Chapter Thirty-One Lily
After leaving the letter at Henry’s, I spend the rest of the day helping my mom prepare for the event.
I get dressed early, letting my grandfather and aunt use my room to get ready. I pick up Rose’s dress from the dry cleaners, a gold silk gown with a matching wrap. I’m wearing a midnight-blue one my mom picked out.
I make sure the pamphlets for the event are printed and stack them all neatly in cardboard boxes. The auction items for the fundraising portion have been packaged and delivered to the venue, the ballroom at the Great Harbor Yacht Club, downtown.
Now it’s almost six, less than half an hour before the event, and I have just dropped off Rose.
She is making sure the sound system is in place, the microphones work, the tables are laid out with the items on sale, and most importantly, that the bar is fully stocked.
Rich people always donate more when they’ve had a few too many.
My fingertips are lined with stinging paper cuts from the pamphlets. Upon arriving, we realized there wasn’t enough ice, so I was sent on a mission to grab some at the supermarket just two blocks down the road.
That’s when it happens. As I’m driving back with the ice, my phone rings.
The car shows on the dashboard the caller’s name: Clive Bozeman.
I’ve been waiting for this call. I knew it would eventually come once I sent the email, but I forced myself to ignore the impending confrontation.
As soon as his name appears, I feel the thump of my heart racing.
My hands become slick on the steering wheel.
I let it ring for a few seconds before answering.
“Hello?” I swallow.
“Hi, Lily,” says Clive in a neutral, calm voice.
I try to picture where he might be. It’s Friday, so I assume he’s at the office. Are his legs crossed atop his desk? Is he playing with the fidget spinner he always used? Or is he back at home in his Tribeca loft?
“Hi,” I repeat in a less certain voice.
“I received your email,” he says. He sounds almost amused, sardonic, and maybe even a little… impressed? “Quite the theatrics. I must admit I didn’t know you had it in you.”
His tone is smug and condescending—it’s how he always sounds. But at least he doesn’t seem particularly resentful.
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. Bikers pass in front of the car, and I try to stay focused on the road.
“I was told you had some choice words when Marie Chen called. It’s one thing to fire me, but you and I both know that it’s not fair for you to ruin my future career prospects after all I did for you.
” I do my best to sound confident and stern.
“Interesting,” says Clive in that same amused voice. It immediately takes me back to how it felt to be his assistant and personal punching bag for three years: the snide remarks, his perfectly manicured eyebrows always raised in a snobbish expression. The belittling.
I’m expecting him to fight back, to yell like he used to, or threaten to get HR involved, but to my surprise, he just laughs.
“I suppose you’re right,” he says. I can hear the shrug in his tone. “I wasn’t always fair to you.”
I’m too shocked at first to compute. “You weren’t?” I repeat. “I mean, no. You certainly were not.”
Clive gives another airy chuckle. “I know I wasn’t the best boss. In my defense, I was going through a divorce, so I wasn’t exactly my best self either. But regardless, you’re right. If I ever get asked for a professional reference again, I will be sure to sing your praises.”
Is it possible that it was this easy all along? I can’t believe he’s agreeing without a fight. I knew he was going through a divorce, and while I also know what heartbreak can do to a person, it’s still not an excuse.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that. And I’m sorry, too. I mean, about the divorce.”
Clive sighs. “Don’t apologize, Lily. You were doing so well! Stand up for yourself. It’s tiresome.”
That pisses me off again. “You’re right,” I say with more strength. “You were a terrible boss, and I am honestly thrilled to never work for you again. I hope we never cross paths.”
He laughs, almost a snort. “There you go,” he says. “Way to finally grow a backbone.”
A thought occurs to me. “Wait, can I actually get this in writing—”
Before I can finish the request, the conversation is over.
I hear the beep of the call ending. In the front seat of the car, I let myself breathe a relieved laugh.
It’s over. No, Clive didn’t exactly make amends for his atrocious behavior, but at least he won’t affect my future going forward.
He won’t hold me back. Nothing will. Maybe my dad was right.
It is on this short drive back to the venue—the big bags of ice secured in my back seat, the satisfaction of settling the score with Clive making everything feel lighter—that I see the deer a second too late.
