Chapter Three
I slid into bed at half past ten. The muffled sound of our garage door opening set me upright around eleven. Energy fluttered through me, and I hustled to the kitchen to pull out the roast and veggies I’d moved from the slow cooker to the fridge.
“Oh,” Robert said, padding toward the island several moments later. His tie hung loose around his neck like a scarf. He carried his suit jacket and briefcase. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”
“I wasn’t,” I said, arranging his dinner on a plate before setting it inside the microwave. “I made a roast. I’ll reheat you some.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said. “I had dinner at the club.”
I blinked. “You weren’t at work all this time?”
Robert’s expression hardened. The pale-blue eyes I’d fallen in love with at nineteen now looked like those of the devil. “Yes, Sophie. I was at work, but I was there for fourteen hours. They let me out to eat. What did you think?”
I stiffened at his tone. “I thought you’d be hungry.”
“I’m not.”
The microwave dinged, and I retrieved the steaming meal.
“I wish you would’ve called,” I said, equally angry with both of us. He was the absolute worst, but I was ridiculous for catering to a man I loathed. “Or sent a text.”
“I was working,” he said slowly. “What?” he asked when I didn’t respond.
I shook my head and set the plate on the island. This was the last night I cared if he went to bed hungry. I never should’ve accepted the task as my responsibility. That was on me.
“What?” he repeated.
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
Robert released a laborious sigh and marched in my direction. His mussed hair and rumpled shirt gave the impression he’d been sleeping before his return home.
I wondered briefly if there was another woman.
Oddly, I was never enough for him, though I’d started as the prize.
A rebel, free of my hometown, my parents, and everyone who knew the old version of me, at least for a few short years.
Happy, carefree, and uninterested in dating. I’d been a game for him to win.
He wanted me despite my lack of interest. Or maybe because of it.
He chased me, pursuing tirelessly until I agreed to dinner.
One yes had opened the door I couldn’t close.
He made a shameless spectacle of wooing me, and everyone except Alicia thought it was so cute.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it then. It was overwhelming to be so starkly visible and unapologetically wanted.
I thought my luck had somehow changed. That, despite what I’d come to believe growing up, I was lovable, desirable, and worthy.
I heard rumors that he cheated on me in college, but I could never prove it.
I’d had my suspicions over the years, but I lacked the backbone to confirm.
Because what would I do if I was right? Leave?
Robert was an attorney. He had money and influence.
I had no work experience, no income, and a daughter I would’ve lost access to every other week.
I couldn’t imagine missing a single moment with her, and I feared he might try to poison her against me on the weeks she lived with him.
Then there was the porn. I’d once cried rivers over his need for those magazines when he had a loving wife in his bed.
I’d crash dieted, though there wasn’t anything wrong with my figure.
I lost an unhealthy amount of weight, and I suspect I looked at the women in the photos more than he did, perpetually wondering how I could be more appealing.
Those were the years before I realized I wasn’t the problem.
Back when I cared about him at all.
I stepped back as he drew near, thrown by the hostility flowing off him.
“Here,” he said, lifting the fork I’d set out and stabbing a piece of tender meat. “I’m eating your dinner.” He shoved the bite into his mouth and made a show of enjoying it. “Mmm. Thank you. I forgot to eat all day. What would I do without you?”
The fork clattered against the plate where he dropped it, and I stared as he strode away.
Resentment boiled in me, and I imagined throwing the used fork at his head. Instead, I followed him. “Have you spoken with Camilla?” I asked.
“No. Why?” He turned as he entered our bedroom, then went directly into his closet. “What’s the problem now?”
I bristled but ignored his nonsensical statement. Camilla was always a delight. “Jeff invited her to the Maldives when school ends this year, and I think he might propose.” I waited, but Robert didn’t respond. “I think we need to have a talk with her before they leave.”
Robert reappeared in sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I think you spend too much time worrying about what other people are doing. What I’m eating, when I get home, where our adult daughter goes on vacation. We aren’t paying for that, are we?” he asked as an afterthought.
“No. And I don’t care where she goes on vacation. I care that she might end up married before she finishes college. We need to encourage her to take things slowly and enjoy her life before settling down.”
