Chapter Thirty-Six
THIRTY-SIX
The fury builds in me as I walk back home. As I get close to the house, I see the minivan trunk is open. Rachel has brought her duffel bags out. She’s ready to go.
I swallow my anger and head inside to find Rachel standing in the middle of the living room wearing a Georgetown T-shirt, a confused look on her face.
“Hey, Mom! I’m like ninety-nine percent packed, but do you know where the clip-on fan is? And also the foam mattress pad? The one that doesn’t smell.”
“Did you look in the attic?”
“I looked everywhere. It’s not there.”
“Did you look in the large plastic tub in the attic that’s labeled ‘camp stuff’?”
She opens her mouth into a wide O.
“Check there,” I say. “It’s easy to miss. It’s about three feet long with huge letters that say ‘camp stuff.’”
She laughs. “Oh yeah, that sounds kind of familiar.”
I watch her run up the stairs. She’ll be gone soon, but instead of relishing these last few moments with her, I am haunted by a deep feeling of betrayal.
The trust I had in my neighbors and friends has been shattered.
Eastbrook no longer feels like a haven to me.
But I’m not just hurt, I’m angry, sick of the lies, of being kept in the dark.
I hear Miguel in the kitchen and head toward him.
“There you are!” he cries. He is filling up his water bottle at the refrigerator. “I was worried we’d have to leave without saying goodbye. Where have you been?”
“Kenya’s. She had some really interesting things to say.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s not listening; he’s rummaging through the fridge. “I’m going to drop her off and then grab a quick dinner. I should be back by midnight.”
I close the fridge door, barely missing his hand.
“Hey!” He jumps back. “What was that for?”
“We need to talk.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow? We’re supposed to leave. Like now.”
“Just tell me, what’s your connection to Crimson Edge?”
He says nothing. Not a muscle in his face moves. He looks blank. That’s how I know. He was unprepared for this question, and he’s scrambling to come up with an answer. I almost feel sorry for him.
“Did you hire them?” Heat rises to my face as I fight to keep my voice steady. “We agreed, we weren’t going to be those parents. The parents who throw money at their children.”
“No,” he says through gritted teeth. “You agreed. I never did.”
“So, you hired some fancy college consultant without even telling me? How much did that cost?”
“Shhh.” He looks past me. “I don’t want to talk about this while Rachel is home. I don’t want her to know anything about this.”
“So, it’s true.” Disbelief crashes over me in waves.
“I’m not kidding, Caren.” His voice is low and severe, eyes darting toward the doorway as if Rachel might materialize at any moment. “Rachel can never know about this. It would destroy her.”
“She doesn’t even know? How is that even possible?”
His jaw clenches, a muscle working frantically beneath the skin. “I was trying to protect her.”
“Protect her from what? Miguel, tell me what’s going on. Does this have to do with that nanny who was murdered last year?”
“Whoa, whoa. You are scaring me,” he says. “Murder? You think I’m involved with murder?”
“No. I don’t. But you’ve been lying to me—”
“Caren—”
I hold up my hand. “Don’t interrupt. All those long nights, all that anxiety about Rachel and you knew all along what was going on.
You kept that from me. I would never do that to you.
I tell you everything.” I take a quick breath and keep going.
“And then to find out that you hired Crimson Edge without telling me. I feel like I don’t even know you. ”
“I didn’t hire them,” he says. “Jo did.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Last August, like I told you, Jo came and asked that everything Van had stolen and given to Rachel be given back. It was quite the little haul. Earrings, rings, a necklace. I didn’t know that bracelet was missing.
It wasn’t like Jo gave me an inventory list. I believe Rachel when she says she thought she returned everything.
Anyway, Jo said that the police were poking around, that they thought the murder of that nanny might be connected to the earlier break-ins. That it might be the same person.”
“Was it?” My heart hammers against my ribs.
“No! You think Van and Noah could kill someone?”
“Noah? No. But Van?” I shrug. “You know he was sleeping with the nanny’s boss, right? A woman in her thirties.”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
“I went and saw her today. With Finn.”
“Finn?” He jerks his head back. “What is going on with you two? Is this guy filling your head with conspiracy theories?”
“No. He’s not. He’s the only person who actually acknowledges that something really bad might be going on. He thinks what happened to me might be related to the murder of his friend, the nanny.”
“It has nothing to do with murder. Jo was worried that Van would get sucked in to an investigation. So was Kenya. Even if the boys’ names were cleared, it could derail their whole lives. I wanted nothing to do with any of it, but then…” He trails off, staring at his hands.
“Then what?”
“Jo offered to help us.” His voice drops to a near whisper. “Help us get Rachel into Georgetown.”
“How?”
“She knows the guy who runs Crimson Edge. They went to law school together. Jo said he helps students with potential who don’t have the highest marks or scores. He gets them into top schools as walk-ons for underfunded teams. Tennis, sailing, rowing. As long as there is a sizable donation.”
“You mean bribe the schools.” I can’t hide my disgust.
“It’s not a bribe. It’s completely legal.
” His voice rises defensively. “It’s a donation to the tennis program.
It’s a legitimate way they fundraise. This was last August. She failed two classes fall of junior year.
With those grades, Rachel didn’t even have a shot at Maryland.
And all because of those asshole kids. Van and Elo?se ruined her junior year! The Allards owed us, Caren.”
“And they made the donation? How much?”
“I don’t know. I think one-fifty altogether.” He won’t meet my eyes.
“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” I can barely get the words out. “To buy our daughter’s silence. What about Noah?”
“They made the same deal with Noah.” He lifts his chin. “Neither of the kids knew. We all agreed that they could never know.”
