by Emily Giffin
“Do I know her?” I asked, though I knew confidentiality would prevent her from sharing anything specific.
“Doubt it. She’s younger than we are. In her mid-thirties…Anyway, she thought it was an excellent idea to make out with her also-married boyfriend in the Walmart parking lot.”
“Oh my God. Are the pictures…clear?” I asked, partly stalling, partly taking bizarre solace in the fact that my life wasn’t the only one in turmoil.
“Yep,” she said. “Great camera.”
I took a deep breath and said, “Oh no. Well, speaking of scandalous photos…I have something to tell you.”
“Uh-oh,” she said. “What’s up?”
“It’s about Finch,” I said, my stomach cramping and head pounding. “Are you sure you have time for this now? It’s sort of a long story….”
“Yeah. I have a few minutes,” she said. “Hold on. Lemme close my door.”
A few seconds later, she returned and said, “So what happened?”
I cleared my throat and told her the story, beginning with Kathie showing me the picture in the ladies’ room and ending with the conversation I’d just had with Kirk in the Windsor parking lot. She interrupted a few times, but only to ask questions, in her fact-gathering, lawyer mode. When I finished, she said, “Okay. Hang up and send me the picture.”
“Why?” I asked, thinking that I had been fairly explicit about the image already.
“I need to see it,” she said. “To fully gauge the situation. Just send it, okay?”
The request, along with her tone of voice, was bossy and borderline abrasive, but also strangely comforting. Julie had always been the take-charge alpha dog in our friendship and was unusually good in a crisis.
So I did as I was told, hanging up, then staring at the image while I waited for her to receive it. It took her a sickeningly long time to call back, and I wondered if the photo hadn’t gone through or whether she just needed that much time to process it. The phone finally rang.
“Okay. I saw it,” she said when I answered.
“And?” I asked, bracing myself.
“And it’s really bad, Nina.”
“I know.” My eyes welled up, though I wasn’t sure whether I was more embarrassed or just plain sad.
Silence waited on the other end of the line—which was unusual for the two of us, at least a silence that felt awkward. She finally cleared her throat and said, “I’m surprised that Finch would do something like this….He was always such a kind kid….”
I heard the past tense in her statement—which brought more tears—as I thought about how much time the three of us shared when Finch was little. During those early years, I’d go back to Bristol at least once or twice a month, whenever Kirk had to travel for more than a day or two, and although we stayed at my parents’ house, Finch always clamored to see Auntie Jules. On one visit, as Julie was really struggling with infertility, she told me that Finch gave her some peace. That even if she couldn’t have children of her own, she’d always have her godson. That’s how real and special their bond was.
Even after her twin daughters, Paige and Reece, were born when Finch was about five, we still got together often, including a week’s vacation at the beach every summer. Finch was so sweet to the girls, spending hours patiently playing in the sand, building castles, digging holes, and letting them bury him when he would have rather been out in the surf.
I asked her now what she would do if something like this happened to the girls.
She hesitated, then said, “They’re only in the seventh grade. So I can’t imagine it…yet.”
“Yes, you can,” I said because one of Julie’s many gifts was her imagination, a by-product of a highly evolved sense of empathy.
“Okay, you’re right,” she said with a sigh. “Well…I’d hang him by the balls.”
Her response was a punch in my stomach, but I knew it was the truth, and I now felt a little scared thinking of legal ramifications beyond Windsor’s walls. “Meaning what, exactly?” I said.
“I’d press charges,” she said, with what seemed to be anger. Was she angry with me or with Finch? Or was she simply angry on a young woman’s behalf?
“What charges would those be, exactly?” I said softly.
She cleared her throat, then said, “Well. There’s a new law in Tennessee. A sexting bill passed last year…Any minor sending sexually suggestive photos could be labeled a felon or sex offender for involvement with child pornography—which means he’d be put on the Sex Offender Registry until age twenty-five. It also means that the minor would be required to report this on all job and college applications.”
Now full-fledged crying, I couldn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, Nina,” she said.
“I know,” I managed to reply, hoping that she couldn’t tell just how upset I was.
“Of course…Adam might try to talk me out of pressing charges,” she said, speaking of her husband—a laid-back, even-keeled firefighter who, incidentally, occasionally hung out with my high school ex-boyfriend Teddy, now a cop.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just think he’d say we should let the school handle it. And for what it’s worth? I don’t think this will go to the courts, either….For all the money you guys pay for school? I think this girl’s father will probably trust them to handle it.”
“Maybe,” I say.
She sighed and said, “So has Finch apologized to her yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Well, that needs to happen….”
“I know. What else do you think we should do?”
“Well…let’s see….If one of my girls did something like this to one of their classmates?…” She mused aloud.
“They would never,” I said, thinking that they had zero mean-girl tendencies.
“Yeah…but I guess you never really know,” she said. It was a generous statement, and I could tell she was grasping at straws to comfort me. “Anyway…I don’t know what we’d do, exactly….But I do know that we wouldn’t be trying to get them off the hook.”
