CHAPTER 17
IT’S BEEN EIGHT MONTHS, AND SHE’S AS ICY AS EVER
Every single one of my six-hundred-plus muscles tensed as I sat in an Uber on the way to my mother’s house an excruciating two weeks later.
I was back in Minnesota to take the Fletchers to dinner because they’d put me off every time I’d tried to make contact. They were busy people, but they had an abundance of money because they made money a priority, so it was time for a physical appearance to let them see I’d do anything for them and their business. Houston could try to spin this as a violation of my noncompete, but Erin’s involvement aside, Mrs. Fletcher had contacted me. And I was getting worried because, despite my better judgment, I’d put all my eggs in their basket, essentially waiting it out until they were mine.
None of my other previous clients had contacted me, even the ones Erin said were looking for me. I had hosted a free webinar on retirement planning, but only four people showed; none of them signed. But it hadn’t shaken me because I’d assumed that, any day now, the Fletchers would sweep in and I wouldn’t have to worry about huge marketing gestures.
My original plan had been to fly in and fly right back out of my hometown and not even tell Chad or my mother that I’d be in Minnesota. This trip was purely business, and I didn’t want either of them getting the wrong idea about me coming back here.
But if they found out—well, it wasn’t worth it, which was why I’d arranged the Uber without my mother’s knowledge because I couldn’t spend thirty minutes trapped in her car, her hands at ten and two, eyes on the road while she talked at me. I’m not sure when my mother stopped talking to me and started talking at me, but that’s definitely how it was now.
As Arthur the Uber driver drove, the trees and houses sped past my back seat window, and I pretended not to smell feet or think about how horrifying it was that Chad was staying with my mother until he found a new place, one without his soon-to-be ex-wife. My mother’s idea, but he’d been all too pleased to comply.
I also tried not to think about the last time I’d been to my mother’s house, when I’d attended my father’s funeral and white calla lilies flanked the entryway. My hand had brushed one of the cup-shaped blooms when I’d left my father’s catered wake, heading for a bar, where I unknowingly paid homage to my dad’s memory by doing what he’d spent his life doing: drinking too much and picking up someone married.
I certainly hadn’t wanted to be that person, but in all fairness, my dad hadn’t wanted to be that kind of person either. I think he’d tried to tell me that a few years ago, one afternoon when he’d been drinking heavily. His deep-brown eyes were glassy when he looked at me.
“I do it to forget, you know. Your mother thinks she’s responsible, and maybe she is, but maybe I want to believe she is so I can put my blame somewhere.”
“What?” My heart raced. What did he mean? My mother responsible? For what? The alcohol? The cheating? Brandon? Was he going to acknowledge how much our family had changed? But my mother had overheard and pulled him into the kitchen for some silly reason that we all knew—but wouldn’t acknowledge—was a ploy to shut him up. And just like that, the sudden burst of emotion was contained, like a fire without oxygen.
I didn’t unbuckle when Arthur pulled his green Ford Explorer into my mother’s driveway. I opened the car door, closed it again.
“You gonna get out?” he asked, twisting his body toward the back seat.
It was entirely possible I’d walk into my mother’s house and get tied to a chair until I agreed to move back to Minnesota.
And Arthur didn’t care. “I’ve got another ride,” he said.
To look out at the greenest grass on the block—not even a whisper of a weed—swaying slightly in a late-May breeze, the multicolored, adequately hydrated flowers, the freshly painted porch swing with the plush, navy blue curtains that matched the shutters on the whiter-than-reasonable two-story, you’d think this was where I wanted to be.
Reluctantly, I exited the smelly vehicle, smoothed my blouse, and straightened my jacket, both pieces of clothing my mother would approve of. In fact, I think she’d given them to me, a not-so-subtle reminder that appearances mattered.
I climbed the three steps to my mother’s pressure-washed porch, then went back down again. I took a deep breath, climbed the stairs once more, went back down again.
