“Right,” Michael said. Though he meant wrong. He meant: You’re buckling under to family pressure again. He’d agreed to at least meet with the firm, but he sensed this was just the first step in Brook’s family’s attempts to seize control of the situation. He knew from firsthand experience how thoroughly Brook’s half sisters disliked having the Pendleton name in the news. They were probably furious about the kind of negative media coverage the family was getting now. And they were no doubt blaming him, whispering their usual entitled venom into Brook’s ear. It depressed him how quickly Janice and Peg could exert their old influence over his wife. How easily they could manipulate her, especially when she was feeling so vulnerable.
Some things never changed.
• • •
Wayne Dwyer, Michael’s dealer in Manhattan at the time, had talked him into it. A charity auction for a fancy private school in Manhattan that would feature, among other high-end items, a couple of Michael’s pieces.
“You’re just starting out, so we need to build up your name recognition,” Wayne had told him. “And this crowd is your target customer base. Superrich, but also young and hip enough to be open to your work. They were brought up on chintz and Chippendale, and they’re eager to set their own design agenda.”
“That’s fine. I’m okay with you donating an item or two, but why do I need to go down there?”
“To mingle, for heaven’s sake! To shake a few hands and flash that shy, seductive smile of yours. Come on, Michael: you’re this handsome, mysterious backwoodsman type—those mothers are going to be all over you!”
Michael assumed Wayne had been exaggerating about the attention he was likely to receive. But, in fact, from the moment he walked into the Skylight Ballroom of the Puck Building, where the preauction party was in full swing, he found himself surrounded by a group of young, extremely fit, expensively turned-out women who appeared to be fascinated by the custom-made pieces of his that were on display.
“This is so beautiful,” one of them said, running her fingers over the surface of the mahogany table with its bird’s-eye maple inlays. “Do you think of yourself as an artist?”
The women were sipping from flutes of champagne. Michael was drinking San Pellegrino and trying hard to respond with more than his usual monosyllables.
“Well, I wouldn’t—”
“An artist whose medium is wood?” another of them suggested, gazing up at him. They were all so petite! He felt like a clumsy giant. He glanced around the room trying to work out an escape route, and his gaze fell once again on a woman who’d been wandering in and out of his line of vision all evening.
She had soft brown hair held back in some kind of a clip, though a strand or two had come loose. As opposed to most of the other women, who wore tight bright dresses and towering heels, she had on a simple navy pants suit and flats. Even without the heels, she was taller than the others and heavier, though in the way Michael preferred. The businesslike cut of her suit only accentuated the generous curves of her hips and breasts. Michael watched her cross the room and realized she was talking intently into a headphone set—and walking directly toward him!
“The auction is starting in five minutes,” she said as she reached him. “And we’re putting you on first.” Her voice was low and intimate. He felt like she was sharing a secret with him.
“Great,” he replied, smiling down at her. The other women had started drifting away to the seating area.
“So you’ll have a couple of minutes—but no more—to do your thing.”
“What thing?” he asked, suddenly alarmed. He glanced over at the stage where two workmen were positioning his chairs at an angle to the coffee table.
“Oh, you know, to talk about your work—the materials, your method. Whatever you usually say.”
“I don’t usually say—anything,” Michael replied, his heartbeat accelerating. She was so lovely, and he was sure he was coming across like a total idiot.
“Oh?” she said, looking up at him. Her eyes were hazel with gold highlights, the color of the woods on a warm autumn day. He wanted to lose himself in them.
“I’m not a very good public speaker.”
“I’d be happy to do it for you, then, if you don’t mind. I read over all the material your dealer sent, and I love your things.”
“That would be—” Was he even more tongue-tied than usual, or was it just that he wanted to be having a very different kind of conversation with her? Somewhere far removed from this crowd and chatter.
“I’d appreciate it,” he finally said. He watched her wend her way back through the audience, stopping here and there to talk to one of the guests or kiss someone’s cheek. She welcomed an older man to the stage, and then a series of people came and went from the lectern. The auctioneer introduced himself. Then the woman stepped back up to the microphone and said some things about Michael—“using time-honored techniques . . . every detail rendered by hand . . . outrageously creative designs . . . by far the most exciting new furniture maker of our generation”—but he wasn’t really paying attention to what she said. He was too busy admiring the sweet, poised way that she was saying it. The bidding began, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Congratulations,” said a dark, curly-haired woman—also wearing a headset—as his furniture was being taken off the stage. “That was twice the floor.”
“Sorry?”
“Your furniture went for a record price. Didn’t you even notice?”
“I was wondering who that woman is,” Michael said, nodding toward the stage. “Do you know her name?”
“You mean my partner?”
“Partner?” Michael asked, confused. “As in . . . ?”
“Oh, no! Don’t worry,” the woman said, laughing. “We’re business partners. We own R.S.V.P.—the events firm that’s handling the auction tonight. I’m Alice Lerner. Her name is Brook Pendleton.”
“Nice to meet you,” Michael said, holding out his hand.
“She’s Brook Pendleton,” Alice said. “One of the Pendleton Pendletons?”
