Chapter 36
The next evening, I walked into the Abbot Kinney Modern Events Center in Venice, the venue now hosting the event originally planned for my local bookstore, Coral Tree Books.
This event center was nothing like the cozy indie bookstores that had hosted my previous events.
And I’d done all those before my entire life had been dissected online.
Nerves took hold, so I texted Frannie inviting—or more like begging—her to be a friendly face in the audience, but she responded with surprising news: Hot ER Doc asked me out! Going to dinner tonight. Wish me luck!
Good luck! I fired back. And we may have to stop calling him Hot ER Doc! I was truly happy for Frannie. This was good.
The Coral Tree Books owner, Caroline, led me toward the front of the space, where there was a stage with two purple velvet club chairs, a low coffee table, and a large potted ficus.
As we settled in opposite each other, she leaned over and said with a broad smile, “We’re expecting about two hundred fifty people tonight. ”
I swallowed hard. It was almost impossible to fathom that many people showing up to listen to me talk about my book.
Caroline’s interview questions were pretty standard.
She asked about my writing process, how writing a romance is different from a literary novel, and why an astronaut?
During each momentary pause as she consulted her note cards before selecting her next question, I felt like I was at a concert waiting for the band to play the one song I’d wanted to hear—or, in this case, absolutely didn’t want to.
But Caroline never went anywhere near the scandal over my fake astronaut boyfriend.
After one particularly self-deprecating answer that drew what sounded to my ears like sincere laughter, I gazed out at the audience.
My eyes snagged on a woman seated in the second row.
I could have sworn it was Rosa. As in, Sam’s beloved Rosa.
The housekeeper who had all but raised him, and then disappeared after the funeral, leaving all of us alone with our grief, and the pregnancy she hadn’t bothered staying long enough to learn about.
I remember being envious that she could walk away from the pain.
Every now and then, I would ask Rebecca if she’d heard anything from Rosa, but the answer was always a rueful No, nothing at all, she must have decided to stay in Guatemala.
Could it really be her? But if she was back from Guatemala, then why wouldn’t she have reached out to the family?
I missed the next question Caroline lobbed out and sheepishly had to ask her to repeat it.
“Sorry, I guess I’m a little distracted by the large crowd,” I quipped.
And then, the next thing I knew, she was opening it up for audience questions.
With one eye trained on the Rosa look-alike, I took a long sip of water as the first woman stepped up to the microphone that had been placed in the center aisle.
She was tall and fit, with glossy, long auburn hair, and she was wearing incredibly hip, chunky black glasses.
I placed my glass back on the coffee table and prayed she wasn’t a mean girl or the Trucrimehunter213 conspiracy theorist.
“Hi, Thea, I’m Rachel. I loved your book, and like probably everyone in this room, I’ve been following on social media what happened to you with the fake astronaut,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears with both hands.
I braced for impact.
“Um . . . I was catfished last year,” Rachel admitted. “And I’m guessing I’m, like, not the only one who has been lied to by a man on a dating app.”
The audience broke into a chorus of hoots. Except Maybe-Rosa, who was staring at me.
Rachel continued, “I just wanted to tell you that you are not alone. But also, reading your book and hearing about your husband reminded me that true love does exist. I hope you don’t give up on finding love again.”
Suddenly, the entire room was on its feet, clapping and screaming. I’d never thought of my situation like that. In that moment, I was awash in solidarity. And hope.
The rest of the Q and A flew by and afforded me the opportunity to continue sizing up the woman who I was now convinced was Rosa.
But as soon as the event ended, with a second standing ovation, the woman was already moving up the aisle toward the exit and away from the long line forming by the book-signing table.
Caroline motioned for me to follow her, but I held up a finger and mouthed, “Sorry, I’ll be right back.
” Caroline’s eyes scrunched with concern, but I simply had to intercept that woman or I might die of regret.
Racing down the stairs on the side of the stage, I smiled as I attempted to graciously bob and weave my way through the crowd of women who seemed both surprised and delighted to find me in their midst. “Back in a sec,” I said over and over, until I pushed open the door and saw her retreating figure. “Rosa!” I called out.
The woman stopped short and slowly turned around. It was her. A shiver ran through me and my mouth gaped. I jogged over to her and threw my arms around her. “When did you come back from Guatemala? We’ve missed you so much.”
Rosa looked at me quizzically. “I haven’t been to Guatemala in over twenty-five years.”
My body stiffened and I took a step back.
I had always taken some measure of comfort in believing she’d returned to Guatemala to be with her family.
I’d rationalized that it made sense she needed to protect her own heart.
But now it turned out she’d been living in LA the whole time?
Why would she cut ties like that for no reason?
“I always wondered if you would write another book.” Rosa clutched my book to her chest. “When I read it, all I could picture was Sam.”
All this time I’d had so many questions for Rosa. I had desperately wanted to know why she never came back. Had she ever learned I gave birth to Sam’s baby? But before I could decide what to ask first, Rosa started crying. “Are you OK?”
Rosa opened her purse, dropped the book in, and rummaged for a tissue. Dabbing her eyes, she said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what?” I said.
“Oh, Thea, I have prayed for you every day. But there’s something I need to tell you,” she said.
Her pained expression sent spikes of dread through me.
“When I left I knew you were pregnant,” Rosa said, meeting my eyes.
“What do you mean you knew I was pregnant?” I asked, my voice rising. “That’s impossible. No one knew but Sam, me, and our doctor until I told Rebecca and William the week after the funeral. The last time I saw you was the day of the funeral. I definitely would have remembered telling you.”
