Chapter 26
Carly trudged away from the baggage carousel at JFK airport, having checked three times that the suitcase she’d pulled off it was actually hers. She didn’t bother with a luggage cart this time. She might never risk a luggage cart ever again.
To her surprise, she saw a familiar man waving at her and holding up a tablet with her full name on it. Of course her parents had sent Timur, the family’s longtime driver, to collect her.
Exhausted from two long and sleepless flights, Carly returned his wave with far less enthusiasm and followed him out to the curb, where a sleek black town car was waiting. It was already dark at 5:00 PM, and freezing rain pelted them as he loaded her suitcase into the trunk.
“In, in!” he urged her, and she fell into the backseat, plopping her backpack at her feet with a sigh.
“Hello, Caroline.”
Carly started. Her mother was sitting on the other side of the pebbled leather seat, looking at her appraisingly.
“Hi, Mom,” she managed, weakly.
Marlene Parker-Montgomery looked flawless as ever, every strand of her shoulder-length auburn hair in perfect place, as though it had just been blown out at the salon. Which, Carly reminded herself, it probably had been. She was wearing a classic Marlene outfit: black wool slacks and an immaculately crisp white silk blouse under a Burberry trench coat. Her camel-colored kitten-heeled boots were made of a leather that looked so soft Carly would have used it for washcloth, and a Hermes scarf was tied carefully around her neck, not quite concealing her usual two-strand pearl necklace, which she always wore with matching pearl earrings. The entire interior of the car smelled like her custom-blended perfume, the familiar peppery-floral scent that announced that Marlene was in the building.
“You look well,” her mother said, in a tone that made it very clear that she was only being polite.
Carly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s a long flight back, and I’m tired.”
“You could have flown in first, you know. Your father and I would have been very happy to—”
“I know, Mom,” Carly interrupted tersely, but she tried to soften her tone. It had made her feel like even more of a failure to call her parents and ask them for the money to change her ticket, but they’d helped her without hesitation, and she was grateful. “Coach isn’t so bad, really. And it’s a long flight no matter where you’re sitting.”
“Mmm,” Marlene replied doubtfully. Marlene Parker-Montgomery had never flown coach in her life, and she never would.
Timur drove them out of the clogged underpasses around the airport, and soon they were speeding along the highway toward Manhattan. Sunday night traffic was light, and Carly let her head fall back against the soft leather headrest, thinking that at least she’d be in her own bed in less than an hour. But when they arrived in the city, Timur turned uptown.
“Hang on,” Carly objected, as the car rolled in the wrong direction.
“I’m taking you home,” her mother said quickly.
“You mean to your home. My home is downtown,” Carly said. She just wanted to be alone in her little apartment. Dingy and inadequate as her parents clearly thought it was, it was hers. Well, it was her landlord’s, but the money on every single rent check was hers.
“Yes, to our home,” Marlene confirmed. “You can spend the night with us and go to your home tomorrow.”
“Mom, please, I really want to—”
“Caroline,” her mother interrupted crisply. “You called us from the other side of the world. You asked us for help for the first time in over a decade. You look as though you’ve spent the last two days crying. Something is obviously wrong. We are your parents. I am your mother. I understand that you have some kind of allergy to accepting our money, but please, accept our hospitality. Your old room is all ready, and if you want to sneak out at dawn and disappear downtown, that’s your business. But I insist you come home with me tonight.”
Carly stared at her mother’s usually composed face, which was flushed with frustration, and found that she was too tired to argue. And that she didn’t want to argue, anyway. Her mother might not understand her, but she did love her. And when you loved someone, you wanted to help them. And it hurt when you couldn’t. She knew that all too well from spending years trying to help Heather see the truth about Jack.
Nick offered to help you the other night, a voice in her head reminded her, unhelpfully. He offered to help you even before you asked him.
She sighed and nodded. “Okay, Mom. Let’s go home.”
