by Emily Giffin
I also told her that the only fair punishment was for me to lose Teddy. I would break up with him in the morning—or after his classes and practice. I had to break up with him. It was kinder than telling him what had actually happened.
“But you’ll be punishing him, too,” she said. “Don’t do that, Nina. You have to tell him. You have to talk to him. He’ll agree with me—that you need to go to the police.”
“No. I can’t do that to him, Julie. It would ruin him. My drinking…the kissing…everything. He deserves better than me.”
“But he loves you. He wants you.”
“Not if he knew this,” I said.
“God teaches forgiveness,” she said, grasping at straws, knowing the way Teddy thought—and that I knew that was the way Teddy thought.
“No,” I cried. “Promise me, Julie. You won’t tell him, either. You won’t tell anyone. Ever.”
She made the promise, and she kept it, too. For all these years. Even between the two of us, we rarely spoke of it directly, although she made veiled references whenever a similar case arose in the media. Once, she even mentioned that what happened to me was part of why she was an advocate for women, her clientele almost exclusively female. She said she wished she had done more when she was younger.
I guess the bottom line was, I wish I had done more, too. Because I know that Zach Rutherford raped me. And although I truly believed that Finch hadn’t done anything nearly that horrible to Lyla, it was still terrible. Just like Zach, my son had taken advantage of an innocent girl who was in a vulnerable situation. He had exploited her. Used her. Treated her like trash.
In many ways, Finch was Zach, and I was Lyla. And I didn’t want Finch to haunt her the way Zach had haunted me.
So I stood up, slinging my purse full of cash over my shoulder, and walked back to my car in the setting spring sun. I wasn’t sure what I would do next. But it would be more than nothing, that was for sure.
I’ve always considered myself lucky that I could mostly earn a living by doing what I love, but a bonus has been the sheer escape that comes with woodworking. What do they call it? Being in the zone or the flow? Whatever the case, I did my best to push everything out of my head that afternoon in my workshop. As I measured, marked, and cut shelves for a spruce bookcase, I felt myself start to relax for the first time in days, my mind going blissfully blank.
Unfortunately, the shelves were too basic—I could have made them blindfolded. So before long, I found my thoughts returning to Nina Browning. I had almost been looking forward to hating her as much as I hated her husband and kid, and I couldn’t wait to throw that goddamn pile of money in her face. Yet for some odd reason, I couldn’t quite muster anything stronger than a mild, theoretical dislike for her, which was frustrating and disorienting. The fact that I felt like I’d met her before didn’t help matters. Unlike Nina, I felt like I was pretty good with faces. But the full truth was I was good with certain faces, the same way I could remember an exceptional piece of furniture. Nina had that sort of vivid, memorable look. Very pretty but not at all generic.
I glanced at the old-school clock mounted on the wall over my workbench and saw that it was nearly seven. Lyla had gotten a ride home from school with Grace, but I tried to make it a point to be home for dinner, even when I planned to return to my workshop or squeeze in a few late-night Uber trips. I texted her now and asked what she wanted to eat, knowing she’d say she didn’t care. Even when she wasn’t angry with me, she had trouble making decisions. A minute later the predictable reply came in. Don’t care. Not hungry.
As I swept up and put away my tools, my mind returned to Nina. Her face. Her legs, which I’d caught a glimpse of when she stood up to say hello. There was no denying she was attractive, which pissed me off almost as much as the fact that I didn’t hate her. I blew sawdust off my drill bit and told myself it didn’t matter. She was an asshole. I knew her type. Only an asshole married a guy like that, and only an asshole would raise a son who would do what hers did, especially when he had everything in the world going for him. Privilege, popularity, Princeton. She’d said it herself—she was his mother.
Women are just better at faking it if and when they need to, and clearly Nina Browning was either a good actress or just plain crafty. A regular con artist. She knew to ask about Lyla, feigning a little maternal compassion. Her ploy had very nearly worked on me, until she overplayed her hand. There was no chance she wanted me to pursue the Honor Council charges against her son, especially given that he’d just been accepted to Princeton. Zilch. Why would she risk that for a girl she’d never met? She wouldn’t, plain and simple. And to think I’d almost bought her reverse-psychology bullshit. I pictured her now, drinking a martini with her friends, feeling smug about how she’d manipulated another guy with her bullshit lines.
And that’s when it hit me. Where I had seen her before. It was about four years ago, maybe more, as I tended to underestimate the passage of time these days. She’d come to the home of a client who had hired me to redo cabinetry in what she called her “keeping room.” This woman, whose name I couldn’t recall for the life of me, was about the same age and profile as Nina—meaning she, too, lived in a Belle Meade mansion, though not as grand as Nina’s. I’d actually gotten the initial call from her contractor explaining that she was impossible to please, hadn’t been happy with the work of a former carpenter, and wanted to start over from scratch. She didn’t like his design, though she had signed off on the drawings, nor did she like the materials he’d used, though she’d also approved his choice of teak.
“I wouldn’t blame you for not touching this one,” the guy had said. “She’s a real pain in the ass.”
