Chapter 13
Frankie
If I could only explain to Jillian, if I could only get five minutes with her to properly apologize and show her it would never happen again!
As my parents walked up to the coffee shop, trailed by an assortment of servants, I watched with horror as Christabelle stepped in front of them.
I was struck silent with abject shame and humiliation.
I had blown up my marriage, caused pain to my wife, and fucked up my life over a woman who wanted me for my money.
All those flirty texts, the talk about how she had never forgotten me. . .all lies.
And I remembered the unpleasant scene when we’d broken up.
“Look, Frankie, you’re a nice guy. A sweet guy. But really I’m more the tall, dark, and handsome type. The kind of guy who could crush a mailbox with his bare hands.”
“Why would I want to crush a mailbox with my bare hands?” I asked, but she was gone, leaving me with a broken heart.
Or what I thought was a broken heart.
It was nothing to the pulse-pounding panic I felt now knowing Jillian was angry at me and had not forgiven me.
My parents had recently been in the news too. The purchase of their third yacht had been featured on some stupid lifestyle TV show.
And, coincidentally enough, I had heard from Christabelle for the first time in ten years after that.
Idiot. I had been a stupid, self-absorbed, cocky idiot.
God, the absolute last thing I would ever want, was my parents to know what was happening and how I had screwed up.
“Look, Claudette, a talking crab,” my father said, and by his tone it was not a welcome development.
My mother’s nose turned up as if she had smelled something foul.
“Step aside, crab person,” she said imperiously.
But Christabelle wasn’t to be dissuaded so easily.
“Oh, you probably just don’t recognize me in this stupid costume,” she said, peeling it off her. “Look, it’s me. Christabelle. Don’t you remember me?”
When they both said nothing, Christabelle added “I used to date your son? Frankie?”
“I cannot recall,” Dad said, waving his hand impatiently. “He dated so many forgettable women in college. I really cannot be bothered to remember them all.”
“Now, excuse us,” Mom said cuttingly, “Move aside, crab person. We would like to see our darling daughter-in-law.”
Christabelle’s jaw dropped and I saw that she had made a severe miscalculation, which was that my parents would somehow have nostalgia for the time we were together.
But she could not have been more wrong.
My parents moved around Christabelle impatiently and held both arms out to Jillian. My father’s craggy old face was lit up like a Christmas tree, and he was already reaching into his pockets for the little velvet boxes that held the type of presents he always bought for Jillian.
“It’s only the third biggest emerald in the world,” he said, almost apologetically. “But my dear it had such a shine! It reminded me so much of your eyes and had such a unique cut, that I had to get it.”
He held up an emerald ring the size of a doughnut, and my mother was already snapping her fingers as servants began to bring out boxes of high-end luxury clothing and bags.
“My dear, everything looks good at you, I simply could NOT resist.”
Jillian smiled at them, but I noticed her face was a little pale. A little weary. And I felt a horrible stab of guilt at what I had done.
I struggled to justify my own behavior, but there was no defense for it. Young love. . . the one that got away. . . it had been natural to. . .
But no, I couldn’t.
I had been a dog.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” she said in her sweet voice, as my mother revealed a golden purse covered entirely with diamonds.
“Darling, this old thing was in the Guinness Book of Records! Might be a fun accessory if Frankie ever takes you somewhere NICE.”
She shot a sharp glance at me.
Dad was tutting in disgust as he held Jillian’s hand.
“Maybe she should just go with us on the yacht next time, Claudette. Frankie has not quite been stepping up as he ought lately. When was the last time he even took her to Paris?”
Christabelle was looking more and more outraged, her face turning a mottled beet-red.
Jillian was getting everything she wanted.
“I guess Frankie hasn’t had a chance to talk to you yet,” she said, laughing in a brittle way. “He’s not with her anymore.”
No! This was not how I wanted them to find out.
I wanted to speak. But there seemed to be something choking me.
Their jaws dropped and my mother staggered backwards and had to be caught by a group of servants, while my father clutched his chest.
“WHAT? Is this true, Franklin?”
