The Forever Summer

by Jamie Brenner

  “I used the research department at the show to track down my father.”

  “Get out! Did you find him?”

  “Not him, exactly. But I found his mother. She lives in Provincetown, Massachusetts. I’m going to spend a few days there.”

  “Intense,” said Fran, pulling a joint out of her handbag.

  “Please don’t smoke in here,” Rachel said.

  “It’s medicinal. I’m way hung over. Sean took me to a new place in Venice last night that supposedly served only organic wine, but I suspect it wasn’t.”

  Rachel zipped up her duffel bag with an irritated flourish. She hated to admit it but she’d hoped her mother, upon learning about the trip, would have something insightful to say. But Fran seemed to exist only on the surface of life. Anything too heavy, and she tuned out. Their entire relationship had been less like a mother and daughter’s and more like sisters’. It would be too much to ask of Fran to actually mother her. This odd dynamic had been the envy of all of Rachel’s friends growing up. “Your mom is so cool,” they would tell her again and again when Fran scoffed at the notion of a curfew and didn’t bother checking Rachel’s report cards. Her idea of motherly advice was sharing the details of her one-night stand with Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

  “Rach, is this whole trip about losing your job?”

  “What? No. I told you, I’ve been researching my paternity for a while.”

  “I don’t want you freaking out. Just try to find a new gig.”

  “Are you seriously lecturing me about the job? You’ve never stuck with a career in your life.”

  “You should do as I say, not as I do. When’s the last time you did yoga?”

  “Okay, Fran. When I get back from the trip, I will find a new job. Don’t worry.”

  Her mother, satisfied she had done her parental duty for the day, turned her attention back to the cat. Rachel was tempted to confide in her mother about the first leg of her trip—a quick stop in New York City to try to meet her half sister. Then she decided against mentioning it. She had her own doubts about it, and she didn’t want Fran to discourage her.

  She knew she should maybe let it go for now and just be satisfied with the person she’d reached out to who did want to see her: her grandmother. Grandmother! Amelia Cabral of Provincetown, Massachusetts. But she couldn’t resist one last attempt to get through to Marin Bishop. This time she would do it face-to-face.

  Fran lit her joint, and Rachel sighed.

  She simply could not accept that her crazy mother was the only answer to the question Who am I?

  “I have to get going, Fran. I’ll give you a call when I’m back.”

  “Hugo seems to want to stay here,” she said.

  “No one is staying here. We’re all leaving.”

  After a final glance around the apartment, Rachel walked out with her stuffed duffel bag heavy on her shoulder.

  It was against Marin’s nature to leave something unfinished. Friends had long teased her about her obsessive attention to detail, her determination to wrangle life into order. And so Monday morning, after a sleepless Sunday night, she knew she had to hear more from this Rachel Moscowitz person. Not that she thought there was any validity to what she was saying—she’d felt absurd even bringing it up to her mother. But until she was able to get new results from a second DNA test, the strange woman’s e-mail was just hanging out there, a big question begging to be answered. She couldn’t ignore it any more than she could leave work with a pile of paperwork on her desk.

  At eight in the morning on a Monday, the office was still relatively quiet. Quiet enough for her to make the call without the risk of interruption.

  She closed her door, pulled up the e-mail on her phone, and then dialed. Her heart beat fast, and in a weak moment, she prayed for voice mail. And she got it.

  “Hi—this is Rachel. My voice mail, actually. Leave a message!”

  “Rachel, this is Marin Bishop. Um, as I said in my e-mail, there’s clearly been some sort of error. But I did want to just ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” She left her number and hung up like her phone was on fire. It was only after she turned back to her computer that she realized that the 310 area code was in California, so it was only five in the morning where Rachel Moscowitz lived. Okay, she would have a few hours before she had to deal with a possible call back. She could relax.

  A knock on her door.

  “Come in,” she said, hoping it was Julian, knowing it wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t see or speak to him all day, and if they happened to pass each other in the halls, there was a good chance they wouldn’t even make eye contact.

