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pushed his chair back, rose, and charged out through the entranceway, past the bar and the billiard tables, through the doorway, and headed toward the phone booths. He chose one on the far left, entered, closed the door, pulled out his cell phone and called Marcia. He loved the Union League Club’s rule barring the use of cell phones anywhere but in those old-world booths, and even in his distressed state he respected it.
    â€œHi, honey,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”
    â€œI’m fine, Pres. Where are you? I tried to reach you at the office but they thought you were AWOL. Is everything all right?” They were adept at this evasive dance by now.
    â€œI’m at the club. Everything’s fine. How’s P.J.?”
    â€œAre you sure? P.J.’s adorable. He’s sleeping at the moment. Are you having a business lunch? You sound a little funny.”
    â€œNo, I had a—meeting earlier, and I just felt like grabbing a bite at the club alone.”
    â€œWell, that sounds good. Maybe you could get some steam while you are there, and a massage. Did you have anything specific in mind when you called?”
    â€œNo, nothing specific. I just wanted to hear your voice. Lot on my mind to sort through.”
    Preston could hear Marcia breathing, but not saying a word. His mind was racing. He wondered how much he should tell her. How much more did his wife really want to know?
    â€œI went to see an attorney this morning . . . about . . . the phone call. I know this is an awful situation, Marcia. I’m trying to determine what to do.”
    â€œWhat did the lawyer tell you to do?”
    â€œHe just gave me options.”
    â€œImagine that. And?”
    â€œHe can arrange a paternity test.” He latched onto the attorney’s precise language. “Ninety-nine percent accurate. At least.”
    â€œYou got yourself into this mess, Preston. For what it’s worth, it seems to me the first step is to take the test and find out how real all of this is. But it’s your decision. I doubt if any more scotches will help.”
    He pondered that for a long moment.
    â€œJust let me know if you’ll be home for dinner. And by the way, Tommy Greco called here looking for you.”
    Marcia gave Preston Tommy’s number. He thanked her, thanked God for having her, returned to the dining room, devoured his lunch, and headed for the exercise room. Yes, a workout and a massage. That should help.

 
CHAPTER EIGHT
R efreshed, Preston went back to the phone booths and returned Tommy Greco’s call, feeling guilty that he had not spoken with him for several months.
    â€œHi, Tommy, what’s up?”
    â€œI’m in New York and I wanna talk to you. It’s about me and Missy.”
    The last time Preston had seen Tommy and Missy was at Joe’s funeral. Tommy had actually met Missy through Preston; Tommy had helped Missy work through a nasty situation with her abusive ex-husband.
    Tommy, who grew up in the Italian-American community in Niagara Falls, New York, knew all about abuse from his own youth.
    â€œHow’s Missy doing?” Preston asked.
    â€œShe’s good. We got married.”
    His mind in a cloud, Preston struggled to shift his thoughts from his own problems to find the right response. He vaguely remembered receiving an invitation; he assumed Marcia had covered for him.
    â€œHey, you there?” Tommy said. “Am I getting you in
a interruption
?”
    Hearing Tommy’s voice and his manner of speaking jarred Preston back into focus. “No, you’re fine, Tommy. Sorry, a lot on my mind. Congratulations. Missy’s the best!”
    Preston thought about his first meeting with Missy in Las Vegas, and how insightful and helpful she was with his own difficulties with Marcia.
    â€œWhere are you?” Preston asked. “Do you want to get together?”
    â€œI had an important appointment. I’m downtown.