Chapter 2
POLLY
There, in the inky black of the shadows, stood Lucian. His ripped chest appearing cut from granite, sweat glistening under the silvery bands of moonlight. As if an internal clock struck, his head strained back, eyes forcefully shut in both agony and ecstasy, a fierce howl letting loose from deep within. His muscles began to pulse as the night filled with the sound of flesh tearing and bones breaking. In a symphony of shadows, moonlight, and magic, his perfect mask was ripped clean, revealing his true self as his magnificent wolf form broke free.
The Seduction of the Shift by Angel Marie
Narrated by Michael Smolton
Four Weeks Later
“I ’ll have the eggs Benedict.”
My father always ordered the eggs Benedict.
This was our fourth country club brunch, making it his fourth eggs Benedict, and the fourth time this year I had to face his judgment. And when your father’s a judge, there’s plenty to go around.
Meeting for brunch every Sunday was the stipulation he placed prior to me and my two kids moving from Chicago to my vacant childhood home in Green Valley, Tennessee, one month ago. Wearing his typical dark suit and tie, my father frowned at the menu displeasingly, then folded it and handed it to our server.
“Excellent choice, Judge. And for you?” our sweet server, Kathy, asked me.
“I’ll have the egg white omelet with the hash browns.” She winked at me as she took my menu. She was my favorite as she always gave me an extra ketchup cup to go with my hashbrowns. Eating hashbrowns without ketchup was like eating pancakes without syrup. A waste of calories.
I also ordered the same thing each time. Maybe one day I’d try something different, but ordering the same thing somehow seemed easier. I knew an egg white omelet and hashbrowns met with my father’s approval, as he didn’t remark on my choice. So, ordering it felt like the path of least resistance. Growing up the only daughter of the widowed and esteemed Judge Alan Alberton, I’ve taken this path a lot .
“How was your week, sir?”
“Uneventful.” My father adjusted his water glass and silverware to be in the exact place he preferred. Fastidiousness, keen observation, and intelligence were my father’s MO, and while it made him an excellent judge—his almost encyclopedic knowledge of the law made his courtrooms efficient and his decisions fair and swift—it made growing up under his roof . . . difficult. I’d compare it to The Sound of Music , except I had no siblings, Julie Andrews never showed up after my mother died when I was twelve, and my father sure as hell never smiled at me while singing a song about little white flowers.
Looking up from the table, he seemed to inspect me, then cleared his throat. “How was your week?”
I hesitated. Let’s observe how I’d have answered if I was being honest: “Well, exciting week. First, Ryla was kicked out of her swimming lessons at the YMCA because she punched a kid right in the stomach for cutting the line at the diving board. Then I was threatened to be sent to collections for the twenty-two-thousand-dollar bill for Max’s intensive outpatient program this past February that my health insurance is refusing to pay despite getting a pre-approval and am now in our third appeal process.”
Instead, I replied, “Great. Work is going well, and Mrs. Simon is wonderful with the kids.”
To be fair, that last part wasn’t a lie. I’d been incredibly lucky to have found Mrs. Simon, a sweet, retired schoolteacher, to be the nanny for my two kids when we moved back to Green Valley. Since she started with us, I felt like maybe, just maybe, we would finally get back to normal.
Whatever “normal” meant.
I hadn’t seen anything approaching normal for almost a year. Ten months ago, my husband of twelve years asked for a divorce, then went off on a yearlong yachting expedition relinquishing all legal and physical custody of our children. It’d been seven months since our longtime au pair, Giselle, moved back to Italy, and five months since I’d had to quit my pediatrician job to homeschool my son after severe anxiety made it impossible for him to go to school. Any nest egg I’d had from the sale of our home after the divorce went to health care fees and living expenses, so any hope of buying a new home in Chicago had died a slow and painful death. Moving back to Green Valley was the very last option I had, so I called my father. He lived and worked as a judge in Knoxville, so I knew the country house I grew up in near Green Valley was empty. It’d been empty for twenty years, ever since I’d moved out right after high school.
It was only a brief head nod that let me know he’d heard my reply. His focus remained on the strawberry jelly he meticulously spread across his cut croissant. After a few minutes, he asked, “Does that mean you’ll be changing your schedule to full time?”
My father was referring to the bold parenting choice wherein I decided to “shirk” my work duties over, you know, my less important responsibilities, like raising my children. My father would know all about that.
It took all of my willpower to keep up my calm and controlled front, a front solidified with reinforced concrete since I was twelve years old. So, I kept my answer brief.
“No.”
“I thought the purpose of working part-time was to watch the children. Now that you have competent childcare, you should be able to work full-time.”
No, the point of my slightly reduced-hour contract was to have flexibility and availability for my children and to attend Max’s counseling appointments.
The retort was right there on my tongue, but I didn’t say it. Neither my father nor my ex-husband understood Max’s anxiety disorder. They wrote it off as a choice. Like Max just decided it’d be fun to wake up each day and be terrified to go to school.
Apparently, my father didn’t notice my lack of response, as he kept going. “I’ll never understand why you choose to work part-time. It’s a waste of your education and potential.”
