Somebody's Daughter

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  PRAISE FOR ROCHELLE B. WEINSTEIN

  “Weinstein has given us a wonderful tale of life and its distractions. She gives us characters that are flawed and yet lovable . . . You will find yourself affected to the very core by the depth of her work.”

  —Blogcritics on Where We Fall

  “Compelling . . . What We Leave Behind’s twists and turns generate real tension, and Weinstein renders Jessica’s feelings with enough complexity that her ultimate decision carries emotional weight.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on What We Leave Behind

  “Each word of What We Leave Behind invokes raw emotion as we are brought deeper into the soul of a woman that can be any of us. This moving story will echo strongly with any woman who has had to face love and loss, life and death, and everything in between.”

  —Long Island Woman on What We Leave Behind

  “A heart-wrenching tale of loss, loyalty, and the will to overcome . . . Weinstein explores the difficult facets of grief that are often too painful to recognize, the solipsism of mourning, the selfishness of regret, and the guilt of moving on . . . Ultimately, this novel full of mourning has a large, aching heart full of sympathy and potential, and will keep the reader listening for signs of restored life.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on The Mourning After

  “Weinstein hooked me with her first novel, and The Mourning After has made me a fan for life. She has that rare ability to hook you from chapter one, keep you turning the pages and then continuing to think about the characters long after you have put the book down.”

  —James Grippando, New York Times bestselling author, on The Mourning After

  ALSO BY ROCHELLE B. WEINSTEIN

  What We Leave Behind

  The Mourning After

  Where We Fall

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503949256

  ISBN-10: 1503949257

  Cover design by Damon Freeman

  For anyone who has ever made a mistake. And for those who have judged and been judged.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  “Excuse me,” my husband whispers in my ear, shimmying up alongside me at our double vanity and teasing me with his eyes. “Do I know you?”

  His dark, messy hair grazes my cheek, and a fresh line of stubble tickles my neck. Our bodies fit together in the bathroom mirror, and I smile at our little game. “Not now, Bobby.” Though I’m pleased after nearly twenty years of marriage he still likes to play.

  We hear their laughter before they enter, and soon our girls fill the small space. They scoot in front of the mirror admiring their identical faces, while matching Ross Hotel bathrobes frost us all in white.

  “Mom, where’s my dress?”

  Zoe’s face is panic-stricken, and I pass the garment bag in her direction. “Here. I had it steamed for you.”

  “Do you like these earrings?” Lily asks, holding large diamonds up to her ears, the ones Bobby’s mother gave me for college graduation.

  “Hand them over,” I say, extending my palm.

  Disappointment clouds her face.

  Bobby watches us in amusement and cozies up to me again. “Happy birth day.”

  I sink into him and let the sentiment soothe me. “Their turning fifteen means we’re getting older, too.”

  “You’re not getting older, honey. You’re getting better.”

  I wince at my reflection and pull on the strands that nip my shoulders. “I shouldn’t have cut my hair.”

  His lips find my forehead, and he nuzzles me. “I like it. And I like you.”

  The girls roll their eyes and nudge us aside. Excitement covers their faces, and I reflect on the years that took us by surprise. Tonight’s party has them growing up before my eyes. Literally. And armed with thick layers of hair and the weapons to make it straight, they’re part See what we’ve created, and another part What have we done?

  Bobby catches me staring and drops a hand on my shoulder. It slides down my back.

  “You’re not half bad for a mom of teenagers.”

  “Funny,” I laugh, elbowing him in the ribs. “I’ll always be younger than you. Even if it’s a couple of months.”

  I watch Bobby tease the girls while recounting the day they were born and how he almost fainted in the delivery room. It gives me time to observe the subtle differences. To the outside world, the girls are genetic clones: matching brown hair that sweeps past their shoulders, fair skin dotted with freckles, full lips, and crystal blue eyes they inherited from their grandparents. Only those closest to them know the real differences. Zoe’s nose is slightly broader. Lily’s freckles a shade lighter. Zoe is a leftie. Lily uses her right hand. Lily’s eyes are a pinch brighter. Zoe’s are tinged in a subtle gray. There are deeper differences, too.

  “I told you girls,” I say, interrupting his story. “Women are the stronger sex.” Bobby’s dark eyes lock on mine, and I swipe my fingers across the shadow lining his jaw. “You’re shaving that, right?”

  “Yes, dear.” He smiles, running his hand through his thick brown hair. “I think I spotted some gray.” He bends over to show me, which interests the girls.

  I’ve been going gray since college. I don’t feel sorry for him at forty-one with a few strands of silver. Lily lets go of the flatiron and pulls at the single hairs.

  “Don’t do that,” Zoe laughs. “He’ll grow ten more.”

  Lily’s eyes are doubtful. “That is so not true. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “Ouch,” he says to Lily as she pulls. “That hurts!”

  His arm comes around Lily, and he draws her close, but she’s quick to pull back. “Daddy,” she says with a half smile. “You’re messing up my hair.”

