by Emily Giffin
And yet, I had the feeling Julie might say otherwise, especially if she knew about Kirk’s bribe—which now seemed increasingly significant. What if Thomas actually needed the money? Did that change the analysis at all? Did it make Kirk’s attempt to buy him off better or worse? I wasn’t sure, so decided to look for more evidence, biting my lip, logging on to Facebook, and typing in “Thomas Volpe.” Three of them came up, but none was local. I tried a more general Google search and once again found nothing that seemed to fit. I then searched for Lyla, finding her on Facebook and Instagram, though both accounts were private. All I could see were her profile pictures, two different shots from the same summer day. It was clearly the same girl from Finch’s photograph, but in these pictures she looked so happy, standing on a dock in a ruffled, off-the-shoulder top and white shorts. She was a pretty girl with a slender figure and beautiful long hair. I thought about her mother again, wondering not only when, but how she had died. Then, looking back at the directory at Thomas Volpe’s email address, I couldn’t stand it another second. I took a deep breath and began typing.
Dear Thomas,
My name is Nina Browning. I’m Finch’s mother. I know you met my husband today, and he shared with me a bit about your conversation. I’m not sure how you are feeling, but I believe that more needs to be said and done to make things right….I was wondering if you’d consider meeting me to talk? I really hope you say yes. More important, I hope Lyla is doing okay, in spite of the horrible thing my son did to her. I’m thinking of you both.
Sincerely,
Nina
I quickly proofread, then sent it before I could change my mind or even tweak any of the wording. The swoosh sound filled my office, and for a second, I regretted making contact. For one, I knew Kirk would view it as a strategic blunder and an even greater betrayal of him and Finch. For another, and from a strictly practical standpoint, what was I going to say to this man if he agreed to meet with me?
Just as I convinced myself it was a moot point because Thomas likely wouldn’t write back (after all, he had taken Kirk’s cash), his name popped onto my computer screen. My heart quickening with a mix of relief and dread, I went to my in-box, opened the email, and read: Tomorrow 3:30 pm @Bongo East? Tom.
That works, I typed, my hands shaking. See you then.
* * *
—
THE FOLLOWING MORNING was nothing short of torture as I paced around the house, stared at the clock, and counted down the minutes until my appointment with Tom. At eleven, I made myself go to a meditation class with one of my most Zen instructors, but it did no good whatsoever. A jangled mass of nerves, I came home, showered, and blew out my hair. It came out a little too full and “done,” so I put it in a ponytail, then loosened a few strands around my face. I did my makeup with a light touch, skipping eyeliner altogether, then went to my closet to pick out an outfit. The transitional spring weather is always tricky, especially when it comes to footwear. It was too warm for boots, too chilly for sandals. Pumps felt too dressy, and flats stripped me of confidence—which I very much needed. I finally selected a simple nude wedge and a navy-blue DVF wrap dress. I kept my jewelry simple with diamond studs and my wedding band, removing my showier engagement ring. I knew it was ridiculously superficial to focus so much on appearances at a time like this, editing such small details, but I also believe that first impressions matter, and I wanted to show him respect without being at all ostentatious.
Overcompensating for Nashville traffic and my own tendency to run late, I arrived at Five Points twenty minutes early, finding one of only three parking spots in front of the small stand-alone building housing the East End coffee shop. I’d never been inside before, but I’d passed it plenty of times and remembered Finch telling me that it was also known as Game Point. I could see why. On the back wall, simple wood-and-iron shelves were lined with more than a hundred board games, many of them vintage, all available for patrons to play. Nearby, an older couple played Battleship. They looked to be newly dating, very happy. At other tables sat many solo customers, most with laptops or reading material.
I got in a very short line, scanning a colorful chalkboard menu. I ordered a latte and a sweet-potato white-chocolate muffin that looked interesting but that I knew I probably wouldn’t eat because my stomach was in knots. I paid, dropping a dollar bill into a tip jar that read: AFRAID OF CHANGE? LEAVE IT HERE!, then stood to the side, waiting for a tattooed male barista to make my drink. Glancing around, I took note of the exposed HVAC lining the industrial ceiling, the concrete floor painted evergreen, and the bright sunlight filtering through high glass-block windows. The place was so mellow, a vibe unlike the Starbucks and juice bars in my neighborhood. When my latte was ready, I took it from the counter, along with the muffin they’d microwaved and put on a plate, and found a table against the wall close to the game corner. I sat in the chair facing the door, where I sipped my coffee and waited.
At exactly three-thirty, a man of average height and build walked in and glanced around. He looked slightly too young to have a teenager, but as his eyes rested on me, I felt sure that it was Tom Volpe.
I did a half stand and mouthed his name. He was probably too far away to read my lips, but he clearly got the gist of my body language, because he nodded, lowered his head, and walked toward me. With brown hair a little on the longer side, a couple days of beard growth, and a strong jaw, he looked like a carpenter. A second later, he was standing at the edge of my table, looking right at me. I stood the whole way. “Tom?” I said.
