Dammit.
The panic that consumed me moments ago is suddenly replaced by desperation—desperation to keep this relationship alive.
“I do believe you,” I’m quick to say. “I’m not sure that she’s got it out for Caden or you, but I do believe that you didn’t do anything today. I’m sure it was just a big misunderstanding.”
Her chin quivers slightly before she says, “You really believe me?”
“Yes. I do.”
She turns to me and over a weak smile says, “Thanks.”
“Of course, honey. I love you. I’ll always believe you.”
Her gaze drops away from me for a split second before she says, “I love you too.”
My throat swells beneath the sound of those long-awaited words, any doubts I had about the sincerity of her testimony squashed by my own gratitude.
She loves me.
My daughter still loves me.
“Can we get a Starbucks on the way home?”
Her question catches me by surprise. “Oh, um . . .” I glance at the clock on the dash. I’ve got four stops to make before I have to start getting ready for dinner with the Hoffstras. I insisted that Dan make it an early reservation so Avery wouldn’t be home late by herself tonight, which seemed like an infallible plan at the time, but now it’s proving to be a hassle—
“Please . . .”
She stares at me with wide, hopeful eyes. Eyes I couldn’t possibly say no to after what she just said to me.
“Okay. But just the drive-thru.”
“Yeah, that’s cool.”
Smiling, she grabs her phone from her backpack and settles into her seat.
There she is.
That’s the girl I know.
My happy, sweet girl—
My heart flops to the floorboard as I catch a glimpse of Avery’s thumbs—her neon-green thumbs—pounding out a text message across the screen.
Neon freaking green.
Dammit, Avery.
CHAPTER 3
Every bone in my body is itching to call Avery out on her lie, but I don’t do it.
I can’t do it.
Her I love you felt too good, and as pathetic as it sounds, I need her acceptance more than I need her penance. Especially now, when I’m walking into the nicest steak house in town, psyching myself up to deliver an Oscar-worthy performance for the Hoffstras, the very people who can secure our livelihood and nearly everything I hold dear.
“You should’ve taken the pill,” I mutter, scolding myself, again, for not indulging in the stolen Zoloft. I went back and forth a thousand times before I left the house, but in the end I determined tonight is not the right time for my inaugural drug run. Despite how I’m feeling, I have to go into this restaurant with a clear head and present myself as the happiest wife on the planet.
Shit.
I slide my fingers under the cuff of my silken ivory blouse and give the band—now an actual rubber band—a gentle tug. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind me it’s there.
It’s there if, and when, I need it.
You can do this, Jane.
You are strong.
You are capable.
You can do anything you set your mind to.
With an affirming nod, I swing open the wooden door and step inside the busy reception area. Despite the crowd, Dan comes into view almost immediately. At six four, a full foot taller than me, with the build of a pro athlete, he stands out wherever he goes—like a Ken doll, sans the golden locks. (His Barbie blond has given way to a more refined silvery gray over the last few years.) Tonight, he’s looking particularly dapper in that charcoal suit I bought him for our trip to Denver—
Denver.
A surge of unexpected anger suddenly swells through my chest, prompting me to ball my left hand into a tight fist and plunge my fingernails deep into my palm. Ouch! It hurts but somehow seems to dull the anger.
“Ah, here she is now.” Dan greets me with one of his million-watt smiles and an outstretched arm. My stomach wrenches at the thought of touching him, but I know it’s all part of the drill. Happily married people touch each other. Biting back my disgust, I sidle up beside him, inwardly cringing as his big hand presses against my shoulder.
“Phil, Dottie, this is my wife, Jane,” he announces, like I’m a prize he won at the fair. “Jane, please meet Phil and Dottie Hoffstra.”
Phil and Dottie Hoffstra look like any elderly couple you’d run into at Bob’s Big Boy on Sunday afternoon—or, in this case, an overpriced steak house on a Friday night. Both have gleaming white hair—his thinning on top, hers that kind of style you can only achieve through a tight set and lots of back-combing—and each is dressed in their Sunday best: a tweed pantsuit for her, a navy suit with paisley-print bow tie for him. By all accounts, they’re the grandparents next door, except that these grandparents literally hold my family’s future in their hands, or more accurately, their pocketbooks.