“Oh,” Michael said.
“I’m only telling you this because I couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t taken your eyes off her all night. And I just thought you should know that she happens to be one of the kindest, most generous, and all-round best people in the world.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“But she has this thing about her money. She has a difficult time with a lot of men she meets, okay? The money thing gets in the way. And she’s trying hard to make it on her own terms. It’s terribly important to her.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” he said, turning to Alice. “And I really appreciate it.”
“Good,” Alice said. “I don’t usually go around talking about her, by the way. And please don’t ever let her know that I told you what I just did, okay?”
Sometimes Michael wondered what would have happened if Alice hadn’t tipped him off. Without it, would he ever have found the courage to continue to pursue Brook once he’d discovered how wealthy she was? But knowing she saw her fortune as a burden made it easier somehow for him to overcome his own concerns. Rather than feel threatened and overwhelmed by her background, he longed to protect her from it. If she wanted to stand on her own two feet, as Alice had said, then Michael would do everything in his power to make sure her footing was secure.
He got an R.S.V.P. business card from Alice and called Brook the next morning. They had lunch. And then, because they still seemed to have so much to say to each other, they had dinner that same night. He loved the way she looked, the sound of her voice, her uninhibited laugh. When he first kissed her, he understood finally why people talked about being head over heels. He felt dizzy and disoriented and in some kind of exhilarating free fall. Things progressed pretty quickly from there.
For the first three or four weeks they were together, he allowed Brook to think he knew nothing about her privileged upbringing. Not that she didn’t talk ab
out her family, but it tended to be in vague terms and most often in the afterglow of their lovemaking, when every piece of information they exchanged seemed designed to reinforce the magical nature of their newfound happiness.
“I can’t believe you have three much older sisters. . . .”
“Why?”
“Mine are much older, too! I have two of them. They’re half sisters, though.”
“Are they like Cinderella’s stepsisters? Mean and jealous?”
“No—but they can be pretty difficult.”
“Families,” he said, leaning over to kiss the little indentation at the base of her throat. “They’re all difficult in some way.”
Michael had intended to stay in Manhattan for only a week or two—to attend the auction and meet with some potential corporate clients that Wayne had lined up. He’d been crashing with a friend in the West Village, though he was spending most nights with Brook at her loft in Tribeca. But work was beginning to pile up in North Barnsbury, and he knew it was probably time that the two of them start to face reality. When he told her that he really had to head back up to the country again, she began to cry.
“Oh, please don’t go,” she said, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I have these abandonment issues.”
“Hey,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I’ll be back. You know I’ll be back.”
“Do I know? How can I know?”
The words had just slipped out of his mouth—before he fully realized how much he meant them:
“Because I think we should get married. I want to marry you.”
“You do? Do you really?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Michael, so do I! But there’s something about me you don’t know.”
“Is it a communicable disease?”
“No,” she said, laughing. “But it might be worse, as far as you’re concerned. It complicates things a lot, I’m afraid.”
“You’re already married? You have ten kids?”
She hugged her knees and told him. She’d apparently been terrified that the news would scare him off. That he would suddenly feel different about her. He’d start seeing her as some kind of freak. Once again, Michael silently thanked Alice for warning him, because he’d been able to think through his reaction long before he actually had to deliver it.
“So what’s the problem exactly? Are you worried that I’ll give up my work—forget who I am—and live off of you like some gigolo?”
“No. Of course not. I already know you better than that. It’s not the money so much as—well—all the people who come with it. They can be very persuasive—sometimes even manipulative. My sisters. Their husbands. Their world. Well, my world—but I’ve finally broken away from it.”
It was the defiant way she said that last bit that gave him pause. It was as though she still needed to fully convince herself of the fact. But if she truly had broken free, then there was no need for them to worry. They would find a way to live outside the Pendleton sphere of influence. On their own terms.
• • •
Michael finally got out of the pickup and scraped the ice off the windshield. The sleet and snow had stopped. Silence filled the snowy fields. Above him, what looked like thousands of tiny flakes sat frozen in the sky. He took a deep breath, fighting back a wave of sadness. He and Brook had worked so hard and so well together to build a life they could be proud of. But now he often got the feeling that she was doubting herself. And them. Second-guessing their choices.
It became clear to him only after they were married, and then more and more as the years went on, that Brook’s break from her family was far from complete. In the past, Michael didn’t pay much attention to the invisible threads that still bound Brook to Peg and Janice, but lately they seemed as real and painful as barbed wire. Michael kept jabbing up against new differences and problems between them. The town hall meeting. The Boston law firm. The two of them seemed more and more out of sync with each other these days. Pulling different ways. Wanting what the other couldn’t seem to give. And Michael hated the feeling. He missed his wife. He needed her help, though he couldn’t bring himself to tell her so.
Because he’d begun to dream about Sylvia again. For the first time in years, she slipped into his fitful sleep almost every night now with the same stealth she used to employ when she tagged along behind Troy and Michael. In the past, Michael rarely even registered that she was there. For such a heavy and clumsy girl, she was remarkably quiet. Catlike. Her wide blue eyes watching them from the shadows. No, watching him. In his dreams, he could feel her eyes on him again. That adoring and unquestioning gaze. But now her gaze was boring into him. Imploring him. Or was she damning him? Michael, whom she’d loved. Who could do no wrong.
