“I’ll go say hello.” Marin was eager to see her friend, but also glad to escape. Lorna could be a bit cloying.
Sal’s mother is a sweet woman, but she’s scarred, physically, emotionally, and mentally. She’s overly doting on Sal, as if trying to make up for years of not doting on him enough when he was younger. And her mind seems to be deteriorating. Her doctor suspects she has mild traumatic brain injury from the last beating she took, which went undiagnosed at the time, and the symptoms are showing up more now. She has trouble concentrating, is easily frustrated with simple tasks, and Marin can hear her talking to herself sometimes, muttering words and phrases in a mix of Italian and English that Sal says don’t make sense.
Marin can’t imagine what she’s been through, what Sal has been through. Sal Sr. was a tyrant, running the household and his winery with a short temper and an iron fist, his judgment never to be questioned. And god forbid someone ever did. He kept a gun locked in the safe in their bedroom, and had a concealed carry permit. Though he’d never used the weapon, he’d made a point to tell everyone it was there, and sometimes he would walk the grounds with it, “to keep everyone in line.” From what Sal has told Marin, the male workers feared his rage, and it was common knowledge among the female workers to avoid any situation where you might find yourself alone with him.
Growing up, Sal often took the brunt of the beatings, and took them willingly, because it was either him or his mother. Lorna back then was mild-mannered, eager to please, and she both worshipped and feared her husband. She’s still that way today, minus the husband.
“He’s a good boy, isn’t he?” Lorna had said, the last afternoon Marin was there.
They sat in the large kitchen while Marin fixed them a snack, the older woman resting in the La-Z-Boy recliner Sal had dragged in from the living room so his mom would be comfortable. The farmhouse has a large window all along the back that overlooks the expansive property, and Lorna was watching her son clear branches from a tree that was a bit too close to the house.
Most of the Palermo Winery vineyard—over thirty acres total—was sold off to a large corporation ten years before. The new owners had no use for the farmhouse. They only wanted the vineyards, so Lorna got to keep it, along with the old tasting room, the wine cellar beneath it, and three acres of grapevines. The farmhouse was the only home she had; she was determined to both live, and die, in it. Over the last few years, as her health problems worsened, she fell behind on the general upkeep of the house, forcing her son out to Prosser more than he would have liked.
Behind where Sal was working, there was a tree swing, just a slab of wood and a couple of lengths of rope. One of the workers had surprised Sal with it when he was a little boy. Perhaps the worker had built it to curry favor with the boss, or perhaps he did it to distract Sal from the fact that his mother was often covered in bruises. Whatever the reason, Sal had been delighted, and he once told Marin that it was one of his happier childhood memories. There weren’t many.
“He really is a good boy.” Marin looked through the window, watching her old friend work. She didn’t often see this version of Sal, the one who’d grown up here, the one chopping branches and getting dirty and working with his hands. To her, he was a city boy, running his bar, living his bachelor lifestyle in the condo he owned in Belltown. Admittedly, she found this version of Sal—farm boy Sal, the exact opposite of the boy she’d met and dated in college and had been friends with for two decades—kind of attractive.
“Why didn’t you ever marry him?” There was no accusation in Lorna’s voice, just disappointment. “He loved you so much.”
They always seemed to have this conversation whenever Marin came to visit, and she answered the question the way she always did. “It just wasn’t meant to be. We were so young,” she added, neglecting to mention that she’d gotten together with Derek barely a week after she and Sal had broken up.
“You love your husband?”
“Of course,” she said, surprised. Lorna had never asked her that before. “Derek and I have been together a long time.”
“He’s a good husband to you?” the older woman pressed. “And a good father to your boy?”
“Of course he is.” Marin buttered a couple of scones and brought them over to the table. She took a seat beside Lorna. “Why, what did Sal tell you?”
Lorna watched her son through the window. “He don’t like your husband.”
No surprise there.
