10. Liv
Liv
It took two brownie squares, the world’s longest conversation about Taylor Swift, and a discussion about Gray during which I nearly bit my tongue in half to convince Chloe to quit holding a grudge.
The last thing I wanted was to deny her gut feelings, or make her feel as if her perspective was invalid, the way my parents had done to me for so long.
Still, as tempting as it was to trash-talk Gray, he was her father.
It was a delicate dance, and I had to call upon every bit of my therapeutic skills not to misstep.
After I’d finally persuaded her to drop the attitude, checked over her homework, made sure she’d brushed her teeth, and tucked her in in her small blue room with its canopy bed, I went downstairs and back into the living room.
Then I brewed myself a cup of hibiscus tea with honey, sat down in front of the fire, and took slow, even sips, willing my mind to calm.
There was no one I valued more than my daughter.
When she was born, I’d promised myself that our relationship would be different than the one I had with my mom.
It would be honest and true, even the ugly parts.
But God, if she was like this at eight, what would she be like as a teenager?
Sometimes I doubted I was up to the challenge.
Once again, I wished for a true partner who I could discuss Chloe’s behavior with, someone I trusted to go down the hall and chat with her, without making things worse.
It wasn’t like I had any inkling Theo could be that person.
But I couldn’t deny how comfortable I’d felt with him, even though we’d just met.
I thought of the raspy sound of his voice when he’d told me I was made for him, the heat of his mouth on my breasts and the nip of his teeth, and shivered all over, despite the warmth of the fire.
Then there was how he’d made me coffee, the way he’d looked in my kitchen, as if he belonged there—
I choked that line of thought off before it could go any further.
I’d known the man for less than twelve hours, during which we’d had amazing sex and discovered a bizarre connection.
A connection that meant we should have as little to do with each other as possible, given the way he’d stormed out of my house.
I needed to accept that, and figure out whether I was willing to approach Grandma Ella in the meantime.
I knew what my parents would say. That I should let sleeping dogs lie, leave well enough alone.
That the only good Dressler was a nonexistent Dressler…
although how his last name was still Dressler, given that he was descended from Susi, who’d surely married, I didn’t understand.
There was a story there, I was sure of it.
One I knew my parents wouldn’t want me to explore.
I took a sip of tea, then another, trying to still my racing thoughts, but they wouldn’t slow.
Sighing, I sat back down in the armchair, wishing for something more potent.
Alas, a stronger drink was out. I was responsible for Chloe.
I couldn’t get drunk like a rebellious college student trying to prove to her parents she was really an adult.
Drunk or not, the temptation to push the boundaries of what my parents would find acceptable nagged at me.
I imagined calling them up right now and telling them the whole story.
I slept with a Dressler on top of his piano, I’d say.
Then I defiled him on Grandma Ella’s hand-carved Honduran mahogany coffee table.
And you know what? I loved every sinful second of it.
While they were still reeling from that, I’d hit them with the rest: I want to know the truth, once and for all, about what happened that day in 1927.
I think Grandma Ella deserves that much.
And if you want to keep this from her, then I’m ashamed of you.
Yes, that would go over well. I could just imagine my father turning fifty shades of puce, right before he went on a rant about the Carter-Brentwood name and ungrateful, entitled daughters and whatever other piece of my past he saw fit to dredge up.
Arguing with my dad was like opening the door to a hurricane.
Before you knew it, you were somehow getting smacked with the next door neighbor’s lawn chairs, a garden gnome you hadn’t seen since 1994, and your own pitiful inadequacy in the face of forces greater than your own.
He was so skilled at playing the blame game, there was never any room for an actual conversation.
Calling my parents was definitely out. But maybe I could use my liquid courage to phone Gray, instead. I considered that for half a second, then shook my head in disgust.
Against my parents’ protests that he was completely unsuitable, I’d married Gray for what I thought was love, drawn to his adventurous spirit and dreams of artistic success.
