I keep looking out for this silver fox as I navigate the elite of Los Angeles and hope I don’t drop these canapés. After an hour of serving appetizers to the city’s preeminent stakeholders, I’m about ready to call it—no Judge Whitaker in sight.
An event assistant wearing a headset stands in the corner on the deck. He’s clean-cut, Ivy League, and very nervous. I ditch my tray and pull out a blank sheet of paper. With great determination, I march up to the young man.
My eyes lock on his, and I quickly issue an order. “I need eyes on Judge Whitaker.”
“Wh-What?”
I grit my teeth impatiently and wave the sheet of paper too fast for him to read. “Whitaker! Who has eyes on Whitaker?”
“Why do—”
“What’s your name?”
“Preston?”
Of course it is. “Okay, Preston?” I say, emphasizing his question. “Someone smashed the headlight of Judge Whitaker’s car, Preston? And I need to know where he is. Now!”
Preston? clicks on his headset. “Anyone have eyes on Judge Whitaker?” I shoot him an impatient glare, and he adds, “Please?”
The funny thing about people is if you act like you hold a position of authority, they will respect it. Take Preston? here. I can tell by his Cole Haan shoes and hundred-dollar haircut that he has more money in his bank account than I do, and unlike me, he actually belongs here. But if I act like he’s supposed to answer to me, well, he’ll answer to me.
Preston? nods as he listens to his earpiece. “N-Napa Lounge,” he stammers.
I’m off before he can finish. Paige is still meandering around with an empty tray. When she sees me charging forward, she falls in pace with me. I grab her empty tray from her. Another cute hostess is offering a selection of finger sandwiches to trophy wives. Without a word, I swap it out with Paige’s empty tray and leave behind a group with befuddled expressions.
“Where?” Paige asks.
“Napa Lounge.”
We hurry down the long hall, our feet pattering on the Spanish tile. And there, off the main hall, is a placard marked Napa Lounge. We charge inside. The lounge is sparse and white—oppressively white. The only color in the room comes from the wood beams across the ceiling, which match the brown carpet. Even the four men standing in the center of the room are white. They turn to look at us when we barge in with only a single tray of offerings between us.
“Oh, good,” one of them says. “I was wondering if we’d get any food in here. Come in, come in.” He waves us over, and we approach. My hand extends to offer the tray of new appetizers. Paige is empty-handed.
In the center of the group is a tall man with thick silver hair and wire-framed glasses. He smiles at us and allows his companions first dibs. This is Judge William Whitaker. As the men pluck food from my tray, Paige lasers in on the judge. Her stare doesn’t waver, even as he appears to become uncomfortable.
“Can we order some drinks, too?” asks another man. He turns to the others. “Should we get a bottle of scotch?” Then he addresses us again. “Can you get us a bottle of scotch?”
I glance at Paige. She says and does nothing. Not wanting there to be an uncomfortable dead silence, I start stalling. “Sure thing, gentleman. Any particular bottle? We have Glenlivet, Glenfiddich, Glengarry, Glen…”
“I’m Paige Whitaker!”
Everyone is quiet and turns to face Paige. She continues to stare at Judge Whitaker. He takes her in, trying to process her sudden unprovoked announcement.
“Ross,” I finish, and an even more awkward silence falls.
Whitaker turns to his friends. “Would you mind excusing us?”
The other men slowly step away, leaving only the three of us in the lounge.
Whitaker turns to me. “And you are…?”
“Oh. Darcy Caine.” Not sure how to greet a judge, I wave. “Hi.”
He smiles. “I’m going to assume you’re going to be part of this conversation, but if you wouldn’t mind, could you close the door for us?” He points at the door to the hall. As I move to close it, he turns to my friend. “Paige, why don’t we have a seat?” He gestures to the corner, where several armchairs sit in a semicircle.
I shut the door, deposit my food tray on the nearest table, and join Paige and Whitaker. He studies Paige thoughtfully. He’s still smiling, though now he seems mildly amused.
Finally, he speaks. “You found me. After all this time, you finally found me. It’s been—what? Twenty years?”
Paige nods.
“I’ve always wondered about you. How you turned out. If you were okay. I hoped that one day you would find me. That’s why I gave you my name—the only clue I had to offer. And look at you. Here you are, this beautiful young lady. And since you’ve found me, I have to imagine you’re very bright. It looks like things turned out okay for you.”
This time, Paige doesn’t nod. As he reviews the expression on her face, his smile fades just a little. “Did you ever get adopted?”
Paige shakes her head. I’m suddenly struck by how quiet she is. Paige only has two speeds—Stop and Go. Go is how she escaped the foster system. It was how she taught herself everything about computers. It was how she’d found her way to this man after all these years of searching for answers. But Paige has the same insecurities and vulnerabilities as everyone else, and when you hit that chink in her armor, she slams on the breaks and stops.
“She didn’t,” I answer, knowing that the fact she was never adopted is a particularly painful subject for her. I take her hand and offer a reassuring squeeze. If Paige can’t speak, then I’ll speak for her. My attention returns to Whitaker. “She left the last foster home the moment she turned eighteen. Got a job, found her own place to live, and put
