by Darien Gee
Still, Richard is becoming a permanent fixture in town, and Edie is pretty permanently attached to Richard. So even though she’s worked at the paper for almost three months and was doing fine with a simple nod to people here and there, she pushed herself beyond her comfort zone to actually exchange a few superfluous words with Livvy when the opportunity arose.
Edie likes Livvy, but she’s fairly confident that if they had gone to the same high school, Livvy wouldn’t have given her the time of day. Olivia “Livvy” Scott has cheerleader written all over her. Shoulder-length straight blond hair, thin, exuberant, suspiciously perky. Livvy always looks good in her coordinated outfits and flawless, dewy skin. Standing next to Livvy brings up every insecurity Edie has ever had about her looks. Even with a trendy pair of glasses and a new haircut, Edie Gallagher still feels like she has CLASS GEEK stamped on her forehead.
But Livvy is always delighted to see Edie, wanting to spend as much time together as possible. It’s a bit puzzling, actually. She has the odd thought of Livvy sitting on her bed, writing in her diary about their escapades as if they were teenagers. BFF. Best friends forever. It’s a concept completely foreign to Edie, who has never really had many female friends, much less a best friend.
So she pushes herself again.
“If I don’t get my period by next Friday, then we’ll take a trip over to the Avalon Pharmacy, okay?” Edie doesn’t bother to mention that her period is perpetually late and totally erratic, and that the likelihood that she is pregnant is pretty low. She also doesn’t bother to point out that she can get a urine test for free at Richard’s office. She can see how peeing on a stick in the bathrooms of the Avalon Gazette with your coworker standing outside the stall might be fun (not). But it’s what girls do, right? Bonding time. Maybe this was the part Edie missed out on when she was in the library browsing through volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.
Livvy gives a half nod but looks appeased. “Okay. Hey, do you want to meet later for coffee?”
Not really, but Edie gives Livvy a thumbs-up. “You know where to find me.”
Livvy flips through her checkbook, looking for the missing entry. It’s been months since she balanced her checkbook and to be honest she’s not great at it, but the last bank statement showed an automatic withdrawal in the amount of $500 to CMFTP.
Livvy has no idea what that is. She ticks through the obvious bigticket items—the mortgage, the car loans, the membership fee for the golf club Tom belongs to—but those are all accounted for. She decides to call the bank.
Tracy, the Gazette’s business manager and Livvy’s boss, pops her head into Livvy’s office. Livvy pushes her checkbook to the side and pretends to be looking at something on her computer.
“Livvy, where are you with that web-based advertising proposal? I want to show it to Patrick.” Patrick Chapman is the publisher and editor in chief, a hands-on sort of guy who really doesn’t know much about the newspaper business but has the money to keep the small paper from floundering into oblivion.
Livvy had been hoping to show the proposal to Patrick herself, especially seeing how she was the one who came up with the idea in the first place. “It’s not ready yet. I should have it later this afternoon.”
“Great. I’ll be by at three to pick it up. Can you make four copies? Collated, with a binder clip. No staples. Thanks.” Tracy gives her an obnoxious wink and hurries away.
Since when did Livvy become the copy girl? She opens the file on her computer and hits PRINT. As her clunky old laser printer churns out each page, she finds she’s seething. The only reason Tracy is the business manager is because she walked through the door one week before Livvy did. Livvy could easily do Tracy’s job managing the display and classified advertising. In fact, it was Livvy’s idea that they catch up with the rest of the world and go online, if only for the simple reason of being able to sell some web advertising in addition to their meager print advertising. She should just march into Patrick’s office and give him the proposal herself. She should pitch the idea to him in person, let him see that she knows what she’s doing, that she’s worth more to the Gazette than he realizes.
But she won’t. Despite all of Livvy’s big talk and her reputation for fearlessness, she doesn’t want to risk Tracy’s wrath or Patrick’s disapproval. She needs this job, she needs the money, and if she has any hope of getting a raise or being promoted, she needs to stay in both of their good graces.
