Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
It was late by the time Elena finished telling James the story of her failure back in Syria—a failure that seemed to detract from all the work she’d put into building a life.
When she finished, she got up from the kitchen table and filled a glass with water.
Her hand shook violently as she tried to drink it, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
But she felt strangely renewed, as though she’d needed to translate what had happened to her—somehow, some way—and had finally found the person willing to listen.
“You must think I’m…” But before she could finish, she trailed off. She couldn’t imagine what James thought of her. Probably, he thought she was broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed. But wasn’t James, as well?
When she turned, she found James beside her at the counter, his arms folded. His eyes echoed back her own nerves.
“Thank you for listening,” she breathed. “I know it’s your job to listen, but it means a lot that you’d do it during your free time.”
“We’re friends,” James said softly. “At least, I already count you as one. I hope that isn’t too forward of me.”
“It’s been a long time since I had a friend,” Elena said.
They were quiet for a moment, their eyes to the black night out the window. In the yard across the way, someone had built a snowman, and its carrot nose was pointed slightly upward, as though the snowman in question was arrogant. James followed her gaze and smiled.
“Every snowman has a different character,” he said.
“I can’t tell what that one’s judging me for,” Elena tried to joke. “Maybe it’s just that I haven’t gotten my haircut in a while. Maybe it’s because my life’s work is a mess.”
James shook his head. “I don’t read the snowman as arrogant. I think he’s trying to make sense of us. You know, like how you have to tilt your head to get a different perspective on life.”
Elena eyed James adoringly. “You have a great way of spinning things.”
James seemed unsure of what to say. The air between them seemed to sizzle.
Right when he parted his lips, his eyes ducked to the stovetop, where he read the time.
It was already far past one in the morning, headed toward two.
But they were adults. Nobody was checking up on them. They could do whatever they pleased.
“Are you going to keep digging on that Cranberry Cove story?” he asked, reaching for his coat. He seemed reticent and regretful, as though he longed to stay.
Elena leaned against the counter and watched as he buttoned his coat. “I think so. It’s not like I think the story will redeem me, save my career, or make up for what happened back in Syria. But I can’t help but think it’s meaningful.”
James held her gaze. “As I understand it, what happened back in Syria wasn’t your fault in the slightest. You were wronged by the person meant to love you. Innocent people died.”
Elena blinked back tears. No matter how often she’d tried to tell herself what James said to her now, she struggled to believe it. “I should have been more careful.” She swallowed. “I shouldn’t have ever trusted him.”
“You were in a strange land under bizarre circumstances,” he told her. “You tried to do everything you could to protect your sources. And Timothy should have respected that.”
Elena let her eyes drop. She felt her body temperature skyrocket. She either needed James to leave immediately or to take her into his arms and cuddle her until she fell asleep.
When was the last time a man had comforted her? Had Timothy ever set aside his arrogance and listened to her sorrows? Even when her father died, Timothy had told her, essentially, to buck up.
Elena walked James to the door and watched as he disappeared through the snowy night.
When the last of the darkness swallowed him, she locked the door and sat on the sofa for a long time.
When she let herself, she could still hear the sounds of bombs in the distance, making a mockery of any beauty she’d found in this life.
That Monday morning after Jemma came over to hang out with Carmen for the day (carrying plenty of puzzles, crosswords, and DVDs in a big linen bag), Elena took her mother’s car and drove out to Cranberry Cove.
Parked at the side of the road, she peered at the gaudy, expensive houses, all of which had been decorated for Christmas with wreaths and string lights and ornate mangers.
It was eight thirty, and most of the millionaires had already left for the day, eager to add more money to their already-stacked bank accounts.
Elena tried to imagine who was left in the houses at this hour.
Stay-at-home wives? Adult children who’d moved home?
Retired folks, playing cards and reading in sunrooms, watching the glinting sunlight on the water?
It was hard to imagine Grandma Rosa coming here as a young girl, racing around a beach that belonged to everyone, rather than just the elite.
The other beaches in the area were inferior; some of them were filled with rocks and stones, and others were just plain ugly.
Perhaps, if Elena stayed in Millbrook, she could help campaign to beautify the other beaches. A few articles wouldn’t hurt.
What am I thinking? She laughed at herself and drove to the newsroom, eager to dig into the day.
When Elena arrived, she found Natalie in her mother’s office, beaming with a mix of excitement and fear.
“What’s going on?” Elena asked, throwing her coat over her mother’s chair.
“Look,” Natalie said, snapping a construction approval onto Elena’s desk. “The judge in Cranberry Cove signed this just yesterday. It looks like they’ll be able to start digging as soon as spring!” Natalie seethed.
Elena pressed her lips together. It seemed like this was a case she couldn’t escape. “What was it you said about the judge looking the other way on a crime?”
Natalie spoke a mile a minute. “The man in charge of the construction crew is named Vic Chestnut. He’s also responsible for several construction projects over in Connersville and is essentially my link to bring all these stories together.”
Elena smirked. “I thought you didn’t want to get involved in this story?”