  He throws his arms up in the air. “I need sons.”

  I’ve studied his contradictions for years, the tenacious real estate mogul who can’t say no to his daughters or wife.

  He dips his hand inside the top drawer, pulls out a razor, and waves it in the air. “You ready, Zoe?”

  It was a game they played when Zoe was little. She’d complain when his beard scratched her
face, and when she was five, he handed her the first razor. With patience and love, he showed her how to hold it in her small hand, lather on the shaving cream, and gently stroke the side of his face. She basked in the attention and affection, taking pride in “cleaning Daddy’s face.” There were nicks and scratches over the years, but he never minded, and it became their special ritual.

  “Daddy.” She smiles at him. “I’m too old for that.”

  His face falls.

  “How come you never let me do it?” Lily asks through a face full of makeup I’m not quite sure how she learned to apply. Her pale-blue eyes are shaded in a smoky sex appeal that makes her way too pretty.

  “You hate blood,” her sister reminds her.

  I watch Zoe while she lines her eyes—the long lashes, the curve of her nose. She has her father’s eyebrows—thick with an enviable arch. Lily glosses her lips for the fifth time and smacks them together in a way that makes me shudder.

  “Daddy, we need some privacy,” Zoe says in all seriousness.

  “This is my bathroom,” he pouts.

  “The lighting’s better in here,” Lily chimes in, which is nonsense since our entire penthouse on the beach has floor-to-ceiling windows that make every room bright and airy.

  Zoe feels sorry for him. She folds into his arms, and he plants a kiss on her forehead and both cheeks. It’s their practice, usually reserved for before bed, and she doesn’t back away. Her freckled skin turns a soft pink. “At least one of them likes having me around.”

  I link my arm into his and guide him out the door. “I like having you around.”

  He flops on the bed and follows my robe as it falls to the floor. It was a lot easier to undress in front of him when we were younger, two teenagers with a beach as our blanket, before time and gravity made their mark. After nineteen years of marriage, he’s seen the changes, what pregnancy’s done to my hips and breasts.

  He watches, doing everything in his power not to be fresh while the girls are within earshot. He likes what he sees, I can tell, but I’m not always comfortable in this changed body of mine, even when he tells me it’s just right. I slip inside the black dress thrown across the bed. It’s lace with a silk camisole underneath, and I turn around for him to zip me up.

  He stands and kisses the base of my neck. I close my eyes, and the feel of him against me takes me somewhere else. To our upcoming interview with Ocean Drive magazine. I’ve been rehearsing what I’ll say about his accomplishments, how we manage to live in the hotel we own, and how we first fell in love. The long history frames us. It began on the crystal shore—innocent and playful. Then it became steamy and hot. Classic Miami.

  I’m back in the present. Twenty-five teenagers are about to join us for a birthday dinner downstairs. I remember what we were doing at fifteen, and I tense.

  “Is everything set with security? Do they have the guest list?” I ask.

  “Emma,” he says, reaching for my hand. “The staff has everything under control. Relax.”

  I turn my gaze upward, a well of emotions clamoring to come out. “It’s our girls, Bobby. I want tonight to be special for them. Because you know what happens . . . they become these people we don’t recognize . . . then they hate us and cut us out of their lives. You watch. One minute they’re sweet and innocent, and the next they’re . . . that’s what teenagers do. And then they go to college. And it’s all over.”

  He appraises me with his eyes. “I love how you love them . . . how you worry. Tonight’s going to be perfect . . . nothing to worry about.”

  The pair waltzes out of the bathroom, and he stops. The reverie comes to an end. He lets go of my hand, and I’m not sure if his expression is appreciation or shock. It’s astonishing in itself to bring two babies into the world at once, but when dimpled bodies become lengthy curves, and childlike innocence channels a rare sophistication, it’s tough to wrap your head around. So we just stare.

  “What do you think?” Lily asks, striking a pose.

  “Where are the rest of your clothes?” Bobby asks.

  Lily’s black dress hangs dangerously low, accentuating her newly sprouted cleavage. The skirt rests high above her knee. Her long, toned lacrosse legs rise from spike-heeled sandals I believe are mine.

  “I told you he was going to freak,” Zoe mumbles to her sister.

  “Everything’s going to be perfect . . .” I remind Bobby.

  Zoe’s draped in a more conservative black dress. Her stick-straight hair is pulled back in a long ponytail. Her shoes are a comfortable height. But their faces. Good God. Images of braces and baby fat float through my brain. Who are these young women, and what did they do with my little girls? A parenting quote comes to mind that I’d recently liked on Instagram: “The days are long, but the years are short.” The words are so truthful I might cry.

  “Dad,” says Lily in an adult tone I don’t recognize. “You have to get ready. We can’t be late.”

  “If the Olsen twins could get out of my way, I’d make myself presentable,” he says.

  Lily smiles while Zoe, my curious one, turns to him in question. “What would our names have been if we were boys?”

