Chapter 23
Phoenix
Holland is quiet when she comes home from her first therapy session.
We decided that it would be weird if she saw the same therapist I see, so she’s going to someone different in the same clinic. It’s a little place on the mainland, discreet, and I’ve liked them a lot.
But it’s hard to tell if Holland likes them.
When I pick her up from the ferry, she looks horrible; haunted, almost, and her whole body is listless, dragging.
Was therapy a bad idea?
It’s not that I expect change after one session—or even have the right to expect change at all—but she looks exponentially worse than she did when she boarded the ferry two hours ago. And I’m smart enough to know that you don’t ask someone what they talk about with their therapist, but when I ask her vaguely how it went, she doesn’t even give a verbal response. She just shrugs and gives a noncommittal humming sound before turning to stare out the golf cart.
I keep my thoughts to myself, and the rest of my questions, and my concerns. She might be my wife, and we might have reached a tentative peace, but we’re not close enough that I can broach these things with her yet. So I settle for keeping my eyes on the road and sneaking occasional glances at her.
She goes to bed less than thirty minutes after we get home.
And I shouldn’t be so worried; I shouldn’t feel this anxious. She’s a grown woman; she doesn’t need me meddling into her mental health, and I don’t have the right to meddle. But I find myself drifting down the hallway every so often, listening intently when I pass her door, just to make sure…
What? What am I trying to make sure of?
On my third such trip, I finally sigh and tell myself to get a grip. I’m all but pacing, and it’s unlike me.
I go to the living room instead and pick up a magazine I’ve been meaning to read, last week’s Forbes. I flip it open randomly, latching onto the first article I see, trying to force myself to be interested—but my eyes do little more than skim the words. It’s almost a relief when my phone rings.
I answer without looking at the caller ID, which I regret immediately, because it’s Clarence.
“Yes,” I say.
“Come to dinner next week,” he says. “At your grandmother’s.”
His voice, gruff and impatient, tells me that he doesn’t want to be calling me any more than I want to be hearing from him; these are the kinds of tasks Mavis offloads to other people.
“I’m busy,” I say. It’s true; I’m always busy.
“On Monday,” he says, ignoring me completely. “Be there. Bring your wife.”
Then he hangs up, leaving me staring at the phone, clenched tightly in my hand.
Deep breath .
I toss the magazine to the side; then I stand up and head to my study, my steps determined.
Mavis’s miraculous recovery means I need to make some adjustments—major adjustments. And though I never foresaw her return to health…I do have some ideas.
They’re intimidating ideas; scary, even. But, oddly, they feel good, too—in a way I can’t describe. When I think about my options for the future, I mostly feel dread; only one path fills me with any sort of excitement.
I always envisioned my future at the company. I wanted to open a humanitarian branch. I wanted to do good things.
But I don’t know how much longer I can remain under Mavis’s thumb. I don’t know how much longer I can stand the mind games. And I definitely don’t know if I can justify keeping Holland around an environment so toxic.
I think…it might be time.
So I call Wyatt as soon as I’m seated comfortably in my desk chair. The phone rings twice before he answers.
“I’ve been forcefully invited to have dinner with Mavis on Monday.”
“Noted,” he says. “I’ll add it to your calendar.”
“Thank you. Also,” I add—I take another deep breath—“I think it’s time to plan for some changes.”
Wyatt hesitates for just a second. Then he says, “I wondered.”
“Do you remember the contingency plans we discussed briefly when Mavis first sent out the copy of her will?”
“I do,” he says, and I can imagine him nodding, his glasses flashing, his hair combed neatly into its side part.
“Let’s get the ball rolling on that.” Even just saying the words fills me with something like adrenaline, the same kind of nervousness you feel before performing on stage or givinga presentation.
Wyatt pauses once again. But when he speaks, he only asks one question: “Are you certain?”
I think about my phone call with Clarence; I think about Lawrence. I think about Holland and my mother. I think about Mavis Butterfield.
I straighten up in my seat before I even realize I’m doing it. “Yes,” I say, my voice stronger. “I think so.”
Dinner three days later is not quite a disaster, but it’s not good, either.
All of my aunts and uncles are present, gathered around Mavis’s long dining table. It’s made of shiny, dark wood, and Mavis sits at the head, a queen surveying her kingdom from her throne. My mother and Clarence and Aunt Rita and Aunt Barbara all look like Mavis, and they all wear similar expressions—haughty, entitled, thoroughly unpleasant. It’s like sitting at a table with a bunch of Mavises; Lawrence and Dorothy-call-me-Dot are here too, and Lawrence wears the same expression as the rest.