I very nearly heeded his warning, but I needed the money, as always, so I took the gig. When I went over to meet her, I actually tried to talk her out of the redo, explaining the flaws she perceived in the teak would likely disappear with a coat of paint and certainly two or three, and that, in my opinion, she’d be wasting her money. She was unconvinced and undeterred, or maybe she just wanted to waste money.
So I took the job, agreeing to use mahogany and a new, more detailed design with a lot of flourishes and scrollwork that she’d pulled from a design magazine and that I actually thought were a little too McMansion-y.
Suffice it to say—the contractor was right. It was a long three weeks with this woman, though not because she was hard to please. She was thrilled with my work. But she never left me alone, never shut up or shut down her monologue of complaints about her life, whether online ordering snafus (her house was like a FedEx depot) or tennis team drama. Every day at five o’clock sharp, she’d open a bottle of wine, which was my cue to try to leave, and her cue to offer me “overtime” and a glass of my own. I explained more than once that I didn’t drink on the job, at which point she’d assault me with peer pressure I hadn’t experienced since junior high. “Oh, come on, don’t be such a Goody Two-shoes,” she’d say. “One little glass.” A couple times I relented, taking a few sips just to shut her up while she polished off the rest of the bottle, often then delving into complaints about her husband. How he was never around, that he didn’t listen to her, that he bitched about her spending habits.
And that’s where Nina Browning came in, quite literally, showing up one evening for what looked to be a big night out. What’s Her Name wasn’t quite ready, so she handed her friend a glass of wine and told her she’d be back in a second. At least a half hour passed in which I continued to work and Nina typed away on her phone in the adjoining kitchen. Meanwhile, we each pretended the other wasn’t just a few feet away. At one point, she got a call, and I had the feeling it was from her husband or someone she was very close to. Because she started speaking in a hushed voice, complaining about how What’s Her Name was always late. When she hung up, she caught me looking at her, let out a little laugh, and said, “You didn’t hear that.”
I smiled and
said something like “Oh, yeah, I did.”
“She’s a great friend, but never on time.”
“Maybe if she talked a little less….”
This made her laugh a real laugh, showing a lot of big white teeth and how pretty she was and, perhaps more noteworthy, how unlike her friend she seemed to be. More real, less insecure. She was interacting with me as an equal and not as the carpenter she could pay overtime to drink with her.
A few minutes later, What’s Her Name sauntered into the kitchen and announced that I could keep working; she “trusted me in the house.” She meant it as the highest of compliments, but of course it was actually an insulting sentiment—which Nina picked up on with a subtle eye roll. Then they were gone.
That was it, really. Not much of a meeting at all. But it was still a reference point that made me think it was possible that our conversation today had been sincere rather than a coffee-shop performance. Then again, they both could have been performances. I shut off the lights, locked up my workshop, and walked to my truck, telling myself none of this mattered. Whether she was a decent person was in some ways as wholly irrelevant as her looks. It didn’t change what her son had done, and it wasn’t going to change my decision. Yet as I drove home, I found myself wondering about her—who she really was as a person. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted—somehow needed—to know the truth about Nina Browning. Which is why I was more than a little intrigued when I received her email that night—and unable to resist the back and forth that followed.
Tom,
Thank you so much for meeting me with me today. Although it was difficult, I’m glad we had the chance to talk through things. I was wondering if you’d be open to getting together again, this time with Finch and Lyla? Obviously I won’t press the issue if you’re uncomfortable with the idea, but I think it might be good for both of them. Let me know your thoughts.
Best,
Nina
…
Thank you for following up and for the offer. Let me talk to Lyla and see how she feels. Oh. And I think I figured out where we met. Do you have a friend who lives in a brick house on Lynwood? Pretty sure I met you while working there a number of years ago. T.
…
Oh my goodness! Yes, I do! Melanie Lawson. I totally remember chatting with you now! (And this proves that I am bad with faces, because I remember everything else about our conversation :)
Nina
ps You did a beautiful job at her house. She still raves about you.
pps She’s a Windsor parent, too. Did you know that?
…
No. I’m not really into the whole Windsor social scene.
…
I hear you. I love the school, but it is quite a scene at times. We’ve been there since Finch was in kindergarten so I’m used to it at this point….Also, I’m not sure that this is at all relevant, but I feel like I should tell you that that’s where the kids were the night in question (at Melanie’s house). Her son had a party (without her permission). Small world. Or something?
…
I’ll go with “or something.” And nothing is really in question, is it?
…
Yes. Two poor expressions to use under these circumstances. I’m sorry. And I’m so sorry again for what Finch did. I know those are just words, but they are heartfelt. I really want to try to make things right. I hope you believe that. And I hope Finch will have the chance to meet with Lyla and tell her all of this himself.
…
Thanks. I’ll talk to Lyla and be in touch soon.
There was no such thing as a kept secret in the Windsor community, and although I hoped the fire would be contained, I knew that it was only a matter of time before it raged. Based on my experience with other people’s drama, I gave it a week.
