Out of pure habit, I glance at my iMessage and note the blank logs. Not only did my father scrub my phone, he scrubbed my iCloud. I have no past history chats with Danielle at all. To me, that looks more suspicious than just leaving our chats. What was there that I didn’t see? What did I miss the morning she died?
“Damn it,” I murmur, shoving fingers through my hair.
She’s dead.
She’s gone.
That is not something I can change.
I reach for my purse when my phone rings, and I swear I shiver, certain that it’s going to be Danielle, telling me she’s still alive, and to stop freaking calling her dead. With an out-of-character shaky hand, I grab my cell and glance down to find Jake’s number. I hit decline. I’ve said too much to him. I’m not tempting fate. I wonder if that’s what Danielle did when she drugged me again, despite how horrific the first time had turned out. I wonder if I found out before she died.
“Stop!” I bite out fiercely. “Stop now.”
I need out of this house. I need to do what I did to survive my mother’s death: yoga. I quickly google a location nearby and find one easily. I head for the door. I’ll check out the studio and find a schedule. Heck, maybe I could become an instructor. I’m certified. I taught in college as part of building a “diverse resume,” as was preached by my advisors, to look good to the law school I was assumed to be entering there at Georgetown.
A plan in place, I exit the house, lock up, and only a few minutes later, I’m strolling the quaint, calm neighborhood that reminds me of an upscale beach town minus the beach. Cars pass by, but they are few and far between, while residents stroll from place to place. I use my phone’s navigation and turn right down 3rd Avenue, passing one of many galleries in the area only to halt at the sight of a painting. A beautiful black stallion that is so alive, it feels as if the magnificent creature might jump from the page. It reminds me of a time when I’d painted, when the brush in my hand, and the paint on the canvas, had been an obsession I’d shared with my mother.
Until she was gone, and I couldn’t pick up a brush. I couldn’t, I can’t paint ever again. Never again. That part of me is as dead as Danielle and my mother.
I turn away from the gallery and start walking again, faster now, with intent in my steps, old memories I’ve long suppressed trying to surface, while the ones I’ve been trying to remember, that night with Danielle, stay buried. I reach the yoga studio, and walk inside, talking to the girl behind the desk about the schedule and pricing. I inquire about a job and I’m given a card for the manager. I leave five minutes later with plans to return tomorrow. I’m going to need my yoga to survive the trigger Hailey Anne Pitt appears to be for me.
As I step onto the street, I find myself stopping to stare at the sign just across the street: Creatively Wined and Caffeinated with a paintbrush at the end of the scripted words. Unbidden, I’m back in time, to another coffee shop where I’d visited with my mother on a girls’ night out, an image of the two of us sitting at canvases, painting and drinking hot cocoa has me telling myself to turn away. I’m done painting. Never again will I hold a brush in my hand.
Even so, I find myself crossing the street toward the shop. I don’t stop until I’m opening the door and entering, to find myself standing on a landing, a stairway leading downstairs where the wooden bar is surrounded by bookshelves and cute wooden tables. There are paintbrushes, as well as mini coffee cups and wine bottles dangling from the ceiling. It’s adorable. There are two open arches, one labeled “Art” and one labeled “Books.” There are people milling around here and there, and I imagine on the weekend it must be quite packed. I inhale with the realization that it’s not so unlike the very first place my mother took me to paint. She would love this place, which is exactly why any other day, I’d leave but I’m Hailey Pitt right now and the Pitt part of me is the part that represents all that has been good in my life.
I head down the stairs and walk toward the bar, where I climb on a stool and eye a menu with wine and booze presented as options, that I mentally decline. A pretty woman with pale blue eyes and a mess of light brown hair piled on top of her head stops in front of me. “What can I get ya?”
“Skinny white mocha,” I say, the skinny request giving me room for my added request of, “Lots of whipped cream.”
“Is there any other way to drink it?” she asks, giving me a friendly, genuine smile, not the fake, plastic, obligation smile I’m accustomed to receiving and delivering. “I’m Michelle,” she adds, “the owner here, and if you need anything else, let me know, but for now, a white mocha, whipped to perfection, coming right up.”
“You’re the owner?” I query. “You look very young to be the owner,” I add, guessing her to be in her late twenties.
“Thirty-six is not all that young,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel. “But that compliment earns you extra extra whipped cream on your next coffee.”
She’s charming and I find myself liking her, when I like so few.
She departs, leaving me in the unfamiliar state of alone, and I have this sudden wish for my computer, for something to do that is not just sitting here. I glance toward the room labeled “Art” and find myself curiously craving a peek inside, but no. No. I’m not doing that. It’s just then that a man sits down several seats away from me, setting off alarms with his choice of a seat near me rather than further down, at any of the many other open stools. I glance his way, sizing him up as tall, dark and good-looking in an expensive suit, with a briefcase he sets on the bar. He’s also wearing a Harvard class ring, which I know because I’m one of those rich, privileged people I hate, even when I, like my father, declare that to be untrue. Michelle waves at him and his, “Hey, Michelle,” says this isn’t his first visit, as does Michelle’s comfort in turning from him and returning her attention to the espresso machine. She has no choice. She’s alone and I wonder where the rest of her staff is at present.
