Family Pictures

by Jane Green

  “Eight thousand?” She has the audacity to laugh. “In today’s economy? Wow. I think that’s a little steep,” she says.

  “Really?” Two can play that game. “Do you have any idea what’s happened to the price of gold?”

  “I know gold is expensive,” she says condescendingly, “but this is an antique, and antiques aren’t holding their prices.”

  “Not according to Sotheby’s,” I lie.

  “I’ll give you four,” she says.

  “Kim, I just told you it’s valued at eight. I have the paperwork. I would take eight.”

  “I’ll give you four and a half,” she says.

  I’m so tempted, but I remember her face when she saw the necklace, her obsession with finding one just like it, her competitiveness with me—and I know I can pull this off.

  “I’m so sorry, Kim.” I am proud of myself for sounding authentically apologetic. “I wanted to offer it to you first, but Sotheby’s are willing to put eight as their reserve.”

  She snorts contemptuously. “Well, good luck with that!”

  “Thank you!” I sound almost stupidly perky. “Betteridge has some pretty estate jewelry. You might find something similar in there. Good luck!” I put down the phone, smiling to myself as I count the seconds.

  Eight … nine … ten … eleven … twelve.

  The phone rings. “I’ll take it.” No charm to her voice this time. “Can I bring a check over in about half an hour?”

  A check would be swallowed up.

  “It will have to be cash,” I say. There is a silence as she waits for an explanation that I won’t be giving.

  “Fine,” she huffs eventually. “Make it an hour.”

  * * *

  I slide the phone in my back pocket and turn the corner to find two women I know huddled together, whispering. They break apart as they see me, plastering false smiles on their faces as they embrace me.

  I do the same false smile, the same “hihowareyou,” and no one mentions the tea, or my collapsing, or the fact that my husband has disappeared, and they have definitely, but definitely, overheard the conversation I have just had with Kim, and will doubtless be spreading it all over town within minutes.

  I know this is true because when I reach the car, I realize I forgot the cheese, and I run back inside, and walking down aisle seven, I hear one of those women, Kristy, in aisle six, already on her cell phone, relaying my conversation, my obvious desperate need for money, with a relish that makes my heart pound and leaves me shaking and breathless.

  So I turn the corner of that aisle, standing still as Kristy reaches up to the top shelf for a box of pasta, oblivious of anyone around her, anyone who might hear her private phone conversation, until she turns and sees me, and to her credit, she widens her eyes in horror, stops talking midsentence, and turns a grayish shade of spray tan.

  As I walk out, she runs up and grabs my arm. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Maggie, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  I turn slowly, sick to my stomach, knowing that there is nothing I can do about the Kristys of the world, knowing this town is full of Kristys; this kind of personal disaster is what fuels them, and nothing I will say can change it, although perhaps this might make her think twice.

  “Kristy, I’m going through the worst thing I have ever been through in my life. I truly and sincerely hope nothing like this ever happens to you, but if it does, I hope the people you once thought of as friends treat you better than you have just treated me today. I hope, for your sake, they don’t have loud, public conversations on their cell phones, relishing in gossip and other people’s misery.” Kristy is standing there with tears trickling down her cheeks as I continue. “There are a couple of sayings I have always loved. People show you who they are not by what they say, but by what they do. And, the other is this: When people show you who they are, believe them. So, thank you, Kristy. Thank you for showing me who you are.”

  I turn then and get in the car. At the end of the road, I glance in the rearview mirror, to see Kristy still standing there, not moving a muscle.

  * * *

  “What are you doing?” Grace is in the doorway of Mark’s office, emanating waves of her omnipresent hostility toward me. I am grateful she is spending so much time at Landon’s, grateful not to have the additional worry of Grace’s mood.

  I try not to react to her, to withdraw, to recognize that as hard as this is for me, this is so much harder for Grace.

  But I can’t make it better. There is nothing I can tell her to bring her father back. When she screams at me that it’s my fault, I know she’s probably right, and there is nothing I can say.

  “Sorting out stuff.” I barely look up from the boxes, the piles of papers I have been going through, exhausted from this process.

  As organized as I am, Mark has always been in charge of the household, and God how I wish that hadn’t been the case. How I wish I had thought to take charge earlier, but of course, he wouldn’t have allowed that to happen, for how could he otherwise have woven this vast web of lies?

  And it is vast.

  Despite my resourcefulness, each time I open a new envelope, a new box, my chest tightens at what I might find.

  Unpaid bills. Threats of bailiffs. Letters threatening to sue from companies who have paid him in full, then never received anything. Papers that were served. None of it makes sense. How could he have gotten away with it for so long? And why? Why did he let it get to this?

  I still don’t believe, can’t believe the money’s gone. Far more likely, surely, that he has removed money from our accounts and has it elsewhere.

  For all I know, he’s in Bermuda by now. Or Brazil. He has surely disappeared with millions, for he is worth millions, I am certain. I remember reading an article about the company when he was sales director. The money is somewhere. It has to be.

  When I find Mark, I’ll find the money.

