Luci spun away from her and ran upstairs. Buster, made uneasy by all the commotion, scampered up behind her. “Baby, I’m sorry!” Olivia cried after her. Everything was falling apart.
Jake grabbed a pillow and hurled it across the room. It hit a table lamp that wobbled precariously, but mercifully did not fall.
Olivia spun around. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t take this anymore!” His cheeks flushed with effort and regret. “It’s my fault. I didn’t know what she was trying to say. Why won’t she talk to me?” He was shouting now, and Olivia went very still.
“You want her to talk?”
“I’m sorry.” Jake covered his face with his hands. “Jesus, Liv. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I know it’s not her fault. Or yours.”
Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Olivia felt her heart pounding back to life against her ribs. She would not cry.
“Olivia, please.”
“NO!” she barked at him. “Not another word.” This man she thought she knew, she thought she loved. He didn’t understand any of it. And if he didn’t understand it by now…
Frenzied, she paced the cottage, unsure what to do first. She needed to check on Luci. She also needed to get the hell out of there. Wreckage was everywhere. The sink was teeming with pots, paint, and the remains of their spoiled lunch. Without thinking, she ripped a hand towel from the nearest hook and headed for the spilled paint. She’d clean it up, get her child, and go. It was when she got to the table that she got a good look at what Luci had painted.
The page was splattered in blue flecks, but she could still make out the artwork. There were three people: a woman with brown hair, a little girl with brown pigtails, and a man, holding hands. And a brown-and-white spotted dog.
Holding back tears, Olivia set the painting on the only clear space of counter she could find to dry. Then she headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Jake called after her.
“Nowhere.” She shoved the screen door open. Out on the porch, she flopped against the cottage wall and slid down to the floorboards. There was nowhere she could go. Because everyone on the other side of the door needed her. She was tethered here.
Olivia closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the cottage siding. The rain was coming down sideways in sheets now. If it fell hard enough that it streaked her cheeks, was it really crying?
Emma
She did not want to go to her grandparents’ for dinner. But her Grammy Jane was insisting they needed a family “gathering.”
“None of us wants to go,” her father admitted. “It’s pointless to try to bring everyone together.”
“Perry.” Her mother didn’t need to remind him to curb his ire for Emma’s sake. Little did her grandparents know what had gone on with her in the last week. She was pretty sure none of the family did, if her father had had his way. While it had been fast-traveling news in their private community and among the teenage residents, Emma was pretty sure no one would have been rude enough to walk up to her grandparents in the local market and ask what they thought of their granddaughter’s trending behavior. Emma cringed at the thought. Honestly, she wasn’t sure which would be worse: their finding out or the fact that her father seemed determined to keep what his daughter was going through a big dark secret. Because, really, what did that say about her?
Something in her father had shifted since the accident, but even more so since the incident at the party. He was angry. Not so much at her. But at everything. And for the first time in her life, she was worried about her dad.
Suddenly her father hated the Club. His precious, prestigious Club where he spent all of his free time in. Where he golfed, ran fundraisers, hosted balls for the adults and barbecues for the community. Her father was more tied to that Club than he was their own home. And now she, all by her well-behaved, perfect-GPA, boring little self, had gone and ruined it for him.
The clubhouse board had “postponed” her camp counselor position until it could be “reviewed.” Whatever that meant. At first Emma was fine with it—the last thing she wanted to do was face those people. Amanda Hastings, whom she was pretty sure had taken that photo and first shared it—oh, she could imagine Amanda blaming the wildfire spread of the photo and the subsequent gossip on others. “What? I only showed it to like one person.” It didn’t matter. Amanda had lit the match and dropped it. Then stepped away to watch it burn.
Emma didn’t care about Amanda Hastings. But she did care about her boss. She’d worked hard at camp, and she could tell he noticed and appreciated it. Most of all, she couldn’t fathom facing her campers. While she doubted that any of the little kids knew (their helicopter parents surely would have shielded them from the sordid news of their beloved Miss Emma), she knew kids were smart. A favorite counselor doesn’t just go missing. They would know something was up, and they would ask her point-blank. And the thought of looking into their earnest expressions and lying was almost as bad as their knowing. She loved those little campers. And even if they didn’t know why she’d left, she’d left them. Without a goodbye. Or an explanation. She’d let them down.
Her parents had taken her phone away. “This is for your own protection,” they’d told her, sitting at their kitchen island. “Until we get our arms around this.” (“This” was what her parents were calling it now. “We have to deal with this. This cannot ruin our summer. I’m going to call GW University to discuss this.” Emma wished they’d just call it what it really was—a shit show.) While they may not have meant it as punitive, having her phone taken away felt like it. Emma had no contact with the outside world. Which was fine with her at first. She didn’t want any reminders of the firestorm on her social media accounts. But as the days passed, one blurring into the next in a level of hazy boredom she’d not known existed, she missed her phone. At odd times she’d find herself reaching for it, searching the house. Her fingers twitching with muscle memory at tapping the screen. Eventually she turned back to her first love: books. Books couldn’t betray you. And books let you escape, without consequences.