“Yes,” he said in a low, deep voice. He did not initiate a handshake, or smile, or do any of the typical things people do when they meet, yet there was nothing about him that seemed hostile. His demeanor was a small relief but almost more unsettling than anger. It gave me no starting point.
“Hi,” I said, running my palms along the sides of my dress. “I’m Nina.”
“Yes,” he said. His gaze was empty.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I blurted out, instantly regretting it, as there was nothing nice about this moment—and we both knew it.
But he let me off the hook, announcing that he was going to get a coffee, then turned abruptly and headed toward the cash register. I waited a few seconds before sitting back down, then looked over my shoulder, covertly studying him further. He appeared fit and athletic, or at least naturally strong. He was wearing faded blue jeans, an untucked gray Henley, and rugged boots that were hard to put in a category. They weren’t country or western, nor were they of the lug-sole “workman” variety. And they certainly weren’t at all Euro or trendy, like the ones lining the shelves of Kirk’s closet.
I watched him pay, drop his change into the tip jar, and collect his coffee before heading back my way. I lowered my head and took a few deep breaths, still uncertain of exactly what I was going to say.
A moment later he was sitting across from me. I watched him flip the lid off his coffee with his thumb, then wave the steam away from the cup. As he met my gaze, my mind went blank. Why wasn’t I better prepared? No wonder Kirk never trusted me to take important meetings alone.
Tom spoke first, saving me, though I knew that wasn’t his intention. “You look familiar,” he said, squinting a little. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Maybe just from Windsor?”
“No. It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. “I feel like it’s something else….Longer ago.”
I bit my lip, starting to sweat, and wishing I hadn’t worn silk. “I don’t know…I’m not very good with faces. Sometimes I think I have that disorder….”
“Which disorder is that?” he said with a slight tilt of his head. “The one where you don’t pay attention?”
I was pretty sure he’d just made a jab at me, implying that I was self-absorbed. But I was in no position to be defensive. So I simply said, “No. It’s a real thing. Facial blindn
ess, I think it’s called….I’m pretty sure I have a touch of that…but anyway.”
“Yes. Anyway,” he echoed, glancing down to put the lid back on his coffee. It took him a second to get it on, pressing it all around the perimeter, clearly in no rush whatsoever. He raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip before looking at me again. This time he didn’t save me.
“So,” I finally said. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
“I’m sorry. Can’t help you there,” he said, with the first real trace of animosity.
“I know…I just…Well, as I said in the email, I don’t think my husband handled things with you the right way….”
Tom nodded, his light brown eyes somewhere between cool and loathing. “Oh, you mean his attempt to buy me off?”
My stomach dropped. “Yes,” I said. “That. Among other things.”
It fleetingly occurred to me that Tom could have already deposited or spent the money—and then what would I be saying about him as well? But no, he had used the word attempt.
Sure enough, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a stack of crisp, new bills. He slid the pile of cash across the table. I looked down and saw Benjamin Franklin’s familiar grimace, feeling queasy as I tried to formulate a sentence.
“For what it’s worth, I can’t believe he did this,” I said, staring down at the money. “I mean I know that he did…give you this…but I had nothing to do with his decision. This isn’t how I wanted to handle things.”
“And how did you want to handle things?”
I told him I didn’t know exactly.
He winced, then took another sip of coffee. “But you weren’t in favor of bribery?” he asked.
“No,” I said, completely flustered. “I had no idea he was going to give you…this.”
“Yep. Fifteen thousand dollars,” Tom said, glancing at the stack again. “And it’s all there.”
I looked down at it, shaking my head.
“So? What was he bribing me to do, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I said, meeting his gaze again.
He gave me an incredulous look that bordered on a smile. “You don’t know?”
I swallowed and made myself say what I really thought. “I believe that he was trying to…motivate you to tell Walter Quarterman that you don’t think Finch should go before the Windsor Honor Council.”
“You mean bribe me.”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think?”
“What do you mean?” I stammered.
“Do you think Finch should go before the Honor Council?”
I nodded. “Yes. I do, actually.”
“Why?” he fired back.
“Because what he did was wrong. So wrong. And I think he needs to face some consequences.”
“Such as?” Tom pressed.
“Well, I don’t know….Whatever the school decides is right….”
Tom let out a caustic laugh.
“What’s funny?” I said, feeling a stab of indignation. Couldn’t he see how hard I was trying? Couldn’t he cut me a break? Just a small one?
“Nothing’s funny…believe me,” he said, his smile fading into another stony gaze.
We stared at each other for a few seconds before he cleared his throat and said, “I was just wondering, Nina…how much do you and your husband give to the school? Above and beyond tuition?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, although it was perfectly clear what he was getting at.
“I mean…do you have any buildings named after you on Windsor’s campus?”
“No,” I said, although we did have a conference room in the library named after us. And a fountain. “Honestly, I don’t see how that is relevant….Despite what Kirk tried to do—which is awful—Mr. Quarterman isn’t like that—”
“Isn’t like what?”
“He’s a good person. He’s not going to make a decision here based on what we’ve given to the school,” I said.
“Okay, look,” Tom said, leaning over his coffee, his face close enough to mine for me to make out the flecks of gold in his beard. “Say what you want. But I know how the world works. And so, apparently, does your husband.” His voice was calm but his eyes were angry as he pushed the pile of bills toward me.
