Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
Ian
I’m halfway out the door on my way to the sailing club when I hear Dad calling my name.
His voice echoes from down the hall. “Where are you headed?”
I consider pretending I don’t hear and slipping outside, but his footsteps are growing closer.
With a sigh, I turn around to face him, leaning one shoulder on the doorframe. “I’m just headed to the club.”
“I thought you didn’t have practice today.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to tell Dad that I’m going to the club to see if Josie is working. “The regatta is coming up.” I improvise. “I thought I’d get a little more training in.”
Dad grabs my shoulder and gives it an affectionate shake. “That’s great. I’m proud of you, son. That’s the sort of work ethic that’s going to make you successful in whatever you do.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, looking past him into the cavernous living room and hoping that this conversation isn’t going where I think it is.
“Like working with me in the family business someday,” Dad adds.
My stomach twists into a knot. Dad has been talking about me coming to work at Langley Capital since before I could walk.
When I was a little kid, I loved to go into the office with him.
I loved to sit in on meetings about investment properties and building codes and to put on a hard hat and walk through a construction site.
Ralph, the head carpenter, used to take me into the shop to show me the cabinets he was building and let me try spinning the electric sander over wide planks of maple.
But like so many parts of Dad, as I grew older, the shine wore off and I saw the business for what it really was.
Sandy Harbor is a close-knit beach community where families have been vacationing for generations, and the locals take pride in keeping the island’s traditional ways.
But lately, there have been some big changes.
Developers are buying up the original houses and knocking them down to make way for sprawling rentals built with little thought to aesthetics or the environment.
Families are being priced out of their vacation homes so millionaires from the city can buy a place with a rooftop deck and a hot tub that will sit empty for most of the year.
And locals are losing their homes and being forced to move to the mainland to find affordable housing.
And the worst part is, Dad is the one leading the charge.
I’m not up for another fight about it, though. “I’ve got to go to college first,” I hedge.
He chuckles. “That’s right, son. Stay focused.”
I take a step backward, out of the doorframe and onto the front porch. “I should get going. Don’t want to miss out on this great weather.”
He follows me to the door. “Why don’t you ride with me today? I have a meeting at the club in about an hour. Might as well save on gas.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. As if he really cares about environmental impact.
If he did, he’d be more concerned with wildlife habitats when he was demolishing beachfront houses.
I don’t really have a reason to say no, though, since we are going to the same place, so I mutter a reluctant, “Sure.”
We climb into his Audi, and just as he’s accelerating around the curve in the driveway and past the house, I spot movement to my right.
It’s Mom, standing in the archway of the front door, her face creased with deep lines, her shoulders hunched, her head turning to watch us drive away.
As usual, she’s holding a glass of wine in her hand.
The realization comes to me, and I swear out loud.
Dad looks at me sharply.
“It’s Thursday.” I bark the words, harsh and accusing.
“So?” Dad asks, steering past the security guard who opens the gate for us.
I spin in the car’s buttery leather seat to glare at him.
“You’re supposed to be having dinner with Mom tonight.
She was going to make pasta primavera.” I check my watch.
It’s 5 p.m. If his meeting is in an hour, he won’t get out of the club before eight.
And I know he won’t be cutting it short or rushing home. He’s going to stand Mom up again.
“Your mother will understand.” Dad drives the car down our winding private road flanked on both sides by beach grasses and sandy dunes, not easing off the gas or showing even the most remote sign of reconsidering.
“I’m about to close a huge deal. And when I do, I promise I’ll make it up to her.
I was looking into trips for our anniversary. Italy or Greece.”
Anger pumps through my veins. He’ll never take her to Italy or Greece.
He hasn’t taken her on a trip in years. And when he promises he will and doesn’t follow through, she’ll be devastated.
And I’ll be the one watching her drink her sorrows away.
I’ll be the one splashing wine into the sink when she’s not looking and hoping she’ll think she already drank it.
I’ll be the one waking her from where she’s passed out on the couch and helping her stumble to bed.
Who is going to do all of that when I’m at Stanford? The question has been slowly weighing on me for months… even years… but suddenly the reality of it looms in front of me, just a few short weeks away. The guilt is eating away at me, knowing Mom will only get worse with nobody to look out for her.
I close my eyes and see Josie standing on the dock shoving a Coke into Cal’s chest. She could have gotten in trouble, could have lost her job.
But she wasn’t afraid to push back and make him look like a jerk in front of everyone.
A couple of the guys even told me later that the incident made them realize they didn’t want to be like Cal.
And thanks to Josie, Cal will think twice about harassing a server, even if only to avoid more humiliation.
My stomach slowly unclenches as I picture her face. I want to see her smile, make her laugh, to admire her art and explore her tattoos and find out everything there is to know about her. How can I have these feelings for her and stand by and watch Dad treat Mom so badly?
Maybe I need to stop covering for him.
I take a deep breath. “I know you’ve been fooling around on Mom,” I say in a quiet, controlled voice.
“What are you talking about?” Dad stops the car at a light on Harbor Boulevard and turns to look at me. “Where is this coming from?”
My mouth drops open at his innocent expression. “What do you mean where is it coming from? It’s obvious. It’s always been obvious. All of your business meetings… All of the women you bring to the house when Mom is out of town…”
“You mean my clients?” His voice deepens with disapproval.
“We both know that’s not what they are.” I cross my arms over my chest. “If you don’t stop cheating on Mom, I’m going to tell her.”
I can’t quite believe that after all these years of silence, I’ve finally given him this ultimatum. But a part of me doesn’t care, either. It’s the right thing. It’s time.
A car behind us honks, and we both shift to face the front windshield where the light has turned green. Dad accelerates into the intersection.
“Listen,” he says as we coast down the next block.
“I know you think you understand the situation, but you don’t.
Your mom and I have been married for a long time.
And I need you to understand that it’s your mother’s drinking that’s driving us apart.
” He shoots a glance in my direction. “Maybe I do have a few women friends, but that’s only because it’s lonely being married to an alcoholic.
I’ve asked her to stop. Begged her.” He clears his throat like it’s clogged with emotion.
“She won’t go to therapy or rehab. She doesn’t want to change.
At some point, I had to accept that she loves the bottle more than she loves me. ”
I stare at him, taking in the raw edge to his voice and the way he stares blankly ahead as if he’s lost in his own personal pain.
I feel a tiny flicker of compassion for him.
After all, I have to admit that similar thoughts have crossed through my own mind over the years.
Why doesn’t she stop drinking? Why doesn’t she love me enough?
What would it be like to have that person be your partner in life?
The one who promised to love and cherish you?
But even as my heart aches for him, I can’t help but feel skeptical, too.
Dad has a habit of saying what people want to hear, and I don’t know what to believe.
Did Mom start drinking because Dad became distant and unfaithful, or did he become distant and unfaithful because she started drinking?
The light ahead flips to red, and Dad stops the car, turning his gaze to mine.
He looks older, tired, like his features are weighed down by emotion.
“I’ll be honest, son. I’ve thought of leaving her.
But I’m afraid if I do, she’ll fall apart.
Or worse, that she’ll become your responsibility.
I can’t let that happen when you’re about to go off to college and start your life. So, I stay.”
My chest tightens. Dad could leave and then he’d be free to do whatever he wants.
And then Mom would fall apart, and I’d probably be the one picking up the pieces.
I don’t know how I’d go away to Stanford knowing she might be home, drinking herself to death.
How I’d go to class or study or hang out with my friends worrying that she might fall down the stairs, she might overdose, and nobody would be there to help her.