I stiffened. “We’re not trying to get Finch off the hook, Julie.”
“Really?” she said, sounding skeptical. “So what is Kirk going to do when he calls this girl’s father?”
“Well, for one, apologize,” I said, wishing I had left off that part of the story—or at least my own conjecture that Kirk had manipulative intentions. After all, he hadn’t spelled anything out to me. Maybe all he had in mind was an apology.
“And for another?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
More silence.
“Well,” Julie said. “I think this is a real fork in the road for Finch….And I know Kirk is thinking in terms of Princeton….But there is much more at stake here.”
I was pretty sure I knew what she was getting at, but it still hurt to hear, and part of me was getting a little resentful, too. She really could be harsh, especially when it came to Kirk. “I’m sure it will work itself out,” I said, my voice sounding strained.
If she noticed the tension, she pretended not to. “Well, I’m not so sure a thing like this just ‘works itself out,’ ” she began. “And maybe I shouldn’t say this, but—”
“Then don’t,” I blurted out. “Maybe some things are best kept to ourselves.”
The exchange was unprecedented in our friendship, but then again, so was the feeling that she questioned the character of my only child. Her own godson. For some reason, that was easier to focus on than the fact that I was wondering about his character, too.
“Okay,” she said, her voice softer but not at all remorseful.
I told her I had to go, then thanked her for her advice.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Anytime.”
On Mond
ay evening, as I was cleaning up the dinner dishes, I got a call from a blocked number. Something told me I should answer it, and I listened to a man’s voice I didn’t recognize say, “Hello. Is this Thomas Volpe?”
“Yes. This is Tom,” I said, stopping in my tracks.
“Hi, Tom,” the man said. “This is Kirk Browning. Finch’s father.”
For a second, I couldn’t speak.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you there?”
“Yeah. I’m here. What can I do for you?” I said, my fist clenched as I gripped the phone with my other hand.
His reply was slick and fast. “It’s not what you can do for me. I want to do something for you. I want to try to repair what my son has done.”
“Huh,” I said. “I’m really not sure that’s going to be possible.”
“Yes. I realize that may be the case,” he said. “But I was wondering if there’s any way we could get together and talk?”
My instinct was to say no, there was nothing he could say to me—and I had less than nothing to say to him. But then I told myself there actually was a lot I wanted to tell this man. “Yeah. Okay,” I said. “When?”
“Well, let’s see….I’m out of town at the moment…back on Wednesday morning. Does Wednesday night work? My house around six?”
“Um, no. That actually won’t work for me. I’m with my daughter in the evenings,” I said to make a point.
“Well, you tell me when,” he replied—which was what he should have said in the first place.
“Wednesday at noon,” I said, hoping it wasn’t at all convenient for him. That he might even have to get on an earlier flight.
He hesitated, then said, “Sure. That works. I land at eleven. Can we say twelve-thirty just to be safe?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Great. Can I give you my address?”
“Yeah. Just text it to me. And this time? Don’t block your number.”
* * *
—
LIVING IN A city like Nashville my whole life, I’d seen plenty of impressive homes, and I knew by the Brownings’ Belle Meade address that their house was going to be very nice. But I was still blown away when I pulled down their long driveway, past the tall hedges, and got a load of that brick and stone English Tudor mansion in a downright fairy-tale setting. I’m a big fan of older homes, and I couldn’t help but admire the architectural details of this one. The steeply pitched slate roof with cross-gables. The half-timbered exposed framing. The tall, narrow windows, stained and leaded. I got out of my car, closed the door, and walked toward the mammoth double front doors, made of mahogany, elaborately carved, and flanked by flickering lanterns. I shuddered to think what their gas bill must be, let alone their mortgage—then reminded myself that people like this probably didn’t have mortgages.
I approached the front porch, trying to pinpoint exactly what I was feeling. I was still just as pissed as I’d been on the drive over, but now I was feeling something else, too. Was I intimidated? No. Was I jealous? Not at all. Did I begrudge them their fortune? I really didn’t think so. My problem, I decided as I eyed the doorbell, was that it was just so predictable that the rich boy did the shitty thing to the poor girl, and I hated being part of that cliché. Frankly, I was also extra angered by his asshole father’s staggering lack of self-awareness. Who but a total clueless idiot would ask a stranger to meet at his own home if it looked like this, especially if his jackass kid was in the wrong? Had he done any research on Lyla or me whatsoever? Did he have any idea that she was one of the few kids at Windsor on financial aid? It would have taken him about ten seconds on Google to discover that I was a carpenter (the kind he’d probably hire, then nickel-and-dime to death)—which meant either he hadn’t bothered or he had looked me up and didn’t give a shit what I’d be feeling. I wasn’t sure which was worse, but I hated him more by the second.
With a heavy chip weighing down my shoulder, I pushed the doorbell, listening to the formal chime echo inside. At least thirty seconds passed, during which I reminded myself that all these people had on us was money. I had all the moral high ground, and the leverage that came with it.