“He says he’s not good to you.” Lorna’s gaze flicked over Marin briefly. “He says he cheat on you.”
Marin closed her eyes, holding back a sigh. Derek had only been unfaithful that one time, early on in the pregnancy, and she can’t believe Sal actually told his mother about that. It was barely his business, let alone Lorna’s.
“Derek made a mistake.” Marin felt her face flush. “It won’t happen again.”
“I believe in forgiveness,” Lorna said with a decisive nod. “You’re a good girl, too, Marin. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned after being married for so long, it’s that you must always protect your children. Always. That comes before everything, and I didn’t do that with my son. He protected me, when it should have been the other way around. I think it’s why he don’t trust people now. Why he won’t let himself get close to anyone. Except you,” she added with a small smile. “You have to look out for him, back in the city. Make sure he don’t get lonely.”
Marin squeezed her arm. “We look out for each other.”
An hour later, she was packed and ready to head home. A case of assorted Palermo wines was nestled in the trunk next to her overnight bag. Sal would never let her leave Prosser without wine.
“Don’t work too hard,” she said to Sal, having already said her goodbyes to Lorna. She felt bad leaving them at the farmhouse, but she was eager to get back to Seattle. The farmhouse was surrounded by thousands of rows of grapevines and nothing else, no neighbors for half a mile of rolling hills in any direction, and cell reception was poor. Marin craved the hustle and bustle of the city, the comforts of her own house. And, of course, she missed her boys.
Sal gave her a warm embrace. He smelled great, like grass and fresh air. “Thanks for coming. You were a big help.”
“See you in a week?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got too much to do, and I need to get it all done before the snow comes. I’ll be here through the holidays. But I’ll see you in the new year.” He pulled her in for another hug. “Merry Christmas, Mar.”
Five days later, back in the city, three days before Christmas, Sebastian went missing. Lorna’s words came rushing back, out of nowhere, like a slap in the face, a throat punch. You must always protect your children. That comes before everything.
At that, Marin has failed. Horrifically.
She’s no better than Lorna in that regard. But after all her time in therapy, she understands that every person is the result of everything they’ve ever been through. Marin grew up with a hypercritical mother, which is why she has a hard time asking for help, and why she always blames herself for everything. Derek grew up dirt poor, which is why it’s so important for him to have money now, and for people to know he has money. And Sal grew up with an abusive, alcoholic father, and was barely twenty-one when his dad accidentally fell over the railing of a sixteenth-story balcony the night of his fiftieth birthday party.
That’s the official story, anyway. Officially, nobody was around when it happened, and it was a perfectly plausible theory. Sal Sr. was a legendary drunk, and a sloppy, mean one at that, not exactly known for his coordination or good judgment.
Sal never talks about that night, not even with Marin, who was there at the party, and who stayed long after the other guests had left, helping him clean up. After his parents’ last terrible fight, the one where Lorna had gotten the head injury, they finally separated, and Sal’s father decided to rent an apartment in the city as a place to escape to when things weren’t busy at the winery. This all happe
ned before she and Sal started dating, and by the time she met Sal’s father, he was in full bachelor mode. He threw himself a birthday party to celebrate his fiftieth with his new city friends—guys he played poker with, mostly—and invited his son. Marin encouraged Sal to go, thinking it would be good for them to reconnect. She wanted to meet Sal’s father. She didn’t know what she was in for.
“People can change,” she’d told Sal, which, in hindsight, was stupid. “You said he’s been better since the separation. He’s opening the door. All you have to do is walk through it.”
“You don’t know him like I do, Mar.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” she said. “But remember, I’ll be right there with you.”
Sal Sr. was already drinking by the time they arrived. By the time the party was over at two a.m., he was completely blotto, arguing with Sal, belligerent. Marin was in the apartment’s small kitchen throwing paper plates and Solo cups into a garbage bag, but she could hear them shouting on the balcony. The sliding door was open, and there was a cool breeze fluttering into the apartment. She was tying up the garbage bag when she heard Sal say, “Mom shouldn’t have to divorce you, you sonofabitch. I should just kill you.”