Just as I was about to leap into the holly bushes after my earring—the one I was about to throw into the bushes—Aurora Auberge materialized in her doorway.
Stalling was over.
Framed by the perfectly painted wood with crystal clear side windows, my mother was the picture of stability. Age was even commanded by her hand. Surgery, expertly applied makeup, night creams, and face masks were all tools in her arsenal of deception, melting her sixty years to forty, barely older than me. I knew her routine because that’s what she’d passed on to me. Comfort and understanding be damned, but ways to keep crow’s-feet at bay? Now we’re talkin’.
I let myself be held by my mother. Not a hug. She held my shoulders in her hands while she inspected me.
One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched. “You’re not drinking enough water. Your skin looks dry.”
I gave her a complacent smile. “Then I’d better get a bottle of water.”
And after eight months of not seeing each other, there was our hello.
After the first bottle had been downed, compacted, and neatly placed into the green recycling container, I sipped on a second bottle and listened to my mother tell me how great Chad was over a sparkling countertop so shiny I could easily use it to apply a second coat of lipstick.
Chad was working on a high-profile obstruction of justice case and anticipated a late night. I wouldn’t get to witness his greatness until tomorrow.
My finger slid down the bottle. Condensation trickled onto the granite.
“He’s happy you’re here, Penelope.”
I nodded. Hearing her say my full name made me think of Grant. My friend Grant. After I’d blubbered about the dark secrets of my past, we’d entered a new relationship phase. Grant was officially my friend: mustache, cereal aversion, and all. I’d continued to hang out with Deanna, and he was frequently there.
“When are you coming back to stay?” A microfiber cloth appeared in Aurora’s hand, and she used it to wipe up the water that had pooled underneath my bottle.
The gesture irritated me, and I ignored her question. “Have you talked to Houston, found anything out?”
Her face went red. Not a good sign.
“Chad and I are working on a plan, but Houston is using the fact that you had an affair with a married man to taint your reputation.”
I let my head flop onto the counter; the contact jarred my skull, reigniting my concussion from two weeks ago and giving me an instant headache.
“I didn’t know.” The fact that I should’ve known, could’ve known if I’d even halfway looked at my relationship with Chad, was beside the point.
“I know that. But he’s using your father to further drive the point home because unlike you, Charlie knew what he was doing. Houston’s more than suggesting it’s a familial pattern.”
I raised my head to find her rubbing her neck like the words had caused her throat physical pain, but she, like always, held herself erect, not even a hint of a tear.
“I’m sorry, Mother.” And I was. Despite all my mother’s shortcomings, she’d loved my dad. She’d always taken care of him, put a cold cloth to his head, cleaned up his vomit. Everything had to be perfect, but their relationship had been the one exception. It hadn’t made sense.
She squared her shoulders. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”
For a brief second, I thought about asking her why, but instead I asked, “Do you think that’s why the Fletchers have ghosted me?”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re meeting you for dinner, right?”
I nodded. “They haven’t rescheduled ... yet.”
“Go to the meeting. Win them over. You’ll need to change, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “What have you picked out for me to wear?”
“Right this way.”
“Just coffee and dessert for us. We ate before we came.” Mrs. Fletcher pointed to the tres leches cake and handed her menu back to the waiter.
I wasn’t all that hungry, either, but I was suddenly craving that table-side bike I’d fantasized about at Deanna’s. Perhaps a portable unicycle, something I could unfold out of my purse and ride around the restaurant because my dinner companions weren’t planning to eat—
Dinner.
I racked my brain for words, but I was too late. Mr. Fletcher was already speaking.
“I’m afraid we can’t put our trust in you.”
“Fiduciary!”
Oh crap. Oh flying, I-can’t-believe-I-just-shouted-that CRAP.
“Excuse me?”
I thought about looking over at the other table and pretending someone else had yelled out a random financial term. I needed this. I needed them. “Please. Please give me a chance. You know what I can do.” I was extremely close to getting on my knees and grabbing their hands.
