Chapter Twenty-Two
I dragged myself downstairs the next morning, exhausted from a long night of kicking myself for upsetting Camilla.
I’d gotten carried away at the restaurant and let the thoughts in my head pour freely from my mouth.
The things I said were absolutely not okay.
I’d wrestled with my poor behavior until the first rays of dawn climbed my windowsill.
I wanted so much better for Camilla than the life I’d chosen at her age.
If she and Jeff were truly in love, wouldn’t they still be in love a few years from now?
Why couldn’t they agree to enjoy their young lives without the emotional and financial weight of a marriage?
Why did they have to get married right this minute? What was the rush?
I rubbed my forehead over a cup of steaming coffee.
Pictures of my mother, Sébastien, and me covered the refrigerator now.
I’d hung all my favorites as a reminder that my childhood wasn’t always awful, even if Mom’s marriage to Dad was consistently shit and built on a lie.
Nonetheless, I could see now that Mom had shielded me from his anger, as much as possible in an eleven-hundred-square-foot cottage, and from the aftermath of her emotions by keeping me at arm’s length.
She and I had grown apart as a result, but Dad had never once laid his hands on me.
The long hours I spent outside with neighborhood kids after dinner and on weekends took on a new perspective as well.
Dad was home during those hours. She’d managed him while encouraging me to get fresh air and sun.
I’d made memories, racing other kids down the sidewalk and later playing truth or dare in nearby parks.
Mom had battled Dad alone, then nursed her wounds privately.
It was harder to understand why we hadn’t grown closer following Dad’s death, but maybe by then I’d pulled away too. I’d buried myself in raising my daughter and managing my own bully.
I hadn’t been perfect at the job either.
One of my worst memories was when Camilla was in middle school.
She needed help with her math homework, but I was running late with dinner.
I suggested she ask Robert, who was playing on his phone, unhappily waiting for his meal.
I assumed the time would pass more quickly for him if he had something to do, and she’d get the help she needed. Two birds, one stone.
Twenty minutes later Camilla ran past me, crying and screaming that she’d never ask him for help again.
I later learned that he’d done everything he could to make the interaction awful for her, by talking in circles, never giving straight answers, and making each step as convoluted as possible, until she’d given up in distress and defeat.
She’d approached him with hope and trust. And he’d destroyed both because he didn’t want to be bothered. That was the lesson she learned that day. Asking Robert for anything resulted in a punishment.
For Camilla, at least, as long as she asked nothing of him, he was kind. So she’d found a way to live in his world under his terms. And I became a single, married parent.
I hated that I couldn’t change any of it now.
But I could apologize to Camilla and promise us both that I would do better.
I thanked my stars daily for the relationship I had with her, and I wondered if the bond we shared came from my parenting.
She’d endured my unhealthy marriage with her father, but she also saw me protect, guard, and prioritize her above all else.
I hoped that as an adult she’d understand why I didn’t leave the marriage sooner.
I wished I’d understood Mom’s reasoning before she died.
I finished my coffee and opened the mail I’d left on the counter after my evening walk.
Bills, bills, bills. I was barely making ends meet on my paychecks.
The Invisible Baker was going strong, but the price of ingredients to make all the fancy French pastries ate up the profits faster than I liked.
And I hadn’t anticipated the time it took to fill all the orders.
Before, when I baked one or two nights a week, I’d found the process therapeutic and enjoyable.
I’d only considered the outgoing costs and incoming profits.
Now, I had a job that consumed the first half of my days.
When I calculated the per-hour rate, I wanted to cry.
Not to mention, I lived in fear of my kitchen sink since it had last exploded. YouTube tutorials helped me stop the leak, and I cleaned the mess thoroughly, but I wasn’t convinced my fix would last.
Worse, the appearance of Virginia Bonnie Black had me reconsidering my side hustle completely, or at least taking a little time off.
I’d lost a lot of sleep trying to figure out what to do about her, and I’d still come up empty.
If I stopped baking the same day Virginia came snooping, that would surely raise suspicions.
But if she beat the delivery to the restaurant some morning, she could badger the driver into revealing the pickup location—i.e. my house.
So, how could I safely get the orders to the restaurant? I couldn’t exactly show up with the pastries myself.