Forcing my jaw to relax so I didn’t sound like I was speaking through clenched teeth, I replied, “While I appreciate that, I’m still a single parent. I need a flexible job schedule.”
I could only blame myself. In a moment of sheer stupidity, I told my father that my new job—I was a pediatrician at a doctor’s office called Mercy Health—was part-time. Did I bother explaining to him that it was still thirty-two patient contact hours per week, the same number of outpatient clinic hours I’d worked at my practice in Chicago where that was considered full time?
Of course not. The judge didn’t like excuses. And the fewer details I gave him about my life, the better.
“You know money isn’t an issue. I already offered to pay for what you need,” my father added, picking up his spoon and rubbing a spot with his napkin.
That wasn’t factually accurate; he would only pay for what he believed I needed. Which, as a parent, was technically his right. My only objection was the overt gaslighting in his comment.
I bit back any retort, opting to utilize one of my father’s favorite tools to show disappointment: silence.
“Have you made your decision regarding Eagleton?” my father asked after a few minutes of tense quiet.
I took a large gulp of my orange juice, stalling my answer. Yes, I’d made a decision. No, it wasn’t going to be an answer he liked.
Eagleton Preparatory Academy was a K through 12 private school, thirty minutes outside Green Valley. It was where I’d gone to school starting in sixth grade, right after my mother died. And last week at brunch, my father unceremoniously informed me that he expected my kids to attend school there as well.
This fall.
That wasn’t going to happen.
To some parents, being able to send their kids to Eagleton would seem like a dream come true. The school produced Rhodes scholars, collegiate athletes, and Ivy League graduates. However, at least when I went there, they also produced some of the meanest, stereotypically elitist pricks, who cared more about family status than general goodness.
My ten-year-old son had severe anxiety. He needed acceptance and understanding. And don’t even get me started on my youngest. Part girl and part gremlin, my daughter Ryla wouldn’t survive a week in that place. Or more accurately, they wouldn’t survive a week of her . If someone said one wrong thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if she burned the place to the ground, then lied to everyone’s face despite being found with a used match and lighter fluid.
I’d already researched Green Valley’s public schools before I moved the kids here. Sure, the Green Valley School District was small and, like any small town, had limited resources, but the school psychologist I’d spoken to over the phone, a Mr. Sievers, was incredibly nice and curious about Max. He answered every question I had about the 504-plan evaluation process with patience and understanding. When I begrudgingly called Eagleton last week, a snooty woman on the phone told me that they “were not prepared to answer” any of my questions until my kids were enrolled in their school, though they assured me they were committed to “academic excellence.”
That was enough of an answer for me.
“I haven’t made my decision yet,” I lied. I caught myself nervously twisting with my earring, so I quickly moved my hand to my lap. This former defense attorney wouldn’t miss a thing.
“Dean Manford is doing me a favor by keeping those spots open at Eagleton.” His stern voice belied his annoyance. “They have a two-year wait list. Your hesitancy is not only unwarranted but a reflection upon me.”
If I had a nickel for every time that phrase was used growing up. After my mother died, everything from what I wore to how I acted, was carefully constructed to portray the perfect dutiful daughter. If I didn’t act according to the judge’s standards, there were consequences, like not being allowed to see my friend, Leah, or participate in an after-school activity. By the time I left Green Valley after high school, I was like a hungry rat in a Skinner box; programmed by my father to act in a certain way, slowly poisoning every life choice and relationship I’d had.
I picked up a croissant from the middle of the table and took an aggressive bite; I’d swear off grain another week.
“I’m aware. I’ll let you know soon,” I replied roughly after swallowing, knowing that he’d hate the ambiguity of my answer, but not taking the risk of committing to any timelines.
My father wiped his hands, then put both of his elbows on the table. “Those children need a school with solid foundations, not that public school you’re planning on sending them to.”
How my father managed to keep the gag out of his voice when he said public school, I’ll never know. I took another bite of my croissant to keep from talking back. Focusing on the buttery goodness melting in my mouth, I recounted the things I was grateful for since moving back to Green Valley.
Number one: I’m living in a house rent-free. Sure, it came with unrelenting memories of a lonely and neglected childhood, but really, was that so bad?
Number two: My kids seemed to be doing better since moving from Chicago. There weren’t as many constant reminders of their old life, namely, their father leaving them. We’d even found a pediatric counselor in the area for Max and so far, the two of them seemed to have hit it off. And while my aforementioned daughter had a hairline trigger, she seemed to keep her cool around Mrs. Simon.
Number three: Mrs. Simon. Or maybe I should have made her reasons one and two. I’d been hanging off the side of a cliff from a fraying rope until I found her. She showed up on time every morning, stayed overnight at the house when I was on call, was excellent with my children, and brought baked goods every morning. Not good for my waistline, but who the hell did I have to impress? I had my books, my vibrator, and a door lock. I was all good.
What had my father been asking about? Oh, right. The kids’ school. Something he should have no say over.
I looked him square in the eye, a tactic I used in high school, on the rare occasion I had to force any bravado.