  I look up at Grace. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. It seems Daddy’s finances are a bit of a mess.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I know I shouldn’t tell her, shouldn’t show her, but I’m sick of being blamed for this, of Grace walking around shooting me devil looks when her father remains the angel who can do no wrong.

  I hand her a letter in which a client is threatening to sue Mark.

  Grace reads it with a frown. “So? I still don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “I think Daddy was in some financial trouble. That might explain why he’s disappeared.”

  Fear glints in her eye. “Financial trouble? Are we in financial trouble? Do we have to sell the house?”

  As gently as I can, I tell her I don’t know what’s going to happen with the house, casting a glance at the pile of house-related papers, including a repossession notice.

  “We can’t sell the house.” Grace’s voice starts to rise.

  “Hopefully we won’t have to, honey,” I soothe. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “But not if we sell the house. This is my home. This is the only home I know. You can’t sell this house.”

  “Grace, I don’t want to sell the house either. I love this house just as much as you do, and it’s my home too. I have no idea what the future holds, but I promise you we’re all going to be okay.”

  “No!” Her voice breaks. “We’re not. How do you know that? If Daddy doesn’t come home, we’re not going to be okay.” She looks around wild-eyed, noticing a stack of things in the corner. “What are those?”

  I have stacked three Matisse lithographs that Mark was given by his father, that I’m pretty sure are worth some money. An antique clock and walnut writing box.

  “Those are some things I’m thinking of selling,” I explain.

  Grace squats down and looks at the prints as I brace myself. “You can’t sell these,” she says through gritted teeth. “These are Daddy’s. They’re from Grandpa Jack, and someday they are for us. This one’s mine”—she points t
o one—“and I don’t grant you permission to sell them. None of them. All of this is for us.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” I say wearily, no longer caring. “If you want to eat, live, do all the things you like to do, we need to get some money and quick. Your father has disappeared and left us with nothing. Do you understand? Your father who can do no wrong has left all of us with nothing but a huge goddamned mess. Whatever I can sell to make some money, I’m going to damn well sell.”

  Grace grabs her print and runs out of the room. I think about going after her, but realize I haven’t got the energy. She comes back once more to stand in the doorway and glares at me. “I hate you,” she hisses. “You are a selfish bitch, which is why he left. And I’ll never forgive you.”

  Once upon a time, I would have jumped up and reprimanded her immediately. She would have lost the car, the phone, the privileges. She would have been grounded for a month. I would have terrified her with fire and brimstone into an apology.

  Today I don’t care. Today I’m too busy trying to figure out what in the hell to do next.

  35

  Grace

  I haven’t been able to face anyone since this happened. Being a counselor-in-training at Playland has been great, because I can hang out with all the fifth-graders, thereby avoiding pretty much everyone I know.

  Midsummer will be harder. I’m in tennis programs, horse programs, and sailing programs. Right now, I’m planning on avoiding everything, although my guess is none of it has been paid for anyway, so I may well be on my own anyway, which will be a lucky escape.

  Tonight is the first night I’ve agreed to go out. Poor Landon. He can’t stay at home anymore, not when all his buddies are out partying, and Jamie is eighteen, so this is a big deal. There’s no way I can say no.

  Anyone who’s anyone is going to be there tonight. Which is everyone. Normally I wouldn’t care. I don’t care about things like this in the slightest, am perfectly happy to go, and usually spend the evening hanging with the guys, but I know everyone’s going to be talking about me, and I haven’t figured out how to handle it.

  I wouldn’t describe myself as one of the Populars, but I know that’s how others see me. I see myself as someone who gets on with pretty much everyone, but who stays away from the mean girl stuff.

  Honestly? Life’s just too short. And when you have a serious boyfriend, things are different. You don’t have time for the silly, bitchy stuff. Not that I ever did.

  I’ve never spent time around the girls whispering about the other girls, nor have I ever been a girl others have whispered about. Until now. I know it’s not me, it’s nothing I’ve done, but that’s not how this town works. You are your family and your family is you.

  So, yes. I’m nervous. I have this vision of walking in and having everyone’s eyes turn as a silence descends on the room, groups of people pointing and whispering, “That’s the one whose father has another family.”

  I have to go out sometime. And this is Landon’s best friend. There’s no way we can miss it. I’ll just make sure I look the best I’ve ever looked—I’ll “out–Blake Lively” Blake Lively herself, and I’ll have them all whispering. This time for the right reasons.

  Landon bought me a dress a few days ago. It was on sale, flouncy peach chiffon, delicate spaghetti straps, perhaps the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever seen. I hated that he bought it for me, that he had to buy it for me, even though his face was so filled with grown-up pride as he counted out the dollar bills and handed them over.

  I tip my head upside down and blow it with cool air to get the windswept look, throwing in some Velcro rollers on the ends while I dust some glow on my cheekbones.

  A lash of mascara, a sweep of clear gloss, thin gold hoops in my ears, I slip on the dress, finish drying the hair-wrapped rollers and untwist them, spraying the loose curls into place.