“I can’t believe you did this without telling me.”
“Why?” His face twists into something ugly. “You were so happy the day that you learned Rachel got into Georgetown. You were dancing around. You wouldn’t have been dancing around if she was going to some third-rate school, and you know it.”
“That’s not fair.” My hands clench into fists. It hurts because it is true. I preached about how it didn’t matter what school you went to, but deep down I felt that same racing pressure. I was happy when she got into Georgetown.
“The whole system’s not fair. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.
You of all people should know that.” He takes a deep breath and exhales, speaking more gently now.
“You’re so smart and talented, and you’ve worked so hard, but you topped out in your career because you don’t have the right connections.
” His words are daggers, precisely aimed. “I don’t want that for Rachel.”
“You really believe that?” My voice is barely audible now, choked with hurt. “That’s what you think of me?”
“That you’re better than being a freelance events planner with one client? Yes, I do. And that’s a compliment to you. You deserve better. Your trajectory was set when you turned down Amherst and went to a state school.”
“I’ve done pretty well.” I stand straighter, defiance burning through the hurt. Even if a part of me agrees with him, I have my pride.
“But have you done really well? Or is it always a hustle? Look around. Money stays with money. Rachel will have a better chance at a good life if she launches from Georgetown. Life has only gotten more intense and less fair since we were young.” His eyes burn with conviction, with a truth he’s apparently believed all along.
“If you have grit and determination, you can make it,” I say. It sounds feeble, even to my own ears.
“Maybe. But Rachel doesn’t have that grit.
You worked through high school and had two jobs during college.
You were hungry for it. Can you really see Rachel doing that?
You and I both know that she doesn’t have that drive.
She needs our help.” His words echo in the kitchen, bouncing off the granite countertops.
“Is that what you really think?” says a voice from across the room.
We both turn to see Rachel, tears streaming down her face, standing in the entry to the kitchen.
“Honey,” Miguel says, moving toward her with outstretched hands. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t. Just don’t.” She turns and runs out.
Miguel and I follow her, our own fight forgotten in the wake of her distress. But she’s already out the door.
“Rachel!” I call, my voice breaking on her name as she runs to the minivan, gets in the back, and shuts the door. A neighbor walking her dog stops and stares, her expression curious, witnessing our family fracturing before her eyes.
“You satisfied now?” he asks.
I shake my head in disgust. As if this is my fault! But I don’t have time to fight with Miguel. I go out and knock on the window, but Rachel doesn’t open the door.
I open the passenger-side door just as Miguel gets into the driver’s seat, and I lean over the center console.
“Honey, listen. Let’s talk about what you heard back there—”
“How could you?” she yells, tears streaming down her face.
“I didn’t know.”
“And you. Daddy, I trusted you.” She turns from me to Miguel, who has twisted his whole body so he is facing the back seat as well.
“I believed it when you said good things about me. And the whole time.” A hiccupping sob erupts from her.
“The whole time you thought I was just some loser who couldn’t cut it.
I’m not a loser,” she wails before pulling up her knees and burying her face.
“What do we do?” I say quietly to Miguel. “Maybe she shouldn’t go to camp tonight.”
“I can hear you,” she yells. “I’m right here.”
“All right, fine. Maybe we should go back inside and talk.”
“No. Nope. We’re not talking about it.” She shakes her head violently and glares at Miguel.
“And you? We’re not talking at all. And if you don’t want to drive me to camp right now, you need to tell me, because I can still catch a ride with Devin.
But no, I’m not speaking to either of you right now. ”
She fumbles in her backpack for her earbuds, pops them in, and stares out the window. I reach back to pat her leg and she jerks it away. Message received. This isn’t my fault, I want to yell. It’s all your dad.
I look at Miguel, his face unreadable.
“I should be back by midnight,” he says.
I get out of the car and watch as the minivan pulls away, feeling worse and worse as it grows smaller.
I could have waited until tomorrow to confront Miguel.
I didn’t have to do it when Rachel was home.
And now Rachel will be gone for six weeks, stewing in the knowledge that her parents, her dad at least, didn’t think she had what it takes to get into a good college. Would she ever forgive us?
My footsteps feel leaden as I walk up the path, my whole body heavy.
I have no one I feel I can turn to—not Miguel, not Kenya, not Yumi.
I dread the night alone. Finn. I’ll check in with Finn.
Maybe see if he wants to stop by or meet for coffee.
I’m opening the front door when a sound behind me startles me.
I turn to see Daniel coming up the walk holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
“What is this? I don’t want your wine, Daniel.” I don’t want to see him, to talk to him, to be near him. And I’m definitely not drinking his wine. Not after what Kenya and Yumi told me.
He gets close enough that I can smell his aftershave mixed with some kind of alcohol. Great, I think, he’s been drinking.
“I’m supposed to be on the way to the airport right now. We’re on our way to France,” he says, a little out of breath. “But I wanted to talk to you first. To apologize.” He thrusts the flowers and bottle of wine at me. “It’s Meursault. White burgundy. You had it at our house once and loved it.”
I hold my hands up, refusing to take it. “Thanks, anyway. Let’s talk when you get back from France.”
But when I walk inside my house, Daniel follows. I stop short, my discomfort growing into something that feels like fear. “What are you doing?”
“Five minutes.” He puts the wine and flowers on the foyer table. “Just to apologize.”
I weigh my options. Daniel’s a big guy. I can smell the alcohol on him, the familiar scent of wine. He’s clearly been drinking. What am I going to do—physically push him out of the house? I leave the front door wide open so any passerby has a view into our foyer through the glass storm door.
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “Five minutes.”
I sound a lot more confident than I feel.