My phone was my life—it was also a malignant tumor that would lead to my untimely death, I was convinced.
It hadn’t stopped ringing the rest of the day. I’d hung up with Connor less than a minute before it chimed again. My shoulders dropped when I saw who it was this time.
“Hey, Mom,” I answered in the liveliest voice I could conjure at seven thirty at night after waking up at five and squeezing in a month’s worth of items in fourteen odd hours.
“Did I catch you at a good time?” she asked.
“Actually I was just getting dinner set out—”
“Dinner at this hour?” I could see the look on her face based on her tone.
Fighting with the lighter, I finally managed to coax a flame from it to light the candles. “Noah isn’t home yet.”
“He works so many late nights. It’s got to be catching up with him.”
“Yeah, it’s exhausting working seventy hours a week.” After adjusting the wine glasses, I gave the table a satisfied nod. It was rare the three of us were under the same roof on any given week night, and sharing a dinner at the table was even rarer.
“I’m sure it is.” Mom paused, the sound of ice clinking against a glass following. At this time of day, it was iced tea with a twist of lemon and splash of rum. Some days it was less of a splash and more of a dump. “So what’s for dinner at nearly eight o’clock at night?”
I hadn’t realized I’d reached for the bottle of red wine I’d set out until I’d filled the wine glass in front of me. “Pot roast with scalloped potatoes and braised carrots.” Taking a drink of wine, I found myself adjusting the silverware at Noah’s setting, creeping the knife closer to the fork.
Mom made a sound of approval. “And what internal temperature did you make sure to get your pot roast to?”
My neck rolled.
“And you were sure to let it rest for how long before carving it?”
Back in the kitchen, I tossed the empty food containers from Luca’s Bistro into the garbage. Not that my mother couldn’t see through my attempt at selling the concept of a home-cooked meal. “I think I hear the garage door opening. Noah must be home. I should let you go—”
“Sweetheart, you know I only bring up these kinds of things because I care. I want you to have as happy and fulfilling a marriage as I have with your father.”
This time when I heard the ice clink in her glass, I took a sip with her. Mom either lived in a state of denial or adhered to the belief that extramarital affairs were a healthy part of every relationship. My father was well known for his strength in the courtroom . . . and his weakness for women. Despite remaining married for forty-five years, the two of them lived more as co-workers than spouses, their marriage a business instead of a relationship.
“Mom, everything is fine between Noah and me. We both have careers that demand a lot of our time and focus.”
“Let’s hope not so demanding there’s no time for intimacy.”
I almost choked on my wine. “Mom. Too far.”
“Yes? And when was the last time you and your husband were intimate?”
“First of all, by intimate do you mean spiritually or sexually because I’m struggling to keep up with your agenda of items to check off with me tonight?” I absently scrubbed at a water spot on the granite countertop, hoping Noah would come ambling into the kitchen any second.
An exasperated sigh echoed on the other end. “When was the last time you and your husband screwed? Does that clarify things for you?”
I checked behind me as if I were worried Andee or Noah were standing there and had overheard. “That is none of your business.”
“Which is all the confirmation I need to know it’s been too long.”
“Mom. We’ve been over this. I don’t feel comfortable sharing that part of my marriage with you.” Leaning into the counter, I closed my eyes. Would this day ever come to an end? “Pick a different topic or I really have to go.”
“Men have two appetites, darling. Just two, but they are bottomless.”
“Abort. Abort,” I mumbled, bracing for what was coming with a long drink of wine.
“As a wife, our role is to fulfill these appetites as frequently and capably as needed. However, for those of us who elect to have a career, it’s imperative you meet one of those appetites without fail.” Mom’s voice slowed the way a person’s did when they were trying to get a point across. “A husband can get takeout and delivery for the other kind of appetite, but you don’t want him ordering off of the value menu at some back alley Asian spa downtown.”