“I made a mistake,” I gasped. “I’m—trying to make it right.”
“Frankie and I are soulmates,” Christabelle said, striking a pose and running her hands down her curves in an obnoxious manner that could not have been less seductive. “Our love is timeless and eternal and cannot be bound by any such document like a marriage license.”
I thought I would die of shame to see my parents’ faces at this speech, and Cash’s snicker at it didn’t help.
“Are you telling me you are choosing this. . . person over Jillian?” my father barked out impatiently.
“Yes he is,” Christabelle put in indignantly, “and Jillian’s being very bitter about it. Acting like SHE owns the coffee shop! But I know you’ll help Frankie send her away. Dear Mama and Dear Papa.”
“No, no,” I began to garble weakly and desperately. “That’s not at all what I want.”
But my parents were looking at me with repugnance, as if I was a counterfeit Chanel bag.
“You will never get one penny from me,” Dad said angrily. “Using my money to try to intimidate Jillian? I will never lift a finger to help you try and take the coffee shop from her. Never.”
“He wouldn’t have a leg to stand on,” Earnest put in, as Augustus helpfully scribbled behind him.
Heads began to pop out all down Main Street at this commotion. There was very little privacy in Ramshackle Bay, but this was a new low.
Mrs. Greenberg was even sitting on her porch with a glass of wine and her latest knitting project. The humiliation burned me.
“Your allowance is cut off,” Mom said, vibrating with age. “The stock options, the complimentary Jaguars, everything!”
This caused gasps all over, and no one gasped louder than Christabelle.
“Can this possibly be true?” Dad demanded. “Please tell me it’s all a misunderstanding and you couldn’t be such a feckless idiot to do anything to ruin the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“No—well—I didn’t mean to—"
“He cheated on her,” Earnest put in, and I had never wanted to strangle him more. “With that woman in the crab costume.”
“Her?” my father cried out in horror as Christabelle attempted to flutter her eyelashes at him. “This ridiculous strumpet?”
“I NEVER,” gasped my mother as servants fanned her. “NEVER. I thought I raised you right.”
They looked at each out in undisguised horror, and I wanted to sink into the ground, especially as I could hear people along Main Street agreeing with them.
“Well spoken, sir!” Mrs. Greenberg chortled.
“We were planning to continue on to our late spring home,” Father said, “but I think we will stop in town here for a few days.”
“I need my smelling salts,” Mother said weakly as the servants attempted to fan her, and Father took her hand. “Come, Claudette.”
I leaped toward them as they turned away in angry majesty.
“Jillian, we are at your disposal,” Dad said, glaring at Christabelle. “If you would like, please, we would love to take you to lunch tomorrow.”
“You’re going to side with her over your own flesh and blood?” Christabelle shrieked, and I remembered, very unpleasantly, why we had split up in the first place. The endless shrieking scenes with the two of us yelling at each other.
When we had been together, I had drunk way too much. Been depressed, reckless.
But when I met Jillian, that all had changed. I stopped pulling my hair out, grew this full, robust mane of golden hair. Had success after success. Had been happy. How had I possibly forgotten this and let dumb misplaced nostalgia guide me?
“Of course,” my mother said coldly. “We will side with Jillian every time.”
Oh hell.
I hurried after them, trying to sneak between the servants.
“I know I did wrong, I’m trying to make it up to her.”
They only snorted.
“I—I’m going to have to leave the—house. Do you think you could—loan me some money for an apartment deposit?”
“Loan you money?” Mom shrieked. “I do not loan idiots money.”
“Get a job,” Dad said without even looking back.
“You can rent a room from me,” Mrs. Greenberg called out. “There’s no air conditioning and I’ll require you to cook me three meals a day. Kosher only, of course. If I see you bring a strip of bacon into this house, I’ll trip you with my cane.”
I slumped my shoulders. Was this what I was reduced to now?
Could things get any worse? Unbridled stupidity, no home, no business, no beloved wife?
Then I saw Cash put a comforting arm around Jillian’s shoulder.
And instead of shrugging him off, she leaned into his touch.