But all he’d seen in me was my bank account, someone to underwrite his deadbeat, philandering existence.
He’d made a mockery of our vows, and I could never forgive him for that.
I wasn’t up to dealing with him tonight, especially not if Luna was there. Talk about awkward.
What, then? I could check my work emails, read a book, binge something on Netflix. But my argument with Theo nagged at me, rife with possibility. I couldn’t let it go.
He had to be wrong. I would prove it, and then this whole disaster would go away. Determined, I grabbed my laptop and began to dig, starting with the mystery of Grandma Ella’s locked-park disappearance.
There were around four hundred keys to Gramercy Park in circulation.
I knew the number by heart, since my father was fond of proclaiming the park’s exclusivity every time we visited.
Surely there had been far fewer available in 1927.
Maybe I could figure out who’d had keys to the park back then, even turn up testimony from someone who’d seen Ella disappear.
If I could narrow down the possibilities, maybe I could follow the trail from that point to her appearance at the Divine Grace Home for Children.
After that, everything was clear enough: the couple from Chicago had adopted her and taken her to live with them; the Carters had discovered her whereabouts and brought her back to Manhattan; mayhem had ensued.
I found links to a bunch of old newspaper articles about the incident, but they only confirmed what I already knew.
Then I stumbled on an article that mentioned James MacEwan, an employee at The Players who’d vanished around the time of Grandma Ella’s disappearance.
“Yeah, the club has keys to the park for our members. But I can’t see as James would have anything to do with taking that little girl,” his co-worker was quoted as saying.
“The man had gambling debts. Owed a ton of cabbage and was in trouble with a bunch of Brunos. None of us blamed him for lighting out. It was either make a clean sneak or wind up sleeping with the fishes, if you know what I mean.”
I did not, in fact, know what he meant in the slightest, and had to look up a list of 1920s slang to translate.
Apparently, cabbage meant money, Brunos were mob enforcers, a clean sneak was a successful escape that left no clues, and sleeping with the fishes…
well, I knew that one from watching The Godfather, at least.
The man who’d been interviewed for the article had mentioned that the club had keys to the park.
Was it possible that James had taken my grandmother?
But then, surely he would have asked for a ransom, which I’d never heard anyone talk about.
The Carters had money; it was the only reason I could think of that anyone would want to steal their child.
If no money had ever been demanded or received, then why would James take Ella? And why let her go?
Maybe, if I could track down James’s descendants or the descendants of people who’d worked at the club back then, they’d know something.
It was a long shot, but this was the sort of scandal people told their kids about, right?
And if I could prove James had kidnapped my grandmother, then trace a line from the moment he’d taken her to the moment the Chicago couple found her at the orphanage, taking the DNA test would pose no threat at all.
Just as I was about to do a deep dive into the history of The Players, my phone rang, startling me. I jumped, nearly upsetting my mug of tea. Then I glanced at the caller ID, saw it was Gray, and made the mistake of answering anyhow.
“Hey, darlin’,” he said, his familiar, smoke-rough voice sending a rush of conflicting emotions through me.
Irritation rose to the top and stayed there. “Don’t call me that.”
“Have it your way, Olivia,” he drawled in the Southern accent I’d found so charming when we first met. “I was just calling to check on Chloe. She seemed a little…well, off.”
“So kind of you to notice.” I would stay calm, I promised myself.
I wouldn’t lose my temper. I would stick to the facts.
“Since you ask, she was upset because you had a woman with you the entire weekend, when you were supposed to be spending time with her. And because you didn’t tell her about it beforehand. ”
He drew in a deep breath. “I believe in authenticity where my relationships are concerned. Just being honest with her, darlin’.”
Authenticity, my rosy red fanny. “You want to be honest? Be honest with me, Gray, and tell me you’re seeing someone, so I can prepare our daughter. See how it feels. It’ll be a novel sensation. I seem to recall you’re fond of those.”
“Ouch,” he said, sounding amused.