Chapter 32
We drove back to the apartment building in a rare silence.
I stopped at Noah’s to pick up Lucy while Frannie went home to pack for a mandatory weekend work retreat in Big Bear.
On autopilot, I somehow managed to faithfully execute my parenting duties until Lucy was tucked into bed.
Then, in a fog, I gathered supplies from the kitchen.
A “family size” bag of potato chips, a quart of ice cream, and a box of tissues for the fountain of tears I’d been holding back all day, and that would no doubt be joining me on the couch for the upcoming screening of Thea’s Twenty-Four Hours from Hell.
It had been a dizzying stretch, beginning with my naive relief over finding the missing necklace last night among Lucy’s fairy-tale toys (appropriate) and ending with the depressing recognition that it might as well have been purchased in the bargain bin at the dollar store for all it was worth as a symbol of anything meaningful.
The events between those two bookends—learning of Bronwyn’s deception, the likely career fallout, and disconcerting facts like Max’s eyes were green-not-blue and his name was really Zach—were far more nausea-inducing than riding Space Mountain, my former gold standard.
This felt like free-falling.
“Packer residence, how may I help you?” I heard her say, like I’d coached her. It had seemed like a low-cost opportunity to teach her manners, especially since it was usually Tony the doorman on the other end, letting me know there was a package downstairs. Except today.
“Mommy! Grandpa is here, Grandpa is here!” Lucy screamed.
I shot up to a seated position in Lucy’s bed.
William had yet to see our new apartment, and I wondered why he’d chosen today to come unannounced. Maybe Rebecca had sent him to perform a mental health check after I left work early yesterday with no explanation? A quick survey of the apartment told me that probably wasn’t the worst idea.
Tony must have taken Lucy’s enthusiastic response as permission to let William in, because moments later he was standing at our door holding a bag emblazoned with the name of our favorite bagel shop.
He raised the bag as his sad, tired eyes seemed to communicate he came in peace.
Lucy wrapped herself around his legs. It was as if her hug contained some magic elixir that breathed life back into him, because a broad smile spread across his face as he lifted Lucy into the air.
“How’s my favorite girl?” William asked.
“I missed you! Can we hit balls?” Lucy squeezed his cheeks.
“That’s up to your mom,” William said.
“Please, please, please,” Lucy begged.
William was at least a little more dignified and let his eyebrows do his bidding.
“Sure,” I said, screaming with relief on the inside.
“Why don’t you run and get changed.” In the meantime, I role-played gracious hostess—bed head, stained pajamas, and dark circles under my eyes be damned.
I offered William tap water, a juice box, or milk, but thankfully he waved off my tempting beverage menu, because I had a sneaking suspicion the milk was borderline.
Instead, he ambled over to the narrow bookcase in the living room, where I’d moved Sam’s lucky bamboo plant.
I’d managed to keep it alive all these years, but hadn’t yet found the right mix of sunlight and water in the new apartment.
In the space of one month it had deteriorated down to two precious curling leaves on a long stalk, leaving me feeling more anxious every time I checked it.
William picked up our wedding photo and stared at it for a moment.
As he placed it back on the bookshelf, I noticed his shoulders were hunched, as if merely looking at a photo of his beloved son took something out of him.
It reminded me of all the times he used to come over to the guesthouse and peruse my built-ins.
Although Rebecca had a few photos of Sam scattered here and there in the main house, she always seemed to be on high alert for wallowing.
Forever maintaining that grief was best handled by moving forward, she styled herself some sort of enforcer of that philosophy with William.
However, when William was in the presence of only me—the undisputed, highly decorated champion of wallowing—he would sometimes indulge his own instincts.
Now I watched him as he plodded back to the kitchen. “Go relax. I’ll take care of this,” he said, and went to work prepping the bagels.
So I sat down on a barstool and watched him.
Sam had grown up cooking with Rosa and had loved it.
He’d also been my equal partner when it came to cleaning.
Other than manning his beloved grill, I’d never seen William do so much as load a dish in the dishwasher, which caused me to wonder again about the reason for this visit.
“Not that I’m complaining,” I said, “but what made you decide to stop by this morning?”
He looked up and nodded, as if he’d been expecting this question. “I saw you talking to Coco at the office yesterday. You looked upset. Then I heard you left early.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to pry, but I thought I’d make sure you’re all right. And also, I really miss you and Lucy.”
“Thanks, William. We miss you and Rebecca, too.” As I said it, I realized just how much it was true. Especially now, when I really needed a few more people in my corner.
Lucy hopped onto the stool next to mine and wolfed down her bagel. By the time she grabbed her racquet bag, my kitchen was spotless. And I was speechless. On his way out, William squeezed my arm and whispered, “Thank you for letting me take her today, Thea.”
As they closed the door and walked down the hall toward the elevator, I strained to listen to the distant sounds of their animated grandpa-granddaughter chitchat, temporarily enjoying the way their voices quieted those in my own head.
When I could no longer hear them, I decided to take a shower in the hope that, as with a dehydrated meal, the hot water might reconstitute me into an actual human.
Twenty minutes later, feeling marginally better, I wrapped myself in a towel and checked the phone on the bathroom counter out of habit—a habit now linked in my mind to one particular instance of piss-poor judgment.
Shame and regret twisted together like climbing vines and crawled up my neck at the memory.
