Win for Love

by Isabelle Peterson

  “What’s that?”

  “Next week is thirty days of sobriety for me. Well, a week from Tuesday. I’ll be getting a special chip.”

  My heart swells with hope. “Wow, Mom. Thirty days. I’m so proud of you.” My voice cracks at the end, and I really am proud of her for being so strong. I also feel like crap that while my mother was succeeding at being sober, I caved to stupid boy problems and got trashed the other day and still feel hung over.

  “What about you? Are you able to afford everything all right? Candy was tellin’ me ‘bout how expensive things are up there. That job that lured you up there, does it pay enough? What did you say you were doing? Is Chicago pizza really as good in Chicago as what you get at Lena’s Pizzeria? Are you making friends? Have you been to the Sears Tower yet? Was it scary up there?”

  Mom’s sober chatter makes me laugh.

  I try to figure out what questions to answer. I can’t tell her about any job that I don’t have and make a note to touch base with the library. I also don’t feel like I can tell her about my winnings. She’s got a job, and she’s looking out for herself. If she knows about my winnings, will she think she can live on them with me? No, I can’t tell her yet.

  So, I tell her about the pizza, which I love. And yes, it is better in Chicago. I tell her about Lainey and everyone, well, everyone except David. I mean, what’s the point? That ship has sailed. To avoid talking about my job—which is non-existent, although I hope to hear something from the library soon—I get her to tell me about her job and how else she’s filling in her time.

  I get kind of a proud feeling when she says, “You know, baby… You taught me how to be strong and smart. Whenever I want to give up, or pour a drink, or go to a bar, I think, ‘What would my Crystal-baby do?’ and I do that. One day, I hope to be as successful as you.”

  As I think about her response, any sense of pride I feel dissipates. What kind of role model am I, really? I don’t trust people, I lie… I’m no example of what to do. I won money and left my family behind. And I did what she did… drank when I felt disappointed by someone.

  I need to change this conversation, or I will totally crumble. “So, what else is going on in good ‘ole Harton?”

  “Oh! You know Joe’s Newsstand in Carlyle? The one across from where you used to work?”

  I tense. Um. Yes. I know that place more than you know, Mom. “Yeah. I’ve gotten coffee there a time or two,” I offer as nonchalantly as I can, my stomach in knots.

  “Well,” she huffs theatrically. “That place sold a winning lottery ticket. You know those scratcher ones! And a big one, too!”

  My mouth is drier than it was yesterday waking up fully hungover, but this time for a completely different reason.

  “You don’t say,” I reply. What else can I say? Is this the world telling me that I’m supposed to tell her? I half wonder if this is a trick. Does she know? Did the Lottery Commission reveal that it was me? Did someone read that a ‘Crystal J. from Chicago’ won on the internet and ask Mom if it was me? Did she read it in some discarded newspaper? Is she testing me?

  “Well, don’t you wanna know how much?” she asks. Then without waiting for my reply she gushes, “Five. Thousand. Dollars.” She pauses for effect. “A Week! For life!! Could you imagine?”

  I almost laugh. Not only can I imagine it, I’m living it. But she doesn’t elaborate on who won or where that winner is from. I hold my breath waiting for the question, jokingly or otherwise, asking if I'd been the one who won. Do I just fess up?

  “If that were me,” she continues, “I’d buy a new house. A car! I’d have lobster dinners! Oh! And a whole new wardrobe! I’d have so much fun with that much money! I’d go on vacation once a month! I’d never have to work again!”

  Yeah, maybe she’s not ready to hear that I won. Maybe when she’s been the one responsible for the bills for a while and understands how far the dollar goes—or doesn’t go.

  “Oh, geez. Look at the time! Crystal-baby. We have to go. Church is in twenty-five minutes, and Candy will be by any minute to pick us up. I still have to do something with my hair. Call again, okay? I love hearing your voice,” she says. I promise to call again soon, and maybe even visit and end the call feeling only a tiny bit better that at least my leaving my mother has given her the ‘strength,’ as she called it, to improve her life.

