When the Night is Over (Blackbird Series Book 1)

by Lily Foster

  When I look at Lawrence, I see that he’s holding back tears, just like me.

  “Me and Janelle talked about it. And while I didn’t agree with your decision back then, I could understand your reasoning. But that old argument doesn’t hold water anymore, now does it?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you are a woman of means.”

  “Oh lordy, I can’t even think about that.”

  “I don’t want to think about her giving me this house either. It pisses me off. And just for the record, I won’t accept it. This place is yours.”

  I fix him with a hard look. “Uh, you will take it because that’s what she wanted.” I hit his knee with mine. “I don’t exactly love the wilderness the way she did, and anyway, I know I can come up here with Ethan and crash whenever I want.”

  “It just bothers me. Makes me look at my little ramshackle place with sad eyes, I guess.”

  “Your cabin is perfectly fine, but she knew you’d do this place proud. And you’re a fisherman…You were always meant to be lakeside.” And it’s true. I can picture Lawrence casting off from the shore at the edge of the property, can picture him teaching Ethan how to bait a hook. “But I know exactly how you feel. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful and all, but I’m still reeling from this morning.”

  “Want a beer? I’m dying for one.”

  I waggle my eyebrows. “I’d love one.”

  “One time deal, a toast to Janelle. She’d tan my hide if she knew I was giving your underage butt a beer.”

  “She’d tan my hide.” I laugh as he pops the cap and hands me the bottle. “What was up with that? You’d think Janelle and my dad grew up on a farm in Wyoming or something.” I can’t help but smile. “Life is simpler when you plow around the stump, Charlotte.”

  “Always drink upstream from the herd.”

  It takes me all of ten seconds to come up with another one of her winners. “Letting the cat out of the bag is a whole lot easier than getting it back in.”

  “When you wallow with pigs, best expect to get dirty.” Lawrence raises his bottle to mine. “To our Janelle.” Looking up, he adds, “We miss you, angel.”

  I take a long pull off my beer. “I’m rich.”

  “In my book you’re rich, but I’m thinking most people would say you’re just comfortable. What’s important is that you’re able to provide for your son. Independence and peace of mind…What a gift she’s given you.”

  “When she said Paul taught her everything, I never would have guessed.”

  “He seems like a good man.”

  “He does, right? Solid move flying out for the service, wasn’t it?”

  Lawrence finishes his beer and takes the half of mine that’s still left. I don’t protest, even though I do like the taste of it. He gives me a pointed look. “Don’t dwell on it.” Lawrence knows my praise for Paul is an indirect dig at my father.

  “Please don’t tell me to forgive him. This was about the last straw for me as far as my dad is concerned.”

  He puts his hands up and shakes his head. “Wasn’t going to suggest it. I’m saying don’t dwell on it because you can’t change him. People don’t change.”

  “I know.”

  “So tell me about Simon. What kind of person is he?”

  “This feels like a trap.”

  “It’s not. I’m truly curious as to why you think this young man will react negatively.”

  “He’ll flip! Can you imagine getting news like this?”

  “No doubt it’ll be a shock, for sure. It’s just…I never had children, and now having Ethan in my life, I could never imagine not wanting him in my life. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Then give it some thought, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Simon

  “You clean up nice.”

  She’s looking at me in the mirror, her chin perched on my shoulder. It’s true, I look nothing like the boy I was four years ago. Tonight is calling to mind the prom I missed back in Pennsylvania, even as I stand polished and ready to escort Samantha to her Commencement Ball. I didn’t go last year when I graduated, even though I had a girlfriend, even though Samantha nagged me incessantly. But my attendance at this event is nonnegotiable. It’s her big night and I will be there for her. I’ll slip into the tailored shirt, the hand-stitched wingtips she picked out for me, and the fitted suit, one of three purchased on credit when I realized I needed to dress the part I was playing.