  The door opened. “Hilton would like to see you in his office.” It was Carol Rand, executive assistant to Hilton Wallace. Carol had been at the firm since before Marin was born. Marin wondered what that would be like—doing the same job for thirty years, never advancing, never being in a position of power. How did Carol get up in the morning?

  Marin smiled. “Before the ten o’clock meeting or—”

  “Now, if you can step away.”

  Marin slipped out from behind her desk, smoothed her gray pencil skirt, and followed Carol to the elevator bank.

  “Did you have a nice weekend?” Carol asked.

  “Yes, thanks. You?”

  The woman nodded. “Time with the grandchildren. Nothing beats that.”

  The elevator, smelling faintly of coffee, whisked them up to the twentieth floor. The partner section of the firm was silent as a tomb, everyone working behind closed frosted-glass doors. Hilton’s office, which she rarely saw, was at the farthest end of the hall, a corner space with a view of the Freedom Tower. Carol opened the door for her.

  “Marin’s here,” she announced. Marin stepped inside and had to bite her lip not to audibly gasp at the sight of Julian sitting in the chair opposite Hilton Wallace. Julian barely glanced at her, which stung, even though she knew he was doing the right thing.

  “Close the door, would you, Carol? Thanks.”

  Marin’s stomach tightened like a fist.

  “Marin. Julian,” he said, nodding at them. What was this about? It took all of her willpower not to glance at Julian to see if he was anxious or if this was just business as usual. “I won’t insult the considerable intelligence of either one of you by pretending you don’t know why you’re here.”

  Marin’s stomach dropped. With all her considerable intelligence, she suddenly did know why they were there. But where had they gone wrong? How had a senior partner found out about their relationship?

  Julian and Marin, both trained negotiators, said nothing. Hilton, understanding this, nodded and steepled his fingers under his chin.

  “I’m sure you are both aware of our firm’s policy on fraternization.”

  Marin felt her morning coffee rise to the back of her throat. Should she speak up and deny it? She wished she could talk to her father, as if this were a game show and she was allowed one lifeline call. But this was no game, and there was no way out of what Hilton Wallace said next. “I’m asking you both to tender your resignations, effective immediately.”

  Chapter Eight

  The sound of a ringing phone roused Marin from a deep daytime sleep that felt like she’d been drugged. Her first thought, squinting against the sunlight streaming into the living room, was that she was certain she’d turned off the damn phone—had turned it off days ago. The last call she’d taken had been from her father, who’d told her to “get back on the horse” and come home to Philadelphia, where he would have to pull strings to get her a job. And there it was—her ultimate punishment. It wasn’t losing her job or even potentially losing Julian. It was her father’s disappointment.

  The ringing, shrill and persistent. She realized it was the house phone; it must be the doorman calling up from the lobby.

  Julian. Why had it taken him so long?

  They hadn’t seen each other since the excruciating dismissal from Hilton Wallace’s office.
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br />   At first, walking out of Cole, Harding, and Worth with the security escort by her side, her laptop repossessed by the firm, a single box of her belongings in her arms, she told herself they would rally. They would both find new jobs. The firm would not be punitive; the partners simply didn’t want to risk a sexual-harassment lawsuit. They were being thorough—that was the nature of the business.

  But Julian didn’t see it that way. He had actually said that his life was ruined. She didn’t have the nerve to ask if he meant by her, Hilton Wallace, or himself.

  That first night, he told her he needed a little time alone.

  “I have to process this.”

  “You blame me,” she said.

  “I don’t. I don’t blame you, Marin. If anything, I blame myself for being so reckless. And I just need some space to deal with that right now. Alone.”

  She told herself this was a natural, understandable reaction. After all, she had things to figure out herself. They spoke on the phone a few times, but the distance between them was painfully obvious. This will pass, she told herself. It has to.

