The Night I Got Lucky (24 page)

I heard his words over and over—
I hope you’ll come back.
An influx of emotions fil ed in around them—pride that my father wanted to see me again, disgust at my own reaction, and somewhere, way back in the mix, a sliver of hope.

“This has to be enough,” I said. “For now.”

He grinned, the motion making creases in his tanned cheeks. “That’s fine. It real y is.”

I nodded. I realized this day had been enough for me. I’d found him. I’d met him. I’d learned something about why he left. I knew he hadn’t left because of me. I liked him a little.

I slipped off my stool and hugged him. I had expected him to smel like my stepdad, Jan—like a golf course, like a barbecue gril —but my father had his own soft scent of paper and spicy soap.

A moment later, I was walking back to my hotel, down the main street of Tel uride. Above me, the sky was bright with stars.

T
he flight home from Colorado was a blur of blue airline seats and the run from one gate to the next and eventual y the skyline of Chicago as we landed. The entire time, I’d been in another world, reliving the time with my father the way I used to relive my first dates with Chris, and then shifting my thoughts to my husband, our relationship and the concept of marriage in general.

Getting married, I decided, was like being handed a pair of tiny, precious packages, each with a Fragile sticker on the side. Both persons had to carry their package careful y. If one person mistreated or dropped theirs, as I’d done recently, as Chris had done early in our marriage, the packages began to deteriorate, causing both people to wonder whether they needed, or wanted, them at al .

But I knew I wanted to brush off our precious packages and tape up any rips. I wanted a second shot at carrying mine every day.

At O’Hare airport, I cal ed Chris.

“He’s in court until 1:00,” his secretary said, “then he’s going straight to a deposition.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “When do you expect him?”

“About 5:00. Maybe a little later.”

“Thanks. I’l cal him then.”

Stil standing in the arrivals terminal, I dialed my mom’s number in Barrington. Miraculously, she was home.

“Baby dol , are you al right?” she said. “I’ve been worried about you.”

My heart leaped. “You have?”

“Wel , of course. You simply took off a few days ago.”

“Oh, wel I—”

“Look, darling, I’m having a few people over for lunch,” she said, quickly leaving the original topic. “Why don’t you join us?”

I looked at my watch—12:00. I could spend an hour or two at my mother’s and stil get to the office later in the afternoon, something I desperately needed to do for more than one reason.

But I also needed to talk to my mom, to tel her I’d met Brandon. I said I’d get a cab and be there in thirty minutes.

Tel ing Chris I’d kissed Evan was agonizing. Now, as I sat in the back of a taxi, heading toward my mother’s house, I felt like I had to come clean al over again. I’d have to explain how I’d gone to Colorado to track down the husband who’d abandoned her and her children.

In some strange way, I wanted to shock her with my announcement that I’d found Brandon Tremont. Like electric shock therapy, maybe it would startle her back to the way she used to be without scaring away the good parts of the new person she’d become.

There were four cars in the driveway, al Mercedes and BMWs. Inside, the house was sunny and bright. Piano music tinkled from the stereo. The French doors were open to the patio, and I could see people chatting, enjoying the new, weighty summer air. My mother was in the kitchen with a pink sweater tied around her shoulders.

“Baby dol !” she exclaimed when she saw me. She rushed around the counter to hug me. “I was cutting the cake. You’re just in time for dessert.”

“Who’s here?”

“Oh, just people from the club. They’re delightful. Come meet them.” She wiped her hands on a towel and led me by the hand to the patio.

“Everyone,” she said, putting her arm tight around my shoulders, “this is my daughter, Bil y.” She introduced me to three couples and a woman named Blythe.

I shook hands, and my mother checked her guests’ drinks and announced that dessert would be served soon.

“Bil y, honey,” my mom said, when the introductions were over, “you simply must hear about our golf game this morning. There was the most unbelievable wind.”

The whole crowd burst out laughing. “It was absurd!” my mother continued, everyone’s eyes on her. “Marg nearly kil ed one of the caddies when the wind took her bal .”