  “Daddy liked—” I begin.

  “Anything but Monty,” he interrupts. “You would never be a Monty.”

  I’m mouthing the names Zachary and Luke when I freeze. What? The name rolls off his tongue without a shred of contempt, though I know it’s there.

  “Ew.” Lily scowls. “Why would that even be an option?”

  My body tenses. I flatten the already smooth fabric of my dress, the shame of that name coursing through my fingers. It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. I inhale and exhale deeply. He doesn’t know.

  His eyes turn to me, their dazzling brown unaware that they’ve just pushed me, that my unsteady legs may fall. I suck in my breath and admire the girls, his handsome face. It wasn’t long ago I was an actress. It’s a pastime I still miss. Hence, our game. Excuse me, do I know you? Sometimes I’m a European painter, other times a schoolteacher. It’s lighthearted fun, and Bobby loves seeing the different sides of me. I can do this. I pretend what he says doesn’t matter. I pretend it means nothing that he remembers the long-ago name. I pretend that because we’ve been happily married all these years, a name can’t uproot me. But it does. And I close my eyes and pretend harder.

  I’ll push the name far to the back of my mind, where it’s stayed all these years. I have to. It’s the only option.

  Then I open my eyes and smile.

  The elevator chimes and whisks us downstairs. I fix Bobby’s collar and straighten his navy blazer. The girls fidget in their dresses and stare at their reflections in the mirror. They’re snapping selfies and chattering about someone’s “story.”

  I’m always proud to walk through our sleek white lobby together. The Ross is retro glam with an earthy simplicity, a space that feels less like a hotel and more like a cozy living room. The familiar scent of lime basil and mandarin fills the air, and I breathe it in. Bobby works hard and maintains a superior hotel. It shows in our staff and the pleased guests who pass us by. Some offer hugs and greet the girls with birthday wishes, while others shake Bobby’s hand and remark on the recent Heat game. The girls are gracious about the attention we receive. They know everyone by name and are careful to look them in the eye when they speak. I am thankful they’ve tucked their phones away.

  While I don’t have a formal position in-house, Bobby boasts I’m the epicenter. He maintains, “I may be the boss, but you hold the heart.” All things pump through me. I see to it that the guests leave here happy and eager to return. That our staff is treated with respect. That no detail is overlooked. It’s not the job I had intended, not since abandoning my acting dreams, but the Ross satisfies me. I consider the hotel our third daughter, and I relish watching her grow. I spot Alberto and Luz up ahead. The burly man, our GM, grabs me in a tight hug. His Paco Rabanne tickles my nose like it has for many years. Luz, with her frosty silver hair, moves in fo
r a squeeze. She’s petite, like me, and our shoulders touch.

  “Quince años.” Alberto’s deep voice and thick fingers come down on the girls. They let him hug them. They always do. “Let’s hope your driving skills are better than your tricycle skills.”

  The hotel keeps our best memories alive, and we laugh. Lily steering her bike into the pool is a favorite.

  “Poppy Berto, are you going to tell that story at my wedding?” Lily asks.

  “God willing,” he says, and his arm falls around Bobby’s shoulder. “Your parents would be proud of these young ladies. Preciosa!”

  When we step through the ballroom doors, we are greeted by a burst of lively teenagers. They bounce around the room to Drake and Katy Perry and nosh on sliders and sushi. The centerpieces I worked tirelessly on with our event manager, Tara, are perfect. Crystal vases brim with lavender, lilacs, and pale-blue hydrangeas, and the girls and boys drape themselves around the long table, snapping pictures with their cell phones.

  The years wash over me. It hits with a gentle force. I try not to think about how quickly time changes things. How fast Bobby and I went from being innocent kids to hovering on the brink of adulthood. Jonny, his brother and our head of marketing and PR, sidles up next to me.

  “I don’t remember fourteen or fifteen looking anything like this,” he says.

  “It’s crazy,” I agree, while a foreboding chill dances on my skin.

  The celebration of time does nothing to keep Bobby’s words from echoing in my ear. Monty. My reaction spilled out of me, but I managed to rein it in. He had no idea what that name did to me. What it could do to us. And though I don’t want to think about it tonight, I see how these girls are dressed. I see the phones curled in their hands like appendages. The poses. And the boys who stare at them hungrily. I know we are on a new course, a new stage of raising teenagers. I don’t know if I’m ready.

  “Man, would I get into trouble growing up in these times.” Jonny’s candor breaks apart my thoughts. I focus on his full lips and the burst of blue from his eyes. He is a prettier version of Bobby. Too good-looking, if you ask me.

  We planned the party exclusively for the girls and their friends, plus the longtime employees who make our family larger. Alberto and Luz. Our pool manager, Kinsley, who is engaged to our head of housekeeping, Elle. There’s Sandra and Tara and Heather. Tabitha, Bobby’s secretary. They see to it that our hotel comes to life each day, a lively bunch with a tender hand in raising our kids.