I snatch a paper towel from the counter and wipe it up while they’re locked in a stare.
Lily decides to weigh in. “Sometimes Grace does things for attention. She doesn’t mean anything by it most of the time.” She spoons a wonton into her mouth.
“This crossed a line, Lily,” he says. “This is a serious offense.” Bobby ignores me as I lean over him. The energy between us is all wrong. “Zoe,” he says, “we need to let Jo Jo know our decision.”
Zoe wrinkles her brow. Her whisper silences the table. “Let’s do it.”
“Maybe we should give it a day or two? Some time to talk this over . . . think this through,” I say.
Bobby is ripping the duck-sauce packet with his teeth when he says, “What more is there to say? The girl screwed up. She needs to pay.”
Like me? His harshness fills the air, and it makes it difficult for me to swallow.
Lily must sense the rift between us; she breaks the awkward quiet. “Can we go downstairs for movie night?” It’s a monthly ritual on the beach with a large screen, popcorn, and blankets, plus the hotel’s best desserts. “They’re showing 3 Days to Kill. Kevin Costner. Mom, you love him.”
“Bobby?” I ask in a tone that’s forced. “It’s a beautiful night. Why don’t we join the girls?”
“You know I can’t,” he says. His eyes are apologetic. “I have a call in a half hour.” He looks at his watch to drive his point home. “And I’ll be working downstairs late tonight. Number crunching last month’s financials. You know how due diligence works.”
“Girls,” I say, “why don’t you go down? Uncle Jonny will be there. It’ll be fun.”
A dark black canvas of sky surrounds me. I usually love November in Miami, and the way the cool air reminds us of the coming season. Now I’m numb to its touch. I’m standing on the terrace staring down at the crowd gathered by the movie screen. Kevin Costner’s plastered across the screen, and his voice travels up the building. Coincidences happen to me often. Fate. I log in to Facebook, and the top post will be something of real relevance to me. A friend’s loss. An anniversary. I’ve always felt there is meaning in the timing. So when I see this particular scene on-screen, I’m not surprised it’s one of Kevin Costner and his estranged teenage daughter discussing an upcoming dance with a boy. She’s explaining she doesn’t know how to dance, and he leads her off the couch. It’s obvious the young girl doesn’t want to dance with her old man. She backs away; he pulls her close. And soon she’s standing on his feet dancing with him to her mother’s favorite song.
It sends goose bumps up and down my legs. Not only because I love watching a teenage girl dance with her father, but the song . . . the song is one of ours. Mine and Bobby’s.
Bobby comes up next to me, and he hears it, too. He drops his bag on the floor. We’re watching this young girl, so much like Zoe.
We don’t talk. Side by side we watch the drama unfold on the screen, mirroring our own. They’re at the kitchen table laughing and drinking wine when the mom encourages Kevin Costner to tell their daughter he loves her. He stares into her eyes with more love than I can stand when he says that his daughter already knows. Because he loves her as much as he loves her mother.
Our hands curl around the railing, but not close enough to meet.
“Say something,” I say.
“What can I say?” he asks.
“Say you love me. Say you love her. Say you’re not leaving.”
He stares out at the night sky. His voice is wistful and sad. “This isn’t a movie, Em.”
“I know. It’s much more than that.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“I screwed up. I should’ve been honest. He meant nothing to me. It’s always been you. It’s always been us. Solo tú.”
He kicks at the wall. “I spoke to Jo Jo. We’re pressing charges. You can help by supporting me.” He’s talking to the sea, and I study the lines across his cheek. I envision Zoe’s face at the table and how she agreed to this.
“How do we know it won’t make things worse?”
He faces me. But his eyes shift from side to side. “You made a decision once.”
It stings. “I’m sorry.” I hope my eyes will tell him how much. “I shouldn’t have lied. I should’ve never lied. Not to you, of all people.”
He says, “You’re right,” and the guilt floods me. It has been a lifetime of quiet humiliation. Fear of full disclosure did that to me. He punished me, unknowingly. I wouldn’t let him do that to our child. When I think of her, I find my voice.
