Remember, I was here last weekend?"

Janie shakes her head and looks bored. The restaurant is as full as last week and I was lucky to get a reservation. The Upper West Side loves its brunch.

"With a guy?" I persist. "He was really late? And his credit card had been compromised?"

Her face clears. "Oh, the dude who almost stood you up?"

"Yes."

"What about him?"

"You ever seen him in here before?"

She cocks her head to the side. "Maybe once or twice. Not a regular."

My heart sinks. "Any chance you know his name?"

"Hmmm. It's something basic, I think."

"Like Jack?" Kit says unhelpfully. I kick her under the table.

"Something like that."

"Okay, um, do you think you could do me a favor?"

"Depends."

"Can I leave you my number? If he comes in again, can you give it to him?" I take out half a cue card I prepared beforehand with my name, number, and a $20 bill.

She eyes the money. "He lose your number or something?"

"It's complicated."

"I don't want to get in trouble."

"You won't, I promise. Just give him this. If he doesn't want to talk to me, he doesn't have to take it or call or anything."

"But you want me to tell you if he's been in, right?"

"Well, only if you're comfortable." I push the twenty and the cue card toward her. "Please?" She hesitates for a moment, then takes it. "Thank you."

She tucks the card and the twenty into the pocket of her apron while Kit shakes her head at me across the table. "You ordering?"

"Definitely."

#

Two hours and two thousand calories later, we're walking across the park toward the Met.

"I can't believe I ate all that," I say, holding my belly. We each got the eggs benedict and ate every last bite, a move I regretted the minute my fork hit the plate for the last time.

"I can't believe we're even doing this after Jack sent you flowers," Kit says.

Unlike me, she seems to be able to eat whatever she wants without consequences.

"After you told him to send me flowers, you mean."

The flowers had shown up at my office on Friday morning, much to the delight of Jameela, and the bah-humbug of Addison. They were tulips, my favorite, and the card read: So sorry to miss our date. I'd texted him to thank him, and he'd responded immediately, suggesting we get dinner tonight at Lola Taverna, a Greek restaurant I'd been wanting to try for a while. I'd said yes because the man had just sent me flowers, but I felt like a jerk. I didn't want to go on a date with him; I wanted to find Fake Jack.

"I did no such thing," Kit says, jutting out her chin.

"So, he just happened to pick my favorite flowers and know my work address?"

"Okay, okay, he consulted me, obvi. But it was his idea."

"I can't believe I agreed to go out with him."

"You'll have a good time if you just go in with the right attitude."

"Hmmm."

I stop walking and take in the Met's façade like I did last week. It's hotter today, and there's a small trickle of sweat going down my back. That might be because of my nerves, though. I'm nervous about what I'm about to do, but also—what if I actually find Jack, or whoever he is? What then?

"What are we doing here, again?" Kit asks.

"Fake Jack's mom worked here." I turn to her. "I can't believe you haven't memorized our entire story by now."

Kit gives me a look. "Uh-huh. And?"

"Maybe someone will remember someone who worked here whose son was a docent."

Kit takes out her phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Filming this for John. He won't believe it."

"Stop it, put that away."

"You're no fun."

"That's been obvious since 2002."

Kit laughs. "You're saying I have bad taste in best friends?"

"Five-year-old you did for sure."

"Let's get on with it, shall we?"

We walk up the stairs, me searching the crowd for Fake Jack's face, my heart pattering at an absurd rate.

"Who are you going to ask?"

"Not sure." We enter the building, the air conditioning enveloping me, and I search around for somewhere to ask about Fake Jack's mom. "Speaking of asking. Any movement on the John proposal front?"

A blush creeps up Kit's neck. "Pretty sure he went ring shopping with Lian this week."

"Oh dear."

"Yeah ... I can only imagine what that's going to produce."

"Did you do what we talked about?"

"Leave print-ups of rings I like around the apartment? I decided against it. Seemed too desperate."

My eyes rove around the marble hall. "So what will you do?"

"When he shows up with something gold and covered in lapis or some other semi-precious stone that's not an emerald-cut diamond?"

"Yep."

"Take it back and pick out something I like."

"So practical."

