by Joy Fielding
Next came the fury.
And finally, the fists.
Too late Dani understands that Nick is never going to change. If anything, the beatings have been occurring more frequently and getting progressively worse. Fear has replaced the love she once felt. She knows she should leave, but she no longer has the strength. She is as useless as he claims.
She knows it’s only a matter of time before he kills her.
Chapter Twenty-four
Mark is sitting on the floor of his grandmother’s bedroom, her jewelry box open in front of him, his hands dripping with thin gold chains, his fingers working frantically to separate them before Julia comes back inside. She’s been tinkering around in her tiny back garden for the better part of half an hour, and he doubts she’ll have the stamina to be out there much longer. Gardening is hard work, something he discovered yesterday when she cajoled him into helping her out.
With her unceasing encouragement, he’d mowed the lawn, pulled out a bunch of surprisingly strong and stubborn weeds, then assisted in the planting of several rows of bright coral impatiens along the bottom of the waist-high black iron fences separating his grandmother’s property from the backyards of the houses to either side.
“Beautiful,” his grandmother had pronounced when he was done, her voice brimming with satisfaction. “That looks so much better! Well done, sweetheart.”
He’d felt a surge of pride, which was followed immediately by an even bigger surge of shame when she thrust two twenty-dollar bills into his hand as payment for his efforts. “No, Nana,” he’d protested, having already removed that same amount from her purse earlier in the day.
“Nonsense,” she’d insisted. “You worked hard. You earned it.”
Of course, he’d used the money to buy weed.
He shakes his head, recalling the hint of menace in his dealer’s voice, the not-so-veiled threat that it was either time to come up with the money he still owed or pay the consequences.
So, what choice does he have? His grandmother isn’t going to miss one measly gold chain that she never wears. Hell, she won’t even know it’s gone. He tugs at the chains, realizing too late that he’s only made things worse. “Goddamn it,” he whispers.
“What are you doing?” the voice asks from the doorway.
Fuck. Mark feels every muscle in his body tense. He closes his eyes, trying to will himself into invisibility, then considers jumping to his feet and hurling himself out the second-story window. Anything to avoid having to turn around, to confront the mixture of confusion and disappointment he knows he’ll find on his nana’s face. How could he have been so stupid? More to the point, how could he not have heard her come inside?
“Nana,” he says, forcing a smile onto his lips as he swivels toward her, allowing the chains to drop back into the jewelry box. “I swear, this isn’t what it looks like.” God, could he sound any lamer?
“What does it look like?”
“Like I’m trying to steal…I’m not.” She’s not going to make this easy, he thinks, hoping desperately to come up with something even vaguely plausible to explain what he’s doing in her bedroom, his hand caught in the grown-up equivalent of a cookie jar. “Actually,” he says, hitting on something that just might work, “I was hoping to surprise you.”
“You succeeded,” Julia says, waiting for him to continue.
“It’s just that I noticed that these were all tangled up and I thought that, what with your arthritis and everything, you’d never be able to do it, so I thought I’d untangle them for you.”
“That’s so considerate of you, sweetheart.” She’s smiling now.
He smiles in return. “Well, I—”
“When did you notice this?”
Shit. It’s not an unreasonable question. Damn it. That was the problem with lying. You always had to be ready with a quick follow-up. “The other day. When you couldn’t find your glasses,” he improvises, gratefully recalling an incident he could exploit, “and I came in here to look for them. I thought maybe you might have left them in a drawer when you were getting dressed, so I started opening them, which is when I saw the music box. And I’ve always had kind of a thing for music boxes….” Really? I had to add that? I couldn’t stop while I was ahead? Which was another problem with lying, he understands. The desire to embellish. Not knowing when to stop.
She smiles and Mark feels his body relax with relief. She’s buying it. “Anyway, I opened it. And I saw all these chains, pretty much glued together. And I thought that if I ever got the chance, I’d surprise you by untangling them.”
Julia looks crestfallen. “And I went and ruined the surprise.”
God, I’m a shit, Mark thinks. “No, I’m just sorry, the way it must have looked….”
The phone rings. Nobody moves.
“Are you going to answer that?” he asks. “It could be the IRS.” He tries for a laugh, but the sound scrapes against his throat, then dies in his chest.
Julia walks to the phone by the side of her bed and picks it up. “Hello? Oh, hello, dear. It’s your father,” she whispers to Mark. “Yes, I’m very well, thank you for asking. You? That’s good. And…Poopsy?” She smiles, and Mark stifles a laugh. “Yes, sorry, dear. I know. I shouldn’t make fun. Yes, Mark’s still here. And yes, I know I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I’ve apologized. But he’s been a big help to me. No, no trouble at all. Did you know he’s a wonderful cook? Well, he is. He’s standing right here. Do you want to speak to him? What’s that?” she asks, shaking her head in Mark’s direction to indicate his father’s lack of interest. “Twelve o’clock, Friday? Yes, that should be okay. Shall I invite Mark to join us? Oh. Okay, fine. I guess I’ll see you then.”
