by Neta Jackson
“My lawyer says don’t do it,” I told my sisters on the phone. Celeste, Honor, and I had actually managed to pull off our Saturday three-way call this time—noon my time, ten in California, nine in Alaska.
“I guess not!” Celeste barked. “That’s Mom’s money. And after the way he treated her? She’d turn over in her grave if you loaned that money to him.”
I let that go. Our mom never had been one to hold grudges. If Martha Shepherd thought her son-in-law was trying to quit gambling and do right by his family, she’d probably forgive him and give him the money. Though come to think of it, he never did admit he needed help as a problem gambler. Just that he’d “made some mistakes.”
“But Gabby said she didn’t tell her lawyer what Philip said about wanting to work on their marriage,” Honor said, talking to Celeste as if I wasn’t on the line. “Doesn’t that make a difference? Maybe loaning him the money would show good faith on Gabby’s part that—”
“Honor Shepherd!” Celeste practically yelled in our ears. “Are you high on something? He just said that to make her think he’s turned around. But did he say he was sorry? Unless I missed something, I didn’t hear ‘sorry’ in there. I’m with the lawyer, Gabby. Don’t do it.”
“Well, I think she could loan him something. He said he’d pay it back.”
“And you believe him? That’s the trouble with you, Honor. That’s why you’re raising River and Ryan in a trailer park, because you believed all the nonsense their loser father kept promising.”
“And what’s wrong with a trailer park? We got a nice double-wide now with our share of the inheritance money—nicer than that log cabin you and Tom live in, up there in that godforsaken wilderness they call a national forest.”
“How would you know, Honor? You’ve never been here. We happen to like—”
“Celeste! Honor!” I butted in. “I’m losing you! I’m just getting static . . . sorry . . . we’ll talk next week, okay? Love you! Bye!” I put the phone down like a hot potato. Good grief. What was up with those two?
I glanced at the kitchen clock. Yikes, Philip would be bringing the boys back in a few hours and I still needed to do the grocery shopping. And, drat, I’d wanted to go looking for a decent dining room table to replace the ridiculous plywood-on-sawhorses sitting under that linen tablecloth. Well, forget the table. No time for that now. The boys still had one week to go until school started, which meant they’d be in the house eating all day.
But even as I grabbed the scrawled grocery list off the refrigerator door, I realized a lot more than restocking my pantry had to be in place by six o’clock.
Philip, no doubt, would be expecting my answer by then.
chapter 16
Well, so what? I told myself, lugging the last of the grocery bags into the house a couple of hours later. I had my answer, didn’t I? At least my lawyer and my big sister agreed with my first, second, and third inclinations—don’t give Philip a loan. In fact, I thought, stuffing the freezer with frozen waffles and Tombstone pizzas, he has a lot of nerve, asking me for money after he cut me off without a dime! I got hot just thinking about it. As far as I was concerned, it served him right to be suffering financial loss just like he’d made me suffer—
The loud door buzzer down the hall rattled my interior monologue. What? I glanced at the clock. Only five o’clock! Was Philip back early? Oh no. Oh, God, I don’t feel ready. Ignoring the intercom as I ran down the hall, I opened the front door a crack and peeked into the outer foyer . . . and breathed a sigh of relief. Estelle Williams, dressed in a bright yellow-and-black caftan, was fanning herself with a piece of junk mail on the other side of the glass-paneled door while Harry’s grandson gleefully pressed my doorbell as if it were dispensing free gum balls.
I stepped into the outer hall and pulled open the locked door. “Estelle! You must really be desperate to show up on my doorstep, because you know I don’t have central air. Where’s . . . Oh, hi, Mr. B.” Harry Bentley backed into the foyer still trying to lock his car with the remote key. I waved the trio inside. “Come in, come in. Did you go to the hospital today? Is Leroy doing okay?”
Estelle heaved a sigh. “So-so. Gonna be a long haul. We stopped by the house too—what’s left of it—to see what we could salvage. Not much. Lord, have mercy. What a mess.”