  She straightens my tie and then wraps her arms around my middle. “I’m going to have the best looking date in the room.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” I tease back through gritted teeth, turning around and taking her in from head to toe. In her pale blue dress adorned with just a bit of sparkle, she looks like some golden haired angel walking among mere mortals.

  The sight of her should take my breath away.

  “Looking good, son,” Professor Westfield says as he claps me on the back. He’s been calling me son since long before I started dating Samantha, but I cringe when he says it now.

  Samantha’s mom kisses me on the cheek and then fusses as the photographer poses the happy couple on the stairs and on the front landing. The photographer gets the four of us together then, snapping pictures that will last a lifetime.

  “So, you’re officially no longer a one-L. How does it feel?”

  “One down, two to go. It feels good.”

  “Are you sure you made the right decision turning down that summer associate position? I could still make a call.”

  I feel my jaw tighten and breathe through it. “I’m confident interning with Judge Michaels will be a great experience. Could lead to a clerkship after I graduate and it’s the type of exposure to litigation I want.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, it’s prestigious, it’s just not the direction I’d take if I wanted a shot at corporate law.” When I go to speak up, he nods and attempts to placate me. “I know that’s not where your heart is, but you don’t want to cut off avenues so early on in the game.”

  What he’s thinking but not saying: You’d best get a job that will allow my baby girl to live in the manner she’s become accustomed to.

  What I’m thinking but not saying: You’ve been a great help to me these past few years and I do appreciate it. I know one-L’s don’t get offers for associate positions at white-shoe firms, know your wealthy law school buddy did that as a favor to you. I feel bad turning it down, I do, but I don’t want anything from you anymore. I don’t want to get rich representing corporations or getting affluent people off when they’re guilty. I don’t want to get rich so I can buy a five thousand square foot home for Samantha to decorate and a lakeside cottage to boot. I don’t want to marry your daughter. In fact, I’m laying the groundwork for our break-up at this very moment.

  I don’t have the heart to do it today, even though she’s betrayed me—told a lie of omission that I cannot forgive.

  Tomorrow I’m driving nearly five hours to Ann Arbor. It’s taking everything I have in me to refrain from confronting her, to hold back the rage I’ve felt since I found it. In a rush to get my suit from the dry cleaners, I was looking for my keys when the crumpled paper fell from her bag onto the floor. The familiar handwriting caught my eye. Ironing out the creases, my heart hammered when I took in the name and return address. Awful things began to click into place when I noticed the postmark dated more than two months ago. The envelope was empty, and a thorough search of her bag, her desk, her dresser drawers and her car turned up nothing more.

  I avoid Samantha all day, giving myself time to think. She feels threatened, naturally she would, but it’s still no excuse for what she’s done. I’m furious but there’s guilt there too. This past year, I’ve given her something to believe in when I shouldn’t have. And I feel guilty because I’m relieved. Yes, I immediately see her betrayal for what it is: my get out of jail free card. I don’t deserve to feel
morally superior to her. I’m well aware of the fact.

  I spend the afternoon searching the internet. The same search I’ve done so many times before finally gets me a hit. It’s a transfer of property notice, the address the same as the return address written on the envelope. Property transferred to Charlotte Mason from one Janelle Cohen, nee Mason. Her aunt, the aunt she went to live with. All this time, has she been just a few hours away? And why is the property in Charlotte’s name? A search of her aunt’s name reveals a death notice dated this past December, just a few days after Christmas.

  Samantha knows something is off tonight. She’s asked me what’s wrong twice already. I assure her I’m good, and in a way, I’m better than I have been in a very long time.

  She wrote to me. Nearly four years have passed and she’s reaching out. It’s crossed my mind that the letter might be nothing more than a long overdue, scathing rant where she tells me off over the shitty way I walked out on her, but I don’t care. She’s thinking of me—that’s all that matters right now.