Natalie threw her head back. “I couldn’t get it out of my head! I mean, why should these people get everything they want? Why should they destroy the last piece of beach Millbrook has left? And why should they get filthy rich doing it?”
Elena was reminded, suddenly, of herself, of how sure she’d been that good journalism could change the world. Maybe she’d been right. If only Timothy hadn’t destroyed that in her.
“Then let’s get to work,” Elena said firmly.
Natalie saluted her and went back to her desk.
All that morning and into the afternoon, Natalie and Elena worked diligently, trying their hardest to find a stiffer paper trail between the Cranberry Cove new-build project and the corruption in Connersville.
They called the bank, and they interviewed people at neighboring country clubs.
They dug and dug and dug. By four thirty, they were exhausted and strung out with barely anything to show for it. But Elena was invigorated.
“Let’s go get some food,” she said to Natalie. “We’ve earned it.”
On the walk to the little bougie sandwich place down the road, Natalie seemed morose. Elena eyed her nervously, her hands shoved in her pockets as they strolled side by side, past the Christmas tree at the courthouse, past where James held his grief therapy meetings.
“You can’t let this get to you,” Elena said quietly. “It’s a part of the process. We’re getting closer and closer. I can feel it.”
Natalie stopped at the corner and flinched to look at Elena. “It’s the fear that gets to me, I think. Every step that takes us closer makes me feel like I’m putting myself at risk.”
“But if there’s corruption at the root of this, don’t you want to tear it open?” Elena asked.
Natalie nodded furiously. “It’s why I came to your office today.”
Elena was taken aback at Natalie calling her mother’s office hers.
Before she could respond, Natalie opened the sandwich shop door and barreled inside, grabbing a chair in the corner.
Elena followed and sat, studying a menu that listed pesto chicken sandwiches, roast beef, and tempeh.
It was a far cry from Syria, but the frustration felt similar. They needed to break this case.
After a sorrowful and contemplative late lunch with Natalie, Elena ran off to pick up her mother and take her to see Maxine.
Elena had been dreading this appointment, but now that it was here, she tried to get her mind around the truth.
Her mother was sick, and medication would help her. That was what it was for.
But all the way to the hospital, Carmen fought Elena tooth and nail.
“Tell me everything you’re publishing this week,” Carmen demanded. “I’m the owner of the paper, for crying out loud. It’s up to me to say what goes and what doesn’t.”
Elena listed out what she could remember of the schedule: the Christmas potlucks, the Christmas choir concert, the interview with the church’s organist, who’d just performed Christmas concertos in Rome.
Carmen clucked her tongue, as though no list was good enough for her.
Elena was crushed under the weight of Carmen’s expectations.
When they parked in the lot next to the hospital, Elena cut the engine but didn’t unlock the door yet.
Carmen was quiet, mercifully. Elena wondered whether she should ask her mother why she hadn’t told anyone about what had happened in Syria.
More than that, Elena wondered if her mother understood the entire story of what had happened.
Elena needed her to know that it hadn’t been Elena’s fault, not entirely.
That Elena had trusted the wrong person, and everything had exploded.
But before she could say anything more, Carmen unlocked her own door, grumbling that she had to do everything herself. Elena had to run to keep up with her.
In Maxine’s office, Carmen was on her best behavior. It was clear that she wanted to “prove” to Maxine that nothing was wrong with her. It felt tragic, in a way, given the fact that Maxine and Elena had once been young girls in Carmen’s care. Everything was turned on its head.
Maxine prescribed Carmen a number of donepezil pills proven to curb the effects of early-onset Alzheimer’s. She described the pills to Carmen and Elena in simple terms that proved she knew enough of what she was talking about to make things understandable. Elena fought back tears the entire time.
“I have to take them every single day?” Carmen demanded, as though she couldn’t believe it.
“I always suggest setting up as many reminders as you can,” Maxine said. “Alarms on your phone and notes on the fridge.”
Immediately, Elena set an alarm for herself, eager to help her mother through this next stage. Her blind and silly hope was that the minute her mother got accustomed to the pills, she’d be better. She’d go back to work.
Elena tried to tell herself not to think such optimistic things, especially given the nature of this disease, but she couldn’t stop.
When the appointment was over, Carmen barreled toward the door, eager to get out of there. She hated being the topic of conversation. When she went into the hallway, Elena hung back to thank Maxine.
“Don’t mention it.” Maxine’s eyes glinted. “By the way, do you want to come over for dinner sometime soon? I know you have responsibilities to the paper and to your mother. But I’d love for you to meet my husband and children. They’ve heard so much about you over the years.”
Elena took a breath, surprised and touched that Maxine had ever mentioned her to the people she loved now. It meant that their childhood friendship and love had really mattered.
“I’d like that very much,” she said.
It wasn’t till she got into the car that she felt tears drip down her cheeks. Beside her, Carmen was quiet, as though she were stewing over what Maxine had said. But by the time they got home, it was clear Carmen had forgotten. Elena had to remind her to take the pills first thing.