Nick could go fuck himself with a purple sparkly dilator.
When Carly woke up the next morning, she could feel every single one of the hours she’d spent in transit in her body. Her back ached, and her hip flexors felt as if they were wound too tightly for her to walk. She rolled over with a groan and pressed herself into the mattress, stretching out her lower back.
She could smell him. She could smell Nick’s spicy, citrusy scent in her childhood bedroom. She looked around the room, at the soaring ceiling, which was still painted to look like a calm blue sky full of fluffy clouds, a project her parents had commissioned for her eighth birthday. At the thick jacquard curtains around the bed, which they’d installed when she’d swooned over the curtained bed on stage the first time she’d seen NYB’s production of Romeo and Juliet. And then down at the T-shirt she was wearing, the first garment she’d pulled out of her suitcase when she’d arrived here last night: the Leura House T-shirt.
For one long, weak moment, she looked down at the hideous stock art horses on her chest and let herself inhale the lingering notes of Nick that remained on the fabric. Let herself remember that exhausting, exhilarating night up in the Blue Mountains, when they’d mixed drinks all night, and he’d crept into bed and called her “ma puce.” My flea, literally. But really, my darling.
Except she wasn’t his darling. She was the jobless woman with a broken vagina that he’d lied to even as they’d been working together. Sleeping together.
She sat up and pulled the shirt over her head and threw it in the direction of her suitcase, but it slid under the ornate antique desk her parents had bought at Sotheby’s when she started junior high and started bringing homework home. She climbed out of bed and walked to the en suite to shower, not bothering to retrieve it.
When she padded down the hall and into the dining room half an hour later, she was greeted by the same sight that had started her mornings every day when she was growing up: her mother sitting at the long mahogany table, drinking coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal. Marlene wasn’t yet dressed for the day, but she still looked impeccable in a cashmere lounge set and custom-made velvet house slippers. As long as Carly could remember, her mother had sat at this table and read the paper from start to finish before retreating to her dressing room and re-emerging looking chic and ready to start a day of board meetings, charity lunches, or appointments with art dealers or personal shoppers or who knew who else.
Carly paused in the doorway, watching her mother scan the pages and sip elegantly from her light-as-air porcelain cup. Marlene had red hair, too, though hers was darker and more subdued than Carly’s. For the last decade or so, grays had begun to creep in, and to Carly’s surprise, Marlene hadn’t tried to hide them. She hadn’t resorted to Botox or plastic surgery like so many of the wealthy women walking these streets, and as a result, she looked her age. When she frowned, her whole face moved and wrinkled, which was a rarity around here. As Carly watched, a frown appeared, and Marlene looked up from the paper.
“Good morning,” her mother said cautiously. “Are you hungry? Camille can make you something if you are.”
“I’m okay,” Carly shrugged. “But could I have some coffee?”
Marlene nodded and opened her mouth to call out to the chef, who was almost certainly working on dinner already.
“It’s fine, Mom, I’ll get it myself,” Carly said quickly.
“Of course you will,” she heard Marlene say under her breath as she headed for the kitchen.
When she returned a few minutes later with a comically small cup of coffee—what she wouldn’t give for a giant iced coffee right now, even an Australian one—her mother had finished with the real estate section and had moved on to the arts pages. Carly sat down as unobtrusively as she could and took a few careful sips, feeling, like she often had, as though she was too loud for this huge, quiet place, with its high ceilings and lush fabrics.
She took a few more sips and sighed, feeling the caffeine work its way into her system. At the sound, her mother looked up, and Carly was about to apologize for the disruption when Marlene spoke.
“You came back early.”
“Not that early, just … just a few days.” Just early enough to miss half of her best friend’s wedding and break her years-long streak of not asking her parents for help.
“What happened?” Maybe Marlene didn’t mean to sound disappointed, or accusing, but she definitely did.
“Nothing happened,” Carly said defensively. “I just needed to come home. Why do you assume something happened?”
