31. Rhodes
— ? —
Rhodes
The Boston project is finished, and I have no excuse to stay.
I’ve known this for days, weeks, probably, if I’m honest. The Livingston House restoration has been complete since before I found out about Rowan. I’ve been extending meetings, inventing reasons to consult, dragging out final approvals that could have been handled by email.
Diane called this morning. Gentle but firm, the way she gets when she’s managing me.
“Rhodes. You have a company to run.”
“I know.”
“A company headquartered in California.”
“I’m aware.”
“People are asking questions.”
“Let them ask.”
A pause. “How long are you planning to stay in Boston?”
I couldn’t answer her. Because the truth is, I don’t know.
The truth is, I have a three-year-old son who calls me “Rhodes” most of the time and “Daddy” when he forgets to be careful, and the thought of getting on a plane feels like having my chest cracked open.
But I can’t run the company from a hotel room forever. I can’t keep pretending the rest of my life will wait while I figure out how to be a father. And I can’t, I won’t, make another promise I can’t keep.
So I text Maren. And then I don’t look at my phone for eleven minutes because I’m afraid of what she’ll say back.
When I finally check, her response is exactly what I expected:
How long?
I type and delete five different answers. The honest one, the reassuring one, the one that makes it sound like I have a plan. Finally I settle on the only thing that’s true:
I don’t know yet.
That afternoon I pick Rowan up because Maren has a delivery for a funeral and Camila is out sick. The normalcy of it, my son in his car seat, chattering about which planet would win in a fight against the moon, makes my throat tight.
“Daddy, are you coming over tomorrow?”
I flinch. He’s been doing that more often lately, the switch from Rhodes to Daddy, unpredictable and devastating every time.
“Not tomorrow, buddy. I have to go to California for a few days.”
“What’s California?”
“It’s where I live. It’s far away.”
“Like the moon?”
“Not quite that far. But pretty far.”
Rowan is quiet for a moment, processing. Then: “Are you coming back?”
“Yes.” This, at least, I can promise. “I’m always going to come back.”
“Okay.” He goes back to his space debate like we didn’t just have the most important conversation of my life.
By the time I get him home, Maren’s car is in the driveway. She meets us at the door, flour on her shirt, she’s been stress-baking again, I remember that habit, and takes Rowan for his afternoon snack while I hover awkwardly in the hallway.
“Can I talk to you?” she asks, once Rowan is settled with apple slices and peanut butter. “After his nap?”
“I have to go back to the hotel and pack.”
“Oh.” Her face shutters. “Right. Of course.”
“But I can come back this evening. If that works.”
She nods. “That works.”
I leave, and the whole drive back to my hotel, I think about Rowan’s question. Are you coming back?
Are you coming back?
Jesus. As if there were any other option.
I pack methodically, the way I do everything, shirts folded precisely, shoes in bags, toiletries lined up in their designated compartments. My phone buzzes three times with work emails I ignore.
At six-thirty, I drive back to Jamaica Plain. Maren opens the door before I knock.
“He’s asleep,” she says. “Finally. He fought it today.”
“He asked me if I was coming back.”
“I know. He asked me the same thing at dinner.” She steps aside to let me in. “I told him yes.”
“Good.” I follow her into the living room, where the evidence of stress-baking covers every surface. Cookies, muffins, what looks like an entire cake. “That’s a lot of baked goods.”
“I had feelings.”
Despite everything, I almost smile.
Maren sits on one end of the couch. I take the other end, leaving a careful distance between us.
“How long can you realistically keep flying back and forth?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all I can give you.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“I could fly out every weekend, move some operations to Boston and split my time. I could-” I stop, frustrated.
“There are a hundred options, and none of them are perfect, and I refuse to stand here and make promises I might not be able to keep.”
“I’m not asking you to promise-”
“Yes, you are. You want me to tell you this is going to be fine. That I have a plan. That I’m not going to disappear.” I meet her eyes. “And I want to tell you that. But I also know what happens when I make grand declarations without thinking them through.”
Maren is quiet for a long moment. “So what do we do?”
“We figure it out together.” The words feel like glass in my throat. “I know that’s not satisfying. But it’s the best I can offer right now.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’m tired of us both pretending we have control over things we don’t.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, looking suddenly young. “So yeah. Okay. We figure it out together.”
The silence stretches. Then, before my better judgment can stop me:
“Come to San Francisco with me.”