I finished what was left of my wine. “So eloquently put. Thank you. Is this the modern version of one’s mother advising a bride on her wedding day to keep her husband’s balls empty and stomach full? Because a few things have changed since then and modern marriage is more of a fifty-fifty partnership.”
Mom gave a broken sigh. “Things never change. Least of all how the game between men and women is played.” Another sigh, though this one was brief. “Just promise me you’ll do your best with Noah. They don’t make them like that anymore.”
My footsteps were soundless as I went to check the front window for signs of Noah’s car. “You mean men like him who do the honorable thing and marry the young woman they accidently impregnate?” My tone was biting, to better mask the emotion swelling within.
“He’s a good man.” Mom’s voice was soft, edging on maternal.
I almost broke down and flooded her with my fears where our marriage was concerned, but I caught myself before the cursed words slipped free.
“I know he is,” I whispered, staring at the empty driveway.
After clearing her throat, she asked, “How’s Andee?”
“She’s . . . fine,” I settled on, unable to bring myself to explain what had happened today.
Mom was already convinced I was failing as a mother based on the number of holes my daughter had pierced into her body; she didn’t need to know about the frequent visits to the principal’s office.
Or the suspension.
Or that Andee couldn’t direct a word at me unless it was coated in contempt.
“Tell her we said hello. And that we hope she’ll take us up on our offer to fly her down to Scottsdale for part of Christmas break.”
I nodded as though she were standing in front of me, staring with raised brow at the run starting at the toe of my nylons. Or my hair carelessly heaped on top of my head in a messy bun. My mother could find fault in the Mona Lisa.
“Mom, I’ve got to go. Noah’s here.” I turned from the window, no longer able to stare at the empty driveway. “Tell Dad hello for me.”
After I hung up with my mother, a text chimed. It was from Noah.
Be home later than I expected. Sorry.
Followed by:
Don’t wait up.
Something burned in my chest, spreading into my stomach.
I have a special dinner for us all.
I erased that and punched in something else.
We miss you. I’ll wait up.
After deleting that one as well, I hit Send on my next response before overthinking it.
Ok.
Turning the phone screen over on the counter, I was about to call up to Andee that dinner was ready when the doorbell rang. There was a short list of people it could have been, but I was not at all expecting the individual I found waiting outside.
“Hello?” I kept the door half closed, examining the young man as if I was searching for a bomb strapped to him.
He sniffed, looking past me. “Is Andee around?”
Blinking at the boy who epitomized smug, from his smile to his posture, I contemplated slamming the door on him. He had the kind of face that made it impossible to tell age—boyish in certain features, pure man in others. His forearms were plagued with tattoos, the rest of him covered in some shade of black depending upon how many times it had been washed and worn.
He had Andee beat in the piercings department, and unlike her co
mbat boots, his looked as though they’d seen actual battle. Behind him was the kind of car that suggested he came from money—although the slant in his brows should have told me that.
I straightened, attempting to look taller than my mid-sized frame warranted. “Who are you?”
“Austin.” His shoulders moved as if everyone should have known that.
“Well, Austin, Andee’s about to have dinner, not to mention it’s almost eight o’clock on a school night.”
His mouth pulled on one side. “She’s sixteen.”
My fingers tightened around the door. “And how old are you?”
“Not sixteen.” His dark eyes flashed.
“You’ll have to leave. Andee’s grounded as well, so you can forget about showing up tomorrow night too.”
“Oh my god, Mom. Chill out.”
Whirling around, I found Andee marching toward the door. She’d changed out of her school uniform into an outfit that appeared to be pieced together by a mortician and stripper.
“Do you know this guy?” I asked her, challenging myself not to react to her choice of clothing. “Did you know he was planning on showing up here tonight?”
“Yes and yes.” Andee stepped between Austin and me, her hand winding around his wrist and tugging him inside.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I slammed the door and followed them into the hall as they made their way to the stairs. “You are grounded.”
