Chapter 8
Eight
In the hours since I left Jonathan’s office, I’ve mentally confirmed this is the only solution.
Unless Barry calls and tells me they’ve recovered the money—which is a long shot—this is the only plan I have.
Other than the time I don’t have and spending my last cents, it’s a relatively low-risk, high-reward endeavor.
If I come back in two weeks with nothing, I still have nothing.
And—and—there’s the fact I’d be helping to solve a mystery that needs to be solved. There’s historical significance to recovering something so old. Historians, scholars, and collectors would be champing at the bit for a discovery of this magnitude. I’m basically doing mankind a favor.
“See, Rue,” I say to the sink as I do the dishes after dinner, “you haven’t lost your mind after all. This plan is as sound as an old steamer trunk.”
I have to do this.
I will.
I will find the gold.
I will save the store.
I will give Bennie the life she deserves and Mom the surgery she needs.
And I will get a divorce. Really get a divorce.
And then I’ll marry Jonathan.
I have two weeks until the roof payment is due and a month until I get married. Maybe Rueben already knows where it is or just needs a couple more clues. Mom mentioned he’s not in great health, so maybe he’s given up.
Unless it’s not there.
No.
It has to be there.
People don’t get arrested for digging for nothing.
Do they?
According to every Indiana Jones movie, they do not.
Once Bennie’s in bed, and after practicing my speech nine hundred times, I grab wine for courage.
Instead of using a glass, I grab a stein that usually sits in the windowsill for decoration—it’s a more appropriate size for the conversation ahead.
In a chair at the kitchen table and with my stein of wine, I dial my sisters and mom into a conference call, something we used to do weekly.
Like everything else, the busier life gets, the less time we make for each other.
“Rue-Rue,” Remy coos first, setting off a chain reaction of greetings between her, Reese, and my mom as they answer. Remy is in bed with a book, Reese is still at the office, and Mom is making her tea; I take a hefty sip of wine as they chatter.
“Mom has to tell you something,” I cut in, making the air go dead. “Mom, tell them.”
I’m fully prepared for her to spin some deceitfully deflective story when she says, “I have a benign brain tumor.”
While my heart stutters like it’s the first time I’m hearing it, in unison, Reese and Remy shout, “What?”
Without being forced, Mom tells them everything—about the accident with Dad that led to the discovery, the years of monitoring and scans, and the growth that’s led to “minor symptoms.”
“What kind of symptoms?” Reese demands.
Mom’s quiet.
“She’s been forgetting things—names, mostly,” I explain. “And getting headaches.” I swallow. “And there are some signs of impaired judgment.”
“Like?” Remy asks.
“Like—” I take another sip of wine. “Giving all of our money—and her money and Dad’s retirement money—to a con man.”
This shoots off another round of questions—especially from Reese who’s even more of a financial wizard than Dad was.
I mentally pat myself on the back at how calm I remain—that’s what happens when a problem has a solid solution. I’m not hysterical because there’s nothing to be hysterical about. I’m going to fix this.
Also, the wine stein is doing a damn good job of doing a damn good job.
“Now what?” Reese demands. “What did the bank say? The cops? I know a guy at the FTC if we need him.”
I don’t even know what the FTC is.
“Nothing yet,” I tell them. “But the doctor says Mom should consider surgery because the symptoms will likely worsen as it grows. And she’s refusing.”
Reese and Remy assault her with lectured shouts.
Mom scoffs through the phone. “I’m not refusing,” she says over them. “I just don’t want to do it.”
“That’s called refusing,” Reese says. “Nice try on the word play though.”
“You know if a doctor’s saying it you need to listen,” Remy says. “Nobody wants brain surgery, but—God, Mom. This is a big deal.”
“It is not.” I know her well enough to tune in to the doubt in her voice. “I’m fine.”
Reese scoffs. “Dad would severely disagree.”
“About Dad,” I interject. “Mom apparently led a double life for a few months and got impregnated by a treasure hunter and I’m the evidence.” More shouts. “And—” I accidentally drink all my wine. “I’m still married to Nash.”
A complete grilling follows. I refill my stein and allow the whole twisted tale to spill out of my mouth. Maybe it’s the fact I have a plan, or maybe I have an undiagnosed case of dissociative disorder, but I feel zero panic as I explain.
When every detail is shared, Remy says, “Wow,” Reese says, “Shit,” and Mom says, “You three act like you just found out I’m some kind of criminal.”
“Rue didn’t belong to Dad,” Reese says. “It’s a pretty big damn deal.” She pauses a beat. “It’s weird though, because he was the only one who seemed to think she was fun to be around.”
“Very funny,” I say flatly.
“It’s a good thing we aren’t lions,” she continues. “We would’ve had to reject you from the pride.”
“You are such a bitch,” I say without heat.
“Who cares about that,” Remy gushes. “Nash has been sending you postcards for eight years? That’s so romantic. He’s probably been waiting for you.”
I roll my eyes. Remy’s delusional. “I doubt that. And I’m marrying Jonathan, so too bad for him.”
“How about the fact Mom got knocked up and still managed to land a husband?” Reese quips. “That takes skill.”
“Reese Conway,” Mom snips. “Don’t you talk about your mother being knocked up.”