The good news in Harvard being a repeat customer is that this indicates his visit is not about me, at least not solely for me, but that doesn’t mean he has not been recruited to watch me. With that sour idea, I scoot off the barstool, and walk toward the bookstore, but somehow, I end up under the archway leading to the art room. Painting stations with easels line a walkway on each side, and I’m framed by walls decorated in murals of Italy and Paris but it’s the wall of rolling hills directly in front of me that has my attention. Specifically, a whiteboard positioned in the center of a grass-green hill that lists out “Paint and Wine” hours. My lashes lower and for just a moment, I’m back at that first paint night with my mother, her soft laughter playing in my head. The next moment, she’s screaming at me right before she died.
My eyes pop open, acid burning my throat, and without another look around, I step back into the coffee shop, and make my way to the bookstore, the cute, airport-style bookstore setup, an easy distraction from the past. That is until I home in on a center display of hot new releases that features a much-anticipated book about my father: The Unauthorized Biography of Thomas Frank Monroe. Because why wouldn’t his book be here? He’s everywhere and the only good thing about that book is how much he doesn’t want it to exist.
Which is exactly why I have to fight the urge to pick it up and devour the contents, but I don’t need the attention purchasing it might deliver. Besides, what’s the book going to tell me that I don’t know? He’s a power-hungry monster who will spin that as being a fighter who won’t take no for an answer when it comes to this country and its needs.
“White mocha!” is shouted out and I leave the book behind, hurrying toward the bar where I claim my seat in front of a giant whipped cream concoction that looks like heaven. I can also feel Harvard staring at me. I ignore him. I’m good at that. You learn the skill of being obliviously aware when you’re in a life like mine. I grab a slice of chocolate from its spot inside my whipped cream and take a bite.
Harvard moves to the seat next to me, a wav
e of musky woodsy cologne, teasing my nostrils. “That looks like dessert,” he comments.
I now have a mouth full, and a good-looking man with an agenda next to me. An agenda and attention I can’t afford to entertain. “I like dessert more than I like most people,” I say, once I manage to swallow, “which likely includes you.”
He laughs, low and full. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
At that moment Michelle sets a cup of very plain coffee in front of him and glances at me. “How’s the white mocha?” she asks.
I laugh and lift a spoon, scooping up whipped cream. “I haven’t found my way to it yet, but I love the path I have to travel.”
“You’re my soul sister,” she says, giving me a wink. “But you know who to bitch at if you don’t end up liking it.” She glances at Harvard. “I already know what you like.”
She disappears, and Harvard returns his attention to me. “Still like that cup of whipped cream more than me?”
“I didn’t actually say that I liked it more than you,” I reply, glancing his direction. “Just that I most likely would.”
“And you base this assumption on what?” His cell phone rings and he grimaces, reaching for it. “Hold that insult for just a minute.” He glances at the number. “I’ll be right back,” he says, as if he expects that I’ll be here when he returns, which proves exactly why I already don’t like him. He expects. Just like every other man in my life.
He pushes off his seat and walks away, I eye the stack of papers on the bar a few seats down and the legal pad with scribbled notes with further disdain. He’s an attorney, like so many of the men in my life. Scanning the end of the bar, I find a stack of cups, quickly grabbing one, filling it with my drink, and topping it off with a lid.
It’s at that moment that a woman steps to the bar with an armful of books, including the one about my father, because apparently the register behind the bar, is the register and of course, she wants a book about him? “I’ll be right there,” Michelle calls out, sounding frazzled as additional customers enter through the front door. I decide to help her. I lift the wooden arm to the bar, and step behind it, grabbing a scanner. I ring up the order, take the credit card, bag the books and ask, “Anything else?”
“What are you doing?” Michelle demands, appearing beside me, her voice more frazzled than ever now.
“Helping,” I say, turning to face her, my hands on my hips. “If you need more help, I’m new to the neighborhood. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I don’t wait for a reply. I lift the arm to the bar again, round the end cap, grab my coffee, and head for the exit. Just as I reach the top of the steps and would push open the door, Harvard claims the space just in front of me. Taller and broader than I’d realized until this moment, his penetrating blue eyes meet mine. “You leaving?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
“I can’t let you go until I convince you to like me.”
“Are you an attorney?”
He narrows his gaze, surprise in his stare, a hint of what I’ll call a “mid-thirties” line feathering by his eyes. “Yes. Why? And how did you know that?”
“How did I know? The Harvard ring. The notepad. The suit. The attitude. And why do I ask? Because I don’t like attorneys. Ever.” I step around him and I leave.
I’ve made it a few steps down the sidewalk and he’s by my side. “Why do you hate attorneys?”
“They’re arrogant assholes who only want to win.”
“I could argue that with the goal of winning, but somehow I don’t think that helps my case. How long have you hated attorneys?”
I flick him a glance. “It’s a recent decision.”
“I see.”
“I doubt that very much,” I say.
“Brought on by a particular asshole, I assume?”
“A cluster of particular assholes,” I amend.