Unlike on that dumb day, however, today the only person reaching out to me was Harper, in the form of an email that forwarded the publisher’s statement for review.
I took a deep breath, then clicked on the email and read.
With my communications-professional hat on, I was pleased to see the publisher had indeed done the right thing by taking full blame for the PR stunt.
It was a well-crafted statement that would have sufficed for all manner of corporate malfeasance.
But switching to my Team Thea hat, there was no way around it: I came off like a delusional wing nut who had fallen for their rogue employee’s predatory scheme—hook, line, and sinker.
Once this statement was released, would I become radioactive in the publishing industry?
The personal fallout would also be brutal.
Any guy who might consider dating me in the future would no doubt google my name and find this story.
It would be hits one through infinity forevermore.
On top of it all, my gullibility would make me a laughingstock, a punch line for everyone from late-night talk show hosts to internet memes.
The opportunities for public humiliation were truly boundless.
The publisher planned to release their statement Sunday night unless I had any reasonable edits to contribute.
But what wordsmithing could possibly improve the situation?
I rubbed my temples and then green-lit the draft statement.
My final task was to send Harper my own personal statement for review ASAP.
That one would go up on my social media accounts at midnight, as soon as the publisher posted theirs.
It was a classic PR strategy—send out scandalous news in the dead of night on the off chance it would get buried by news of a stock exchange crash or a natural disaster.
I got dressed and sat down at my desk to draft my statement.
It felt like the worst college essay prompt of all time.
I almost wished I could claim it was me who’d invented Max as a publicity stunt.
At least then I would have had some agency.
Yes, I would have come off looking reprehensible, but at least I wouldn’t have to be the doormat.
Alas, I typed and erased sentence after sentence, forced again to revisit every conversation and text with Max and see, under the bright shining glare of lights, the obvious red flags I’d either missed or willfully ignored.
The ones that had allowed me to be snookered by Max’s false overtures of love.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the blank screen.
It pained me to no end to admit that Frannie, Harper, and Rebecca had been right all along about him. Why hadn’t I listened?
William texted and asked permission to take Lucy to lunch after tennis.
I happily agreed, as I needed more time.
Crafting my statement was crisis communications of the highest order, and I was stumped.
That was when I realized there was no one in the world better equipped to help me handle this than Rebecca. But first, I owed her an apology.
Without a second thought, I texted Rebecca and asked if I could come over to talk.
Five minutes later I was in the car. As I steered up the long drive, I was surprised to see Rebecca waiting to welcome me in front of the house.
Instantly, all the anger I’d been directing at her the last few weeks dissolved.
All she’d been trying to do was protect Lucy and me.
I collapsed, sobbing, into her arms. “You were right about Max.”
Rebecca led me into the kitchen and listened to the whole sordid tale.
She may have been saying I told you so on the inside, but she was gracious enough not to show it.
And for that, I was grateful. I was even more grateful when she opened her laptop, put on her reading glasses, and wrote a draft of my statement.
For the next hour, we debated and edited each of the four sentences.
It felt good to have a partner. When we were reasonably satisfied, I sent the statement to Harper.
“Rebecca, I’m so sorry for not taking your concerns more seriously,” I started.
“Not necessary,” she said, stopping me in her no-nonsense way. “I know the in-law relationship can be fraught at times, but we truly love you. Not only because you were married to our son, or as Lucy’s mom, but as an actual daughter. Because that’s how we think of you.”
Cue the waterworks again. Of course, if pressed, I could call to mind a mental list of petty complaints, but their kindness and generosity had always tipped the scales in their favor.
Even the legal threats were more understandable now that I could see they’d been correct in worrying something was off about Max.
At least their worst fears of him being a danger to Lucy were overblown.
I leaned over and hugged her. Like, really hugged her.
“Oh, honey, it’s OK,” she murmured and stroked my back soothingly.
When I finally stopped convulsing, I pulled away and wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Thanks,” I managed.
Rebecca busied herself for a moment with reaching for two mugs and a couple of tea bags.
Then she filled the mugs with steaming water from the instant-hot tap, my favorite feature of their kitchen.
I appreciated the minute to pull myself together.
As I glanced around this familiar room, I had a vision of Sam sitting on the stool next to me, cracking a joke, and felt a pang of regret.
This had been his family home, but it had also been our only home together.
And Lucy’s only home, too. Maybe our move had all been a big mistake. Sam’s lucky bamboo sure thought so.
I tried to recall all the reasons I had for abandoning this unconventional living arrangement despite the fact that it was working just fine.
Better than fine, really. I could have talked to William and Rebecca about the need for new boundaries and my desire to begin dating again before my lady parts withered and died.
I would have said it better, obviously. But why had I been so certain we couldn’t have made things work?
Would moving back in with Rebecca and William be the worst thing?
Not for Lucy. I willfully expelled Frannie’s disappointment from my mind, and leaped toward the safety and comfort of this idea.
“Rebecca, would you mind if Lucy and I moved back into the guesthouse for a while?”
This time it was Rebecca’s turn to tear up. “Of course. We’d be over the—” She edited the coming space metaphor in real time. “We’d be thrilled. And we promise to give you all the privacy you need, but we’d be so happy to help and support you in whatever comes next.”
I let out a giant breath. It was more than a breath, actually. It was both a gust of regret for the swirling shit storm I’d created, and a sigh of relief that I still had this safe, familiar place where I could hide from the world.