Marlene pursed her lips slightly, and Carly thought she might be about to drop the subject. She should have known better. Her mother was nothing if not persistent.
Marlene set the paper down. “I’m not assuming anything, I’m observing a set of facts. Your father said you sounded distressed when you called. You asked for our help. And then you agreed to spend the night here, and you were here when I woke up. You even accepted a cup of coffee just now. So I am observing that something has changed, and since it’s clearly not your attitude, I have to imagine that it’s your circumstances. In other words, something happened.”
Irritation nipped at the back of Carly’s neck. She hated when her mother talked to her this way, in that cool but clearly frustrated tone. Carly didn’t enjoy the guilty, smoldering aftermath of yelling at someone, but at least it felt better in the moment than this clipped performance of civility.
“Nothing happened,” she told Marlene firmly, and she saw her mother’s squared shoulders droop slightly. In disappointment? Frustration? Confusion? Probably all three, which shouldn’t surprise Marlene: Carly had spent most of her life as a confusing, frustrating disappointment.
Except, that wasn’t true, was it? Okay, so her parents didn’t understand her. But they’d also leapt into action to help her the second she’d asked, and now, her mother only wanted to know why she’d asked. She looked across the table at Marlene and tried to remember what Heather had told her at the airport. It didn’t have to be all or nothing. She didn’t have to reveal absolutely nothing to her mother, just like she didn’t have to refuse absolutely all help from her parents.
“Okay, something happened,” she conceded, and her mother’s eyebrows rose. “Or is about to happen. I have a meeting with Catherine Lancaster the day after tomorrow, and she’s going to tell me that she’s not renewing my contract. So this season will be my last, and then I’ll have to figure out what comes next.”
Marlene’s forehead creased in a concerned frown. “Why aren’t they renewing your contract?”
“I’m old,” Carly shrugged, feigning a calm acceptance she didn’t feel. “I’m not principal material, I’m Peasant Maiden #4 material. I’ve had a good run, but I guess they’re moving on. Which means I need to move on, too.”
Marlene nodded slowly, processing this information, and Carly took her silence as an opportunity to drink more coffee. I need to move on, too. From ballet, from her hope of being promoted. From Nick, from her hope that there was at least one man out there she could trust with her body. With her heart. She would figure it out, she told herself.
“What will you do next?” Marlene asked.
Carly shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’m … Well, I’m scared. I don’t know how to do anything but dance, because it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. And I got to do it, and I’m really grateful. But I don’t know what comes next. But I’ll figure it out.”
“Your father and I would be very happy to—”
“Mom,” Carly said firmly, and Marlene stopped talking, her mouth still open. “I’ll figure it out.”
Marlene closed her mouth, looking defeated but unsurprised.
“But if I need your help, I’ll ask for it. I promise. Okay?”
Marlene squared her shoulders again and gave her a close-mouthed smile. “Understood, Carly,” she said.
“Okay.” Carly drained the rest of her coffee and stood, groaning slightly at the stiffness in her quads and hips. “I should go home. Thank you for the coffee, and for letting me stay. And for getting me home.”
“You’re very welcome. Should I bother offering to ask Timur to drive you downtown?” Marlene asked, picking up her paper.
“No,” Carly smiled. “But I’ll take some coffee for the road. Please.”
Marlene nodded and returned her smile. “Help yourself,” she said.
Nick’s phone rang as he was packing the last of his cameras into his suitcase. His carry-on this time. Better safe than sorry. He flipped the suitcase closed with one hand and grabbed his phone with the other, and froze when he saw the name on the caller ID.
“Dad?” he answered carefully.
“Nick.” His father’s voice was low and terse, and he’d said Nick’s name like a full sentence.
“Is, euh, is everything okay?” His dad hadn’t called him in years. Had something happened to Nina or his mum?
“How was the wedding?”
Nick frowned. How was the wedding? From the man who seemed constitutionally incapable of small talk? The man whose house Nick had stormed out of barely a week ago?
“It was fine,” Nick said slowly. Then, because he was still worried, he repeated: “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I just wanted to congratulate you on the article in the paper,” his dad said stiffly. Nick could picture him sitting on the couch in the living room overlooking the valley, or at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of tea, which he drank year-round, sweltering Australian summers be damned. It had never occurred to Nick that his dad, devoted newspaper reader that he was, would see Ivy’s story. Nina had already texted him about it, of course, and had threatened to get it framed for his next birthday present.
“Thanks,” Nick said carefully. “Is that all?”
There was a long pause, and Nick was about to pull the phone away from his ear to make sure the call hadn’t dropped when his father spoke again.
“I also wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you. I know I haven’t acted like it, but I am. Your, uh, American friend was a little forceful in making her point, but she was right. What you’ve achieved is very impressive.”
Nick’s chest constricted at the mention of Carly. At the memory of her flying to her feet and telling his dad how great Nick was, how proud they all should be of him. He took a deep breath, trying to loosen the snug bands of pain around his ribs.
“Thanks, Dad,” he said softly. He swallowed hard against the tide of emotions welling in his throat. How long had he been waiting to hear those words come out of his father’s mouth? Long enough that he’d stopped hoping, without even realizing he’d given up on it ever happening.
His dad cleared his throat, and Nick realized there was more. “I also wanted to say I understand if you’ve made a home somewhere else. But you’ll always be welcome here, however long you want to stay.”
Nick pressed his lips together, trying to chase away the sting at the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he managed, not trusting himself to say any more without his voice cracking. After a long moment, he collected himself enough to speak.
“I’m sorry for the way I left, Dad. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back. I know I hurt you and Mum, and I’m sorry.”
“You were right to do it.” Rod’s voice was scratchy now, too. “I didn’t understand it at the time, but I see now that it was the only way for you to have the career you wanted.”
Nick nodded, then remembered his dad couldn’t see him. “Right. But still, I’m sorry. Because those first few years were really hard. I was so young, and I didn’t know anyone, and the company worked us into the ground in the corps—and I couldn’t call you and tell you any of that. I was too proud to admit I might have made a mistake.”
“But you got through it, didn’t you? And look at you now.”
Right. Look at him now. Finally a successful photographer, just like he’d pretended to be. And still nowhere to call home. Not really. And still a giant ache between his ribs every time he thought about Carly. No feeling is final, he reminded himself. And home doesn’t have to be a place.
“She’s quite the firecracker, your American,” his dad said, and the ache only intensified. Not my American.
“Yeah, she’s a lot,” Nick said, managing a small smile. She’s so much. So much passion and rage and fierce loyalty. She’s all of it. Everything.
“She clearly thinks the world of you,” his dad replied. She used to, Nick wanted to say, but he wasn’t ready to reveal all that to his dad today. This mending felt too new and tenuous, and he didn’t totally trust it yet. “And she looks beautiful in those photos you took.”
Nick pressed his lips together again, with no idea of how to respond to that. Luckily, his dad saved him.
“Your sister told us she won’t be the messenger anymore. That if I wanted to know about your life, I’d have to ask you myself.”
God bless Nina. She’d finally figured out that she couldn’t fix this mess for him. Nick’s throat went tight.
“I see,” he managed. He waited to see if his father was going to act on Nina’s new rule, or if it was too soon.
“So, where are you off to next?”
“Euh, Santorini. Greece. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“I hear it’s beautiful. And after that?”
“I don’t know.”
“All right. Will you be coming home any time soon? Not to stay, I mean. To visit?”
Nick couldn’t miss the hope in his dad’s voice, and it made him wish he didn’t have to get on a plane in a few hours.
“I don’t know, but soon. I promise.”
“All right.” His dad let out a sigh. “You can always come home. We’ll—I’ll—always be glad to see you. That’s all we were trying to say. You can always come home.”