Before her phone was taken away, she’d gotten one text from Alicia. “I can’t believe what you did.” Emma had it coming. She’d been a little hard on Alicia this summer. Alicia may have been boring and judgmental. She may have frowned at Emma’s hanging out with Sully and the others. But that didn’t make her wrong. Alicia was just being Alicia; her usual play-it-safe self. But she was also loyal. And patient. And, Emma prayed, forgiving. Because Emma had used her the night of the party. And then she’d turned her back on her friend, choosing to stay at the party just so she could have the chance to hang out with Sully. And look where that landed her.
Sully was the one question mark. After the accident he was one of the first people who reached out to her. But now—standing right next to her with his own shirt off in that damn photo she wished she could erase from her memory—he’d taken none of the heat she had. She’d heard her father shouting about it downstairs the night before when he came back from the Club meeting. “That McMahon kid works at the camp, too! Did you know that? But he hasn’t been fired! No one’s said a damn thing about him.”
Emma wasn’t stupid. Of course, her being photographed in her bra and panties was more lurid than a boy with his shirt off. But still—there was a double standard. The one her parents had taught her about and talked to her about her whole life. Women didn’t get paid the same as men for performing the same job. But when something scandalous happened, women sure took the brunt of the blame. How many headlines of that nature had she heard in the last year, especially in the wake of the #MeToo movement? No matter what happened to a woman, there were questions aimed to disable her credibility: What had she been wearing? How much did she drink? Why was she even there in the first place? The implication being that somehow it always came down to her fault. This summer Emma had found herself in her own headline. And beyond the shame and guilt, it was having repercussions all over the board.
The picture had not hurt anyone, except herself. It might prevent her from working at the camp, a job she desperately missed. And it might keep her from attending the GW University summer program, which she’d worked hard for a long time to get into. As if those weren’t bad enough, it had cost her what she thought might be her first real relationship. What a fool she’d been. She was the laughingstock of Lenox. Sully McMahon wouldn’t want anything to do with her now.
Emma was wrong. The summer had not turned out to be promising; it had been one of ruin. Of keeping secrets to protect someone you loved. And of taking stupid chances for someone you thought you might. Look where it all had left her.
The realization kept her awake at night, tossing and turning in her bed until she had to sneak downstairs to her parents’ liquor cabinet, where a few swallows would finally ease the sharp edges in her mind. So she could sleep just a little bit. And get through another day. Even if it meant numbing herself in order to do so.
Phoebe
She’d not spoken to Rob once since the day before in his office. And certainly not when he came home to her parents’ house that night after work and sat down at the table as if nothing was wrong. They’d crossed paths, giving each other a wide berth all night. Business needed tending to. But she’d be damned if she was going to look at the man.
Jane had raised her eyebrows in the kitchen, as they washed dishes. “Is everything okay? How did Rob’s presentation go?”
Phoebe scrubbed the pot in the sink, not looking up. “Rob has some news about that, in fact.” She could include him without directly addressing him.
“Oh? Good news, I hope?” Jane asked, turning to face her son-in-law, who paused as he corralled Patrick and lifted Jed onto his hip before bath time.
He blinked like a deer in headlights, waiting for Phoebe to rescue him. Well, he could wait. “We got the deal. We signed the papers today,” he said, finally.
“That’s wonderful!” Edward stood and clapped Rob on the back while Phoebe banged the pot around in the sink. It almost hurt seeing her father’s enthusiasm. He loved them all so much, and he’d be crushed if he knew the rift that had grown between them. But Rob had drawn a line in the sand.
That night she lingered on the couch downstairs, flicking aimlessly through television channels. She let Rob do the lion’s share of putting the boys to bed. He didn’t complain. Only once did he come out and looked over the upstairs railing. “Are you going to kiss the boys good night?”
Without comment, Phoebe had tromped upstairs, kissed their freshly shampooed heads (which almost made her cry), and tromped right back down to her spot on the couch, which was still warm. When she got bored, she fished her “House Ideas” folder from her bag and flipped through it. Pictures of tiles. Measurements for floor spaces. Crown molding. Appliance cost sheets. Page after page of things she’d lovingly collected that would now never come to fruition. When she grew too depressed to look at another image, and she was sure Rob would be asleep, she slipped wordlessly up into her dark room and under the sheets. She pressed herself to the edge of the mattress, which was hard to do when sharing a full-size, and kept her back to Rob. She almost jumped when he whispered, “How long is this going to go on?”
When she didn’t reply—she just couldn’t—Rob got up and took his pillow with him. He didn’t come back. She’d lain awake, frozen with anger, most of the night. Her house was slipping away. They were completely out of money. How had they ended up here?
Now, as she helped her mother prepare for the big family dinner she’d arranged, Phoebe poured herself a glass of white wine and tried to focus, despite the fact that she was exhausted and had no idea where Rob and the boys were. When she’d awakened that morning after falling into a fitful sleep sometime around dawn, his car was gone, and she had no idea if he’d slept in the house or somewhere else. After breakfast he’d shown up and wordlessly collected the boys. “Where are you going?” she’d asked, starting to panic. Rob was never like this. “We’re going to the field to kick the ball around.” That was four hours ago, and she’d not heard a peep since. But her mother, who smelled strife and had the good sense to keep her beak out of it for now, was keeping her busy, if not entirely distracted.
