“Oh, Melissa, I’m not a complete fool.” Robyn stood, tossed her hair, brandished the phone at Melissa. “Of course I didn’t tell him. And I didn’t call anyone. He called me. It’s none of your business, anyway. Obviously privacy’s one more thing in my life that’s going out of control.”
“It is our business,” Melissa protested. “Because-”
“Fine.” Robyn cut her off. “Lewis and I are-”
She flipped a hand in frustration, then plopped down on the couch again, the flowered cushions plumping beside her as she sat. “Unhappy. Okay? We’re un-freaking-happy. I was doing my best. I was trying to stay sane. You try living with the Mr. Midlife Crisis. Suddenly he’s Mr. Impetuous. Mr. Spontaneous. I was the only one trying to make it work. As I told him in no uncertain terms.”
Robyn made a dismissive sound, whatever. “We didn’t argue in front of Gracie, of course. Poor thing has no idea her stepfather’s a nutcase.”
“Nutcase?” Melissa’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Does he know you’re talking to a lawyer? Are you getting a divorce?”
This development put the situation in a different light, Jane thought. Two parents, one a “nutcase,” playing marital chess with a little girl as their pawn. Melissa in the middle of it, too. What could Lewis’s endgame be?
“Divorce? That’s also none of your-” Robyn began.
Jane’s cell phone beeped. She’d set the alarm for ten. She waved a hand, hoping to quiet the escalating tension. She was glad there was a coffee table between the two women.
“Melissa, listen. Robyn. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Lewis asked for me, he drew me into this.” She paused. “We have to think about Gracie now. If you have any inkling she’s in danger, we need to call the police.”
“No police,” Robyn insisted. “Lewis will call. It’s not that there’s danger, it’s only-”
“Only what?” Jane said. “It’s after ten.”
“He can be, well, careless,” Robyn said.
“Careless?” Melissa narrowed her eyes at Robyn. “What does that mean?”
Jane thought back. This woman’s story was somehow-evolving. “Robyn? Did you ever ask to talk to Gracie on the phone?”
“No.” Robyn shook her head. “But look, he’d never harm Gracie. It’s only me he wants to hurt.”
“Hurt?” Melissa interrupted.
“Oh, no, not hurt physically.” Robyn waved her off. “But he’s always been jealous. When I married Danny instead. He called him a big-shot asshole.”
“Police,” Jane said. Yeesh. She took out her cell. “Right now.”
“Jane. Listen.” Melissa put her a hand on Jane’s arm, stopping her, pulled her aside. “I’m really trying to stay calm here. That’s what Daniel would want, I know it. What if I’m-overreacting? What if I look like the crazy one?”
“Really?” Jane tried to read her sister’s face.
Melissa pressed her lips together, nodded. “Look. Lewis has already said he’d return Gracie. If he doesn’t call soon, then fine, all bets are off, we call the cops. But if Lewis is simply upset and jealous, and late because he’s careless, as Robyn seems to be saying, we’ll just do what he says. Until we get Gracie.”
“You certain?” Jane wasn’t. “Really?”
“Really. You’re right. Lewis is remorseful. He’ll call, and you’ll go pick up Gracie, Jane,” Melissa instructed, turning back to include Robyn. “Daniel’s plane gets in at one. His driver’s bringing him here. It’ll be fine. Not everything is a big drama. Agreed? Robyn?”
Robyn nodded. “Agreed.”
Jane did not agree. Not at all. But no one seemed to care. It was already a drama, far as she was concerned. Who was this Lewis Wilhoite, anyway? She tried to remember what Robyn had told them in the restaurant last night.
“You guys? It’s five past ten,” Jane said. “How long are we going to wait for the call? Meanwhile, Robyn? Can I use your computer?”
39
Tenley wanted to go home. Just go home. Home where all her stuff was, and where even Lanna’s goneness was better than living somewhere Lanna had never existed. It wasn’t yet time for her to leave. It wasn’t. There was only one home, no matter what she’d told Brileen, or how she had felt, or the anger she’d stored away over her parents, poisonous as nuclear waste. Her mother needed her now. They needed to be together.
A minute ago, her mother had called Ward Dahlstrom, made some excuse so at least Tenley wouldn’t get in trouble for missing work. Now Tenley curled up in the big chair in the greenroom off her mother’s office. She and Lanna hid out here when they were younger, with Lanna as babysitter and, later, companion. They’d painted each other’s toenails. Read comics. Lanna had even taught her to text. All in the little room with no entrance from the hallway, a room the size of a super-big walk-in closet that was connected to their mom’s office, where dignitaries and emissaries and deal makers could hide from paparazzi and nosy reporters. There was even a private bathroom. Five minutes ago her mom had stashed her here, ordered her not to come out, not to make any noise, until she returned. A police officer waited in Mom’s office. What was she telling him? What she’d told her daughter?
Tenley could almost replay the tape in her head. How absurd to be told of her own father’s death-his murder-in a tile-walled public bathroom at City Hall.
“We should go someplace private,” Mom had said.
“This is private,” Tenley’d replied, still on edge, still suspicious, still worried, by seeing her mother so upset. Still a little nervous she might get in trouble over the nonexistent video.
Mom had put a hand on each of Tenley’s shoulders, looked straight into her eyes. When had she become as tall as her mom? She remembered so clearly being little, her mother-and her father!-scooching down to come to eye level with her. Not anymore. She met her mother’s gaze on an equal level.
“Tenner, honey.” She’d heard the tremor in her mother’s voice. “It’s difficult, it’s awful, and I know you’ve-we’ve-already been through… through hell.”
Tenley’s eyes widened, remembering. She heard the rumble of the plumbing, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the clack of footsteps in the hall. She tilted her head as if listening, mentally reenacting the scene, living it as if for the first time.
“What?” she’d asked. Was her mother sick? A whole scenario of potential disasters flooded Tenley’s imagination as fast as her brain could concoct them: cancer, hospitals, death, abandonment. Maybe divorce? Okay, right, that wouldn’t surprise her. Her father had ignored Tenley, ignored Mom, too, since Lanna. Divorce would end in abandonment, too. Everything did.
“It’s your father,” her mother began. She took one of Tenley’s hands, palm up, traced the lines on her skin as if she were a fortune teller. “I remember when you were so tiny, you couldn’t wrap your hand around one of my fingers,” her mother whispered.
Okay, this was scary.
“What, Mom? What about Dad?”
Her mother pressed Tenley’s hand to her own cheek. Tenley felt the clammy skin, damp from tears, felt the clutch of her mother’s grasp.
“He’s dead, honey,” her mom said.
The word didn’t even make sense. Tenley tried to capture it, think about it, remember what it meant. Her father? Her father who-was dead?
“Why?” It was the first thing that came out of her mouth. It didn’t make sense, she realized that as soon as she said it, so she thought of what else. “When?” Which also wasn’t exactly the right question, but somehow her brain wasn’t working, not at all. They were in the bathroom, a stupid bathroom of City Hall, and her mother was telling her an impossible thing. “How?” she asked. And then, “Are you sure?”