I grab another shrimp, pull off the legs and peel back the translucent shell.
“Make a list of questions, and I’ll call him for you.”
“No, Kate, don’t worry about it. You’re so busy taking care of Caitlin and preparing for that presentation to the museum. I wish you didn’t have to go out and go to work.”
“Interior design isn’t exactly nine to five. That’s the beauty of being my own boss. I can work while Caitlin’s in school and after she goes to bed.”
My mother does not look convinced. “It’s just a shame that with all that money Corbin has—you shouldn’t have to work until Caitlin’s out of the house. I never worked when you were in school. You never worked when Daniel was at home. I don’t think Corbin understands what it takes to make a home. It’s a full-time job in itself.”
“Mom, he will provide adequately. This isn’t about money, don’t you see?”
From the look on her face I understand she doesn’t see.
“I need to do something that makes me feel like I contribute.” How do you explain this to a woman who built her whole life around her family? Who will stay married to the same wonderful man who will cherish her always until death wedges between them and tears them apart? Even then, I imagine, they will part reluctantly. The thought shakes me down to the core.
I’m glad when Caitlin comes in and throws her arms around Mom.
“Look, Grandma, I found this sand dollar at the beach last weekend. It washed up on the shore. Jon and Molly said I could keep it.”
“It’s beautiful.” Mom washes her hands, bends down and puts an arm around Caitlin. “Who are Jon and Molly? Are they new friends?”
“Molly’s my friend. Jon’s Molly’s daddy. He’s Mommy’s friend. We went over last night and watched movies with them. Jon said he’d take us to the circus.”
She punctuates the words by flinging her arms around my middle.
Mom slants a glance at me, her brows arched. “Oh, I see. Is this Molly a friend from school?”
“Nope. She and her mommy and daddy used to come over for supper, but then they stopped because her mommy and daddy don’t live together anymore, just like mine don’t.”
“Is that right? So you’ve just gotten back in touch with this Molly?” Mom looks at me when she says it.
Heat creeps up my neck and across my cheeks. I hate myself for it because there’s nothing to blush about. “Jon owns an automotive repair shop. The other day I had a flat, and he changed my tire.”
“I see. Lucky he happened along.”
“He didn’t just happen along, Ma. I called him.”
“Did you call him to arrange the day at the beach, too?”
“It wasn’t during the day,” says Caitlin. “It was at night.”
“You went to the beach overnight?”
This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to defend myself. I take a can of peanuts out of the cabinet.
“Caitlin, will you take these into Grandpa to eat while he’s watching the news?”
“Can I have some, too?”
“Some, but don’t eat too many. Dinner’s going to be ready in ten minutes. Tell Grandpa that, too, okay?”
As soon as Caitlin’s out of the room, my mother says, “Kate, do you really think it’s wise to have overnights with men? I mean with your daughter and—well, what kind of example is this setting for Caitlin? You haven’t even filed for divorce yet.”
I fling a chunk of butter into the skillet, drizzle on some olive oil. It melts under the heat.
“It wasn’t an overnight, Ma. We were home before eleven o’clock. Don’t you think I have better judgment than that?”
I rake an onion off the cutting board and into the pan. It sizzles.
“It certainly sounds like you’re spending a lot of time with him. This is no time to bring another man into the picture to complicate matters. If you have a boyfriend, Corbin might turn it around and use it against you.”
I crush garlic with the mortar and pestle, putting my weight into each jab.
“Jon is not my boyfriend. I do not have a boyfriend.”
“Why not, Mommy?”
I whirl around and see Caitlin in the doorway. I don’t realize she’s returned to the kitchen until I hear her voice. “Daddy has a girlfriend. Her name is Melody.”
He promised.
The bastard.
Why am I so shocked that a man who couldn’t honor his marriage vows wouldn’t keep his word? Maybe I had more faith in him this time because his promise directly affected his daughter.
This morning, I woke up at four-thirty and went over my art museum design presentation until six o’clock. Now I’m standing in the kitchen with the phone in my hand, hesitating like an insecure teenager afraid to call him.
I tried to call him after I put Caitlin to bed, after Mom and Dad left, but he didn’t pick up the phone. Most likely she was there or he was with her. Must feel wonderful to be able to totally shirk his responsibility. But it’s not wonderful, it’s disgusting, it’s inexcusable for him to act this way.
I left a message asking him to call me as soon as possible, no matter how late it was—that I wanted to talk to him about something that concerned Caitlin.
I guess the naked woman in his bed was much more inviting than an angry soon-to-be-ex-wife.
Daddy has a girlfriend. Her name is Melody.
Anger sears my insides into a hopeless mess. What the hell is wrong with him? Why the hell has he done this to our family? Why do I have to be the responsible one?
I contemplate throwing the phone at the kitchen wall, but instead, I act like the responsible adult I am, take a deep breath and dial his direct line at the office. He should be at his desk, revving up to full throttle right now. That means we have approximately half an hour to hash this out before Caitlin wakes up, and I should still have plenty of time to help her get ready, take her to school and come home to make myself presentable for the meeting at the art museum.