For some reason, Jane had gotten it in her mind that the whole family needed to get together. Why, Phoebe could not imagine. It was the worst timing. Jake was barely up and able to hobble around. Olivia had apparently been back in therapy with Luci, who was still suffering the effects of the accident. She and Rob were miserable, even if the rest of them didn’t yet know why. Phoebe kept her eyes peeled on the driveway, awaiting any sign of them. She had a plan for Perry. He might be the last person who could help her.
“How many are we again?” Jane tapped her chin. The menu was lavish and lovely, per usual. But her mother seemed distracted and tense.
“Let’s see.” Phoebe counted through the family aloud. As she did, just because she could, she named them by foible. “Well, we’ve got the homeless, the lame, the old, the mute. The eccentric, the repressed. And one starving artist rounds out the guest list. That’s everybody!” She finished with an exaggerated clap. It was pure evil, but she couldn’t help it.
Jane narrowed her eyes. “Phoebe.”
“Mom.” Then, “Don’t even think about reaching for a cigarette.”
By the time the ears of corn had been shucked and the chicken marinated, Perry had pulled in. Phoebe grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and raced for the door.
Perry’s family had been her only hope for a somewhat normal evening, as stretched an expectation as that was, but she could tell the second they stepped foot inside that they were not going to be able to deliver. “What’s wrong?” she asked, the second Amelia and Emma were out of earshot.
Perry looked askance. “Nothing. Why?”
“Never mind. Look, I was hoping to talk to you. It’s about the house.”
But Perry was peering over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “Is Jake here yet?”
“What? No, not yet. But do you have a minute?”
Perry eyed the beer in her hand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes.” She handed him the bottle, but before she could get a word in, he headed for the kitchen.
“I need to talk to Dad.”
“Wait, I need to talk to you!” Phoebe trailed him impatiently, but Perry disappeared outside to the grill, where Edward was starting the chicken. Amelia already had her nose in a glass of wine. Emma stood forlornly by the counter beside Jane, taking instructions for mixing salad dressing.
“Where are Rob and the boys?” Amelia asked.
Phoebe blinked. What should she say? She had not received a single text from Rob. Unlike the rest of her relatives, it would be completely out of character for him to air any of their dirty laundry in front of her family, but they’d clearly reached an impasse. She realized, with a start, that anything was possible. “Out finishing up an errand. He’ll be back soon,” she lied.
Amelia nodded absently. “How’s the house going?”
“Oh, you know…”
“Look. They’re back.” Amelia pointed outside to the patio. Rob was talking to Perry, and the boys were heading her way. When had they arrived? Was Rob telling Perry the dire news? He’d better not be. She wasn’t giving up yet.
* * *
By the time dinner was set on the table, Phoebe’s nerves had been lubricated by a second glass of wine. Maybe she could get through this dinner, after all.
No sooner had the chicken platter been set on the table than everyone took their places. Phoebe looked around at the miserable expressions around her. No one made a move to serve themselves.
Jane took her place at one head of the table and frowned. She had cooked and cleaned and assembled everyone together, and they weren’t living up to their part of the bargain. “Isn’t anyone hungry?” she asked. Then, when no one really answered, “Eat!”
Dishes clanked, platters moved, and servin
g spoons sank into dishes. Then followed the sound of chewing and sipping, and a discontented groan from one of the boys when salad was dished onto his plate.
“Well,” Jane said, looking around at all of her people. “Isn’t this nice.”
Perry looked up. “Thank you, Mom. This is nice.” But his face told another story.
Amelia cleared her throat. “So, Perry landed the Super Bowl contract.”
“Is that so?” Edward beamed. “Congratulations, son. You worked hard for that.”
Perry shrugged. “It’s just work.”
“Just work?” Jake stuffed a large forkful of chicken in his mouth. “Isn’t that what you’re telling me I should be doing more of?”
Jane flinched. “Jake, how is working from home going?”
“Oh, you know, working hard. Hardly working. Depends on the day.”
Phoebe stole a glance at Olivia, who seemed on edge.
“It’s not a real job, like Perry’s. But it’s something. At least I have more time now to spend with Luci and Olivia.” He smiled at Olivia, but Phoebe could see that it didn’t reach his eyes.
Perry cleared his throat. “Well, maybe if I was the golden child, I wouldn’t have had to bust my rear so hard trying to please everyone else.”
Phoebe snorted.
“Perry,” Jake interjected. “No one could keep up with you. Four-point-oh GPA. Track star. George Washington scholarship. Jeez, I was lucky to eat at the same table as you.”
Edward raised his glass. “Now, now. Your mother and I were proud of each and every one of you just the same.”
Jane gulped her wine. “Well. Not always.”
“And we still are,” Edward went on.
Olivia cleared her throat. “Can someone please pass the chicken?”
“We just wanted you all to be happy,” Jane went on, spearing a piece of her own. Then, “Phoebe, pass the chicken to Olivia!”
The View from Here Page 31