Reese laughs. “You’re the one who—”
“I have a plan,” I cut in, making the line quiet. “We need money, I need a divorce, and Mom needs surgery.” Glug goes the wine. “And if Mom agrees to the surgery—”
“I don’t need surgery,” Mom argues.
“—and you two can come home to help with Bee and the store and watching over Mom for a couple of weeks—”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“—then I’ll go to Charleston.”
Mom’s tone flips from defensive to dubious. “You’ll go to Charleston?”
It’s a risky play, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I could use this whole situation to my advantage.
She all but asked me to go meet my biological father, and she’s as delusional about Nash as Remy is.
I’ll prove them wrong, fix our finances, and she’ll get the surgery. We all win.
I take another sip of my wine, unsure if there’s enough in all of Fontain to get the next words out of me. “I will. And I’m going to ask Rueben to tell me what he knows so I can find the missing gold to replace what we lost, and then I’ll get a divorce from Nash.”
Reese barks out a laugh. “Your plan of fixing a financial crisis is a treasure hunt? Tell me that’s a joke.”
“It isn’t a joke and it’s not a treasure hunt, it’s gold finding.”
She laughs. “Is Mom’s tumor contagious? Because that’s absurd. How do you even know it exists?”
“I did research.” I muster as much confidence as I can. “Everyone agrees the gold was stolen, the discrepancy comes with what happened after. Rueben’s claims aren’t so far-fetched.”
“I can’t believe that you, Rue Conway,” Reese starts, “the same woman who has driven the same nerdy car for ten years because it runs good—”
“Hey! I love that station wagon!”
“—and wears redneck overalls because there are more pockets to keep you organized—”
“What’s wrong with pockets?”
“—is rationalizing a treasure hunt.”
“You know what?” I slam my wine stein on the table. “Coming from the girl who poured water on a guy’s lap for twenty dollars while working at the diner, that’s real rich.”
Reese makes a disagreeing sound. “That guy had a harmless kink, and I needed gas money. And was seventeen.”
“So?”
“So? You’re forty-two and a treasure hunt isn’t how you save your livelihood.”
A noise from upstairs makes me pause. I look at the ceiling and call, “Bee,” but get no response. In a lower voice, I say, “I don’t care what you think. If Mom will get the surgery, I’m doing it.”
Reese and Remy stay quiet, but Mom says, “Fine.”
“Fine?” I straighten in my chair, wine stein hovering midair.
“I’ll have the surgery if you go to Charleston, meet your father, and tell Nash about Bennie.”
“What?” I sound like I’m being strangled. “You can’t do that.”
“And you can bully me into brain surgery?” Mom laughs. “Can’t beat me at my own game, sweetheart. You have to tell Nash about Bennie, or I’m not getting the surgery. We can sell the store if we need to.”
Damn her.
Reese and Remy start talking about what they would do if they found out they had kids they didn’t know about—I don’t tell them that’s impossible as a female—at the same time a picture on the fridge of Bennie and my mom from last Christmas catches my eye.
My mom is colorful and smiling the way she always is, and I realize how badly I need her to stay that version of her.
For Bennie and me. I may not want to tell Nash, but I need my mom more.
I take one final sip of wine. “Fine.”
“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Mom gloats. Like she’s not sending her firstborn straight to the dragon’s lair.
“Ree? Rems? Can you come help for a couple of weeks?” I rub my forehead, thinking about how to handle this with Bennie. “It might soften the blow with Bee—we’ve never been apart so long. And Nash . . .”
“You think I’d miss a front-row seat to you trying to solve a financial dumpster fire by doing something that will make Dad—sorry, our dad—roll over in his grave?” Reese snorts a laugh. “Fat chance. I’ll work from there.”
“Funny.” Because really, despite how fucked up this whole thing is, it’s a little funny. “Rems?”
“Are you kidding me?” asks Remy. “I was coming the second I heard Mom had a tumor. Darren has . . .” She clears her throat.
“Is busy. But I’ll be there in a week with the kids when school gets out.
” In a more excited voice, she asks, “But seriously, Nash has been writing you letters for eight years?”
“Postcards,” I correct.
“Still. I bet he’s still in love with you—Ooohh! What if you get there and it’s like it was before? You two were nuts about each other.” She makes a giddy noise. “This could turn into an epistolary romance novel. Unrequited love via postcard. Postmarked: Missing You.”
Gag.
“Will you please stop?” Remy has always dreamed of writing a romance novel and I refuse to be the muse for it. “He’s an idiot, and I was an idiot for falling for him. That’s not what this is.” My stomach twists. “And I’m getting married.”
Mom makes a singsongy noise.
“What does Jonathan have to say about this?” Reese asks. “He screams capital preservation—bet he has a portfolio filled with bonds. Probably shit his pressed pants at the notion of a treasure hunt.”
I hate how well she has him pegged.
Remy groans. “How do you make everything about money, Ree?”
“You asking me that is the reason divorce rates are so high—case in point, Rue and the teacher.”
If she were standing in front of me, I’d throw my wine stein at her head.
“Jonathan didn’t shit his pressed pants, he agrees with the plan.” I’m done talking about this. And Nash. “Mom? Are you sure about this?” I ask. “The surgery I mean?”
She pauses long enough that I’m worried she might say no. “You meet your father and tell Nash about Bennie, I’ll have the surgery,” she says.
They may not be the terms I wanted, but for the first time in days, I feel relief. “Fine.”
Reese flies home the next day and helps me pack.