Harry pulled a large handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped sweat from his shaved head, glistening like a brown bowling ball. “I decided to get her out of that burned-up mess and do something fun to take her mind off it—”
“We gonna see fireworks tonight—from a boat!” DaShawn blurted, bouncing up and down. “Grandpa got free tickets! Can P.J. and Paul come too?”
Harry grinned sheepishly. “Like the boy said. You know, one of those Chicago lakefront cruises. The department gets these complimentary tickets to give out all the time. My partner— ex-partner, sorry—thought we could use a bunch.” He pulled out a handful of tickets. “We’ve got enough for the Fairbanks Musketeers—you too, Firecracker.”
“Oh, Harry, that sounds like fun. I’m sure the boys would love it. But they’re still out with their dad, won’t be home for another hour . . . You want to play with that, DaShawn?” The boy had pounced on P.J.’s Nintendo, which was still hooked up to the TV. “Sure, go ahead. You all want some ice water or something?” I started for the kitchen.
Estelle stopped fanning and perked up. “The boys aren’t here?
Good. Was hopin’ we could talk private-like.” She was right on my heels and plopped herself at my kitchen table, waving Harry into a chair. “Don’t worry about no ice water, girl. I wanna know did you talk to Philip? Did you take somebody with you? What did he want?”
I got the water anyway and joined Estelle and Harry at the tiny table. “Yes, I did. I mean, yes, I talked to him. No, I didn’t take anybody with me, because . . .” I filled her in on Jodi’s point of view when a guy says he wants to talk. Alone.
“Smart girl, that Jodi,” Harry smirked. “Listen and learn, Estelle.”
“Humph. Don’t remember askin’ you. Go on, Gabby.”
“Okay. Maybe you guys can give me some advice about what I should do . . .”
Even as I retold what had transpired between Philip and me at the Emerald City Coffee Shop, I thought, What am I doing? Haven’t I already made up my mind how to answer Philip? But something still nettled me. I wanted to feel more confident that I was doing the right thing. I was pretty sure Estelle would agree with me. But I’d like to know what Mr. Bentley thought about the whole thing. He’d been around the block a few times and he’d always given me good advice.
“Lord, have mercy!” Estelle said, rolling her eyes when I’d told my story. “That man must be in a heap o’ trouble for him to come askin’ you for a loan. You told him to go soak his head, right?”
I laughed. “Not yet. I told myself I didn’t have to respond to anything right then, so I just listened and left. Frankly, why should I rescue him after what he did? That’s what everybody is telling me. Don’t do it.”
Mr. B’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and got up. “Sorry. Gotta take this. Be back in a minute.” He disappeared into the dining room.
Estelle was right back on our conversation. “Everybody who?”
“Well . . .” I told her about my conversations with Lee Boyer and my sisters.
“You said you talked to Jodi? What did she say?”
“She didn’t really give me her opinion about the loan. Just offered to pray with me about it.”
“Did you?”
I squirmed. “Uh, not really. Haven’t really had ti—”
“Uh-huh. I figured.”
I frowned. “What do you mean? Estelle! You don’t think I should give him the money, do you?”
“You kidding? I happen to agree with you and Mister Lawyer and your big sis. But can’t say my reasons are all that holy. Yours either, for that matter. Oh, Harry’s back . . . Everything okay?”
Mr. Bentley sank ba
ck into his chair, a smug grin on his face. “Yep. That was Cindy. They’ve picked up our man. Indictment came out this morning.”
“Oh, praise Jesus!” Estelle said. “I’m glad that dirty cop is off the street.”
Mr. Bentley grunted. “For about a minute. He’ll pay his bond and be out tomorrow. But at least they’ll put him on leave from the force till the trial.”
“Hello-o.” I waved my hand in their faces. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Sorry. Just some old police business. What’d I miss while I was out?”
“Gabby says everybody tellin’ her don’t go givin’ Philip a loan. But she wants to know what you’re thinkin’.”