“Yes, right,” said Richard, who was Marg’s husband. “The
wind
was what happened to that drive.”

They al laughed again, and my mother continued with the story of their game. Her eyes shone bright, as she spoke, letting her gaze move from one of her friends to the next, then back to me. These people clearly adored her, and she them. It was the happiest I’d seen my mother since Jan died. And that alone made me happy.

Eventual y, my mother brought dessert out to the porch and she and her guests told more stories about a dinner they’d al been to a few nights before. The conversation ran effortlessly, my mother at ease in her role as friend and hostess.

A half hour later, her friends were saying their goodbyes. I helped my mother bring the plates into the kitchen and load the dishwasher. Now was the time, it seemed.

But how to tel her about my father? Meanwhile, my thoughts kept straying to Chris, stil in his deposition, and to Harper Frankwel . I had work to do at the office, and it didn’t involve a budget.

In the kitchen, my mother polished her tiny cordial glasses with a white cloth, al the while talking animatedly about the unbelievable putt Richard had made and the fabulous golf pants Blythe had purchased.

I tried once or twice to steer the topic toward my father, or toward her and me, but her chatter was too hard to derail. In some ways, I didn’t want to stop her. She seemed so happy chugging away in her kitchen, and I didn’t want to tear her from her new life. Yet I needed, at least, to find some part of the woman she used to be. I thought of the way my father had run from his problems, and how I’d vowed not to do the same thing any longer, not mental y or otherwise.

“Mom,” I said interrupting her. I took the glass from her hand. “I have to talk to you about something.”

“Of course, dear. As soon I get this done.” She picked up the glass again and held it to the light, peering at it with a jeweler’s cunning eye.

“I’d like to talk now, if that’s okay.”

“Flawless,” she declared the glass, ignoring the pleading tone in my voice. “Now, let’s cover up that cake.” She bustled over to the cake plate, whistling an aimless tune.

I hated to do it, but there was one dose of electric shock coming up. “I
have
to talk to you.” My voice was loud, something my mother disliked, and she pursed her lips, giving me a slightly stern stare.

“Mom,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “Please stop moving for a moment.
Please.
Mom, I need you.”

She blinked a few times.

Before I could tel her that there was no immediate crisis, and that I needed her in a general sense, she’d pushed the cake plate away and took me by the shoulders. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” She gave me a quick, tight hug. “Are you al right? And how are things with Chris? I got so caught up in my little gathering that I didn’t think. Forgive me.”

I sensed her there—my mother of old.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I was glad to meet your friends, and I love to see you enjoying yourself.”

“Stil , it’s not right.” She shook her head. “I real y don’t know how I could have forgotten to ask you. Tel me what’s happening. How is Chris?” She led me to the breakfast table tucked into bay windows.

“I’m not sure,” I said, settling onto a padded bench next to her. “We haven’t talked much since the other night.”

“Oh, Bil y, don’t let this go too long. You can lose each other when you do that.”

Now it was my turn to blink a few times. This
was
my mother of old, the one who told me honestly when she thought I was angry or in denial about something. I’d gotten tired of that, of her constant involvement, but now, seeing her thrive, I craved that part of her again.

“You’re right,” I said. “There’s been something wrong for a while, and we’ve been pushing it away.”

“It’s like your father and me.”

At the mention of my father, I flinched internal y. I worked up my courage and began to think of how to tel her I’d met him, but then her statement sank in. “What do you mean it’s like you and dad?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I knew he was unhappy. It was hard to miss real y, with his drinking and his moods, but I didn’t do anything about it.”

I turned toward her on the bench. “Mom, you did nothing wrong. He was the one who left out of the blue.”

She put her hand over mine. “Nothing real y happens out of the blue, and rarely is someone completely blameless. I know I’m not.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You didn’t do anything,” I said.

“That’s the whole point, baby dol . I didn’t
do
anything. You know how my family was.”