She heard Sal Sr. laugh. Laugh, as if what Sal had just said was the funniest and most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard. Then he said something back that Marin couldn’t make out, something low and threatening. It filled Marin with fear. She left the kitchen, heading straight for the balcony. She should never have encouraged Sal to come. It wasn’t her place. And they needed to leave now, before things got completely out of hand.
But when she stepped onto the balcony, only one of them was still there.
When a body lands on pavement, it doesn’t sound like anything from sixteen stories up. You only imagine the smack, the sound of bones snapping and flesh compressing into the sidewalk, but you don’t actually hear anything from that height. Marin didn’t see the fall, didn’t hear the landing, but it was all she could do not to scream when she looked over the railing and saw the tiny body on the ground below, sixteen floors down. It almost didn’t seem real.
Maybe if the man hadn’t fallen from such a great height—maybe if it had only been, say, six floors, or eight, and daylight—she’d have gotten a better, closer look at the horrific way Sal Palermo Sr. had died, and made a different decision. But it was the middle of the night. And the residential street below was completely deserted at two a.m.
“Oh my god Marin oh my god what did I do—” Sal was sobbing so hard, he could barely get the words out.
“Shhh,” she said to him, when the reality of what had just happened finally sank in. She put a finger over his lips and pulled him back inside the apartment. “Never say that again, do you understand me? Listen to me, Sal. Are you listening?”
He nodded, his eyes glazed. He’d had a couple of beers, but they’d been consumed at least an hour before. He wasn’t drunk. He was in shock.
“We were inside the living room, and you went to use the bathroom before driving me home. I went outside to find your dad to say goodnight, and when I didn’t see him, I looked over the railing and saw his body. I called nine-one-one—”
“Marin, no—”
“I called nine-one-one,” she repeated, taking the cordless phone off the charger, “because a terrible accident happened. Your drunk fucking father fell off his fucking balcony. You were nowhere near the balcony when it happened. Do you understand?”
He nodded, and she made the call, and the cops bought the story. Several people at the party earlier attested to Sal’s father being drunk and stumbling around. He’d had a history of injuring himself while intoxicated—once, when Sal was in high school, he fell into a mirror when nobody was home, and cut his own face.
She and Sal broke up for good a month after that. Neither of them admitted that Sal’s father’s death was the thing that finally fractured them. How could they, when Sal refused to talk about it? But it was the last straw in a romantic relationship that, as Marin told Lorna, was never meant to be.
Her email alert chimes, bringing her back to the present. It’s a confirmation from her financial adviser that the money’s been received on the other end. It’s official. No refunds, as Julian said. It’s done.
If letting go of her little boy’s hand in a busy farmers’ market is the worst thing Marin has ever done, then this is the second worst. Except this time, she’s done it on purpose.
She checks the Shadow app. There have been no new texts between Derek and his mistress since he tried to end the affair this morning, only to change his mind a few minutes later. It’s the grief talking, of course it is, because the Derek who’s been sleeping with a twenty-four-year-old is not the man she married. Everyone handles loss differently. Marin screwed up. Derek screwed up. She can’t fix her mistake. But she can fix Derek’s.
What else did Lorna say to her? I believe in forgiveness.
McKenzie Li deserves no more of her time or energy, not one more second, not one more ounce. Marin presses the icon on the Shadow app until the little “x” appears, then taps it decisively. A notification window appears.
Delete “Shadow”?
Deleting this app will also delete its data.
She hits Delete. Then she sends Vanessa Castro a quick email.
VC — It’s no longer necessary to investigate the affair. I’m handling it.
Thanks,
MM
The investigator replies almost immediately.
Understood — VC
And then, because she’s already showered and dressed, and since what’s done can’t be undone, Marin goes to work.