I spot the antlers first, emerging from the gray fog only three feet in front of the windshield.
It is a surprise to see a deer here, so close to the busy town center.
I’m used to them appearing on Milestone Road or out on the sleepy side streets in ’Sconset, but not here, in the middle of civilization. I wasn’t on guard.
I stop just in time. My heart jolts along with the brakes.
The head of the deer is visible before the rest of its body, like one of those already dead trophies on the walls of hunting lodges.
The car keeps sliding on a puddle. I slam even harder on the brakes.
The deer doesn’t move, just keeps looking at me, blinking, before walking away at a leisurely pace, unbothered.
It takes several seconds for my heart to restart before I can move.
When I hydroplaned, I ended up a few inches onto the sidewalk in an effort to avoid hitting the buck.
Now I cautiously pull out, but the fog is too dense.
There’s a car parked behind me on the side of the road, but I can’t see much else.
I move slowly, or at least I think I’m going slow, but the adrenaline is pumping through my muscles, and all I want to do is get to the safety of the parking lot.
That’s when I feel a bump and the hideous, grating sound of metal on metal. The noise is awful, haunting. I think I will hear it forever: the sensation of my car colliding, scraping along the one behind. When it stops, all I can think in the silence is, No, no, no, no.
I get out of the car to inspect for damage, but there are still people whizzing by, honking.
My legs are shaking and it feels I’ve been punched in the sternum.
The other car, thankfully, mercifully, looks fine.
The license plate is a tad askew, but when I go to adjust it, it lifts back into place.
There’s a line of paint on the front bumper, but I wipe this off easily, too.
It’s as if nothing happened. Our spare tire must have cushioned the blow.
Then I turn my attention to our car. Lottie’s car has fared the worse by far, taking on the brunt of the damage.
There’s a long, silver scrape of chipped paint on the back, probably from the other car’s plate.
I have a hard time looking at it directly, as if it’ll become less real if I only squint at it.
I consider leaving a note, but what would it say?
The damage is only to Lottie’s car. The wind of passing traffic blows back my hair, and I realize that if I stay put like this, I risk getting into a worse accident.
I get back into the driver’s seat and pull out hesitantly, quietly.
I drive the remaining two blocks back to the venue, scanning the mist for hidden threats.
When I am safely parked, I examine the scratch again.
It’s bad, as if someone has scraped a giant fingernail against the rear end of the Jeep.
Childishly, I want to cry. A few moments ago, the car was perfect, intact, and now here it is: damaged, changed.
It is all my fault. It is always, in the end, all my fault.
Lottie’s Jeep will never be the same again.
I fix my makeup in the rearview mirror, waiting for the blotchiness on my neck to settle back to a uniform color. I adjust my hair, now in unruly curls.
Tomorrow, I will deal with everything else, but tonight is about Rose. With a deep breath, I enter the yacht club.
I can still fix this. I can, and I must.
Inside, the event is already in full swing.
I carry the three bags of ice, cold against my chest. One is blocking my vision, so I have to keep adjusting it.
I spot my grandfather and aunt by the raw bar.
They look like twins: artificial orange tans and the same bored expression, as if even the champagne flutes they hold are disappointing somehow.
The yacht club is directly on the harbor, and outside the water is still, the fog rolling off it in wisps. Behind the wide glass windows of the dining room sits a handful of lawn chairs. The grass is uniform, freshly clipped; the sailing flags ripple in the wind.
“Lily?” I hear, but I can’t see past the ice to who is speaking.
For a second, I assume it must be Theo—did he decide to still come despite everything? Instead, when I move around the bags, I see William. The image of him is slightly warbled, like opening your eyes underwater.
William is wearing a ridiculous white suit.
He looks like a cross between a Miami club promoter and a sailing captain.
I’m so alarmed by the sight of him that I drop the ice.
I forgot he would be here when I invited Thomas.
I still don’t know what Theo wanted to warn me about, and the possibilities are chilling.
The bags fall together, landing in a pile with a loud crashing noise. One splits open. Ice slides everywhere, some cubes flying as far as the stage. All of the fancy guests turn around, holding their cocktails up in the air, their eyes embarrassed on my behalf. The band cuts the music.