“We had this discussion last week. I can’t commit to any school choices right now.”
“All the more reason to send them to Eagleton, Polly.” My father’s expression looked like he just ate spoiled jelly. “I can’t help but say this, your kids need stability. A failed marriage isn’t an excuse to drop the ball.”
I can’t test this theory, but if you could see into my brain at that moment, I’m reasonably certain every single neuron would be on fucking fire.
My father had always been strict, but he changed fundamentally after my mother died. He promptly went back to work after three days of bereavement leave when his beloved wife and the mother of his only child, me , died after a brief battle with cancer. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he shut out practically everything that reminded him of her—effectively turning the house into a graveyard of memories, with me inside of it. And a failed marriage? He was part of the reason it broke. I hadn’t realized I’d been so programmed by my upbringing to act perfectly that I fell into similar patterns in my marriage: always acting the part of the perfect, obedient wife, never advocating my wants and desires. I didn’t realize what a mess I’d created for myself, until it was too late.
“I would hardly call what I’m doing dropping the ball.” My words sounded weak even to my own ears.
“What would you call sending your children to a public school and not securing something as simple as a full-time job? That’s not to mention how wild your children are. The last time I saw Ryla, she growled at me. And Max didn’t speak to me at all, then disappeared to his room.”
Rage burned just beneath my skin’s surface. It was only through a lifetime’s worth of practice that I was able to bite back my retort, giving the dutiful daughter’s response he expected. “I’ll work on that, Father.”
Mollified, he nodded stiffly as Kathy delivered our plates. I think she could tell things were tense because she gave me a discrete sympathetic glance before turning to leave.
My father cut into his entrée, the hollandaise sauce and egg yolk spurting yellow liquid onto his plate. I went about putting ketchup on my hashbrowns, but my appetite had disappeared. I used to like eggs Benedict. But watching my father eat it every single Sunday this past month made it look like some sort of sadistic egg sacrifice.
“You’ll be getting an email from Jeffrey soon,” he said, referring to his longtime campaign manager and personal assistant. “We have a list of events important to securing my nomination that you and the children need to attend.”
I was well aware my father was being considered for a nomination to the Tennessee Supreme Court this year. I’d been going to campaign events for his judgeships my entire life. My attendance at these functions, even once married and fully financially independent from my father, still hadn’t felt like a choice even if the emails from Jeffrey had become less threatening and more placating in recent years. Now that I was home and underneath my father’s thumb again, I figured my attendance wasn’t optional. Still, his words made me pause.
“Did you say, the children?”
Without looking up, my father continued to saw away at his brunch.
“Yes,” he said around a mouthful of murdered eggs.
The only thing that made me feel better was picturing twirling my fork in his receding hairline and yanking. Asking me to go to campaign events was one thing, but expecting my kids, the grandkids he’d seen once every other year, if that, for their entire lives . . . parading them around like they’re his pride and joy.
No. Just, no.
“If you need me for events, that’s fine. The kids have had big changes this year and it’s not right to thrust them into the spotlight. You’re right. They need stability.” I nodded, my confidence growing as I used his own words against him. “Let me get them settled and into school first, then we can discuss this again in the fall.”
My father opened and closed his mouth, filling me with smug victory that he was utterly stuck by his own words.
“Alan!”
A gray-haired man wearing a sport coat walked toward us along with a woman in an elegant dove gray morning suit.
“John, good to see you.” My father’s demeanor instantly changed, smiling as he stood to shake the man’s outstretched hand.
Poser.
“This is my wife, Elaine,” the man, presumably John, said as he gestured to the kind-looking woman beside him. “Elaine, this is Judge Alberton.”
“I apologize for keeping your husband so busy on the golf course,” my father said as he shook her hand. He pointed to me, and I stood immediately.
“This is my daughter, Polly. She recently moved back to town with my two grandchildren.”
Turning on my smile and extending my hand, I gave both of them a firm handshake. “How do you do?”
“A pleasure. Why, I forgot you had a daughter, Alan,” John said.
I do my best to forget as well, I wanted to retort, but of course, didn’t.
“Polly is a pediatrician who recently started a job with Mercy Health.”
“How wonderful. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Say Alan, we’re suddenly needing a fourth for our golf outing in a few weeks. You interested?”
Elaine turned to me as the men discussed golf. “I can’t imagine being a doctor and a mother with two kids. However do you find the time?”
“It’s not without difficulty,” I answered honestly.
“Your momma must be so proud. I watch our grandchildren once a week and they are the joy of my life. I bet your momma likes watching your kids just as much.”
My chest tightened. Elaine’s words made me miss my mom with so much acuity, my heart ached. It was a wound that never truly healed. Even though the sting of grief had eased with time, it never truly left. It was dormant, awakening at odd times, forever tinging my life’s happy moments, like a photograph in sepia tone.
Polite smile in place, I responded, “My mother passed away when I was young. But she would’ve been a wonderful grandmother. After all, she was the best mom.”
Unlike me, the uncharitable thought floated around me, unbidden.
* * *