The line rings, and my body tenses. Leave it to Corbin to cause turmoil on a day when I must have a clear head.
I suppose as a single, working mother, I’d better get used to curveballs. They’re a part of this new game.
I straighten and steel myself for the ensuing battle.
“Hello.”
Finally.
“Good morning, Corbin—”
“This is Doctor Corbin Hennessey, I’m away from my desk right now, but your call’s important to me. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.”
I hate that cocky little pause before he starts the rest of his greeting. It’s a sadistic joke before he delivers the “psych-out” one-two punch of the rest of the message. You missed me. Again.
“Corbin, it’s Kate.” Barriers of anger harden my heart and voice. “I know you’re busy, but this is the second time I’ve called. I don’t understand why you’re not calling me back. We must talk. It’s about Caitlin. I want to hear from you before I pick her up from school this afternoon. I’m taking her to school at eight, then I have a ten o’clock appointment. If you don’t get back to me before nine-thirty, call me around noon. But please take five minutes out of your busy schedule to call me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
I hang up the phone.
He knows what he did, and he’s hiding because he doesn’t want to face me. Then again, right or wrong, when have I ever known Corbin to hide from anything?
A raw and primitive ache overwhelms me because I don’t know this man who has no regard for promises. He’s certainly not the man I married. No, the man I married was always in the office at the crack of dawn.
The phone rings as I’m loading Caitlin in the car to take her to school. The caller ID displays Winter Park, Florida and a number I don’t recognize, so I answer thinking it might be Corbin calling me back.
But it’s not. It’s Jon phoning to wish me luck with my presentation today. “Knock ’em dead. They’re going to love you.”
It’s so
sweet, Jon’s calling me for luck. I can’t even get the lousy father of my child to call me back to discuss his daughter. I try to ignore the strange roller-coaster-like dip that makes the pit of my stomach fall out, and not in a good way. This dip is a flag that things are moving too fast, careening out of control.
“Thanks, Jon. I guess I needed that, because I’m a little nervous. I’m kind of out of practice—errr, you know, job interviews.”
“Are you kidding? You’ll do great.”
I wish I believed in me the way he believes in me. More than that, I wish knowing that he believes in me didn’t make me squirm. So I file it away with other sweet sentiments he’s bestowed on me as if they’re tickets I can accumulate and use later for a bigger prize.
“Thanks. I appreciate it, but I have to run or Caitlin’s going to be late for school.”
“Call me later and tell me how it goes?”
“Sure. Okay.”
Call waiting beeps as I’m hanging up. I answer before caller ID has a chance to register.
“Are you all right?” It’s Alex.
“Of course I’m all right. I’m running late because the blasted phone keeps ringing, but other than that, I’m just peachy. And you?”
There’s a beat of silence, and I feel bad for being so abrupt. She’s not calling for the sole purpose of annoying me.
“So… I’m guessing you haven’t heard from Corbin this morning?”
The question plucks hard at my tightly strung nerves. How’d she know? I hadn’t even had time to vent about Corbin’s latest.
“No, and I’m sure right about now he’s not too eager to talk to me.”
“Have you…heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Oh, great.” I detect a trace of panic in her voice. Alex doesn’t panic. “Honey, sit down,” she says.
I grip the edge of the table. “What’s going on, Alex?
My legs turn to noodles as I fear she’s about to tell me that Corbin hasn’t called me back because he was found dead in his brand-new bachelor pad—heart attack, died on the kitchen counter during rambunctious sex.
“Corbin was arrested last night. It’s on the front page of today’s Orlando Sentinel.”
When will it stop, this revolving insanity masquerading as my life?
Just when I think it’s gotten about as bad as it can get, another curveball flies in my face from out of the blue. No surprise I’m striking out. I’ve never been athletic.
The Orlando Sentinel headline, prominently displayed on the front of the local and state section says, “Magic’s team physician arrested for DUI.”
Oh, Corbin. What’s happened to you?
It’s enough to make me contemplate curling up in a fetal position until all this insanity is over. But that will have to wait. I’m in the art museum parking lot, ten minutes early for my appointment with the executive director. My lone mission for the next couple of hours is to see the plans for the new museum, pick the director’s brain to get a feel for what she and the board have in mind for the new decor, all the while forgetting Corbin is in jail for drunk driving.
Caitlin’s with my mother. I kept her home from school today. Since Corbin’s antics made the news, some careless parent is bound to blurt—Isn’t that Caitlin Hennessey’s daddy? The child is bound to bring the news to school. Caitlin would be devastated.
I didn’t know how to begin explaining the situation to her. I hadn’t even properly explained why Corbin and I separated. Just some nonsense about Mommy and Daddy needing a time-out. She still thinks he’s coming home someday.
I read a survey that says seventy percent of all married men have at least one affair over the course of their marriage.
I’ve never cared about being part of the majority.
Sunlight shines through the windshield onto my hands. Old woman hands. When did they become so crepey? My grandmother used to tell me I had pretty hands. When did I lose them?