The thought of money reminds her to call the bank. She punches in the number. She’ll deny the charge, whatever it is, and demand they credit her account. She’ll call it fraud if she has to, make them initiate an investigation, and in the meantime she can use the money to pay the loans on their cars.
“Avalon State Bank. How may I help you?”
It’s Charlotte Snyder, one of the head tellers. “Hello, Mrs. Snyder. It’s Livvy Scott.”
“Who? I’m sorry, the connection is terrible. Can you speak up?” The connection is fine—it’s Charlotte Snyder who is going deaf.
“Olivia Scott. Frederick and Rebecca Townsend’s daughter.”
“Olivia!” Mrs. Snyder exclaims. “How are your parents? Enjoying Florida? Tell your mother to write more—the time difference just never works out for us to talk.”
“I’ll tell her,” Livvy says, but she knows her parents have a new life, one that doesn’t hold painful or sad memories of Avalon. They moved two years ago, saying they needed a change of pace. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, for six months or so, but it’s clear they have no intention of returning. Their flamingo-pink condo in Boca Raton is a huge change from the neat but somber house they had in Avalon. Now they play bingo on the weekends and take salsa dance lessons. Her mother paints watercolors and her father has taken up deep-sea fishing. Florida is the last place Livvy envisions her parents, but she can see how all that carefully planned living has its appeal. Everything in its own time slot, with no surprises—dinner at five, canasta at seven, chicken on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Livvy yearns for that kind of certainty right now. Maybe she should move down there, too.
“And how is Julia? I never see you girls anymore. Everyone is online banking these days or going through the drive-through. You know we’re offering free doughnuts if you get here before ten. Sweet on the lips, but straight to the hips!” Mrs. Snyder chortles.
Livvy ducks the question about Julia and gets straight to the point. “Mrs. Snyder, I think there’s a mistake on my last statement. There was five hundred dollars taken directly from our checking account and neither Tom nor I authorized it.”
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Snyder is serious now. “Let me pull up your account. Five hundred, five hundred … oh yes, there it is. To CMFTP. You say you didn’t authorize it?”
“No, I did not.” Livvy is firm.
“Well, it’s already been paid out. I can go ahead and file a dispute and the bank will look into it.” Mrs. Snyder is typing something into the computer. “There’s a phone number here associated with the transaction. The area code is 773. That’s Chicago, isn’t it? Do you want to call them first?”
Livvy tries to remember the last time they were in the city—it’s been at least a year. Possibly Tom made another whimsical purchase—a new golf club or something like that—and then forgot all about it. When they were first dating Livvy loved that about him, that he was a guy who didn’t obsess about the details, that he was spontaneous and would surprise her with an expensive treat here and there. She didn’t realize until later that they were living beyond their means. By then it was already too late—she liked having nice things and had figured out how to float from one month to the next, how to get a late charge waived, assuming all the while that they’d eventually get caught up. Then the economy slowed to a stop and credit card rates rocketed, raises put on hold. They’re feeling the pinch now, and Livvy wishes she could turn back the clock, but of course that’s impossible.
Livvy takes the number from Mrs. Snyder and promises to call her b
ack if she wants to file a dispute. She punches in the number, a barrage of questions at the ready. What is the amount for? Who authorized it? What does CMFTP stand for?
A pleasant voice answers right away.
“Children’s Memorial Hospital, Foundation Office.”
Livvy sucks in her breath, then quietly places the receiver back in the cradle. She closes her eyes.
She won’t be calling Mrs. Snyder back after all.
Tom is hitting golf balls in the front yard when Livvy pulls up. She doesn’t want to ask why he’s already home. His commute from work is an unfortunate forty-five minutes one way, and he usually doesn’t make it back to Avalon until right before dinnertime.
“Hey, good lookin’!” he calls out, then chips a shot into the old dog bowl.
Why can’t he do this in the backyard, where there’s plenty of room, instead of in their front yard for the world to see? She sees some movement from a window across the street. It’s Mrs. Lowry, the neighborhood watchdog, peeking through her lace curtains.