“Zoe’s confused. She thinks if she agrees with you it means you forgive her. Are you ready to do that?”
“What do you want to do, Emma? You want to go to the Howards’ for coffee, slap Grace on the wrist, and fly to Cabo together for spring break? It doesn’t work like that. This is a game changer.”
“It’s a better solution than you putting Grace in jail and selling our home!”
“You don’t understand,” he hisses. “Everything I’m doing is to save us. Everything. How come you don’t see that?”
I have nothing more to lose. I stand in front of him and reach for his arms. He draws back, and I reach for him again. Our eyes meet. His are empty, a dark, dark brown. “Because it hurts. Because it’s lonely without you. Because I miss you.”
He tries to pull away. One of his hands swipes at his eyes.
“Because I made a mistake once. Because I love her. Because I love you, Bobby. More than anything in the world.”
We face each other, and I see us as young kids frolicking along the beach. I see him chasing me until the sun slips from the sky and the moon becomes our compass. I see him laughing when he pulls my bathing-suit string, and the delicate way he ties it back together again. His hands graze my back and nip my shoulders. The goose bumps dot my skin. He’s smiling that smile that could make me do anything. And in his hand is the diamond that he pulled from a nearby shell. I jump into his waiting arms, circle my legs around his waist, and we fall back in the sand. The rush of time is like waves bashing the shore. It soaks me, and the salt teases my lips.
But he turns away. He leaves me on the balcony and slams the door. I drop into the chair beside me and hug my knees to my chest. This loss is like nothing I’ve ever felt.
His side of the bed is a loud reminder of my loneliness. I stare at our ketubah and remember the day we hung it up. He had to go to the emergency room after smashing his finger with the hammer. This is how it’s going to end. How will I ever replace the frame with something else? A wall of bricks tumble down. Our daughters. Us. Our home. It’s too painful to think about. I grab my iPad and scroll through the pictures from the magazine shoot instead.
The magic of the Ross is lit up against a fiery sky. Our girls float across the sand with the deep blue sea dancing behind them. The four of us hold hands, traipsing along the gardens, and the smiling guests stare in our direction. I swipe forward to the individual shots of the hotel interior. They capture her mystical beauty, her simple sophistication. It’s hard not to fall in love with her again. She’s breathtaking. And the minor flaws and imperfections make her the hero of our story.
The spread takes my breath away. Bittersweet, but elegant and understated. I want to touch the screen and capture the loveliness in my hand. Lily looks angelic. Zoe a blushing beauty. There’s no sign of scandal on our faces. No signs of a fault line pulling us apart. Bobby looks handsome and refined, like one of those men in the perfume ads. Dark and magnetic. Sexy as all hell. We look composed and happy, the all-American family. How misleading. I almost wish the camera caught our vulnerability. It would make us more human.
I pick up my cell phone and text Bobby. I love you. I’m sorry. You know me. You know me better than anyone.
CHAPTER 25
Bobby slips in with the sun. I’ve woken Lily, and I’m stepping out of the girls’ room when I catch him sneaking in. The bags under his eyes tell me he slept less than I did, and he brushes past me with
a cursory nod.
Lily’s unusually slow. Zoe normally motivates her in the morning, but with her decision to stay home and avoid facing Grace, Lily’s taking her time. They’ve already called three times from downstairs to tell us her ride is waiting. Bobby’s yelling, and it only slows Lily down more. I wipe the sleep from her eyes and send her on her way.
He’s sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee. The field between us is wide. “What’s Zoe doing all day?” he asks. Not How are you. Let’s talk. Let’s fix this.
“She can follow you around like she used to do.”
“Not today.” He takes a sip without lifting his eyes from the Miami Herald.
We never started our days like this. He always looked at me, touched me in some form. Or he’d leave a love note under my coffee cup, surprise me with breakfast in bed. Uncomfortable silence didn’t work for us.
“What are we supposed to do?” I ask. “Sit and wait for them to arrest Grace?”
He nods and blinks as though he’s listening, but he’s somewhere else.
“Do you want to meet us for a quick lunch?” I ask. I’m nervous. He makes me nervous.
