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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Avery agonized for days over how to contact Irish.

Once she had reached the soul-searching conclusion that she needed counsel, she was faced with the problem of how to go about informing him that she hadn't died a fiery death in the crash of Flight 398.

No matter how she went about it, it would be cruel. If she simply appeared on his doorstep, he might not survive the shock. He would think a phone call was a prank because her voice no longer sounded the same. So she settled on sending a note to the post office box where she had mailed her jewelry weeks earlier. Surely he had puzzled over receiving that through the mail without any explanation. Wouldn't he already suspect that there had been mysterious circumstances surrounding her death?

She deliberated for hours over how to word such an unprecedented letter.  There were no guidelines that she knew of, no etiquette to follow when you informed a loved one who believed you to be dead that you were, in fact, alive. Straightforwardness, she finally decided, was the only way to go about it.

 Dear Irish,

I did not die in the airplane crash. I will explain the bizarre sequence of events next Wednesday evening at your apartment, six o'clock.

Love, Avery.

She wrote it with her left hand—a luxury these days—so that he would immediately recognize  her handwriting, and mailed it without a return address on the envelope. Tate had barely been civil to her since their argument over breakfast the previous Saturday. She was almost glad. Even though his antipathy wasn't aimed at her, she bore the brunt of it for her alter ego. Distance made it easier to endure.

She dared not think about how he would react when he discovered the truth. His hatred for Carole would pale against what he would feel for Avery Daniels. The best she could hope for was an opportunity to explain herself. Until then, she could only demonstrate how unselfish her motives were. Early Monday morning, she made an appointment with Dr. Gerald Webster, the famed Houston child psychologist. His calendar was full, but she didn't take no for an answer. She used Tate's current celebrity status in order to secure an hour of the doctor's coveted time. For Mandy's sake, she pulled rank with a clear conscience.

When she informed Tate of the appointment, he nodded brusquely. "I'll make a note of it on my calendar." She had made the appointment to coincide with one of the days their campaign would have them in Houston anyway.

Beyond that brief exchange, they'd had little to say to each other. That gave her more time to rehearse what she was going to say when she stood face-to-face with Irish.

However, by Wednesday evening, when she pulled her car to a stop in front of his modest house, she still had no idea what to say to him or even how to begin.

Her heart was in her throat as she went up the walk, especially when she saw movement behind the window blinds. Before she reached the front porch, the door was hauled open. Irish, looking ready to tear her limb from limb with his bare hands, strode out and demanded, "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck is your game?''

Avery didn't let his ferocity intimidate her. She continued moving forward until she reached him. He was only a shade taller than she. Since she wore high heels, they met eye to eye.

"It's me, Irish." She smiled gently. "Let's go inside."

At the touch of her hand on his arm, his militancy evaporated. The furious Irishman wilted like the most fragile of flower petals. It was a pathetic sight to see. In a matter of seconds he was transformed from a belligerent pugilist into a confused old man. The icy disclaimer in his blue eyes was suddenly clouded by tears of doubt, dismay, joy.