And he’d wake up with his heart slamming against his chest—stifling a scream.
19
“Oh, hey,” Julie Dorman said as she opened the door to find Brook on the front porch with her shopping bag full of freshly baked bread. Brook had driven all the way down to Northridge’s Bread of Heaven bakery to get the baguettes and peasant loaves. Their yeasty smell filled the Dormans’ foyer. “You made it.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Brook said. It was the first book club meeting she’d been able to get to since the news about the civil suit broke, and she was nervous. The reading group, which Brook’s sister-in-law Lynn had founded with a few friends nearly a decade ago, had grown into a nice mix of locals and second-home owners. Smart, fun, and avid readers, these were just the women Brook wanted to be friends with. When she’d hinted as much to Lynn a few years back, her sister-in-law had asked her to join.
At first, Brook felt she made a little headway in terms of acceptance. She was careful not to overstate her opinions. She always brought something special—though not obviously expensive or show-offy—for the potluck dinner. But she was never able to feel entirely comfortable with the group. She was never able to really let her guard down. Because Brook couldn’t help but feel that her sister-in-law was always sitting in judgment on her. Lynn, the one woman in the whole town Brook wanted most to be close to.
Older than Michael by five years, Lynn had a wry sense of humor and a no-nonsense attitude that Brook found appealing when they first met. They’d started out on good terms, sharing histories, visiting in each other’s homes, slowly building the kind of trust and intimacy that was rare for Brook. But then, when Lynn’s husband, Al, lost his job with a local printing company, Brook had stumbled badly.
“Let me know if I can help out,” she told Lynn when she heard the news.
“Sorry?”
“I mean, if you guys need any financial help. Just, you know, say the word, okay?”
“I’m not asking for a handout, Brook,” Lynn replied.
“Of course not! I know that! I didn’t think you were. I’m just saying . . .”
But the awkward conversation had ended poorly. When she told Michael what had happened, he responded with one of the few criticisms he’d ever leveled at her: “I don’t think you know how you come across sometimes.”
“In what way?”
“Having a lot of money doesn’t mean much to you. Because you’ve always had it. But to most people? It means way too much. Lynn and Al are proud, and they’re hurting. So when you act like giving money away is no big deal, they’re going to take offense. It’s your tone of voice, sweetie—that’s all I’m saying.”
After that, hurt and confused that her good intentions had backfired so badly, Brook had a hard time acting naturally around Lynn. She knew she was being too upbeat when Lynn was obviously going through a tough time, but she couldn’t seem to find the right way of showing how much she really cared and wanted to help. Lynn seemed relieved when Brook finally backed off and stopped trying. They’d drifted apart. There was never any obvious animosity between them. Lynn was never less than polite and accommodating. But it was this very distance that the others in the book group had to have sensed—and it was fairly quickly adop
ted by them all. Surely, the other women must have thought, something had to be wrong with Brook Bostock if her own sister-in-law treated her so coolly.
As Brook followed Julie down the hall to the living room, where the noise level indicated the dinner was already in full swing, she had to brace herself to face Lynn again. She couldn’t let her sister-in-law see—or even sense—how upset she was that Lynn hadn’t even bothered to call her when the news about the lawsuit went public. Brook knew that Michael had been in touch with his family directly. But still. Would it have been such an effort for Lynn to pick up the phone when she knew Brook had to be going through hell?
The moment Brook entered the room behind her hostess, a silence fell.
She felt the group staring at her. It took her a split second to realize that, in fact, they’d all just been talking about her. And Troy. Their voices had been raised. Had there been disagreement? Most of the women were mothers and many with teenagers of their own. She realized that Troy had been telling anyone who would listen that the Bostocks had used their money and influence to get the criminal charges against them thrown out of court. That they’d smeared Phoebe’s reputation to get Liam off. Of course they’d hold her responsible! Brook’s face was burning. What had she been thinking? That this group would know and respect her well enough by now to at least give her and Michael the benefit of the doubt? That her word would mean more than Troy’s—someone whom many of them had known all their lives? That Lynn—her own sister-in-law—would have stood up for her? But there was Lynn, looking at her with the same noncommittal expression as everybody else.
She wanted to turn and run.
“Hi, everyone!” she said instead, forcing a smile as she walked over to the side table where the buffet dinner was laid out. “Sorry to be late! But I brought this great sourdough from Bread of Heaven. Have you tried it? It’s just incredible. . . .”
She chattered on. She kept her smile in place. She complimented everyone on what they’d brought for the potluck. She put herself in happy-gear cruise control—and did her best not to notice the monosyllabic replies. The turned backs. The sudden need to help Julie in the kitchen or check on the sitter. She followed the discussion just enough to be able to make an observation from time to time. The conversation tended to pause briefly whenever she said anything, then flow on without comment. By the time the evening came to an end, she felt more or less invisible.
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