  I’ve looked such a wreck for what feels like so long, I’d forgotten I had ever looked like this. I’d forgotten I could ever look like this.

  The peach dress sets off the tan I have unwittingly acquired as a counselor working outdoors at a summer camp, the sun bringing out natural highlights in my hair. My cheekbones shimmer; my face looks healthy and happy.

  I reach to the back of the nightstand and pull out a half bottle of vodka, listening to make sure there are no footsteps, no forthcoming knocks on my bedroom door, before I take a large swig.

  I look so good, you would never know how crappy I feel inside. Abandoned by my dad, my mother a mess, my whole world’s coming apart and nobody in my family seems to care.

  Honestly, without Landon, I don’t know what I’d do. Without Landon and a couple of sips of vodka each night, just to take the edge off things.

  36

  Maggie

  Lara is a good friend, but she doesn’t understand. She cannot understand.

  As compassionate as she may be, I see her own fear reflected back at me. None of these girls are thinking of how best to help me; they’re thanking the Lord this isn’t happening to them.

  The only person who understands in any way, shape, or form is Sylvie. How ironic that the woman I should be hating most in the world has become my only solace. Who better than she to understand what I am going through? Who better than she to dwell alongside me in my well of self-pity?

  I try not to phone her often, am aware she does not seem to call me, rely on me to hold her up, but when things are looking dark, when I don’t think anyone else will understand, I find myself picking up the phone and dialing California, knowing that something about Sylvie will always soothe me.

  She doesn’t let me dwell in my pitying place too long. She scoffs when I whine, is horrified by the fact that I care what anyone in this town thinks. When I confess my reluctance to hold a closet sale, to publicly out myself as a subject of pity, she is stunned.

  “Are these your friends?” she asked. “These women? Do you trust them? Do you feel safe with them? Do you love them and feel loved by them?”

  I had to think. Heather. Casey. Kim. Even Lara. The women from tennis. The committees. The charities. The women who pass through the revolving door of cocktail parties that passes as a social life. Are they truly my friends? Could I answer yes to any of the questions Sylvie just asked?

  I honestly don’t know.

  I do know I am not as strong as Sylvie. I do know that neither of us have heard anything, but she is holding up better.

  The next step is calling the police. Which means it will be public knowledge. Which means I can no longer pretend that life is continuing as normal, despite outward appearances.

  Chris is back at school, Grace at Landon’s, Buck eschewing hanging with his lacrosse pals to hang with his mom instead.

  I want him to be with friends, but I don’t push him away the way I used to, too busy to have children hanging off me with their constant needs and wants. I need him now, my sweet fourteen-year-old man-child, hiding his pain from me by constantly checking that I’m okay.

  I don’t want to be that mother the kids have to look after. I don’t want them to have that responsibility, yet there is something so comforting in having a child, this child, here.

  As the baby, Buck has always had a soft spot in my heart. Untrue to say he is a favorite—they are all my favorites at different times: Chris as my firstborn, Grace my only girl—but Buck was unexpected, a delightful surprise after we had decided we were done. The minute I gazed into his eyes I saw sweetness reflected back at me.

  These past few days he has hung out with me on the sofa in the family room. We make big bowls of popcorn and watch TV shows, movies. Right now we are in the middle of Sherlock Holmes, episode three, British version, when the doorbell rings.

  I groan as I set the popcorn down. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Will you get the door, Buck?” I look at him pleadingly. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “Aw, Mom,” he grumbles, but he’s already shifting.


  I pause the movie as I wait for him, standing up when I hear low men’s voices at the door, going into the hallway to see Buck looking terrified, two uniformed policemen standing in front of him.

  “Mrs. Maggie Hathaway?” The older one with a kindly face looks at me, and I nod, grasping on to the hall table for support as my legs feel a little wobbly. “Wife of Mark Hathaway?”

  “What’s happened?” I whisper.

  “Everything’s fine,” he says calmly. “I’m Sergeant Scarper. Can we go somewhere private to talk?” He casts a quick glance at Buck.

  I lead them into the kitchen, where they refuse my offers of a seat, a glass of water, coffee.

  “Mrs. Hathaway, your husband, Mark, has been arrested by the California State Police Department.”

  I gasp, even though I am not surprised. “What was he arrested for?”

  “He was apprehended on the beach in Santa Monica, brought in for being drunk and disorderly. We then discovered he had a Missing Persons Report filed in California, and”—he exchanges a glance with his partner—“a number of outstanding warrants in both California and New York.”

  “Warrants? For what?”

  “Fraud, embezzlement, grand larceny, and—” He clears his throat and averts his eyes. I know where he’s going, know how hard this must be for him, cannot believe I’m going to hear this out loud, that Grace was right, that it hasn’t all been a terrible mistake.

  “—and it seems he has now confessed to being legally married—” The poor man is embarrassed, doesn’t know that I know. “To, um, two women at the same time. The State of California has confirmed the legality of the marriage in California. Do you have a copy of your marriage license?”

  My legs are not my own as I walk out of the room to get the marriage license, only to see Buck standing just outside, stricken.

  He has heard everything.

  Part Three