I nodded. My mother had been raised on the North Shore. She’d been “trained,” as she put it, to be a perfect country club wife. She hated it, but she learned how to set the perfect table, how to iron her husband’s shirts with precisely the right amount of starch, how to make witty banter with the neighbors she disliked. She met my father at a jazz club, where she’d gone on a whim, and she realized immediately he wouldn’t be the husband her family wished for her. He was a playboy with a mysterious importing job that involved lots of overseas travel. But they fel in love, and she got pregnant. She said she felt alive for the first time. But that excitement didn’t last long. She was busy with the quick succession of three children, and before she knew it, her husband had left her.

“Your father was rarely happy in our marriage,” she said.

Like Chris,
I thought.

“But I didn’t want to see it,” she continued. “Oh, it was obvious in many ways, as I said, but I tried to ignore it. I thought if I were the ideal wife, he would eventual y settle into this new life and he’d love it.”

“It stil wasn’t your fault, Mom. He was the one who ran away.”

She shrugged, rearranging her pink sweater around her shoulders. “I don’t think in terms of fault anymore, although as I said, I know I’m not blameless. I should have faced things head on, long before he thought to leave. That’s why my marriage with Jan was so much better. I didn’t look the other way anymore, not about his problems or mine.”

“That’s how I want it to be with Chris,” I said. “Starting today, in fact.” Chris had asked for time alone, but I’d decided that he’d had enough time. Not because I didn’t respect his need for privacy, but because I’d started to see how entirely too much time had passed without me addressing our distance. In some ways, I think I had expected it, some subliminal part of my psyche tel ing me that al men left—physical y or emotional y—at some point. I was hoping Chris hadn’t entirely taken off yet.

“Good luck, sweetie.” My mother’s dark eyes searched my face. “And if you don’t get it right the first time, try again.”

I felt a swel of emotion in my throat. “Thanks.”

“And let me know if I can help you,” she said. “I’m not sure why but I’ve been a little…” She shook her head, a slightly puzzled expression on her face. “Wel , I’ve been a little different lately. Real y, I’ve been having such a good time.” She gave a breezy laugh. “But I want you to know that I love you, Bil y, and I’m always available for you.
Always.
”

“I’m here for you, too.”

“I know.”

I smiled at her, at my mom who had been there al along. I wouldn’t have to shock her with the news of meeting my father. I would tel her eventual y, but there was no need to bruise her with it. Instead, I would talk to her about Chris. I would ask her more about how she felt about Jan’s death, and how she felt now about her friends and her new life.

I caught a glimpse of fresh potential in my relationship with my mother. We might not be able to get back to the way we’d been before the frog. But we might be better.

Late in the afternoon, I took a cab downtown. When it reached my condo, I asked the driver to wait. It was 3:30, which meant I could stil get to the office before Roslyn left. I wanted to drop off my bag and change clothes first.

In the condo, it was quiet, a stale scent in the air. Had Chris been staying somewhere else? I went to our room and checked the master bath. A damp towel lay on the floor from this morning, and his contacts case and solution were lying haphazardly by his sink, the way he always left them when he was in a rush. The rest of the house was similarly disorganized. My usual y structured husband must have had a rough week. He must have never opened the windows to let in fresh air. The thought made me incredibly sad, then optimistic. He was upset, true, but that meant there was stil something between us that could shake him. Which meant, I decided to believe, that I might be right about my instincts. We might carry those packages again.

I went to my closet. I considered light pants and a summer sweater, the kind of outfit many people at Harper Frankwel would be wearing on a Friday, but I had important business. I put on my sage-green suit with a white blouse and black spectator pumps. I opened every window before I left.

During the drive to Michigan Avenue, I noticed the trees were ful and vividly green. People crowded the streets and sat outside at cafés. It was early June, and it was official y summer in Chicago, the start of a new season.

Once inside, I said hel o to the receptionist and went to my office. I stood in the doorway, resisting the urge to sink into the butter-yel ow seat. I looked at the stack of budgets to the right of my desk and the notes about prices for the new prints that might decorate the foyer. Then I looked behind my desk to the credenza where Odette’s cookbook stood, along with my old orange notebook, where I used to keep al my random ideas for press releases. I thought about my father’s words,
Sometimes you have to know when to double back.