Mr. B pursed his lips and scratched his beard. “Sounds to me like Fairbanks is a classic ‘problem gambler.’ I’ve seen it take down guys on the force again and again. He’s addicted, just like a drug addict. Doesn’t know when to stop. Even if you did loan him money out of the kindness of your heart, you wouldn’t be doing him a favor. He’d just gamble it away. And you’d just be enabling a bad habit.”
Don’t know why I stuck up for Philip. “He promised to pay it back. I think he honestly realizes—”
Harry shook his head. “Maybe your husband thinks he sees the light, even promises himself he won’t do it anymore. I don’t much care for the man, but I’d be the first one to cheer if he actually got some help, turned things around, decided to treat you right. But throwing money at a gambling problem is the worst thing you can do. If you care for your husband at all, don’t loan him that money. Any money.”
Estelle rolled her eyes heavenward and wagged her head. “Mm-mm-mm. Outta the mouth o’ babes an’ old men. Now that sounds like a God-reason to say no. Now that we got our petty little selves outta the way, maybe we’re ready to pray ’bout this? What do you say, honey?”
For some reason, tears rolled down my face as Estelle prayed. A sense of peace replaced my anxiety as I held hands with Estelle and Harry. Saying no felt right now. Not out of vengeance. Not because it was Mom’s money. Not even because it was mine and I needed it. But because it was the right thing for Philip’s sake.
The door buzzer rang while we were still praying. “I’ll get it!” DaShawn yelled.
Estelle, Harry, and I looked at each other. “It’s okay,” I said, starting toward the front of the apartment. “I’m glad you guys came. Go ahead and ask the boys if they’d like to go on the fireworks cruise—” Which was a moot point, because by the time we got to the living room, DaShawn was already begging P.J. and Paul to go with them.
“Can we, Mom? Huh? Can we?” Paul bounced on his feet. Even P.J. looked interested as DaShawn showed them the brochure of Windy City Cruises.
Philip had come in with the boys, not just let them out as he usually did. I noticed he was dressed basically in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, and he didn’t look happy to see me with company. “Bentley,” he acknowledged with a stiff nod. “And Miss . . . I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Haven’t forgotten yours,” Estelle quipped. “Estelle Williams, chief cook and bottle washer at Manna House Women’s Shelter, friend of sinners and friend of your wife.”
Philip seemed taken aback. He frowned. “Uh . . . I was hoping you and I could talk, Gabrielle.”
“Estelle and Harry were just leaving,” I said, more breezily than I felt. “Boys! Would you like to go on this boat cruise with DaShawn’s grandpa and Miss Estelle? You’d have to go now.”
“What about supper?” P.J. wanted to know.
“Don’t worry, we’ll feed you.” Harry grinned.
Within a few minutes, P.J. and Paul had scrambled into the backseat of Harry’s RAV4 with DaShawn and were fighting over whose seat belt was whose.
“Are you sure you want to talk to Philip by yourself, baby?” Estelle murmured to me as she got in the front seat. “You could just tell him the answer is no and come with us. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“I know, Estelle. But I’ll be okay. Thanks for taking the boys. This works out for the best. I was wondering how we were going to talk with them around.”
I watched until Harry’s car turned the corner, and then went back into the house. Philip was sitting forward on the upholstered chair I’d taken from the penthouse, elbows on the padded arms, hands together in front of his face. He looked up as I came in.
“Did you think about my request, Gabrielle?”
“I did.” I sat down in the rocking chair I’d brought from my mom’s house, crossing my legs at the ankle, hoping my mascara hadn’t run when I got teary during our prayer time. “The answer is no, Philip. I’m not going to give you a loan.”
His jaw clenched. “Why? I need this, Gabrielle! I said I’d pay you back. You’ve got the money—more than enough, right? How would it hurt you to help me out for a couple of weeks?”
“It would hurt you, Philip. You need more than money. You need to get some help. Your gambling has obviously become a big problem.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He snorted and leaned back in the chair. “Fine. I’ll get some help. But first I need to get out from under this debt. That’s the problem.”