“I see,” he says again. “And what do you do?”
I stop and look at him, “I start at Stanford law school in a few months.”
He laughs. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I am.”
“But you hate attorneys,” he confirms.
“Yes. I do.”
He gives me a deadpan stare. “You’re staying in the area?”
“Yes.”
“Going back to the coffee shop?”
“Yes.”
He arches a brow. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Time?” he presses.
“Whenever I decide to go.”
He laughs. “All right then. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
He starts walking the other direction, a snake charmer like my father, who would make just about any woman want to see him tomorrow, except me. I turn sharply away from him and start walking, and I’m back in time. I’m sixteen, standing outside my father’s home office as he speaks to Frank Genks, his attorney who is much like Harvard—good-looking, charming, and smart—and I’d had a crush on him.
“End him,” I overhear my father order Genks, and with a peak around the corner, I see my father standing behind his heavy oak desk. “End Desmond Johnson and do it now.”
End him, I repeat in my mind, Genks forgotten, the words, the command, radiating through me. What does that even mean?
Suddenly, my mother grabs my hand, whirls me around and presses a silencing finger to her lips. I nod and she leads me down the stairs, toward the lower level of the house. Once we’re in the foyer, she ignores what just happened. She deflects, “I thought you were at Danielle’s tonight?”
“She blew me off for a date,” I say.
“Well good. You can be my date then. Grab your purse. It’s time we had a mother-daughter day.”
“Where are we going?”
“A field trip,” she smiles, but it’s a brittle, strained smile.
I don’t question her. Not yet. Not when I’m smart enough to know that her silencing finger and her unease come together with uncomfortable clarity. She wants me, or maybe us, out of here. I hurry to the kitchen where I’ve left my things and then return to the foyer, and it’s not long before we’re inside the shadowy darkness of my mother’s Audi. “What did that mean, mother? End him?”
She stares forward for several beats and then glances over at me. “Political and legal wars come with strong language, that amounts to nothing more than winning.” She starts the car and turns on the radio, effectively telling me to let it go.
I blink back to the present that has little to do with attorneys, Harvard included, but rather my mother. It’s not even about my father. It’s about my mother and I let myself ask the question I’ve never let myself ask before now: If my mother, who was brilliant and obviously far from naive, was as pure and good as she seemed, why would she choose my father? She heard the same conversation I did. She saw the things that I saw and things beyond that, that I did not. She was my father’s confidante. Why would she allow him to “end” someone, and still wear his ring?
Was my father her snake charmer, or was there more to the story? To her story?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When you paint, really paint, and allow everything that you are to be poured onto the canvas, the result is captivating. This is a lesson I learned from Neal Baker, a famous artist my mother introduced me to as a way to nurture what became my teenage obsession with art. More an obsession with expression through art. From the moment I picked up a brush, it was the one place I could tell a real story. The one safe place that I could tell the truth, admit fear, anger, confusion. I could see me on the canvas, and as long as I could see me, then the story of Hailey Anne Monroe, the future First Daughter, the one the world was told, because it suited my world, didn’t have to be real. Painting was my separation from that person, my sanity in the insanity.
Until the crash.
After that day, I didn’t want to see the real me and neither did my father. He just wanted me
to be the future First Daughter and after my initial meltdown, being that person was how I survived. That person wasn’t my creation, and that was a good thing. I wanted to live anywhere but inside the nightmare that I’d created in the real me. I think as you read along it’s pretty clear, that at some point, I’d suppressed anything but my father’s creation to the point that I knew no one else.
Until that trip to Denver, when I picked up another paintbrush, and expression rather than suppression, lead me to—well, me. I found me again, the real me.
Ultimately, sending me to Denver was a mistake, at least for my father.
***
THE PAST—DAY TWO IN DENVER…
I wake early despite binge watching two seasons of Dexter, who turns out to be an oddly likable serial killer that I understand and accept simply because he reminds me of my father. Not literally, of course. I don’t know if my father “ends” people by way of murder, though it’s doubtful. Body counts would be trouble for him, which is why I’m in Denver, not Washington right now. I have a body count.
I brush my teeth, throw on clothes, and head to yoga class, which is exactly what I need. It calms the storm inside me, one that is secretly always just beneath the surface. That calm is the good, while the bad is me walking out of that session with the confirmation that I won’t be getting a job at the studio, or likely any studio nearby. Those jobs are filled with rich, stay-at-home housewives who, like me, just want to fill a void. I doubt their void is one of blood and death, but I get it. They need stuff to do and I’m left with a mission to find a purpose. I suspect the First Daughter persona is still ruling my roost, because the things that come to mind are things that will not please Stanford when they discover my drugged up “drunk” photos in the press.
For the briefest of a moment, I consider calling Senator Smith, but what can I really say to the man? He will have seen the photos. He put his name on the line for me. There will be no return to his offices and no entrance to Stanford. I should feel disappointed, but the truth is, I’m not disappointed over Stanford. It’s not like I want to go to law school, and that was my dream school. I’m simply disappointed that I’ll be stuck in Washington.
A Perfect Lie Page 14