  I grab my laptop and decide to do some research on David Waterston.

  The first things to pop up about him are his Most Eligible Single ‘crowning’ last month. The articles are about what makes him so eligible, other than his single status, good looks, and financial security, and also goes into depth about the charities he supports. There are several benefactors regarding health-related causes in addition to literacy and environmental endeavors. His biggest fundraising efforts go toward cystic fibrosis—which makes total sense.

  But the whole Most Eligible Single thing.

  The girls… So. Many. Girls.

  There is no shortage of photos of him with varying types of women, but all of them are glamorous. I’m horrifically plain next to them.

  Reading that David was married shocks me. He’d never mentioned it. Or even hinted at it. I read several articles about the good-looking couple. They were both involved in philanthropy. They met while David was getting his MBA, and she was in her last year of undergraduate studies. They married a few months after graduation. They were married just shy of two years before the marriage was dissolved about eight years ago.

  The headline that shocks and horrifies me most touts, “Waterston Leaves Pregnant Wife.” It’s a tabloid headline, and I know I shouldn’t pay it any mind, but I click on it anyway. How could David leave his pregnant wife? Instantly, my thoughts go to my own father, or lack of, and I fight back the tears for the baby. However, the article reveals that the baby isn’t David’s but rather an employee of his, but that’s not confirmed anywhere else. I don’t know what to make of the whole thing, but given that it’s a tabloid article, I decide to leave it that his wife had taken a bad picture one day, and it looked like she was pregnant.

  Moving on to more serious articles, I learn that David’s business sense is impressive and has nearly doubled his family’s sizable wealth. Sizable wealth, that’s an understatement. His family rubs shoulders regularly with some of the richest people in the world—Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, and even Oprah Winfrey! David is quoted in an article saying that he recognizes his parents’ wealth, and that his parents subscribe to the thinking of Gates and Buffett. David’s parents plan on giving everything to charity when they pass, and that it’s up to David to create his own wealth. From the looks of David’s apartment and cars, he’s doing quite well.

  Also stunning is his track record with sailing competitions. As I search the photos of the sailing, I realize the Princess Bonnie is his, not a friend’s as he had told me.

  I feel terrible that I’ve been so lied to. Why would he do that? On the ride home from Lainey’s parents’ place last night, I asked her that same question. She suggested that since everyone knows who he is, maybe he was having fun with some anonymity given that I apparently had no idea of his name or status.

  But the bigger question is, and Lainey had no suggestions there, is why has he so unceremoniously dumped me?

  Closing my eyes tightly to keep the tears from unleashing yet again, I decide to stop researching and bake something. Chocolate chip cookies sound appealing so I find a recipe, write up a grocery list, and go shopping.

  DAVID

  “David! Good to see you,” my mother says as she pulls her famous Beef Wellington roast out of the oven. The house smells amazing like it does every Sunday for family dinner.

  She turns to me and drops an oven-mitted hand to her hip. She’s staring me down, and I know why. I’m about to get it—big time.

  “So.” That’s all she has to say. She is using The Tone—the ‘Mom Tone’ which implies so many things with just one syllable.

  “What happened Frid
ay?”

  “Why didn’t you bring the lovely girl you told us about?”

  “Why did you bring Ginnifer of all people?”

  “Why did you leave the gala early?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, feigning confusion and fish a beer out of the fridge.

  I knew I’d get shit about the benefit dinner early on Friday. Everything from who I brought, and didn’t bring, and for leaving early, but I couldn’t stay. I had wanted to be there with Talia more than anything in the world. I wanted Talia to meet my parents and for them to meet her. When I showed up with Ginnifer Monroe, a girl I’d known since I was twelve, I got looks from my parents and Jimmy. Even Chip, although paid to keep his opinions to himself, gave me the stink-eye.