“Tom,” Livvy hisses as she walks up to him. “Can you please keep your voice down?”
“Why? That old bat can’t hear us.” He gives a laugh, and Livvy smells alcohol on his breath.
“God, have you been drinking?”
“I’ve been celebrating.” He hits another shot and it bounces out of the dog bowl. “Damn.”
“Can you tell me why you’re celebrating? Inside the house?” She nods to the house and walks up the steps.
He tosses his pitching wedge onto the grass and follows her, catching her in an amorous hug from behind. He rains kisses on her neck, making Livvy protest and laugh at the same time.
“Stop!” Livvy knows Mrs. Lowry just got an eyeful.
Once they’re inside, Tom’s bluster disappears.
“What’s wrong?” Livvy asks. She sees a stack of mail and is about to reach for it, but the top two envelopes have OVERDUE and FINAL NOTICE stamped on the front in big letters. She decides it can wait.
Tom sits down on the bench in the hallway. “They took my car.”
She looks at him in alarm. “Who? Who took your car?”
“The bank. They sent a repo guy to my office. My office! Kurt saw the tow truck and told me, but it was too late. Guy was gone by the time I got downstairs.” He bangs his fist on the wall behind him.
“Can they do that? Aren’t they supposed to give us notice or …”
“They did give us notice. We were late on three payments, and I didn’t pay the last one.”
Livvy bites her lip. “Why not?”
“Why not? Because we don’t have any money, that’s why not!”
Livvy tries to think. “So what does this mean? That we don’t owe anything more on the BMW?” This could actually be a good thing. The BMW was such a temperamental car, always breaking down. Now they can get a cheaper car and have a little more cash each month.
“We might. It depends on how much they can get when they sell it. If they sell it for less than what we owe, then we still owe them the difference.”
“What?” This doesn’t seem fair to Livvy. “Why? We gave back the car.”
“They took back the car. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Tom stands up and heads for the kitchen.
Livvy’s mind is spinning. She follows him. “But I thought you said you were celebrating, Tom.”
“It’s called sarcasm, Livvy.”
“So how did you get home?”
“As soon as that guy took the car, I called a taxi to take me to the bank. It cost me seventy-five bucks.”
Ouch. “Did you tip the driver?”
“What do you think?” Tom glares at her as he opens the fridge and takes out a beer. Livvy sees three bottle caps already discarded on the counter.
“So they’ll let us know if we owe anything?”
Tom takes a long draw on his beer. “Who the hell knows.”
Livvy hesitates. “Well, we just paid our annual donation to the Children’s Memorial Hospital for Josh. Five hundred dollars.”
Tom swears. Then he looks at Livvy. “Do you think we still need to do that?”
“Tom!”
“Livvy, it’s been six years.”
“It’s been five, Tom, and we talked about this. I want to do this. It’s important to me.”
“Forever?” He looks cross.
God, he doesn’t remember anything. He had been equally distraught by Josh’s death, and when she proposed an annual donation to the allergy and immunology department of Children’s Memorial Hospital in Chicago, he had readily agreed. They never really discussed how long it would go on for. It’s a small gesture, she knows, but it’s the only one she’s able to make and she doesn’t want to stop.
“So how are you going to get to work?” she asks, changing the subject.
“I guess I’ll have to take the Pilot.”
Livvy’s mouth drops. “Tom, the Pilot is my car.” She had it before she even met him.
“It’s our car, Livvy, and what do you expect me to do? Take the bus all the way to Dixon? We can’t afford another car and I can’t go around in some beater.”
Livvy feels her throat tighten. There’s no point in arguing. Tom’s a pharmaceutical rep and needs to always look his best, not just what he wears, but also what he drives.
“Besides, the Gazette is practically within walking distance.” He adds this last part flippantly.
“Tom, it’s not within walking distance. You’re just going to have to give me a ride in the mornings and pick me up on your way home.”
“Liv, I’m driving all over the place for my sales calls. You can’t count on me to take you to work.” Tom takes his beer and goes to the living room. Livvy trails after him and tries not to lose it when he picks up the remote and settles himself onto the couch with a sigh.