You can do this, Jane.
Just put on a good show and then get the hell out of here!
Nerves rattling, I offer my hand in greeting. “Hello, it’s so nice to meet you both.”
“A pleasure,” Mr. Hoffstra says. His dark eyes are kind, and despite his age, he’s still got a very firm shake.
“Hello, dear.” Mrs. Hoffstra opts for sandwiching my hand between both of hers rather than the traditional right-handed maneuver. “Very nice to meet you.”
“If your whole party is here, I’ll go ahead and seat you,” the hostess gently cuts in.
“Yes, please,” Dan says.
She leads us to a table in the center of the dining room, where Mr. Hoffstra pulls out the chair for his wife: a loving, chivalrous gesture that he undoubtedly perfected years ago. How nice of him. I settle into the seat across from Mrs. Hoffstra, while Dan takes the seat beside me, immediately throwing his arm over my shoulder to foster our own happily married image. My skin bristles at the contact, prompting me to ball my hands in my lap and once again bury my nails deep into the tender flesh of my palms.
You can do this, Jane.
It’s just dinner.
Don’t worry about Dan.
Just get through this dinner.
“Well, this is a pretty fancy place, isn’t it?” Mr. Hoffstra says, taking in the white linens and crystal stemware adorning the table.
“They’ve got a rib eye that’ll bring tears to your eyes,” Dan says, chuckling in that unnervingly suave way of his. I shift beneath his hand. “You’re a steak eater, aren’t you, Phil?”
He snorts. “Born and raised in Michigan. Don’t think they’d let me stay if I wasn’t.”
The background information the fundraising department passed on to us was limited to just a few details (not only are the Hoffstras über conservative, but they’re also very private): As just stated, Phillip Hoffstra, eighty-one, is a Michigan native and the only child of the late Earl Hoffstra (founder of Hoffstra’s Drugs) and Kathleen, both born in 1917. Phil and his wife, Dorothy, have been married for sixty-one years and have a daughter named Melissa and a granddaughter in her early twenties. And that’s it. That’s all there is to know about them. Well, that and they have a net worth of close to $300 million that we need to tap into or else my entire world could collapse around me.
All of it.
Everything.
Everything I’ve worked so hard for.
The life so many of us depend on.
Decimated . . .
Gone.
My breath starts seizing up just like it did this afternoon at school. I quickly unfist my hands and transition my fingers up under the rubber band—snap!
“Good evening, my name is Chelsea,” a stout brunette says as she appears at the end of the table. “I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you started with something to drink? Perhaps one of our signature cocktails, or a bottle of wine for the table? We’re currently featuring the Tradewinds vineyard out of Napa. Their pinot noir is especially popular and pairs nicely wit
h filets and T-bones . . .”
I have no doubt that a glass (or bottle!) of wine would help smooth out my nervous edges, but I know better than to order first. Safer to wait—and hope that the Hoffstras are drinkers.
“I’d love an Arnold Palmer,” Mrs. Hoffstra says, to which Mr. Hoffstra adds, “Count me in for one of those too.”
My shoulders sag.
Arnold Palmers.
Iced tea, lemonade, and not one drop of liquor.
Dammit.
They’re those kinds of conservatives . . .
“You know, it’s been a long time since I had an Arnold Palmer,” Dan joins in. “I’ll take one of those too. Sweetie?” He turns to me. “What’ll you have?”
Sweetie?
The word grates against my nerves like metal on concrete. In the eighteen years we’ve been married, he’s never once called me sweetie. And how dare he call me that now, after what he’s done—
My labored breath suddenly turns hot as my fingers instinctively fall away from the rubber band, reassuming their fisted position.
“Jane,” Dan prods with a little squeeze to my shoulder that jars me back to the question. “What do you want to drink?”
I blink hard, chest heaving beneath my still-brimming rage.