Robert grunted. “If she’s happy, why interfere?”
“The wedding will cost you at least a hundred thousand dollars,” I snapped, knowing that mentioning money would likely get his attention.
His expression turned bewildered. “It’s our only daughter’s wedding. Would you prefer a backyard barbecue?” He laughed at his terrible joke. “That sounds like something your parents would’ve suggested, actually.”
As usual, I’m thrown by his response. Normally he made me believe saving money was all that mattered.
It wasn’t long ago he’d ranted and lectured me for buying a six-dollar box of Girl Scout cookies, as if I’d committed a capital offense, but tonight a one-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding was no big deal.
I could never predict his reactions as much as I tried, and this was a prime example.
I shook off the mental whiplash and moved on. I wouldn’t get any support for my concern for Camilla, so I provoked him. “Speaking of my parents,” I said, “my mom worries me.”
He scoffed. “Is that supposed to be news?”
I steadied myself with a hand against the bedroom doorframe. “I think she needs help.”
“You think she needs money,” he corrected, tossing the emphasis back to his usual point of view.
“Maybe.”
“Your dad set her up nicely for their lifestyle. If she blows through the savings, that’s not on us.”
“I think her health is declining,” I said. “She’s not managing her diabetes.”
He hooked headphones around the back of his neck and stared down at me, waiting for me to move.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve had a long day, and I need to blow off some steam,” he said. “I’m going to the treadmill, though I still don’t see why it has to be all the way in the basement.”
He’d let me choose the home gym location.
I didn’t understand why he’d asked me at the time, since the space was primarily intended for him.
Over the years I’d come to understand his reasoning.
He rarely worked out without first complaining that I set it up so far away and in such an inconvenient location.
One more way to say I screwed up, or let him down.
One more example of my ineptitude and incompetence.
I moved aside, and he brushed past me into the hallway.
“Don’t give her any money,” he said over one shoulder as he jogged down the steps.
I climbed back into bed and fell asleep to visions of Robert being shot off the back of the treadmill at high speed.
In the morning, I left a note on the kitchen counter advising Robert that I’d gone to Pilates. On the off chance he came home while I was away, I didn’t want him to call or question me. I didn’t have the bandwidth to fight.
Mom lived in an older neighborhood two towns away. A twenty-five-minute drive into local history. Everything near the home I shared with Robert was new and shiny. Condominiums and gated communities surrounded by highways, upscale shopping and dining.
Harbor Heights, however, was the epitome of historic Virginia. Ancient oak trees lined uneven brick streets, their gnarled, reaching limbs entwined gently overhead. Morning sunlight filtered through the mossy, web-covered branches, creating a sparkling midday mosaic across the ground.
I smiled as I drove, appreciating the peacefulness and beauty.
I’d loved growing up here, within walking distance of an active and community-centered downtown.
Tidy brick homes with brightly colored doors and cheerful wreaths anchored green postage stamp yards.
And ghosts of my childhood pedaled past me on tricycles, racing the boy next door.
Everything in sight was quaint, Southern, and charming.
Until I turned the corner, and Mom’s place came into view.
The once adorable cottage where I’d spent my first eighteen years was now the eyesore of the block, if not the entire street.
A weathered gray porch and sun-bleached red door greeted neighbors and passersby.
The home’s chipped yellow paint and cracked white trim were the icing on a rotten cake. A ratty old wreath, the cherry on top.
I parked in the narrow gravel drive and stared at the overgrown lawn and crooked shutters blown loose by a recent storm. I felt ashamed for being ashamed that my mother lived here.
I sent up my usual fruitless prayer for a decent visit, then left my SUV in the driveway and trudged up the path.
Mom opened the front door before I reached the steps. “Where are you supposed to be this time?” she asked. Her gaze roamed disdainfully over my Lululemon leggings and tank top. “Yoga?”
“Pilates.”
She sniffed and moved aside for me to enter.
I looked like my mom in most ways, willowy and fair skinned with little ski-slope noses and lightly freckled cheeks.
But Mom had red hair. I had brown. Her eyes were narrow and close set, mine wide and round.
As a child, I couldn’t wait to grow up and be as beautiful as her.
I’d never imagined she’d age like fruit.