  I dance with my soon to be ex-girlfriend, stay by her side as she chats up our fellow classmates, help her stay upright when she drinks too much, and drop her off at her parents’ house, surprising her father when he opens the door a little past midnight.

  He’s a brilliant man, perceptive, and it feels like he’s about to ask me a question—one I don’t want to answer—when she pukes on his slipper-clad feet. Thanks for the save, Samantha.

  “Jeez.”

  “Um, I guess she overdid it.”

  He shoots me an annoyed look. “Obviously.” When I make a move to help, he waves me off. “I’ll take care of her.”

  He knows.

  I was planning to leave at daybreak but sleep is out of the question. So I’m walking Main Street in Ann Arbor as the sun rises, sipping from a cup of coffee that cost me nearly five bucks. The shops and restaurants here remind me of Chicago and Evanston: aesthetically pleasing and wildly overpriced. Quaint and charming, that’s how Samantha would tag this downtown area.

  I hold off until seven in the morning, and while I’m thinking it’s rude to drop in unexpected on her so early, I just can’t wait any longer. Her place is in a nice area, just a short distance from campus. Does she go to school here? She must. Probably just finished her sophomore year. I knock on her door, smiling because I’m proud of her. Mr. Vargas would be too.

  I don’t get a second knock off before a woman pops her head out from next door. “Can I help you?” When I turn, her eyes go wide. “My Lord,” she whispers.

  “Um, yes ma’am, I’m looking for Charlotte Mason.”

  She comes out into the corridor between the two units. Comes close, looks me over and studies my face in a way that’s uncomfortable. Absently, she says, “She went home a few days ago.”

  “Home?”

  The woman, who looks to be in her mid-sixties and bears a freakishly close resemblance to Kathy Bates, is suddenly all business. Dressed in workout clothes, she looks tenacious, like she could power walk laps in the mall for hours. “Yes, home. What’s your name young man, and what’s your business with Charlotte?”

  “I’m Simon Wade. I’m a friend of Charlotte’s. She’s been trying to get in touch with me, and I, uh, came to see her.”

  “She’s been trying to reach you?” For some reason this nugget has piqued her interest.

  “Yes. I got a letter. Didn’t say much but it said she was living in Ann Arbor. It’s important that I get in touch with her.”

  “It sure is,” she mutters under her breath.

  “Would you happen to have her phone number?”

  She considers this for a moment. “Her number, no, but I can give you her address. Wait here.”

  I have a feeling that she does, in fact, have Charlotte’s number, but I let it go. When we talk, I don’t want it to be over the telephone. I want to see her in person, so the address is even better.

  “Go see them, and don’t give my girl Charlotte any trouble. You give her trouble and Lawrence will bust your helmet, you got me?”

  Bust my helmet? I want to ask who Lawrence is, but I don’t want to engage this crazy lady for one second longer than I need to. I nod, careful as I take the paper from her hand. “Thank you.”

  She watches me until I’m back in my car. Powell, Michigan. I map the address and see that it’s way, way up north. Seven hours north. It’s no matter. I’m so determined to see her that I wouldn’t care if I had to drive all day and night. So I stop at another little café, one where it looks like I can grab a sandwich, another large coffee and take a leak before I head out. It’s not until I’m back in my car and biting into my egg sandwich that it all sinks in. The drawing hanging on Charlotte’s front door, the odd way her neighbor eyed me, her words: Go see them…them.

  I nearly choke, my hands shaking as I reach for some coffee to wash the mouthful down. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions, that Charlotte and this guy Lawrence make up “them”—that’s who the strange woman was referring to. Don’t go imagining crazy shit, Simon. It’s not possible, don’t be an idiot. I’m talking myself down, which only adds intensity to my freak out.

  Instead of heading north as planned, I find myself driving back to Evanston. I need to know what was in that letter before I see Charlotte. I need to be prepared.

  Charlotte

  “Thanks, Wes. Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon.”