“What’s happening at noon on Friday?” Mark asks as Julia replaces the receiver.
“Lunch at The Breakers.”
“Wow. Fancy-shmancy. I take it I’m not invited.”
“I’m sorry, darling. Your father can be quite the ass sometimes.”
“How’d that happen anyway?” Mark asks.
“How did what happen?”
“You’re just so different from my dad. It’s hard to believe he’s your son.”
“I know.” Julia nods in agreement. “I feel that way sometimes, too.”
Mark smiles, then stands up, returning the jewelry box to the drawer. “I’ll try untangling them again later,” he says. “Right now, I think I could use some fresh air.”
“Of course, darling.”
Mark surrounds his grandmother with his long, skinny arms, kissing the top of her coarse blond hair. She’s been so good to him, he thinks as he’s running down the stairs—letting him sleep till noon, not pressuring him to get a job, never saying a negative word, trusting him, believing his ridiculous lies. And how does he repay her? By taking money from her purse. By attempting to steal her jewelry. By being an even bigger ass than his father.
He opens the front door and steps outside, feeling for the joints in his pocket. He takes a quick look around, then slips into the shadows.
* * *
—
He floats back inside almost an hour later. “Nana?”
“I’m in the dining room.”
He finds her sitting at the table, its glass surface covered with sheets of loose paper. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, smiling up at him. “Come see what I found.”
He approaches the table, noticing that most of the pages are covered with a child’s drawings, some in brightly colored crayons, some in black magic marker. He lifts up several sheets that have been stapled together.
“ ‘Mark Goes to the Pool,’ ” he reads, the words all but leaping off the page and dancing before his eyes. “ ‘By Mark Fisher.’ ” He laughs. “You’ve got to be kidding.” The bottom half of the page contains a pen drawing of a boy with a big smile and curly dark hair walking towa
rd a tiny square labeled Pool.
Mark turns the page, continues reading the uneven scrawl. “ ‘One day a boy named Mark was going to the pool and having a great time but…he couldn’t find the change room.’ ”
An empty box labeled Change room fills the next page, beside another smaller box indicating the time: 1:30.
“ ‘But he found it in the end!’ ” Mark reads, laughing now. “ ‘So he changed and went into the pool.’ ” One last drawing, this one of the boy in his bathing suit, splashing in a big pool of blue water. “ ‘I was happy as a butterfly!’ ” Mark is surprised to find his eyes welling up with tears.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Imagine being as happy as a butterfly,” he says softly.
Julia smiles and reaches up to touch his arm.
“I can’t believe you saved this.”
“Of course I saved it. I saved everything you made me. See?” She motions toward the other pages strewn across the table. “You were always such an interesting little boy. So full of contradictions. One minute ‘happy as a butterfly,’ the next frantic because you ‘couldn’t find the change room.’ Metaphorically speaking, of course,” she says with a wink.
“Even if I weren’t stoned out of my mind,” Mark says slowly, “I don’t think I’d have a clue what that means.”
Julia laughs. “It means I love you, sweet boy.”
“I love you, too.” He tosses the story back to the table, then plops down into the seat beside her. “I wasn’t trying to untangle those gold chains as a surprise for you,” he admits. “I was trying to untangle them so I could steal one.”
Julia nods, says nothing.
“And I’ve been taking money from your purse,” he says.
“I know.”
A long pause. “If you knew, why didn’t you do anything?”
“What should I have done?”
“You could have kicked me out.”
“Why would I do that? I like having you around.”
“Even though I’m a thief?”
“Small price to pay,” she says. “You never took very much. Besides, I’m eating better than I have in years.”
“That’s not really the point.”
“I know.” She laughs. “You know I would have given you the money if you’d asked.”
“I know. That’s what makes it worse. I’m just a worthless piece of shit.”
“You are not a worthless piece of shit. You’re just…a little lost, that’s all.” She motions toward the story. “You just haven’t found the change room yet.”
He lays his head against her shoulder. “Still have no idea what that means.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Julia says, kissing his forehead. “I have faith. You’ll figure it out.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Maggie sits behind the reception desk at Nadine’s, watching the three stylists at work and marveling at their different techniques. Nadine is like a brushfire, fast and furious, talking almost as quickly as her hands are moving. Jerome is more of a slow burn, controlled and precise in everything he does, relentless in his pursuit of perfection. Unlike Nadine, he says very little, aside from regularly oohing and aahing over his handiwork. Rita, who works only three days a week, falls somewhere between the two. She’s slower than Nadine and more instinctive than Jerome. There’s a seeming carelessness about her technique that belies her expertise.
No wonder the small, inauspicious salon is so busy, Maggie thinks. In the short time since she started working here, she has yet to witness a bad haircut or encounter a dissatisfied customer.
“You look lovely,” she tells Sandi Marcus truthfully as the woman is settling her bill. Sandi Marcus is nearing ninety years old and looks two decades younger, thanks in large measure to Jerome’s expert styling.