“Well. Obviously, my husband got it wrong this time,” I said, my voice shaking a little. I gestured toward the money, then finally got rid of it, sliding the bills into my purse.
Tom refused to grant me the point and instead said, “Your son got into Princeton. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Congratulations. You must be really proud.”
“I was,” I said. “But I’m not proud now. I’m ashamed of my son. And my husband. And I’m just so sorry—”
He stared at me, then said, “Look. Here’s the way I see it. Your husband wanted to make this go away with money. And you’re trying to do the same thing with words. With a nice apology. You recognize your husband’s a bit of an asshole, so you’re trying to clean up after him. And ditto for your son.”
My cheeks on fire, I shook my head and said, “No. That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not here trying to clean anything up, or make anything go away. I’m just here to tell you I’m sorry. Because I am.”
“Okay. And?”
“And what?” I said.
“Does that make you feel better? Telling me that? Are you hoping that I’m going to tell you not to worry about it? No hard feelings. All’s forgiven. And…and you’re not like your husband and son?” His voice was stronger now, and he was talking with his hands. I noticed calluses on them, and a deep, long cut on the back of his left thumb. The scab looked new.
I shook my head and said an adamant no, though deep down, I knew I wasn’t being entirely truthful. That was absolutely part of why I was here. I wanted him to know that I was a good person—at least I thought I was—and certainly not the type to offer bribes to get my way. “No….I’m here to tell you that I think it should go forward to the Honor Council,” I said softly. “I think you should make sure that it does.”
He looked at me and shrugged. “Okay. Fine. Noted. Is that all?”
“No,” I said. Because there was something else, too. Another reason I was there. I made myself say it at my own peril. “I’m also here to…ask about Lyla….How is she?”
A look of surprise crossed his face as he sat back a bit in his chair. Several seconds passed before he replied. “She’s fine,” he said.
“What’s she…like?” I said, preparing myself to be told off again. For him to tell me that was none of my business.
But instead he said, “She’s a sweet kid…but tough.”
I nodded, sensing I was about to be dismissed. “Well…will you please tell her that I’m so sorry?”
He ran his hand over his stubble, then leaned forward, staring into my eyes. “Why are you sorry, Nina? Do you think you’re to blame for what your son did?”
I hesitated, thinking, and then replied, “Yes. I do, actually. At least in part.”
“And why’s that?” he pressed.
“Because,” I said. “I’m his mother. I should have taught him better.”
* * *
—
AFTER LEAVING THE East End and crossing back over the Woodland Street Bridge, I couldn’t make myself go home. Instead, I wound my way through Lower Broadway—the heart of Nash Vegas—with all of its neon honky-tonks and juke joints that I hadn’t been to since the last of my friends’ bachelorettes. It was a shame we didn’t come here more—I love live music at Robert’s and Layla’s and Tootsies. But it really isn’t Kirk’s thing, unless he’s wasted—in which case, it isn’t my thing.
I kept driving, all around downtown, eventually turning onto Sixth Avenue, slowing as
I passed the Hermitage. The same valet who had opened the Uber door for me the night of the Hope Gala was out in front again, and I found it almost impossible to believe that it had been only five days since the incident. So much had changed since then—or at least so much had been acknowledged in my own heart.
My phone vibrated in my purse with an incoming call. I didn’t check to see who it was as I drove around the Capitol, then up into Germantown. Realizing I was hungry—famished—I pulled into City House. It had been a long time since I’d eaten a meal alone in public, and it felt liberating to sit at the bar by myself. Not only did Kirk dictate where we went but he always picked our table, too, and often ended up ordering for us. “Why don’t we split the beef tartare and a chopped salad, and then get the trout and the rib eye?” he’d suggest because those were his four favorites. Passivity wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but I made a mental note to start making my own menu selections. Baby steps.
At that moment, I went with a margherita pizza and a Devil’s Harvest that the bartender brought in a can. He started to pour it into a glass, but I stopped him and said I’d do it, thank you. My phone vibrated again. This time I checked it, finding missed calls and texts from both Kirk and Finch, asking me where I was, when I’d be coming home, if I wanted to join them at Sperry’s for an early dinner. I could tell they’d been communicating with each other, as their texts were worded so similarly, and I wondered what that meant. Was Kirk manipulating me? Or were they both just appropriately worried and upset? I wasn’t sure, but I wrote them both back on a group thread, saying that I’d forgotten I “had something” and they “should just go ahead without me.”
After finishing my pint and eating more pizza than I think I’d ever had in one sitting, I paid the bill and got back in my car. I drove aimlessly, headed toward the West End, ending up in Centennial Park, where Kirk and I used to take Finch, beginning when he was only a baby in a stroller. I tried to pinpoint my favorite stage of his life—our lives together—deciding that our best years were during middle elementary. Third and fourth grades, ages eight and nine or so, when Finch was old enough to really articulate his opinions and have interesting conversations with me, but still young enough to hold my hand in public. The halfway point of childhood. God, I missed those days so much.