I opened my satchel in search of the paperwork where I’d laid out investment strategies, retirement income securities, potential risks, potential goals, where they were now, where I could take them. There were even pie charts, colorful ones I’d had printed on glossy paper with a professional logo on it. I’d even calculated all their assets in pairs of shoes, which Mrs. Fletcher loved!
Mrs. Fletcher put her hand on mine to stop me from opening the folder, the one that had taken three attempts to get out of my bag because my hands were shaking.
Shoes! Didn’t she want to see how many shoes she’d be able to buy with me managing her money? Thousands, millions of shoes.
“We do know.” Mrs. Fletcher’s voice was soft. “Which is why this has been such a hard decision for us. However, given your ... background, we simply can’t.”
“My background? You know I managed ...” I stopped, trying to think of a single large company whose finances I’d handled. I couldn’t think, and I couldn’t say, You know that mattress place with all the mattresses, or that electronics distributor that makes the tiny little gadgets that go in the bigger machines? Finally, vaguely, I said, “I’ve managed large companies.”
“We have no doubts regarding your financial expertise,” Mr. Fletcher said. “It’s your values that fall short.”
Values?
This had nothing to do with my professional reputation and everything to do with my personal one.
“I didn’t know he was married,” I whispered. It shouldn’t be about this. This was personal, none of their business, and I hated that I felt compelled to say it.
Mrs. Fletcher’s pitying gaze cut deep. “But your father. And now, we hear that you’re with the man who ... it ... well, I think you can understand the position we’re in.”
No, I couldn’t understand. Reversing our stations, I’d want my money in the most capable hands without considering the person’s personal life. I’d want my money in my hands.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Mrs. Fletcher said into my stunned silence, “we aren’t staying with TCF. Houston’s behavior was inexcusable, and we won’t reward it.”
I didn’t care about Houston. I cared about my business and how much easier life would be if I had the Fletchers in my book. I opened my mouth to tell them why Chad and I were together. How he and his wife had both been miserable. How it wasn’t black and white, how—but none of it mattered. They’d made their mind up about me. And the Fletchers and the Gwinns, Chad’s family, knew each other, which probably meant they knew his wife’s family. Who knew what had been said, how this narrative had been spun. I only had Chad’s perspective, and he’d likely only tell me what was favorable, which made me wonder what he wasn’t saying, like how his parents had taken the news about his divorce. And why he was staying with my mother and not his own family. It didn’t add up, but I couldn’t process those things right now.
“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?” I asked, defeat inching up my spine.
Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. “I’m afraid the decision has been made. I’m sorry. We wish you the best.”
They both stood. They weren’t even going to eat the cake. I watched Mrs. Fletcher tuck her arm into Mr. Fletcher’s, and the handsomely dressed pair—her in her bright-blue shift and him in a black suit with a tie that matched her dress—left the restaurant without a backward glance.
The waiter brought out three pieces of cake, set one in front of me and the other two in front of the empty chairs, still warm from the not-clients who had vacated them.
“My dinner companions left,” I told his tie, unable to look him in the face.
“Should I clear these away then?”
“Leave them.”
He shrugged as I scooted both plates nearer to my own. After he’d walked away, I dumped both pieces of cake onto my plate, pulled out my phone, and started eating as I crafted a text.
Text: They aren’t signing. It’s over.
Almost immediately a reply popped up on my screen.
Reply: They’re fools, and you don’t need them.
As I typed Are they the fools, or am I?, I got cream on my screen.
Reply: They are. No doubt.
Text: I’m the one eating three pieces of cake.
I drew a frowny face with my finger in the icing and took a picture of my plate, sent it.
Reply: Stop eating that right now. I’ll make you some real food when you get home.
Home.
Text: I’ll be there tomorrow night. Pie?
Reply: Definitely.
Text: Thanks Deanna.
Reply: What are friends for?