“Jerome’s a genius,” the woman agrees. “I’m going to marry him,” she leans in and whispers. “Don’t tell him I said that. I want it to be a surprise.”
Maggie laughs, something she’s been doing a lot lately. She’d almost forgotten how much she enjoys being around people, even if she’s making a fraction of the income she made as a teacher. But while the salaries aren’t comparable, there’s something to be said for a job that ends when she walks out the door. She no longer has lessons to prepare, papers to mark, difficult parents to meet with, disinterested students to discipline. She no longer carries the stress of helping to shape and guide young lives. She no longer has to set a good example. She only has to show up, answer the phone, make appointments and remind clients of future ones, accept payment for services rendered, and smile, something else she’s been doing with surprising frequency.
Even Craig has noticed the change. “You’re different,” he said yesterday when he arrived to take the kids for dinner.
Maggie’s hand shot automatically to her newly platinum hair. “I know. It’s quite the change.”
“It’s not just your hair,” he said. “You seem…I don’t know…” He let the unfinished sentence hang provocatively in the space between them.
In that moment, Maggie thought he might be about to kiss her, and she leaned forward, her lips parting expectantly, her body tingling with anticipation. Clearly, he’d missed her as much as she missed him.
“I guess the new job agrees with you,” he said instead.
Maggie stiffened. “I guess it does.” You’re such an idiot, she thought, not sure if she was referring to her husband or herself. Then, partly to mask her anger and disappointment, and partly because she never could leave well enough alone, she said, “How are things going with the new sales rep?”
Craig frowned. “Maggie…” he said, then fell silent, leaving her name dangling, as he had his earlier observation.
Abandoning her yet again.
Damn him anyway.
“Kids,” she’d called up the stairs. “Hurry up. Your father’s waiting.”
“Maggie…”
God, she was such a fool.
“Maggie? Hello? Earth to Maggie.”
It takes her a few seconds to realize that the person calling her name isn’t her estranged husband, but Jerome. “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes.
“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” Jerome asks.
Maggie shrugs. “What can I do for you?”
Jerome motions toward his client, a middle-aged woman whose entire head is wrapped in a layer of clear plastic wrap. “I was wondering if you’d mind getting Mrs. Whittaker an egg salad sandwich and a cup of mint tea.”
Maggie checks her watch and notes that it’s lunchtime. “Not at all.” She steps around the counter, grabbing her purse off the floor by her feet.
“Just leave that there,” Jerome says, taking the purse from her hand. “My God. You’re going to destroy your shoulders lugging this thing around.” He returns the bag to its previous position behind the counter.
Maggie feels a moment of panic. She never goes anywhere without her purse. What if someone were to look inside it? Still, she can’t risk insulting Jerome or arousing unnecessary suspicion. “I’ll need money,” she protests.
“Take it from the till,” Nadine instructs from her workstation. “We’ll settle up later. Who else wants something?”
“I’d love a tall blonde,” says Rita’s client, referring to Starbucks’s special blend.
“Wouldn’t we all?” asks Jerome.
Maggie smiles, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror behind Jerome’s head and deciding once again that she likes what she sees. She is still smiling as she leaves the salon and heads toward Starbucks, determined to smile more and worry less. It’s time to take back control of her life. She’s lived in fear long enough.
And speaking of fear, what’s going on with Dani Wilson and her husband? Something’s not right there, although it’s hard
to believe that Nick Wilson, a man dedicated to alleviating the pain and suffering of others, could be responsible for Dani’s bruises. There must be another explanation. Nick Wilson seems like such a decent man.
Which is more than she can say about Sean Grant. Something definitely off about that man, Maggie thinks, although she can’t put her finger on it.
Her hand is reaching for the door when she feels someone close behind her and a masculine arm stretch across hers.
Her breath instinctively catches in her throat, a strangled cry emerging from her mouth. So much for taking back control of her life.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just trying to be a gentleman and get the door. Sorry,” the man says again, his blue eyes narrowing. “My God!” he exclaims. “Maggie?”
“Rick Atwood, certified public accountant,” Maggie replies.
“Wow. You look great.”
“Excuse me,” a woman says from behind them. “Are you going inside or what?”
“Sorry,” Maggie and Rick reply, their voices overlapping. They step inside the crowded space and into a long lineup.
“Wow,” he says again. “I can’t get over how terrific you look. Not that you didn’t look nice before,” he adds quickly.
“I looked awful before.”
“No,” he says. “Not awful. Just…this is better.”
“Thank you.” Maggie’s smile reappears. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to stop by your office.”
“Really? You need an accountant?”
“No. Well, I don’t know. I might,” Maggie says, wondering if she and Craig will require separate accountants, if they file for divorce. When, she corrects herself silently. Not if. “I wanted to thank you for telling me about the job that was available….”
“Oh, right. I remember. Did your daughter get it?”
“No, actually. I did.”
“You did?”
“You’re looking at Maggie McKay, Nadine’s new receptionist.”