  The call ends with me feeling better than I have the past few times we’ve spoken. After dropping in on me last summer, Wes began writing to me regularly. For the most part he’s kept things casual, but I know he would like nothing more than a place in my future. The ball is in my court. I’m always careful and on guard when I interact with Wes. I don’t want to hurt him, don’t want to lead him on.

  I broke down and called him after Janelle died, during a stretch when I was feeling particularly awful. And he was so good to me. Even offered to drop everything and come out to help me through it. When I made it clear I wanted him to stay put, he respected my wishes but supported me with phone calls and care packages for both me and Ethan. One of those phone calls ended with him telling me he loved me. I know I hurt him when I said I couldn’t be serious with anyone when I still had so much unfinished business in my own life, but that was the truth.

  In the days that followed, I began to ask myself when exactly I planned on addressing that unfinished business.

  I waited a few days before I looked him up online. Waited a few more days before I got serious and tracked down a contact number for him. Avoided looking at the number scribbled on the wall calendar for another week before I worked up the nerve to call. When I called and a woman answered, I nearly hung up but didn’t. She took my name and number and said she’d give him the message. Two weeks passed before I tried again. Same woman answered. Yes, she gave him the message last time, yes, she’ll tell him I called again—clearly, I was trying her patience. I asked her to tell him it was important. The clipped way she repeated my words, it’s important, settled it: this girl was his girl. Probably the beautiful swan who was gliding alongside Simon the day I saw him in Chicago. When a month passed with no return phone call, I’ll admit I was angry.

  Detached and cold, I knew the flip side of Simon Wade all too well. Did he receive my messages and then choose to ignore me? History does often repeat itself, so I wouldn’t put it past him. Studying his profile picture again, I can almost feel the cold sting of his stare, feel the pain of being judged and then dismissed by that troubled teenage boy. He set out to hurt me back then, more than once. But then he loved me, loved me with an intensity I fear I may never experience again. The man in this picture, which version of Simon is he? With his sharp suit and his gel-slicked hair, he looks every bit the future power player Simon was striving to be.

  “Maybe,” I speak to his image on the screen, “I don’t know you anymore.”

  Simon is the father of my child, he was the first man I ever loved, and I haven’t opened my heart t
o anyone since. But time has passed, a lot of time. I don’t know him anymore, that’s true, and he doesn’t know me. Those two damaged kids back in Pennsylvania don’t exist anymore. Maybe it’s childish of me to continue to look back on that time as special. I can’t deny that I still long for Simon, but I need to face the very real possibility that he doesn’t feel the same. What we had back then, maybe it was never all that significant to Simon.

  Once I let that sink in, I’m able to let go of the anger. I am ready and able to sit down and write the letter. It doesn’t take three messy, tear-stained drafts like the last time. Now older and wiser, I’m clear and concise. I state the reason I decided to keep the pregnancy from him and express my sincere hope that he can someday find a way to forgive me. I let him know he’s welcome to come and meet his son if he wants to, and if he does not, I’ll respect that decision as well. I wish him happiness then simply sign it: Charlotte.

  Reading it over, I know there’s one big fat lie in there. Ethan is the most precious thing on this earth to me, so I will forever think of Simon as a coward and a jackass if he chooses not to meet his son.

  I slip a recent snapshot of Ethan in with the letter. He’s smiling ear to ear, with his arms wrapped around his pal, Moe. I take a deep breath when I drop it into the mailbox.

  That’s that.

  In the days that follow, I prepare to take cover, to weather the storm I’ve just set into motion. When a week passes and then two, when the cold winter wind gives way to sunny days and springtime, well, that’s when I give up.

  Simon

  “Samantha’s not at her place. Is she here?”

  Eyes wide, Mrs. Westfield takes me in, backing away a step before regaining her composure. I’m sweating, my clothes are rumpled, and I’ve been dragging a hand through my hair in frustration for most of the four-plus hour drive back to Evanston. I’m sure my eyes have taken on a feral quality by now.