Why was everything so fucking complicated?
I dressed for work with the speed of a sloth, then trudged downstairs, keys in hand. At least I made a reliable paycheck from Chez Margot, and had the most patient boss on earth. As long as I showed up and made delicious pastries, I’d have the job as long as I wanted.
A steady beeping reached my ears from beyond the front door. A backup beeper on a delivery truck, perhaps? But I hadn’t ordered anything, and it wasn’t trash day. Maybe the truck was at Ilona’s or another neighbor’s house.
I stepped onto the porch and stared at the nonsensical scene before me.
A tow truck sat in my driveway, a few feet from my SUV’s bumper, and a man with a clipboard stood beside it. He glanced briefly in my direction, grimaced, then turned away.
Confusion clouded my thoughts as I bumbled down the steps and across the lawn.
A handful of neighbors lingered on street corners with dogs on leashes or pretended to tie their shoes on nearby porches.
I focused on the man affixing giant metal chains to my car. “Excuse me,” I called. “I didn’t order a tow truck.” My SUV ran fine. It was only a few years old, and my closest confidant aside from Alicia. No one was taking her anywhere on my watch, except me.
The man didn’t respond, and a moment later the back end of my BMW rose several inches off the ground.
“Hey! Stop! What are you doing?” I screamed.
He finally huffed a sigh and turned to stare me down. A patch on the chest of his work shirt indicated his name was Al. He looked over his shoulder and offered a bland expression, clearly illustrating his irritation.
I imagined whacking him with my purse, then checked to see if any of the neighbors had their phones out. Thankfully no one was filming.
“Sorry,” I said, as the gears of the machine quieted. “I think you’ve made a mistake. This is my SUV, and that’s my house.” I pointed over my shoulder, but he didn’t track the movement with his eyes.
Instead, he continued to stare, bored, at me.
“There’s nothing wrong with the vehicle,” I vowed. “And you can see it’s parked perfectly legally. So, you can put it down now.”
Al turned away, apparently having heard enough. “’Fraid not,” he said. The low tenor of his voice was rough, audibly affected by a decade or two of smoking. “I’ve got orders from the bank to bring this one in. Just doing my job.”
I frowned, thrown for a prolonged beat by his comment. “What bank?”
He ripped a page off his clipboard and handed it to me. “You can collect your stuff from impound.”
“But—”
He gripped the bill of his ball cap and tugged it down in goodbye.
My eyes jerked to the paper. The mass of words jumbled in my head.
My car was three years old, and we always paid off our auto loans within thirty-six months. Why would the bank order a repossession? The thought barely registered before the answer presented itself.
The groan that left my chest was zombie horror worthy.
“Robert,” I seethed.
Apparently he hadn’t made a payment since I’d asked for a divorce. A quarter year from owning the vehicle, and he’d just stopped making payments to spite me.
Why would he do anything half decent when he was such a piece of gum on my shoe?
This was more punishment for my naivete.
Robert insisted we put everything we had in his name only.
The reason? I didn’t have an income, so adding me to the loans would only raise his interest rate.
Thank goodness the banker who worked on our mortgage convinced him to add my name on the deed, to make things easier in the event of Robert’s untimely death.
I tried very hard not to think that his immediate death would be quite timely. He was my daughter’s father, after all.
The sound of a closing truck door jarred me back to the moment, and I gave chase. “Wait!”
“Look, lady,” he said through the open window. “Everything you need to know is on that paper. I just make the collections.”
I glanced at the sheet in my hand. “But—”
Al drove away while I struggled for something more to say, my white SUV rolling nose-down behind him.
“Damn it!”
A dog barked, and I remembered the neighbors.
“Sorry!” I called, waving to the onlookers that had doubled in number since my first appearance on the lawn.
I hurried back inside to call the restaurant and let them know I would be late. Then I called Camilla to ask for her help. She didn’t answer the call.
I swallowed my humiliation and typed out a heartfelt apology for my behavior yesterday. Then I sent a follow-up, apologizing for not sending the message sooner.
I sent up silent prayers for her forgiveness, then ordered an Uber. I texted Alicia on my ride to work. She’d get the message at lunchtime and text back. I suspected she was busy in her classroom by now.