"How about there?" She points to the information booth, where there are two mishappen security guards in black uniforms with white lettering. The woman looks to be about our age, and the man is much older, past retirement even.

"That might work."

Kit nudges me in the back. "Well, go on."

I plant my feet, resisting. "You know I'm bad at talking to strangers."

"You want to abort?"

"No, no, I got it." I pluck up my courage and go to the booth.

"Can I help you ma'am?" the woman asks. She's got a thick Jersey accent, and I'm going to have trouble understanding her. I haven't been in New York long enough to get past the elongated vowels and dropped consonants.

"I'm looking for someone."

Her face creases with concern. Her dark brown hair is pulled back in a severe bun and she's wearing no makeup. "Someone's lost?"

"No, I ... My friend ... His mother worked here ten years ago, and so did he. I was wondering if you'd be able to check in your records for anyone who matched that description?"

"Mah records?"

"Yeah, you know, the personnel records?"

"What's the name?"

"Um, I don't know."

She throws her head back and laughs. "Hey, Mort, getta load a this." She prods the other security guard in the back. "This lady wants me to search for a mother and son who worked here ten years ago, and she don't even know their name."

Mort turns around and peers at me through dirty coke bottle glasses. His faded blue eyes are watery and clouded. "That right?"

"I ... It's not that weird is it?"

"Ma'am, this is New York City. We get all kinds of weird all day long."

"So, you'll help me?"

"No," he says firmly.

"Why not?"

"We can't be looking in personnel records."

"Even if they're ten years old?"

"Even if they're fifty years old."

I sigh, sensing Kit's I told you so next to me. "Does it ring a bell, though? He was probably seventeen. Dark brown hair, cute, six feet?"

The woman snorts. "You hear that, Mort? He was cyuu-te."

My cheeks flame. "Forget it."

"Nah, nah, ma'am," More says. "Sylvie was only making fun. But I wasn't here ten years ago. I was still walking the beat in Harlem."

"And I was still in high school," Sylvie ads.

"Okay. Look, I know this will seem weird, but if you think of anyone? Or maybe ask some of the other people who might've worked here then, can you call me?" I take out another cue card with my number on it and think about giving money again, but this is getting expensive and Mort used to be a cop. I don't want to get in trouble. "This is my name and number. If you think of anything, please give me a call."

Mort takes the card and puts it in his shirt pocket. "All right, little lady. I'll keep that in mind."

I grind my teeth at the little lady. Mort has agreed to help me. Now's not the time to make a feminist point. "Thank you so much."

Sylvie smothered a smile. "I'll keep my eyes peeled."

I nod to her and back away, feeling stupid.

"We done here?" Kit asks.

"One more stop. One more stop and we'll be done."

My last hope of finding something about Fake Jack—or Fake Jack himself—is the boat club. Jack said he was scoping out things for his nephew, but he hadn't said what weekend. But there's an open regatta today, like there was last week, so I smooth my hair down nervously as we approach.

"You look great," Kit says.

"Thank you." My throat feels dry and my breakfast is doing somersaults in my stomach as we approach. I reach for Kit's hand and she squeezes it.

There's a crowd around the lake of about twenty adults and kids holding controllers and navigating their colorful boats.

"Has this been here the whole time?" Kit asks.

"I think so."

"It's awesome."

"Right?" My eyes dart around, searching for a familiar face. An older man and his grandson. A young mother, her blonde hair damp against her neck as she tries to help her son. A couple in their forties who're fighting over the controller. A younger man with dark hair—oh! I take a step forward.

"Is that him?"

"I ..." I watch the back of his head. He's with a young boy and his hand is on the boy's back, guiding him. I'm not sure I saw Fake Jack from behind—I'd made it a point of pride not to look back at him when we'd separated outside the brunch place. I inch forward as Kit lets go of my hand. But I'm suddenly calm. This is what I wanted, right? To see him again? To give him a chance to explain why he'd let me believe he was Jack for so long?

Turn around, Fake Jack. Turn around.

He doesn't though, so I continue to push my way through the crowd, keeping my eye on the back of Fake Jack's head as I get closer. The crowd is tighter around the water's edge, and I reach it just as the starter lets off his foghorn. The man to the left of me pushes into me, sending me off my balance and right into the little lake.