“I can’t.”
“I’m trying, Bobby.”
He is silent. The only sound is the paper rustling between his fingers as he turns the page.
“Be angry at me,” I say. “But not Zoe. Please.”
He gets up, and I watch him walk away, taking my fight with him.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a text from Lisa Howard. I’m starting to worry. You haven’t answered any of my calls. The police are here asking for Grace’s computer. What’s going on?
Her name across the screen tugs at my stomach. My friend. What will this do to us? My finger rests on the tiny picture near her name, and I slowly move the tip across it. Part of me wants to call her. We would dissect the situation like we’d always done when it came to the kids. But I delete her message and shut my eyes instead. Until the phone buzzes again. It’s Lily. I don’t know how I can avoid Grace. If you think punching Price was wrong, just wait.
I write back. Stay cool, honey. For your sister.
She gives me the thumbs-up. And then proceeds to complain about how slow Chelsea’s mom drives.
I have three missed calls from Monica Hudson, Price’s mom. The messages are all the same. “Emma, I’m sorry to bother you . . . I’d like to talk about the case. Who is this Grace Howard? Do you know her? This is awkward, I know. I’d still like to talk. Can you call me back?” No one’s been this eager to talk to me in weeks.
I dial the number on the screen for no other reason than I need someone to talk to, someone who understands.
She answers on the second ring. Her voice echoes my own. The muffled tone means she’s in mourning, too. “I’m so glad you called. This Grace Howard . . . she sounds like a bad kid.”
I fight the urge to defend Grace.
“Do you know much about her? Why she would do this?” She either has a cold or she’s been crying. I explain the relationship and how we’ve been close friends for years.
She gasps. “Why on earth . . .”
I don’t have an answer.
“I’m sorry. The kids don’t deserve this.” She blows her nose. “And I’m sorry this happened so publicly. But even with the news about this Grace person, my husband and I have had to accept that Price made a bad judgment call. He’s capable of mistakes.” She pauses. “It’s difficult to realize we don’t know him as well as we thought.”
Bobby’s face appears in my mind. Blame it on Price. Blame it on a drug. Even blaming it on Miami, comparing it to the wholesome upbringing I had in Deerfield. It doesn’t matter. Chicago. Miami. Girls. Boys. Good parents. Bad parents. None of us are immune.
She asks how Zoe’s doing, and I decide to tell her the truth. “She’s home today. She didn’t want to face Grace. She’s been going to school up until now and managing, but this set her off. What about Price?”
“He’s okay. He’s trying to focus on his schoolwork and lacrosse.”
I’m hugging the phone to my cheek. I close my eyes and imagine she’s lying under a blanket on her couch like I am.
“My eyes have been opened,” she says. “The labels, the misperceptions. Girls are sluts, boys are the devil. Whichever side you’re on, the name-calling is wrong.”
It would’ve been so easy to be angry at Monica the way I am at the Howards. But it’s the opposite. I like her, and I find comfort in our strange alliance. “Thank you.”
“For what?” She sounds confused.
“Nobody understands. It’s nice to talk to someone who does.”
“I wasn’t joking when I said I made a voodoo doll of Zoe. I’m as guilty as the next guy. I’m not proud of that. But I see things very differently from where I sit. Now.”
When parents say to each other, “We’re all in this together,” it’s utter bullshit. When your child screws up and you’re the subject of idle gossip, watch who stays and watch who goes.
Zoe slides into the room and sits beside me on the couch. “Monica, Zoe’s awake. Can we talk later?”
“How about coffee sometime? I’m not very popular at Thatcher.”
“Of course,” I say. “That would be nice.”
“Was that Price’s mom?” Zoe asks after I hang up.
I say yes, and she’s quiet. “Are you okay with that?” I ask.
“It’s fine.”
“How about you get dressed and come with me downstairs? Hotel business. You used to love joining me.” She pulls a blanket over her and presses the remote. She prefers to flip through mindless TV instead.