  Bringing Ginnifer was actually a very simple choice. I chose someone I had no feelings for, who was an easy lay, and had money. Ginnifer didn’t disappoint on two of the three points. I still have no feelings for her, and she donated quite a bit to the charity. I have no idea about the whether or not she was an easy lay because I didn’t even get that far into the evening. I left that night, alone—before the dessert course. I had fully intended on taking her to bed, but every minute of the night my thoughts were about Talia, and I couldn’t be with another woman. To be honest, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to be with another woman, now that I’ve had Talia. Everything about her seemed so right even if she seemed to be holding information back.

  I’m still waiting for Alec to submit a full report, and that I don’t want anything less than all the information before I make my next move. Having the little I do have has me suspicious and angry.

  The silence is killing me. Mom’s eyes bore into me as she attempts using her Super Mom power of mind reading.

  “Jimmy told us about her.”

  Of course, Jimmy told her and Dad about Talia. I can’t be angry with him, I hadn’t asked him not to say anything. Hell, I wanted the world to know about her, and that she was mine. Until Wednesday. Then everything went to ‘hell in a handbasket,’ as my Nonna used to say.

  “Awesome,” I mumble, pulling out a bottle opener. I pop the top and take a long pull from the bottle garnering yet another look from my mother who had already grabbed a pint glass and was handing it to me. She never really liked when I drank straight from the bottle. She didn’t like it when I did that to the milk container either. Realizing she lost this one, she puts the glass back in the cupboard and refocuses her attention on me waiting for me to confess why I didn’t bring Talia to the gala the other night. Knowing I’m not going to get away from this one, I shrug and just tell her. “There’s something amiss with Talia, and I’m not sure what it is. I’m… it’s just on hold for now, okay?” I take another sip not telling her that I’m having Alec look into Talia’s background and ask, “Everyone out back?”

  She nods and calls to my back, “We’ll talk later.”

  I step into the backyard where I find the usual suspects—my dad, Jimmy, Jimmy’s wife, Debbie, my mom’s brother, Uncle Albert and his wife, my Aunt Tina, and my parents’ neighbors and best friends, Marlene and Tad.

  The men are taking turns on the putting green my dad, an avid golf enthusiast, had installed many years ago. The ladies are in the Adirondack chairs that overlook the sprawling backyard and the duck pond at the back of the property, and they’re all cackling about something.

  My dad looks up and spots me. He smiles and waves. “Hey! David! Good to see ya!”

  I smile and raise my bottle to him.

  Uncle Albert looks up and holds up his putter, “C’mon over! You can use mine. It’s a new one!”

  “Nah. Not today, but thanks,” I say and head over to the deck to greet the women.

  “Hi, David,” Aunt Tina says, getting up to hug me. “How are things inside?”

  “Mom just pulled dinner out of the oven, so close, I guess.” As soon as I give her my assessment, she and the others take their glasses of wine, give me a hug, and head in to help my mom. I take one of their chairs and enjoy the quiet company of a good beer.

  I’m checking my email for the gazillionth time today looking for an update from Alec when I’m interrupted. “Not up for improving your putt?” I hear behind me. I turn to find Jimmy and put my phone aside.

  “Nah.”

  “What’s got you working so hard?” he asks, gesturing to my phone and taking a seat at the chair next to mine.

  “Just checking email. Nothing important,” I lie. The update from Alec about Talia is my number one concern.

  “So, what’s the story with Talia?” he asks as if he’s reading my mind. “Why didn’t you bring her to the gala the other night? Or here tonight? Your mom was really looking forward to meeting her.”

  “What the hell? I just met her a couple of weeks ago. I brought her to a music festival. I’m just thinking we’re not really compatible.”

  I turn to Jimmy, and seeing his cocked eyebrow, I crack.

  “I’m having Alec find out everything he can about her,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Are you out of your mind? Talia? I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I can’t think of any reason you’d have her investigated.”

  I lean in and lower my voice so it doesn’t carry to anyone who might be trying to listen. “When I got back from California, I happened to see her giving an envelope of cash—a thick envelope—to a random guy. A construction worker.”

  “Talia?”

  “I know, right? Something’s not right.”

  “There could be a number of reasons,” Jimmy says, always giving people the benefit of the doubt—something about being a lawyer.