There’s still no ring on Dorothy’s finger, I can’t help but notice, and I’m not surprised; Lawrence’s pathological need to remain uncommitted must be locked in battle with his desire to inherit the company. He won’t be able to hold his father off for much longer, though; my guess is they’ll be engaged by the end of the summer.
I think I might feel some pity for Dorothy, even though I don’t like her.
I stick close to Holland from the second we enter the house—a giant, sprawling home that edges into mansion territory. There’s a sweeping staircase that I doubt Mavis can travel anymore, lots of dark wood, and ornate light fixtures in every room; it’s objectively nice, even if it’s tainted by its inhabitants. I can tell Holland wants to gape at everything—her eyes go wide as soon as we step into the foyer—but she doesn’t; she maintains a cool, almost bored expression, her posture perfect, not a hair out of place.
She was made to wear this dress—navy blue, knee length, with a high neckline and sleeves that come down to her elbows. It shows very little skin, but it’s fitted to every curve, and the dark color somehow makes her hair seem brighter, more golden.
I’m getting distracted, though only partly by her appearance; she still isn’t quite herself. She’s better than she was right after her therapy session, but some of her fire seems to be gone. So I stay by her side, because my family is unpredictable, and she doesn’t need their nonsense right now.
There seems to be little point to the gathering; I keep waiting, but Mavis doesn’t make any announcements, and no one gives any official family updates. There’s no business talk. We just sit around the table and eat for forty-five minutes in near silence, and Mavis appears to be the only one who enjoys it. I’m half waiting for her to cackle, but she doesn’t.
A power play; that’s what this is. Look at how alive I am. Look at what I can demand from you.
I swallow my beef bourguignon with grim satisfaction. Not for long, you old witch.
“Hey,” Holland says out of the corner of her mouth, leaning closer. “We should poach your grandma’s cook. This is amazing.”
“I don’t want to employ anyone who’s worked for Mavis this long,” I breathe back .
She turns her head to look at me, surprised. “What about Wyatt?”
“Wyatt worked for my father until he died,” I say quietly. “He took care of me after that. He’s never been with Mavis.”
She smiles slowly. “I knew I liked him.”
“What are you lovebirds chatting about over there?” Clarence cuts in, his voice blaring and intrusive, his smile ribbon around ice. Every head at the table turns in our direction.
“I was asking Phoenix what size of pads he recommends,” Holland says just as loudly—and without missing a beat. Further up the table, Lawrence chokes and coughs into his beef bourguignon. Mavis snorts with something that might be amusement.
“He says jumbo size is good for days of heavier flow,” Holland goes on. “The overnight ones with the wings.”
Clarence hums coldly, his lips twisting in distaste— wrong line of business, Clarence— and Holland returns to her food and her quiet.
Every now and then she casts a questioning glance around the table, though, and I try to picture how strange it must seem, a large family eating in tense silence, no underlying warmth to be felt.
She sighs audibly when Mavis excuses herself without a word ten minutes later, waving her assistant over to help her stand. Everyone disperses after that, and we’re the first ones to leave. My mother tries to get my attention on the way out, but I ignore her—rudely, maybe, but I have limits. I grab Holland’s hand without thinking, pulling her along to get out faster; she hisses at me and yanks on my grasp until I slow down again.
“Look at me, I’m the big alpha male, dragging my helpless female along,” she mutters under her breath as we stride through the foyer, and I roll my eyes.
“Then hurry up, ” I say over my shoulder.
She makes a face at me, and I halt with tired feet.
“You signed the contract,” I say in a low voice. “Cooperate, please.”
“Signing the contract does not equal letting you drag me around,” she snaps; her voice echoes around the marble foyer, and I make a hissing sound at her.
“Quiet,” I say. Then, because she’s right, I add reluctantly, “I’ll stop dragging you. Sorry.”
She bristles but nods, and we resume our path.
Both of us are exhausted by the time we get home; she kicks off her heels immediately and then beelines for the couch, flopping face-first and not moving for several seconds.
“I just don’t understand how you’re the easiest person to be around in your entire family,” she finally says, rolling over. “In any given situation, you should be the most insufferable.”
“Bold words for a woman who kissed me in a closet all those years ago,” I say, leaning back against the kitchen counter and loosening my tie. “And then agreed to marry me.”