  And then, two days later, the Page Six blind-gossip item: “Legal Lovebirds.” Which two rising stars at a top-notch law firm had a hard fall from grace when they fell for each other? Hint: The affair derailed more than their professional reputations. The lady lawyer was formerly engaged to UBS banker Greg Harper. But all’s well that ends well: Harper has happily landed in the arms of NY News1 anchor Sarah Stall.

  It was officially public; it was officially ugly. She had cheated on her fiancé, she had slept with her boss. She had lost her job. (The one bright spot? Her guilt over breaking up with Greg was at least partially alleviated, seeing as he had already moved on. The news anchor was young and pretty and, well, what did she expect?)

  She cringed to think of Greg reading the Page Six piece. She hadn’t told him there was someone else—had wanted to spare his feelings. And yes, she’d also been a little afraid that he would be vindictive. Greg was a Wall Street guy—he was type A. You didn’t make seven figures by age thirty by sitting back and letting things happen to you.

  How had they gotten busted? She lay awake at night, replaying their relationship moment by moment, a film on a constant loop, looking for the slipup. Had it been the day she’d walked into his office when Hilton was there? Marin would probably never know. And, really, what difference did it make? The damage was done. And Julian blamed her. He said he didn’t, but she knew better.

  She kept looking at the key he’d given her, a tangible reminder that he did care for her—this wouldn’t all just disappear. She was tormented by the constant temptation to go over there and see him. At least he hadn’t asked for the key back, she told herself.

  Not yet.

  She checked her phone obsessively, hoping for something from Julian. It was painful, not only because there was never a voice mail or text, but because every time she opened her e-mail, it was a minefield of well-meaning friends who had heard from so-and-so on Facebook blah-blah-blah.

  And then, a voice-mail message she didn’t want: Rachel Moscowitz was coming to New York. On her way to see her biological father’s family. “They’re Portuguese,” she said. “And I guess, so are we!”

  What a mistake to have called her. A moment of weakness. Oh, if only she could forget everything that had happened that last day in the office!

  She reached for the phone, but it had stopped ringing. She dialed the front desk.

  “You called?” she asked the doorman. It came out like a croak and she had to clear her throat. How long had it been since she’d spoken to someone?

  “Yes, Ms. Bishop. Your mother is on her way up.”

  Marin closed her eyes. Not Julian, but her mother. Of course. How long had she thought she could put off her mother? She looked around at her comforter and pillows on the couch where she’d fallen asleep in front of the TV every night this week and where she spent most of the day.

  No more hiding. She dragged herself across the living room to open the door.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Blythe strode in without a word, her blond hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in gray slacks and a lightweight baby-blue cashmere wrap. She dropped her car keys on the small wooden entrance table and pulled Marin into a hug.

  “You’ve had me so worried. Are you okay?”

  Marin knew Blythe could answer her own question just by looking at her daughter’s unwashed hair, her ratty T-shirt, the yoga pants she’d both slept in and worn during the day for the past week. She knew her cheekbones stood out. She’d had no interest in food and had barely eaten anything; her face had been carved into sharp edges.

  Marin folded herself back onto the couch. Her mother sat next to her, moving aside a crumpled ball of tissues and the TV remote.

  “Marin, it’s going to be fine. These things happen.”

  “No, they don’t! Do you have any idea how bad this is? No top firm in Manhattan will hire me. I’m radioactive. I’m in Page Six, for God’s sake!”

  “It will blow over,” she said. “Yesterday’s news.”

  Her mother didn’t understand. How could she? She’d never made such colossally bad decisions. She’d never sent her own life into a tailspin.

  “I’m going to use the bathroom,” Marin said. “Do you want coffee or anything? I can call for delivery.”

  “Goodness, Marin. You don’t even make your own coffee in the morning?”

  “I get it on the way to the office.” With that, she dissolved into tears.

  “Marin, sweetheart, please don’t despair. Go shower and get dressed—you’ll feel better when you do.”

  Marin sniffed into a tissue. “I really screwed up.”