I was pretty much dead-on because by the following morning—six days after Beau’s party—my phone was blowing up with friends, and even some acquaintances, gingerly “checking in on” me. I suppose some were genuinely concerned over the development. But I think most were more in Kathie’s camp, on some level, perhaps even subconsciously, reveling in the gossip and indifferent to the fact that they were so casually and cavalierly deepening the crisis not only for Finch (who arguably deserved what he was getting) but also for Lyla.
I crafted a pat reply (“Thank you for your concern and kind words”) and vowed to avoid my usual stomping grounds—all the places where I inevitably ran into people I knew. Starbucks and Fix Juice, the Green Hills mall and Whole Foods, my spin and yoga studios, and of course the club.
The only person I continued to discuss it with was Melanie, who was so fiercely partisan that I think I could shoot someone on Belle Meade Boulevard and she’d say I must have had a good reason. She sent me screenshot after screenshot from people opining on the matter, often with rumors they’d heard through the grapevine: Lyla was completely naked; Finch had put something in her drink; the two had engaged in sexual activity. The story was constantly being embellished.
Every time, Melanie came fiercely to Finch’s defense, setting the record straight, typing replies in all caps with a bounty of exclamation points. Even when it came to the true parts of the story, she rationalized and insisted that this was “a good kid who had made a mistake.”
On one level, I truly appreciated her loyalty, particularly when she was correcting falsehoods. On another, deeper level, her indignation made me incrementally more ashamed. After all, Finch was guilty. Maybe not guilty of all the accusations swirling around the rumor mill, but guilty nonetheless. It was a fact that seemed to be lost on her, just as it was on Kirk.
On Friday evening, she showed up at my house, distraught and in disarray—at least by Melanie’s high grooming standards.
“What happened?” I said, opening the door.
“Didn’t you get my texts? I told you I was on my way over….”
“No. I haven’t looked at my phone for a bit,” I said, having put it away so I would stop checking to see if Tom had written me back. It had not been twenty-four hours since I’d asked to meet with Lyla, but I was starting to obsess over his decision. I led Melanie into the kitchen now.
“Sit down,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She sighed and tossed her monogrammed Goyard tote at her feet before taking a perch on a kitchen stool. “That bitch Kathie—” She stopped, looked around and said, “Is anyone home?”
“Kirk’s not. He was home for twenty-four hours—but left again. Finch is here—but up in his room,” I said. “So fire away.”
She pressed one hand to her temple as the other played with the folds of her tennis skirt. “That bitch Kathie is now telling people that Beau hooked up with Lyla. After Finch took the picture.”
“Um…did he?” I asked at my own peril. Melanie and I had never had an argument, but she could be oversensitive and thin-skinned, especially when it related to Beau or her daughter, Violet, who had more diva tendencies than any child I’d ever known who wasn’t on a sitcom.
“Oh, God, no,” she said, her spray-tanned leg bouncing on the barstool.
“What’s she basing that on, then?” I said. “Just Lyla being on Beau’s bed in the photograph?”
“I have literally no clue! But I bet Lucinda is behind it. She’s a total C-U-next-Tuesday. I detest that child….She’s been posting articles on Facebook about sexual assault and misogyny.” Melanie reached down and pulled her phone out of her bag, then began to read in a high, prissy voice, presumably imitating Lucinda. “ ‘Forty-four percent of reported sexual assaults take place before a victim is eighteen. One in three girls is sexually abused prior to leaving high school….And yet secondary schools are irresponsibly reluctant to act on this information…resulting in the current frequency of college sexual assaults.’ ”
I felt a stab of grief, think
ing about both Lyla and my own experience at Vanderbilt. “I know Lucinda is as obnoxious as her mother….But unfortunately, she’s right. If it were coming from someone else—”
“It would still be obnoxious!” Melanie said. “Keep your opinions off social media!”
I actually disagreed with her—and thought that activism of this kind is one of the only decent upshots of social media. Otherwise, it’s just a regular brag or snooze fest—a way to either show off your vacation or bore everyone with your Brussels sprouts. I almost said something along those lines, but Melanie was on a roll.
“I mean, Finch and Beau are good kids! From good families!” she said once again, removing an elastic band from her hair, shaking it out, then putting it up in a fresher ponytail. “And Lyla is so not their type.”
“She is very pretty, though,” I said, mostly just musing aloud.
“Have you seen her in person?”
I shook my head and said, “No. But I saw some other photos of her.”
“Is she mulatto?…Beau said she is. Is that true?”
“Mulatto? I haven’t heard that in years,” I said, wondering if it was still politically correct and feeling pretty certain that it was not.
She shrugged. “Whatever the term is. Mixed? Biracial? I can’t keep it straight. Is she?”
“She’s half Brazilian,” I said.
“Huh,” she said. “So her mom must be foreign. Because I heard her dad’s white. I also heard her mother’s in jail for drugs and prostitution. No wonder Lyla’s so promiscuous.”
“Who said she was promiscuous?” I asked, thinking that Melanie was trying to have it both ways. Lyla didn’t do anything that night with our boys, yet she was also promiscuous? Which one was it?
“Did you not see her outfit?” Melanie tugged on her tank as she made a cross-eyed, tongue-lolling face.