I make a fist and the skin pulls taut and smooth. Release it and the firm texture gives way to a thousand fine lines that seem even more pronounced now.
How ironic—I can go through life with fists clenched fighting the inevitable, or I can relax and go with the flow.
Easier said than done.
I make a mental note to buy some hand crème with Retin A, grab my briefcase and make my way to the museum’s entrance.
The docent at the desk greets me with a patronizing smile.
“I’m Kate Hennessey. I have a ten o’clock with Marilyn Griggs.”
She buzzes Marilyn, sends me into the conference room. I’m a little anxious, but more exhilarated than nervous, really.
About five minutes later a tall, thin, severe looking woman with bleached blond hair cut so short it sticks up all over her head steps inside the room and extends a hand.
Marilyn Griggs eyes me, but does not smile. Chronologically, I’d guess she’s in her early thirties, but possesses that corporate barracuda air that makes her seem ageless.
I stand.
We shake hands.
“Where do I know you from?” she says.
I’m fairly certain we’ve never met, but I review all the lists in my head—Junior League, the Cancer Society, the country club.
“Do you have kids?” I start with the most likely place, Caitlin’s school. Kids are always a good common meeting ground.
“No.”
Should have known. Not with that figure.
“I was thinking it might be from my daughter’s school. Often when I see parents out of context, it’s hard to place them.”
She stares at me blankly. Okay, no connection there. I should have joined the museum council when Joan McCracken tried to entice me. Corbin encouraged me to.
It will give you and Joan a chance to get to know each other better.
I would have gotten a lot of mileage out of museum council association right now. Although ladies of the council do not work. They dedicate their free time—when they’re not lunching or playing tennis or checking in for a plastic surgery or rehab—to philanthropic causes because they need something to fill their time while their husbands golf and fool around. They’d never dream of getting a real job.
“Is it possible we’ve met through Rainey Martin? She’s a good friend and a docent here sometimes. She told me about your search for a designer.”
Marilyn Griggs shrugs. Sometime-docents, like Rainey, are an entirely different breed from council members. It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention Joan McCracken, but her name sticks to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter.
“Did you bring your portfolio?” Marilyn asks.
I hand her my notebook, feeling pretty proud of myself. I sketched a few renderings, laid out several design boards and created a business card and identity for myself—Kate Hennessey Design Studio—after Rainey mentioned the job. I can do this on my own. I don’t need to drop names.
It takes Marilyn less than a minute to look through my book. “Anything else?”
I panic. “This is my most recent work. I can provide you with additional designs if you’d like.”
She slides it away from her, leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. Her expression floats somewhere between bored and disgusted.
“What have you done?”
Her tone is almost reproachful. It’s my turn to stare at her blankly, uncomprehending. For a moment I’m afraid she’s commenting on the mess my life has become and is preparing to lecture me on foolish choices.
“Your work,” she snaps. “Tell me about some of the projects you’ve designed.”
My heart pounds—from relief and humiliation for not being more astute.
Well, let’s see…for the past seventeen years I’ve been a stay-at-home mother… I’ve perfected the art of beige-on-beige, taken it to new heights, actually. You should see what I can do with a bottle of fifty-year-old cognac and a potted plant. Goodbye boring beige sofa.
This does not bode well.
; “Lately, my work’s been mostly…residential.”
She says nothing.
I scramble mentally to fill the silence.
“I just finished the most wonderful Moroccan living room. Spice colors, beautiful tapestry.”
She nods, unimpressed. I’ve never seen a more expressionless face in my entire life. I thought art types were supposed to be colorful and eccentric. Or at least alive. This woman is so boardroom stuffy I expect her to crack into tiny pieces and blow away on the bone-chilling AC draft that’s gusting down on me.
Marilyn stands. “Come look at the plans for the new building.” I follow her to a table on the other side of the conference room where the blueprints are laid out.
After giving me the virtual tour, she hands me a packet and walks to the door.
“This contains all the specs. Everything you need to know. Call my assistant to schedule an appointment to submit your design to the board next week. We’ll make our decision by the first of May.”
She wants to see more? Well… Wow. But—
“Do you have any ideas or specifics you’d like to discuss? Any likes or dislikes or general direction for the image you’d like to portray?”
She blinks—twice. “You’re the designer. Come up with a plan that will knock my socks off.”
Knock her socks off? I’m fairly certain she doesn’t wear socks. Or if she does, they’re of the painted-on Corporate Barbie thigh-high variety guaranteed never to as much as slip, much less be knocked off.
Oh. I get it. She’s being polite asking me to submit a design. Even in her stuffy, unsmiling way, it’s corporate courtesy. I took the time to come in. She’s not about to slam the door in my face, despite a miserable presentation.
Oh well, the interview was good practice. A warm-up for another job I’m better suited for.
I offer her my card anyway. She snaps her finger and points at me.
“I know why you’re familiar. It’s not you. It’s your name. It’s that Hennessey who was in the news today. The Magic’s doctor who was arrested. Hennessey. Yes, that’s it. Any relation?”
Out with the Old, In with the New Page 14