Maren’s face goes white. “What?”
“Thursday night. the company’s annual anniversary party. It’s at The Sinclair.”
“I know where the anniversary event is, Rhodes. I used to host it.”
“I know.” I force myself to hold her gaze. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“You want me to go back there.” Her voice is flat, disbelieving. “To the room where you-”
“Yes.”
“No.” She stands up abruptly, arms crossed. “Absolutely not.”
“Maren-”
“That room is one of the worst memories of my life. Standing there in that dress, watching you crush those flowers-” She breaks off, breathing hard. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to stop seeing that moment every time I closed my eyes?”
“Yes.” I stand too, but I don’t move toward her. “I have some idea.”
“Then why would you ask me to go back there?”
“Because I want you to see it differently.” The words come out raw, unplanned.
“I want, there’s something I need to do.
And I want you there when I do it. But I’m not going to ambush you.
I’m not going to surprise you. If you say no, I understand completely.
I just wanted you to know you were invited. ”
Maren stares at me. Her eyes are bright with tears she’s refusing to let fall.
“What are you going to do?”
“Something I should have done years ago.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.” I hold up my hands. “I’m asking you to trust me. I know I haven’t earned that. But I’m asking anyway.”
The silence stretches long enough that I brace to be thrown out. Then:
“Thursday night?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Seven. I’ll fly you out, you and Rowan both, if you want to bring him. Nora can take him during the event.”
“I can book my own flight.”
“Okay.”
Another long pause. Maren uncrosses her arms slowly, like she’s letting go of something she’s been gripping too tightly.
“If I hate it, I’m leaving.”
“Fair.”
“And you’re not going to pressure me to stay.”
“I won’t.”
“And whatever you’re planning, it better not be some kind of public proposal, because I swear to God, Rhodes-”
“It’s not a proposal.” The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. “I promise.”
“Then fine.” She exhales. “I’ll come. And I’m bringing Rowan.”
Thursday arrives too fast.
I spend the day in meetings I barely register, signing documents, going over numbers. Diane keeps shooting me concerned looks that I pretend not to notice.
Diane corners me during the lunch break with her tablet and her courtroom face.
“Rachel’s lawyer sent terms this morning,” she says. “A number. If you sign, she signs a nondisclosure and the whole thing dies in a drawer. Legal thinks it’s clean. I think you take it and never think about her again.”
Six months ago I’d have written the check before lunch was over. Buried it, protected the brand, and never once asked what the silence cost the person the story was actually about.
“No,” I say.
“Rhodes.”
“If I pay her to stay quiet, I’m still choosing my reputation over the truth.
I’m still doing the exact thing that ended my marriage.
” I hand the tablet back. “The only thing Rachel has to sell is a story nobody’s heard yet.
So I’ll tell it first. Tonight. My part most of all.
You can’t sell a secret once it isn’t one. ”
Diane stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. “You understand what that does. In a room full of press.”
“I understand exactly what it does.” I think of a green dress and a little boy who says lellow. “For once I’m spending a room like that on the right thing.”
By six o’clock, I’m standing in The Sinclair’s main ballroom, watching the staff arrange tables that look exactly like they did fifteen years ago.
Fifteen years. I was twenty-six. Broke, terrified, betting everything on a venue I’d restored with credit cards and desperation.
And Maren was there. Maren, who showed up at midnight three days before the opening with her sleeves rolled up, asking what she could do. Who realized we were twelve centerpieces short and somehow pulled materials together from her tiny studio to fill the gaps. Who kept me from falling apart.
I never put her name in the story. Every interview, every retrospective, every company history, I talked about vision and risk and determination. I talked about myself.
I made her a footnote in her own contribution.
And then, five years later, I made her a villain. Crushed her flowers. Diminished her work. Stood in front of cameras and protected my company while destroying my wife.
The caterers arrive, then the lighting crew, then the musicians. I greet everyone on autopilot, checking details I’ve checked a dozen times, because if I stop moving, I’ll have to think about what I’m planning to say.
At six forty-five, my phone buzzes.
I’m here. Where should I go?
I text back: Front entrance. I’ll meet you.
She’s standing on the sidewalk when I get there, and for a second I can’t breathe.
She’s wearing deep green, not black, not hiding. Her hair is down, the way it almost never is anymore, and she’s gripping her clutch like a weapon.