PART TWO
I’m only faking when I get it right
—SOUNDGARDEN
Chapter 15
Kenzie gives the ramen noodles a stir, keeping an eye on the timer so she doesn’t overcook them. Even an extra ten seconds can turn them into mush. She has nine more packages of instant ramen in the cupboard, as they’re always five for a dollar at the Cash n’ Carry, and they have to last her a week. Tonight’s flavor: beef.
The noodles will make her puffy tomorrow, but she doesn’t care. She has at least three Instagram-worthy photos in her phone from her hotel stay, none of them selfies. She knows her angles and she’s good with her camera timer, and with a little editing, they’ll be ready for posting.
Derek asked her once what the point of it all was, and why she cared so much if fifty thousand strangers liked her. But it’s not about being liked. People can hate you because you’re famous yet still care what you’re up to, who you’re dating, what you’re wearing, where you’re going. A hate-follow is still a follow. It’s about visibility, the importance of being seen. These days, who you are online is almost as good as who you are in real life.
“But why?” he’d pressed, confused. “Do you make money from this?”
“I’ve gotten some products for free,” she said. “But if I can get my account up to a hundred thousand followers, I might start getting paid to advertise. I know an influencer who got most of her wedding and honeymoon expenses covered, thanks to her two million–follower reach. All she had to do was photograph everything and tag all the vendors.”
It was weird explaining it to someone, especially someone with a minimal social media presence. Most people she knew understood the robust Instagram ecosystem that existed between influencers and followers and companies trying to sell them a better lifestyle than the one they already had. Or, at the very least, the appearance of a better lifestyle. Derek’s company had all the social media accounts, of course, which he never checked. They were managed by an intern in the marketing department.
“Online I can be anyone I want to be,” she said. “I can control everyone else’s perception of who I am. I’m in charge of the narrative.”
“And that matters because…”
“Because it does,” she said. “It’s how we remind other people that we exist.”
“Do you post your
art online?”
“Never,” she said. “My art I don’t give away for free.”
Derek was giving her a funny look. “Yeah, I don’t get it,” he said. Then he poked her in the side, and that’s when she realized he was messing with her.
She smacked him with a pillow. “Shut up,” she said. “This is what the cool kids do, old man.”
The timer beeps and Kenzie turns off the stove, moving the pot to a cold burner. She tears open the seasoning packet with her teeth and sprinkles the powder in, stirring one last time before transferring the noodles to a bowl. There is no nutritional value in anything she’s about to eat, but just like the Barenaked Ladies would still eat Kraft dinner if they had a million dollars, so, too, will Kenzie continue to eat instant ramen if she ever marries Derek.
Holy shit. Did she actually just think that? Marry Derek? What the hell is happening to her?
Really and truly, it was never supposed to come to this.
When they first met six months ago—met officially, anyway—Derek had no idea who Kenzie was. He didn’t remember her. She didn’t exist to him before the day he first walked into the Green Bean.
The coffee shop wasn’t busy, and she remembers watching through the windows as a metallic black Maserati parallel-parked at the curb right outside the front door. In the University District, where the majority of the Green Bean’s customers were students and hospital shift workers, a Maserati, even in an understated color, stood out.
Derek strode in, tall and well-dressed in his tailored suit and shiny black shoes, hair perfect, leather laptop bag slung over one broad shoulder, appearing every inch the successful businessman he was. Kenzie recognized him right away.
He was the guy from the market.
Every other week for close to a year, he would stop by the Taquitos Hermanos food truck at the west end of Pike Place Market, which is where Kenzie worked when she first moved to Seattle for grad school. Carlos and Joey paid her in cash at the end of every shift, and she went wherever the truck went—food festivals, concerts, even a couple of outdoor weddings. It was a fun way to earn money without having to pay taxes, and the best part was, she could eat anything she wanted for free. On Saturdays, the truck had a regular spot at Pike Place.
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