“Oh. I’ll, um . . . I’ll have one too. An—an Arnold Palmer.”
“Four Arnold Palmers it is,” Chelsea confirms with a smile. “I’ll be right back with those. And here are your menus when you’re ready to take a look.”
I sink my nails back into my palms, once again finding some calm beneath the pain.
Get it together, Jane.
You can do this.
You have to do this!
“Safe to assume you’re ordering the rib eye?” Mr. Hoffstra says, glancing over the top of his menu at Dan.
“Absolutely. And you can’t forget the loaded mashed potatoes.”
“Steak and potatoes? You sure you’re a heart doctor?”
Dan chuckles in that annoying way again. “It’s called job security, Phil.”
Both of the Hoffstras laugh, so I start laughing, too, even though it wasn’t funny.
Nothing about Dan is funny.
Not a flipping thing.
Chelsea returns with the drinks, and we all place our orders: rib eyes for the men, crab cakes for Mrs. Hoffstra, a petite filet for me . . . not that I plan on eating much. With the way my stomach is wrenching, I’m surprised I’m able to sit upright.
“You know, this is our first time to Mount Ivy,” Mr. Hoffstra says as we settle back into conversation, Chelsea en route to the kitchen with our orders. “We’ve driven through before—on our way down to St. Louis—but never actually stopped. It’s a nice little city you’ve got here.”
“Yeah, I think so,” Dan replies, easing back into his seat.
“Do you mind if I ask what made you decide to settle here?” Mr. Hoffstra continues. “Seems to me you could be calling the shots at a big operation out in Boston or Minneapolis. Why settle in a small place like this where you had to start from scratch?”
Dan sighs and over an atypically modest grin says, “Well, you’re right, Phil: I have had offers like that—plenty of them, actually—and when I first started out, I thought that was the right path for me. But then I really started thinking about the kind of program I wanted, the kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind, and I realized that the only way I was going to get that was to build it from the ground up. Old-fashioned sweat equity, if you will.”
For weeks, the fundraisers have been coaching Dan on the best way to manage the Hoffstras. Aside from selling himself as an incomparable physician and an admirable husband and father, Dan was told to play up small-town values and the whole American-dream angle. It seems a bit forced to me, but based on the way Mr. Hoffstra is nodding, it’s working.
“And besides that, there’s a strong sense of community here,” Dan hammers on. “Everybody’s working toward the same goal—and not just at the hospital; it feels like the whole town is committed to making Mount Ivy the best it can be. We’re like one big family, don’t you agree, honey?”
Honey.
My nerves stand at attention.
There he goes again.
I burrow my nails in a little deeper and with a lot of conjured enthusiasm say, “Absolutely. We’re like one big family. I couldn’t be happier.”
“Well, I can see why.” Mrs. Hoffstra joins in, smiling. “It’s very quaint. I peeked into a little antique shop right near our hotel. It had the cutest handmade gifts—oh! And we passed the loveliest church on our way in. It was Methodist, wasn’t it?” She turns to her husband, who nods in confirmation. “Yes, the Methodist church right as you come into town. It has the most striking stained glass entryway. Is that where you attend services?”
Attend services?
Of course I’ve been to church before. On Christmas and . . . well, we went on Easter a few years ago. But attend?
Like . . . every Sunday?
I shift again, the chair suddenly feeling a lot stiffer than it did a moment ago.
“Well, we, um”—I swallow hard and as subtly as possible slide my fingers up under the rubber band and—SNAP!—“we tend to move around.”
“Yes, unfortunately, I work most Sundays, so it makes it a little tricky to settle down in one specific place,” Dan jumps in, his lie sounding completely believable. A skill he’s recently proven himself very good at.
My top lip starts to twitch as another pang of anger nips at my nerves.
“Oh, I’m sure your schedule must make things very difficult,” Mrs. Hoffstra says.
“Seems like Ken told us there was a Lutheran church around here,” Mr. Hoffstra mutters absently, eyes narrowing in thought. “Isn’t that what he said?” He turns to his wife.