Splash!

I know from experience that it's not deep, but I have a moment of panic as my head ducks under the water and my arms flail around. I struggle to find my footing when a set of sure hands pull me up to a standing position.

"Are you all right?"

I push my hair away from my face. It's the man I thought was Fake Jack, but it's not him. He's ten years older and is wearing a wedding ring.

"Thanks for jumping in."

"Of course. Here let me help you."

He takes my elbow and leads me to the side and helps me get up onto the side of the pond.

"Chloe, babes, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Daddy, daddy, it's that lady who cheats!"

Oh for the love of Pete. "Hi, Kenny."

"Daddy, daddy, she knows my name. Why does she know my name?"

"Do you have a towel?" Kit asks the man who pulled me out of the water.

"No, sorry."

"They have them in gift shop," I say.

Kit nods and rushes off. I twist my hair with my hands and wring it out. The crowd that was watching me starts to disperse, but not Kenny or his Dad.

"Sorry about that," he says. They're wearing their matching outfits again, and Kenny senior has a stripe of sunburn across the bridge of his nose. "It's just that the horn startled me. I didn't mean to push you in the water."

"You pushed me into the water?"

"Not on purpose."

"Don't take that tone with him, young lady," Kenny Junior says.

He looks so serious, his hands on his hips, that it's hard not to laugh.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Oh, good," he says. "I'm glad to see you again, actually."

Um, what? "Okay."

"I got some good pictures of you last week."

"You were taking pictures of me?"

His cheeks turn red. "Not like that. Just when you went into the water to get the boat. You do seem to like going into this lake."

"Yes, right."

He holds out his phone. "Would you like to see?"

"I ..."

He doesn't wait for my answer. "Look, here you are going into the water. And here you are getting the boat, and here you are handing it back to that guy you were with—"

"Wait. Stop." I take his phone and look at the photo. I'm clear and in focus, but Fake Jack less so, but he's clear enough to be recognizable. "Can I have this?"

"What? Oh sure." I reach into my pocket and pull out my amazingly still working phone. I guess Apple meant it when they said they'd made them waterproof.

"Here, Airdrop it to me."

We go through the motions to transfer the photo as Kit comes back. "This is my friend, Kit."

"Bearing a towel," Kit says, holding it out with questions in her eyes.

"Thank you." I take it from her and use it to wipe off my face, then drape it over my shoulders. "Thanks, Kenny."

"My name's Jim."

"Oh, thanks, Jim."

"Will we see you next week?"

"Uh, not sure."

"Right, then."

I turn away and link arms with Kit.

"What was that about?" Kit asks when we're not nearly far enough away.

"Lonely dad, I guess. Who knows. His kid is a nightmare."

"It was pretty funny when you went in."

"Thanks so much."

She tugs on the towel. "And you'll never guess what I did for you in the shop."

"What?"

"I remembered that Fake Jack bought you a towel last week—see, yes I do listen to you—and so I asked to see their records of the towels they'd sold."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"And?"

"They said that they couldn't give me the name of anyone who bought a towel, but then she did look anyway and there were twenty and she couldn't give me the records."

"He probably paid cash anyway."

"Maybe, though I was thinking about that too, and don't you think he probably said that about his card so you wouldn't see his name when he paid?"

"I never even thought of that."

"Yeah."

"Does that make it worse or better?"

"Not sure. Anyway, no joy in that department."

"I did get this cool towel, though. I can add it to my collection." I hug her. "Thanks, Kit."

"Hey, you're getting me wet."

I pull away. "The day wasn't a total loss." I explain the picture Kenny's dad had, and show it to her.

"Hmm. He does look like Jack. Real Jack, I mean."

"Right."

"Who you'll see tonight."

"Yes."

"You're still going, right?"

"Yes, yes."

She looks at the picture again. "Is this guy really worth going down with the ship?" She puts a hand up. "Don't even go there."

I sigh. "So, I guess that's it then. Short of stalking the boat club every weekend and making Jim think I'm into him, I'm all out of leads."

"Sorry, babes."

"Me too."