  “At the risk of sounding trite, things do happen for a reason. That could be the case now. Time will tell. For the moment, you can’t punish yourself like this. So get dressed, and I’m going to run to the grocery store, and we’ll have a nice dinner here tonight. And we’ll talk it through. Just as we always have everything else.”

  Marin leaned into her mother’s hug. “Okay. Take my keys in case I’m in the shower when you get back.”

  Blythe kissed her on the forehead on her way out the door.

  Sorrow overcame her, and she choked back more sobs. God, she felt like a child. Her mother was right; she had to pull it together. She had to start facing things like she always had, like her father did: head-on, with resolve. She would fix this.

  Her phone rang, and she wiped tears from her eyes so she could find the phone on the couch. The incoming number made her breath catch in her throat, and her instinct was to ignore the call, to send it to voice-mail purgatory and then erase it.

  Instead, in the spirit of facing things head-on, she touched the screen.

  “This is Marin.”

  “Marin? It’s Rachel. Rachel Moscowitz.”

  Marin stayed silent, and Rachel pressed on, her words coming in a rush. “I got your message and I’m literally in New York for just a few hours before I head to Cape Cod and I couldn’t pass through here and not try to see you. If you could just give me a few minutes, just for my own sense of…I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m looking for, honestly.”

  Marin, already at rock bottom, wasn’t afraid to fall.

  “Where are you right now?”

  The Times Square Starbucks was jammed with tourists and the squatting homeless. Marin looked around and recognized Rachel Moscowitz from her quick Google search on the cab ride over. Marin was surprised by how pretty she was, with a long tumble of honey-blond hair and skin burnished by the California sun. She was dressed with the casual, inexpensive boho chic Marin could never pull off without looking like she’d just rolled out of bed.

  Rachel stood leaning against the wall next to the mugs, CDs, and eco-friendly bottled water for sale. An oversize duffel bag rested at her feet.

  Marin took a deep breath and approached her.

  “Rachel?”

  The woman turned, widened her big b
rown eyes. “Marin!” She pulled her into a hug. “Oh my God, I’m so happy to meet you!”

  Marin nodded, unable to speak. Taken aback by those eyes, their almond shape mirrors of her own. Finally, she choked out, “We should find somewhere better to talk.”

  “What? Oh, sure. I didn’t really know where to go. This is only my second time in New York. The last time I was here I was ten and we were visiting my mom’s friends. They took us to see Wicked.”

  “Let’s get a cab,” Marin said.

  They filled the five-minute ride with small talk about LA and New York. Really, they could have walked the short distance to the restaurant, but Marin wanted to sit. She needed a contained environment. She wanted the illusion of control.

  Le Pain Quotidien at Fifty-Third and Fifth was Marin’s go-to place when she wanted to get out of the office for a few minutes. It was familiar and comfortable to her and she needed this to steady herself.

  Marin chose a table on the second level, making a sharp right at the top of the stairs to get a spot on the balcony. She ordered coffee, and Rachel ordered green tea and a blueberry muffin.

  “So,” Marin said.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” said Rachel, toying with a packet of sugar. “I know this is pretty crazy.”

  Marin nodded, looking into the eyes that were disconcertingly familiar. “I just can’t take these test results at face value. It’s nothing against you. But my parents have been together for over thirty years. I don’t see how this could be true.”

  Rachel nodded, tapping her mug with her index finger. “I get it. It’s simpler for me because I always knew my father was a sperm donor. Maybe your mom had fertility issues and just never told your dad. Crazier things have happened.”

  What?

  “Or maybe Genie made a mistake with my results,” Marin said quickly. Though she had to glance away from Rachel as she said it.

  “Sure,” Rachel said. “Look, I’m not here to, like, mess up your life. I just wanted to meet you. In case it’s true. I never had a sister, or a father. I’ve never had anyone but my mom and she’s…well, she’s not very motherly. So I guess I got a little overexcited when I learned about you. And about our—I mean, my—father.”