“No, your problem is you’ve become somebody I don’t even recognize anymore. What you did to my mother and me? That’s not the Philip Fairbanks I married.”
Philip looked at me sharply. “So that’s what this is about. I figured as much. This is payback, isn’t it?” He suddenly stood up and stabbed a finger at me. “Well, let me tell you something, Gabrielle Fairbanks. You owe me! You owe me a whole lot more than twenty-five or even fifty grand.”
I nearly fell out of the rocker. “I owe you? What are you talking about?”
“How long have we been married? Fifteen, sixteen years? How much income did you contribute to our family during that time? Nada. Oh, oh, I take that back. You had that sweet little job playing games with the old folks at the nursing home, which gave you a little spending money for . . . what? One year? Two? Meanwhile, who was paying the real bills? I was. Gave you a beautiful home. Gave you two closets full of clothes. Put food on the table—a Belfort Signature table, I might add. Paid for the boys’ school, their sports, vacations to the ocean . . . Add that up, Gabrielle. Add up sixteen years of marriage in dollars and cents, and you’ll see what I’m asking you for is peanuts! Peanuts!”
By this time, Philip was pacing back and forth, running a hand down the back of his head. I was so furious I couldn’t say anything for a few moments. But then I found my feet and my voice. I stood up. “How dare you reduce our marriage to dollars and cents, to who owes who what?” My voice was shaking. “I won’t play that game, Philip. My answer is still no. You’ll have to find the money somewhere else.”
I crossed the room and opened the front door. “I want you to go. Go!”
Philip glared at me for several moments, and then strode to the door. But at the door he turned, only inches from my face. I could smell his Armani aftershave. “You think you are so holy, so self-righteous, Gabrielle. Going to church now, helping out the homeless. You’ve told everybody you know—and probably the media too—your pathetic sob story, how I’m the villain who tore our marriage apart. But get one thing straight, Gabby! You walked out of our marriage the day we moved to Chicago. You think I’m not the person you married? I could say the same thing about you!”
chapter 17
The outer door had barely closed behind Philip when I grabbed the closest thing at hand and threw it across the room. “I owe him?!” I screeched at the empty house. “I owe him?”
Unfortunately, I’d grabbed a glass candle jar off an end table and it smashed against the painted brick gas fireplace on the other side of the room, scattering glass and broken candle wax in a dozen directions.
I stalked down the hallway, then back again with a broom from the pantry. “He thinks I owe him?” I muttered to myself as I swept shards of glass into a pile. Hadn’t I read somewhere that if everything an at-home mom did had to be hire
d out—ha! Including sex?—it would exceed most paychecks their husbands brought home.
In the middle of my rant, Estelle called to say they had the time wrong and the fireworks cruise didn’t start until nine thirty, so they’d be late getting home. “Fine,” I said and hung up before she could ask how my talk with Philip went. I was so upset by Philip’s accusations—he thought I had walked out on the marriage? What kind of baloney was that?!—I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I watched a dumb movie on TV, and then used the fact that the boys didn’t get home until almost midnight as an excuse to let them sleep in Sunday morning and not go to church.
The boys nixed my suggestion about going for a bike ride along the lakefront that afternoon and instead wandered over to the playground to shoot baskets at the school where Paul would be starting in another week. I stayed home and did laundry, ignoring the phone. Lee Boyer left a message that he’d made an appointment with the realtor for eleven on Tuesday and he’d see me then. And Jodi Baxter left a message saying she didn’t see me at church and was I okay?
No, I was not okay, but I didn’t feel like talking about it either.
Monday’s gray gloom and dripping skies matched my mood as I squished into the shelter. I’d dropped off P.J. at Lane Tech for his last week of preseason practice—rain or shine, the coach said—and talked Paul into coming to the shelter at least a couple of days this final week, but frankly, I didn’t want to be there either. What’s wrong with me? I wondered as I signed in. I’d felt such peace about saying no to Philip after the prayer time with Estelle and Harry. Now I just hoped I wouldn’t snarl at the first person who talked to me . . .