Finally, the door opened, and there stood an older Latina woman, who told me to please come in, she’d get Mr. Browning. The whole scene was so classic—especially when “Mr. Browning” immediately materialized behind her. Clearly he could have gotten to his own door first, but he wanted his brown housekeeper to open it for him. Look important at any and all costs was, I’m sure, one of his rules to live by.
Then, without thanking her or introducing her, he sort of pushed past her and filled the doorway. I hated everything about his appearance. His ruddy complexion—like he’d just been drinking on a golf course. His gelled hair, too dark to be his real color. His pink linen shirt, unbuttoned two buttons too low.
“Hi there, Tom,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand, his booming frat-boy voice matching his foolishly firm grip. “Kirk Browning. Please come in.”
I nodded, then forced myself to say hello as he stepped inside to let me in. I glanced around the foyer, surprised by the cool contemporary décor. A gigantic pale-blue abstract painting hung over a black lacquered chest. It wasn’t my usual taste, but I had to admit it was pretty stunning.
“Thanks so much for coming,” Kirk said, downright beaming. “Shall we go chat in my office?”
“That’s fine,” I said.
He nodded, leading me through a formal living room, down a wide corridor, and into a dark, wood-paneled office decorated with mounted deer and fowl—yet another radical design departure.
“Welcome to my man cave,” he said with a chuckle.
I gave him a tight-lipped smile as he gestured toward a fully stocked bar cart.
“Too early in the day for scotch? It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “But you go right ahead.”
He hesitated, as if seriously contemplating a solo drink, but decided against it. He then gestured toward a couple of armchairs floating in the middle of the room. I had the feeling they were freshly staged, and it gave me the creeps. “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I chose the chair with a view toward the doorway, my back to the gas fireplace. Of course the pussy wasn’t going to burn real logs, I thought, as he sat down, planting his feet perfectly parallel to each other. His pant legs came up enough to reveal bare ankles. No socks with fancy loafers—typical Belle Meade.
“So. Thanks for coming over, Tom,” he said, exaggerating the pronunciation of my name with a low hum.
I nodded but said nothing, determined not to make this easy for him.
“I hope it’s not interrupting your workday too much?”
I shrugged and said, “I’m flexible…self-employed.”
“Ahh,” he said. “And what is it that you do, Tom?”
“I’m a carpenter,” I said.
“Oh. Wow. That’s great,” he said, his voice and expression oozing condescension. “They say the happiest people work with their hands. I wish I were more…handy.” He looked down at his open palms, which were undoubtedly as soft as they were useless. “I have trouble changing lightbulbs!”
I resisted the urge to ask him how many people he had on staff to do that for him, then figured what the hell. “You must have a guy for that?” I asked.
He looked taken aback for a beat but quickly recovered. “Actually my wife, Nina, is good at that stuff. Believe it or not.”
I raised my brow. “At changing lightbulbs?”
“Ha. No…I mean…all sorts of mini home projects….She enjoys them. But yes, for the more complicated ones, we do have a handyman. Great guy. Larry,” he said, as if all of us manual laborers knew one another.
I glanced around the room and said, “So. Where is your wife? Will she be joining us?”
He s
hook his head and said, “Unfortunately, she had a prior engagement.”
“That is unfortunate,” I deadpanned.
“Yes,” he said, “but I thought it might actually be better if we could talk…you know…man to man.”
“Right. Man to man,” I echoed.
“So, Tom,” he said, after taking a deep breath. “Let me begin by apologizing on behalf of my son. The photo he took of your daughter was absolutely inexcusable.”
I squinted, pretending to be confused, cueing more babble.
“It was terrible….And believe me, Finch understands that now.”
“Now?” I asked. “So he didn’t understand that before? When he posted it?”
“Well,” Kirk said, holding up his hands, now palms out. “To be clear, he didn’t actually post anything—”
“Oh, pardon me,” I said, an expression I never used. “He didn’t understand that it was wrong when he sent the photo to his buddies?”
There was no way he could answer this question in the negative, I thought, but sure enough, he did.
“No,” he said. “Not at first. He wasn’t thinking at all. You know teenage boys….But now he gets it. Now he sees. Completely. And he’s sorry. Very, very sorry.”
“Has he told Lyla that?” I asked, feeling sure I knew the answer.
“Well. Not yet. He wants to…but I told him to wait until I talked to you. I wanted to apologize to you first.”
I cleared my throat and chose my words carefully. “Well, Kirk,” I said. “I appreciate the apology. I do. But unfortunately, it doesn’t undo what your son— I’m sorry, what’s his name again?”
“Finch,” he said, nodding, his chin nearly reaching his chest. “His name is Finch.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. As in…Atticus Finch?” I asked.
“Yes, indeed!” He grinned. “To Kill a Mockingbird is my wife’s favorite book.”
“Huh. Mine, too. Imagine that,” I said, uncrossing my arms before slapping my thigh in a sarcastic way.
“Wow. What a coincidence. I’ll tell her,” he said, smiling. “So. Where were we?”