Get up! She wants to yell. Hold me! Tell me it’s going to be all right!
Tom notices her standing there and gives her a pained look. “It’s been a bad day, Livvy. I just need to detox. Can you make dinner tonight? You’re a doll.” He turns back to the TV and flips to the Golf Channel.
She hears him cajoling some golfer to make the shot. Livvy turns on her heel and heads back to the kitchen, wishing desperately that she had someone to call, someone to talk to. She doesn’t want Edie to know about their financial troubles, and all of her other friends just wouldn’t understand. She could call her parents in Florida but she knows her father will be disappointed and probably think them completely irresponsible, which wouldn’t be far from the truth. The only person who would understand is Julia. She’d be critical at first, but then she’d help Livvy figure out what to do. Julia has always pulled through for her.
But Julia won’t take her calls.
CHAPTER 3
“Please sign here.” The UPS deliveryman points to the dotted line, and Hannah scrawls her name with the electronic pen. He hands her the long, slim package, glancing briefly at the sender’s address: “Delivery from Hans …” He stumbles, unable to pronounce the last name.
“… Weishaar.” Hannah accepts the package, pleased to see that the wrapping, the corners, everything looks good. Intact.
The deliveryman smiles sheepishly, but it’s a great smile. He’s tall, with sandy-blond hair and classic good looks, the kind of guy most girls fall head over heels in love with. Her parents used to have heart attacks over guys like this, worried that Hannah would want to date one of them, but they were being ridiculous. Hannah goes for the moody, brooding type, not the ones who look like they’d be happy sitting on the beach with a cheap bottle of beer and a surfboard nearby.
“I’m usually really good with names,” he continues apologetically, and Hannah wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to apologize, that she didn’t get it right the first time, either.
Instead, she simply says, “It’s a German name. German names are tricky.”
“You’re new to Avalon?”
She nods. “Just moved
here from New York three months ago.”
His smile broadens. “Then welcome to Avalon”—he checks his handheld computer—“Hannah. Is that you? Hannah de Brisay?” He glances back down uncertainly.
Hannah is used to this, to the double check that often happens when you are Asian with a Caucasian last name. She explains, “It’s my married name.” She resists the impulse to add any other commentary but her mind does it for her, flashing automatically to the headlines of her tumultuous relationship with Philippe.
A Meeting of the Prodigies—Cello and Violin Darlings Engaged!
Rising Cellist Hannah Wang and Violinist Philippe de Brisay Wed in New York
Classical Musicians No Longer Living in Harmony?
“It’s French. My last name is French.” Is she so desperate for conversation that she’s chatting up the UPS man? “My husband is French,” she adds lamely. Stop talking, Hannah!
“Oh.” The smile doesn’t leave his face but she sees him straighten up, his body language the equivalent to a tip of the hat. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Have a nice day, ma’am.”
Ma’am. The word makes her cringe. She’s twenty-eight years old, but because she’s married, she’s ma’am.
She doesn’t watch him walk away, but smiles politely and closes the door. The house is suddenly silent again, the white wainscoting standing at attention as she walks down the hallway toward the music room.
The music room is a sunroom that doesn’t get much sun because of the looming oak tree out back, but it’s better this way. The small room has expansive glass windowpanes that overlook the modest backyard, and it’s Hannah’s favorite view. Her cello rests against the stand and framed photographs of concerts and glowing reviews are hung symmetrically on the walls.
In fact, everything is symmetrical in their house. Philippe has a need for things to be placed exactly so, even the mail when it’s placed on the console in the hallway. Utensils lie patiently in the drawer, spoons spooning, fork tines shined, knives with their edges pointed down, perfectly fanned and separated. The canned goods in the pantry with their labels facing out, the stockpiles of boxed risotto in various flavors stacked alphabetically. One thing Philippe can’t buy enough of is nesting mixing bowls, of which they have almost ten sets. He loves how they are made to fit together, one inside the other.