  “She said she doesn’t know anyone in town. She only moved here a few weeks ago.”

  “Maybe she’s benevolent.”

  “That’s another thing. With what money? There’s nothing about the way she acts that indicates she has money or comes from money. Her activities and hobbies—none. Travel—has only left Illinois once to visit Tennessee. Clothing—nothing designer. She didn’t even have a TV until a few weeks ago when she moved here, and only has one here because it came with the furnished apartment. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “She could just be the frugal type. You know the Mathews? They don’t spend a dime. Tiny house. Outdated clothes. Humble as the day is long. Hell, they use coupons at the grocery store. Sitting on hundreds of millions. And they donate hundreds of thousands every year.”

  Yes, I knew the Mathews were one of the Sixty-Five Roses’ most generous supporters as well as large supporters of the arts all over Chicago. But they don’t hide that fact. They don’t boast about it, but it’s printed in back of the handbills at the symphony, and their name is attached to incredible installations at the art museum.

  “I dunno, Jimmy. I just have this feeling that she’s hiding something. Something big. She’s not exactly forthcoming with information.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Redding,” he says, emphasizing my own lack of honesty. Damn attorney.

  “Look. It’s how I’m handling this, and that’s that.”

  “Fine. Have it your way. I will say that when you were with her at the festival, you were the David I remember. The one before Angelique. And I’ve seen you at the office this past week. You’ve not been yourself since you got home from California.”

  Unable to sit for this interrogation any longer, I stand and walk to the edge of the deck. He’s right. When I was with Talia those few days—those three amazing days, I felt like me again. The old me. Whole. And happy.

  “Dinner!” my mother calls, and my dad and the others start to head in.

  Behind me I hear, “One question.”

  I turn to look at Jimmy and wait.

  “Do you miss her?”

  At that question, my heart aches. Literally. Fucking. Aches.

  “I thought so,” Jimmy says. It’s not a malicious comment, just the truth. “Give her the benefit of the doubt and ask her. Don’t let some investigator
tell you. If you feel for her as strongly as I think you do, talk to her. Be a man. Don’t hide behind a P. I. There’s likely a very reasonable explanation for all of this. Trust me. You’ll feel better about it in the long run. And while you’re talking to her, be honest yourself.”

  28

  Back to Museums

  CRYSTAL

  I’m amazed at how quiet the planetarium is. Even quieter than the Art Institute. It’s cozy and dark here. It’s exactly where I need to be.

  I had to get out of my apartment. For the past four days, I had been doing everything I could to keep from texting David or going to his apartment to confront him about why he lied, but I couldn’t. Baking. Cleaning. Reading. I not only finished Stranger Things, I started watching Pretty Little Liars, a Netflix suggestion—it seemed fitting. Lainey suggested that David was nervous about letting me know about his family’s money because he’d been a target for gold-diggers and the like for some time, but what would give him the impression that I was a gold-digger of any kind? She said she would be happy to call him if I would share his number, or even have her mom call him, but I begged and pleaded with her to do nothing of the sort. This was my mess.

  As I try and wrap my head around his lies about his real name and his family and his Most Eligible Single status, that little Jiminy Cricket voice in my head keeps tut-tutting me about my own lies—lies about my name and background. With pain and shame, I am more and more certain that I have even less of a chance with David now given that I’m just a piece of trailer trash, lottery winnings or no. I have limited knowledge of the fancy food he eats, I don’t know anything about boating, and there are probably a hundred other things I’ve done to prove that I’m not worthy to be in his ‘class.’

  Although amidst all this self-doubt and ‘mourning’ about our dead relationship, I can’t shake the good things that went on while we were together. The sailboat. After the music festival. Navy Pier. His apartment. I don’t know why I'm still pining over David—after all, he wasn't honest with me about who he is, but somehow, that doesn't matter, but I’ve never felt about anyone, or myself, the way I did when I was with David. We felt destined to be together, the way Jane Eyre felt she was meant to be with Mr. Rochester. Like Katherine and Heathcliff or Anne and Gilbert or Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler.