Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
‘I’ll show it to you, if you invite me over there.’
Who starts a conversation with that? Frank starts a conversation with that.
‘Seeing it once was more than enough, thank you.’
He laughs. ‘Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re funny, Moira Fitzgerald. But that is not what I’m talking about.’
I fall silent. It’s been another three days since my conversation with Harriet and I can’t stop worrying about what she might have meant.
‘Do you want to know what I’m talking about?’ he asks.
Before I can answer that, I hear a Ping!
He has sent me a photo. A photo of…
‘That looks like a passport,’ I say.
‘That’s because it is a passport. Aiden’s.’
Okay, now I really can’t speak. Until I can. ‘Hang on… You stole Aiden’s passport?’
‘Stole might be a little strong. That implies I’m never going to give it back.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You’re the one who’s convinced they’re eloping soon. Well… not if he can’t find his passport, they’re not.’
‘So you just took it?’ I ask, incredulously. But what sort of chaos is this going to throw them into when the kid goes looking for it and can’t find it?
‘It was in his room. He’s pretty organised. Gets this from his mother. Top drawer. Right-hand side. Along with his birth certificate and some other proof of his existence, and sentimental artefacts.’
I truly do not know what I think of this. Mild horror springs to mind. ‘I’m pretty sure you can get a lost passport replaced,’ I say. ‘That’s hardly going to scupper their travel plans. Nice try though.’
‘Not in less than fourteen days, which is how long we have until spring break. At least, highly unlikely. I looked online. Even called the passport office.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I think you were wasted on writing romances. You should have gone into crime or thrillers.’
‘It’s not a crime if you’re saving someone from a fate worse than death.’
I scowl at this. Fate worse than death now? Not just the oldest thirty-two-year-old he knows. ‘So when he’s running around like a headless chicken looking for the thing, you’re just going to do… what exactly?’
‘Make an oat-milk-mocha-frappa-skinny-chino and go and sip it on the sand.’
I spend the next few days avoiding Harriet. Which is easy, given she seems to be avoiding me. I walk a lot on the beach, and I think a lot. Rupert’s texts have dwindled to one a day. A query about where my car insurance documentation is. A long one detailing the hoopla of him trying to get a Lasting Power of Attorney for his parents. One that simply says I miss you. Please come home.
On Saturday – her day off – Nat FaceTimes me while I’m walking around the Third Street Promenade.
‘So how is the romance of the century?’ she asks.
‘What romance?’ I think she must be talking about Harriet.
‘Yours and Frank’s. The second chance romance.’
‘I’d hardly call it that. One dip of a toe in the ocean doesn’t a swimmer make.’
‘What a lovely metaphor for your new life in sunny California.’
And then she tells me there’s this course she’s come across – an occupational therapist who struck out in private practice and built a business that she then sold for millions, is teaching the ropes to OTs who are looking to do the same.
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ she says.
I have perched on a comfy sofa upstairs in Anthropologie and could stay here all day. ‘You’re cheering for my new life in California, but you’re sending me details of courses to get me to come home.’
She chuckles. ‘I think the course can be done online. But I do want you to come home, of course,’ she says, ‘no pun intended. I just miss you.’ And then, as I might have expected, she says, ‘Have you talked to Rupert yet?’
‘Nope.’
She tsks. ‘Moy, this is getting a bit bizarre. I mean, surely you must be somewhat closer to knowing what you’re going to do?’
‘Nope.’
‘It’s not that hard.’ She searches my face. ‘If you feel your marriage is over, end it. You don’t need him to have cheated to get your official pass out. We know you’re a sticker at things, but even stickers know when it’s time to walk away.’
‘Has he been in touch again?’ I quickly add, ‘Sorry. I have to ask.’
She looks blown over by a feather. ‘Of course not. You think we’re going for whine nights down at the local? I mean, come on, Moy.’
I tell her I didn’t think so; I really didn’t. Then I brief her on the latest goings-on with Harriet.
She cocks her head in sympathy. ‘You’ve got to let her live her life, Moy. You’ve said your piece. She knows how you feel. She’s an adult. Fair enough, a young one, but you’ve got to leave her to her own choices and mistakes.’
I don’t know why this chokes me up. The idea of letting go. Of her marrying young and it going the way mine and her dad’s went. ‘You made your own mistakes,’ I say. Then I add, ‘As did I.’
‘I did. And life went on. Darius met someone else. My parents accepted me for who I was. Nothing ended up as bad as I feared.’ Tears spring to her eyes. ‘I’ve long thought that you have a wonderful, enviable bond with your daughter. Many are not that lucky. I never had that with my parents, and I never had kids to have that myself. But you’ll still have that, no matter what Harriet does. You told her that her happiness doesn’t depend on marrying this boy but maybe she thinks it does, and you need to let her find out. At worst it doesn’t work. Her life will still be long. Think of the terrible fates that befall people. I promise you, Harriet possibly making a mistake by marrying Aiden would not be one of them.’
She’s right, I think. She’s so very right.
I am the one who has been wrong.