She sits up. “For pay ,” she says. “I agreed to marry you for pay. ”
I cock my brow at her. “Yeah?” I say. My tie undone, I begin unbuttoning my shirt. “What about the closet? Was that for pay too?”
“I—it wasn’t—” She swallows, her eyes falling to my shirt. “Are you taking that off out here?”
“Why?” I say, smirking at her expression. Something shifts in my chest at the way her eyes are trained on me, something that pushes the next words out of my mouth. “Want to find another closet? ”
She scoffs, pulling her gaze away from my half-bare chest. “You wish.”
“Maybe sometimes,” I murmur.
Her head whips back toward me, her cheeks rosy pink. “What?”
“I said You’re dumb sometimes .” I push off the counter and head toward the hallway where our bedrooms are located. “I’m going to bed. Try not to snore tonight.”
She gapes at me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re the one who snores. I’ve never snored a day in my life ?—”
“But you wouldn’t know, would you?” I pull my shirt off just before I round the corner. “Sleep well,” I call, grinning.
She doesn’t snore. But it’s fun to get that look out of her.
I fall asleep almost immediately, and I dream of closets with my wife—of kissing her and never stopping.
I wake up suddenly and with a pounding heart; part of that is from the dreams that have been haunting me all night, but the other part is that I can hear Holland. It’s another nightmare, judging by the sound, torn and desolate.
As soon as I open her door, the light from the hallway illuminates her, and I see that tonight is different. She’s not asleep anymore, or even half-asleep; she’s fully awake, sitting up, curled in on herself. Her head is hidden, buried in her knees, and her arms are wrapped around her legs. Even in the weak light I can tell that she’s holding herself too tightly, a woman clutching a life raft.
The sound of her cries is one of the worst things I’ve ever heard. They’re sobs pulled not from her throat but from her soul .
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands hovering awkwardly in silent debate until I finally rest one on her shoulder.
“Holland,” I say. I can hear my uncertainty; sometimes people need to fall apart in private, with no one watching. I don’t know what she wants right now. “Holland?”
When she speaks, I don’t understand. The words are muffled, spoken into her knees and blurred by her tears.
“I can’t hear you,” I say.
Her shoulders continue to shake as she lifts her head, and I barely stop myself from rearing back.
Devastation. Bottomless, unseeing eyes.
“Trev is dead,” she says—broken, gasping, desperate.
It’s a blow to the chest, physically painful, and my heart falters and then plummets. I swallow and answer her anyway. “Yes,” I say, my voice quiet. “Trev is dead.”
She fights for more air, a tight, horrible sound. “I couldn’t stop the car.”
“I know,” I say with a slow nod.
“I tried—I tried?—”
“I know.” I tighten my grip on her shaking shoulder. “I know you tried.”
She’s close to hyperventilating now. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t—” She breaks off, and I scoot closer to her.
“You couldn’t,” I say. “You couldn’t have done anything. If I had been driving, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything either. We couldn’t have changed anything, Holl. We couldn’t change the road. We couldn’t change the car. We couldn’t change the river.” I swallow as a tangled knot rises in my throat. “Rivers are always going to flow. Sometimes they’re icy. We just swim anyway.”
She finally releases her death grip on her knees, swiping at her eyes. “I’m tired of swimming,” she says. Her entire body is still shuddering with her cries, but she sounds frustrated now too. “I’m tired. ”
I lean forward and wrap my arms around her, pulling her close. “I know,” I say heavily.
She doesn’t resist; she melts into me, sobbing, hot tears on my bare chest—sorrow past words, jagged and sharp, grief like a knife.
And I wonder: Is this the first time she’s cried about Trev? Surely not. My guess is that this is what she talked about in her therapy session, but was it the first time she’d ever talked about the crash in any detail?
Something deep in my soul whispers that these tears have been a long time coming—that I’m witnessing the destruction of a dam she built around her broken heart years ago.
It’s probably twenty minutes before her tears subside and her body stops shaking in my arms; I figure she’s fallen asleep, until she shifts and a question filters toward me.
“Do I really snore?” she says in a tired little voice, slow and drowsy.
I smile gently as something warm stirs in my chest. “No,” I say, stroking her hair.
“I knew it.”
I just pull her closer. When she finally falls asleep, I ease her back onto her pillow; then I crawl under the covers and curl up next to her, dozing off to the sound of her soft, even breathing.