“Goodness, I can’t remember,” she replies over an adorably helpless shrug.
“Is there a Lutheran church in town?” He turns to us.
“I honestly couldn’t say,” Dan answers with a slow shake of his head.
I shake my head, too, though it’s not nearly as controlled a shake as Dan’s was. It’s more frantic bobble head than thoughtful response.
Keep it together, Jane.
You can do this.
“So, you mentioned that you’ve passed through on your way to St. Louis.” Dan quickly reroutes the conversation away from our future of fire and brimstone to something—hopefully—less terrifying. “What brings you down there?”
“The Cardinals, of course.”
“He’s a huge fan,” Mrs. Hoffstra adds, rolling her eyes.
I force myself to smile.
“The red birds, huh?” Dan says. “I’m more of a Yanks man myself.”
Mr. Hoffstra grimaces, prompting Dan to laugh and then say, “Actually, basketball is my game. I played back in college.”
My jaw muscles clench.
You and your basketball.
“Is that so?” Mr. Hoffstra nods with interest. “Where did you go to school?”
“Purdue.”
“Ah, a Boilermaker,” he says, approving of the team mascot with a hearty nod. “Good for you. Do you still play?”
“Every chance I get.”
Yeah, you play, all right.
Every freaking chance you get—
OUCH!
I wince, startled by a sudden jolt of pain electrifying through my body.
I glance down at my hand, surprised to see that I’ve abandoned the rubber band and am once again ramming my nails into my palm—I didn’t even realize I’d done that—
“But these days I think I spend most of my time on the soccer field,” Dan goes on. “Our daughter plays on a club team, so that really keeps us hopping.”
“Oh, you have a daughter?” Mrs. Hoffstra chimes in.
“Yes, Avery,” Dan says. “She’s twelve.”
“Twelve? Oh my, that’s a fun age, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hoffstra turns to me, a reminiscent smile on her face.
; Fun?
An image of said twelve-year-old’s neon-green fingers suddenly comes to mind, forcing me to drill my nails even deeper into my palms. Over a strained laugh, I say, “Yes, twelve is a very fun age.”
“I think she meant a very busy age.” Dan jumps back in, taking hold of the conversation, like he always does. Because Dan’s the most important person in the room. It’s always about Dan! I know what I meant, HONEY! “She’s got so many different activities it’s hard to keep up with her. If she’s not at school or soccer, she’s at piano lessons, or sleeping over at a friend’s house—”
The Hoffstras laugh because, by the way Dan tells it, he might as well be the one donning the chauffeur’s cap.
As if he ever drives her anywhere.
My molars suddenly slam together.
As if he’s the one scouring grass stains out of her uniforms until his fingers are raw.
My nostrils flare with heat.
As if he’s the one staying up until two in the morning baking gluten-free cookies for the stupid bake sale—
I plunge my nails in deeper, so deep that my arms are starting to tremble beneath the pressure. Except this time, it’s not my own pain motivating my movements; it’s his. The pain I suddenly—desperately—want to inflict on Dan.
You don’t do any of it, you lying dick!
“Do you have a picture of her?”
I hear Mrs. Hoffstra’s question, but it sounds sort of muddled, like she’s talking to me underwater—
Focus, Jane!
You’re here for your future.
For Avery’s future.
For Mom’s future.
Not to kill Dan.
Even though he deserves it—
Focus on the Hoffstras!
I apply even more pressure and over a clenched jaw say, “I’m sorry?”
“Do you have a picture of your daughter?” she repeats with an encouraging nod.
A picture.
Of Avery.
“Uh . . . yeah—yes! Sure.”
I slowly unclench my fists—palms throbbing from the assault—and dig my phone out from my bag. I ignore the three new texts from Julie (I called the damn bank!) and bring up my camera roll and start swiping through the images. Avery’s not very cooperative when it comes to pictures these days. Each one has to be reviewed and put through a filter before I’m allowed to keep it, and god forbid I try to post it. Not that I have time for social media, but still . . . it would be nice to offer up something every now and then.
See Jane Snap Page 4