“You didn’t tell me. A picture of the baby fell out of Sam’s tennis bag when he dropped it on the kitchen floor. Mrs. Rebecca saw it. They had a big fight.” She paused. “And I heard the whole thing.”
The picture had to have been the sonogram. It was the only picture Sam ever got to see of Lucy. I let the magnitude of what Rosa was revealing sink in for several moments before I took a step toward her and whispered, “What did they say? Please, I need to know every word you can remember.”
She looked down at her hands, which were wrinkled and calloused from decades of laundry, dishes, cooking, and childcare.
“I will never forget. Mrs. Rebecca told Sam not to throw away his life.” Then Rosa crossed herself.
“She said you should get an abortion. You could have a baby in a few years, but now wasn’t the right time.
He needed to focus on his tennis, not a baby.
Sam was so mad at her. And then he left. ”
“Left to go for a run?” I asked it as a question, but I knew the answer already.
I always believed deep down that Sam and I hadn’t fought that day, but I hadn’t been able to come up with another logical reason for why he went for that blasted run—other than that he must have been upset about the unplanned pregnancy, which felt like my fault.
Tears sprang to my eyes. In Sam’s final moments, he had been angry, all right. Just not with me. With his mom.
“Yes, to go for a run.” Rosa frowned.
“When did Rebecca realize you’d heard the fight?” I asked, my voice growing hoarse.
“I was in the kitchen starting dinner when they went out on the patio, but the sliding glass doors were open and they were yelling at each other. After Sam left, she came inside and complained to me about you being pregnant.”
“But Rebecca always said she wasn’t home that afternoon,” I said. “And she said you were at the grocery store when it happened. She lied?” I uttered in disbelief.
“Yes,” Rosa said, lowering her gaze. “When the police came and told us about the accident, Mrs. Rebecca said we’d both just gotten home.
She made me promise never to tell you what really happened.
But then, right after the funeral, she handed me a big check and said I had to leave and I could never come back or try to talk to you.
” Rosa hesitated for a second. “I almost told you when I came to the guesthouse the night I left. But I was too afraid.”
A vivid memory flashed in my mind’s eye of her sitting on the edge of my bed in the guesthouse stroking my hair.
I was still wearing my black funeral dress, curled up, bawling.
She was murmuring something in Spanish. Maybe a prayer?
In the week after Sam died, Frannie had been the only other person I’d let into the guesthouse, primarily to sleep on the floor next to my bed every night—I couldn’t let anyone sleep in Sam’s spot.
Not when the pillow still smelled like his shampoo and I could still make out the contours of his body on the mattress.
But Rosa’s presence that evening had been comforting.
I recalled feeling united with her in grief.
As the Packers’ housekeeper for fifteen years, Rosa had poured so much love into Sam, which was precisely why I’d accepted, without question, Rebecca’s explanation that Rosa was taking some time to grieve with her family in Guatemala.
“Oh, Rosa, I wish you’d told me then, but I understand why you couldn’t.” I reached out and touched her forearm. “But why did you decide to tell me now?”
“When I was leaving, Mrs. Rebecca promised me she would tell Mr. William that night and that she would tell you as soon as she thought you could handle it. I assumed she wouldn’t be able to keep a secret like that forever.
Secrets eat us up from the inside out. But then I was reading about you online after seeing your new book and saw that blog. ”
She said it like I should know what she was talking about. “Which blog?”
“The one that asked if you could have one wish come true, what would it be? You answered, ‘Why Sam had gone for a run the day he died.’ And that’s when I knew she never told you.”
Of course. The blog question I’d answered in hopes that my published words might bring about a miracle. And now they had, just not in a magical way.
“But the Packers have known this whole time that I blamed myself,” I said, astonished by the enormous breach of trust. “Even though Sam seemed so happy about the baby when he left the guesthouse, I’ve always worried that he was upset and that’s why he went for the run.
” My voice trembled. “Knowing the truth helps me more than you can possibly understand. Thank you, Rosa.”
“Can I see a picture of your daughter? She’s five now? What’s her name?” Rosa asked tentatively.
“Her name is Lucy, and yes, she’s five.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a recent picture that showed her face up close.
Lucy and Sam The Dog were sitting on her bed the day we moved into our apartment.
We’d both been so full of hope and excitement for our new adventure.
I turned the phone toward Rosa and watched her face as she got her first glimpse of Sam’s little girl, genetically bestowed with his mischievous smile.
Rosa’s breath hitched as she ran her finger over Lucy’s image, almost but not quite touching the screen.
“Beautiful. She looks just like Sam and just like you. Perfect.”
“Thank you, I agree. She is perfect.”
“Can I meet her?” Her eyes glistened.
“Of course,” I said. We exchanged information, and then I hustled back to the events center with no concept of how much time had passed since I’d left the venue in hot pursuit of Rosa.
Caroline was waiting by the door, looking incredibly anxious.
She whisked me over to the signing table, which now had a line snaking around the entire space.
As each woman approached, Caroline handed me a yellow sticky with their name so I could say hello and personalize their books.
I chatted and signed away, trying not to let my mind wander to Rebecca’s breathtaking lie and its far-reaching tentacles that had ironically led me to write Love You to Mars and Back.
Caroline tried to keep the line moving, but so many women wanted to share their stories of male duplicity and heartbreak.
Men who were married. Men who lied about their jobs.
Their living situations. The existence of their children.
But they also all said some version of the same thing—because of me, they still believed in love.
Which was nice to hear and all, but I couldn’t help feeling like after all my plans to manifest my own happily ever after, I’d succeeded in creating a fantasy for my readers, just not for myself.