My phone rings, and it’s Lana from Ocean Drive. I get off the couch and head to my room. She gushes about the proofs. “We’ll send a copy of the interview well before we go to print. Did you love the pictures? We can provide you with copies. Let us know which you like best.”
Sandra from Concierge interrupts with a list of questions she’s probably been accruing for days. I’m rifling through the mail that hasn’t been opened. Invitations and events we’ve missed. RSVPs we’ve forgotten to respond to. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. We’re having some issues with the girls.”
“I know, Mrs. Ross.” Of course she did.
She offers to help, but there’s nothing she can do. “Have Kinsley and Elle turned in their list?” I ask. “Do we have a count?”
“Yes. Seventy-eight. They’re in Mr. Ross’s office going over tables.”
“We need to lay down a ramp for Fern MacNeill’s wheelchair.”
“Got it.”
“What about our numbers for this upcoming week? Are we within range from last year?” The busyness keeps me distracted. For a few brief moments I forget.
“We’re up ten percent,” she says. “And I took the liberty of signing off on the Smiths’ F&B. You always take care of them when they come to town.”
I thank her and finish getting ready.
“Meet me for lunch,” I call out to Zoe.
She prefers I bring food back, but I think it’s a mistake. “You need to get out.”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Uncle Jonny has some dogs for me to walk later.”
The elevator doors open to a bustling lobby. Guests and staff are in a hurry as I step through. Some are gathered at the front desk; others are lined up at Concierge. Businessmen are en route to meetings. Vacationers are preparing for an afternoon at the beach or poolside. A couple is sitting nearby sipping mojitos. A young man is typing away on his laptop. The sweeping ceilings make every footstep a resounding noise, every laugh a menacing jab. The music piped through the walls is too loud, and the glowing candles reflect all I wish to hide. We are all linked under one roof, but traveling in different directions. The energy once made me feel vibrant and alive. Now the instability alarms me.
I walk deeper into my hotel’s belly and notice Alberto teasing a little girl with pigtails. Soon he’ll pull a quarter out of her hair and make her laugh. Sandra tends to
a guest with her affable smile. A waiter carries a tray of mimosas to the front desk, libations for our guests checking in. Our staff is cheerful and friendly, thorough and attentive. A warm rush reminds me of all I had forgotten. No, I could never give this up. Never.
A text comes from Bobby. Can you come up?
I don’t immediately respond. I have rounds to run, meaning a walk-through on a certain floor and paperwork to clear in registration. When I finish, I text him I’m on my way.
They’re gathered in Bobby’s office—Kinsley and Elle—and they’re going over the floor plan for the wedding. They greet me with shared smiles; Bobby doesn’t look up. His words are gruff. “There’s some staff we’re having trouble seating.”
“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Ross,” says Elle.
I smile, reminding her it’s my pleasure to help. Latching on to their hopefulness allows me to forget my unhappiness. They thank me and leave us alone to strategize.
The spreadsheet with the guests is laid across his desk, and the floor plan is pinned to the wall. I notice documents with STK across the top and an offer letter from the Howard Group. I pick it up and shove it in his face. “You can’t possibly be entertaining his offer.”
He walks over to the shredder in the corner of the room and sends it through the feeder. The whirring sound is the only thing we’ve agreed upon.
I study the contents of his office. Years of marriage unwind around us. The pictures of the girls as babies. An enlarged black-and-white of Laura and Zane Ross in front of the hotel, with Bobby and Jonny in strollers. A guest had sent a miniature model of the Ross with a pink satin banner draped across the front. It was a replica from the day the girls were born, and Bobby dressed the front of the hotel in hot pink. Instead of a sign that read “It’s a Girl,” he had a customized banner with “Two Girls” fitted across the veneer.
Tabitha slips through the door carrying a manila envelope with Bobby’s name. “It’s the documents you requested from the vault, Mr. Ross.”
The deed to the hotel. A vise slides though my chest and squeezes. I search Bobby’s face, but he won’t look up. Tabitha catches my eyes instead. It’s her job to know he’s sleeping somewhere else, and her sympathetic eyes hide nothing. She tiptoes out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Somebody's Daughter Page 23