Andee broke to a stop, resting her hand on Austin’s chest. “Will you wait for me in my bedroom? I’ve got to have a chat with my mom real quick.”
He gave a grunt of acknowledgment before bouncing up the stairs.
“How does he know where your room is?” I motioned up the stairs, blinking at my daughter.
“He’s been here before. A lot of times. You’re just not usually here. Ever.” Andee inspected the table inside the dining room, a look I no longer recognized registering on her face. “Neither is Dad, and neither is Miss Evelyn now that you officially decided I’m old enough I don’t need a nanny. I’m alone in this huge-ass house all night until one of you decides to show up. When I get bored, sometimes I invite friends over.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Kind of. We’re keeping things low-key.” As Andee climbed the staircase, her hemline gave no question as to what color and type of underwear she had on.
“That boy is not allowed in your room. You two can hang out down here, but no rooms with beds or closed doors,” I called up at her.
She kept climbing the stairs. “He’s already in my room. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then get him out of your room.”
“No.” She stopped at the top of the stairs. “You want him out of my bedroom, you can drag him out yourself. Oh wait. You don’t believe in that kind of conflict resolution.” Andee disappeared down the hall. “Use your words. That works every time, right?”
The slam of her door echoed as I choked on the “words” I’d been raising in refute.
Words. They were my life, my livelihood. They fought battles, won many, yet failed me every time where my daughter was concerned.
Where my husband was concerned as well.
Pouring myself another glass of wine, I retreated to the kitchen pantry, flicked off the light, and closed the door when I stepped inside. Settling onto the floor, I tucked into a ball, sipped my wine, and let myself cry.
In this dark, small space, I released the tears I couldn’t shed outside for anyone to see. I cried for my marriage, my relationship with my daughter, and my career that had become both a time and emotional vampire. I cried for the life I’d once envisioned and the one I’d manifested. I wept for the polished, flawless woman I presented to the world, and for the one I truly was beneath the shallow layer of fake beauty, Lycra, and prescription medications.
And in that moment, I was the little girl I remembered. The one who was scared and unsure and only wanted a hug from her parents and to be told everything would be all right.
That girl had grown into a woman whose fears and insecurities had matured with her.
The woman who had everything . . . had nothing at the same time.
Three
“I think he’s going to get off.” The words spilled out. “Skovil.”
“Well there’s an abrupt shift in conversation.” Connor’s attention shifted from his wedge salad across the table at me.
“We’re not going to get a conviction,” I stated.
Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have some crystal ball I don’t know about?”
“I’ve been doing this long enough that sometimes it feels like it,” I admitted, shoulders slumping. “The jury. Most of them wouldn’t make eye contact with me during my closing. Last week, every single one of them would look me straight on, but today, I counted three who’d occasionally glance my general direction. We both know what that means.”
Connor set down his fork and knife. “You put together a solid case. The burden of proof always lies heavy with the prosecution, and we knew this would be a tough one with no hard evidence against that son of a bitch.”
Connor’s words bled into the background din of the restaurant. It was Wednesday, and the spot we’d settled on after court today was perched a few blocks above the Seattle waterfront. It was the kind of unpretentious neighborhood restaurant that attracted as many CEOs as it did families, and tonight I couldn’t stop staring at the tables with little ones circled around. The ones with boys especially, falling in the six- to eight-year-old range . . .
“It’s going to be my fault a predator is released back onto the street tomorrow when the jury reads their verdict.” I picked up my mineral water, trying to distract myself from the children scattered around the restaurant, the ones whose innocence still burned in their eyes.
“No, it won’t be your fault. Or mine. Or the jury’s. Or the judge’s. If you want to assign fault, pin it on the justice system you love so much.” Connor ran his hand through his coiffed hair, his posture stiff. “Innocent until proven guilty, that’s the way our country works. It’s a system that would rather watch a dozen criminals get off scot-free than one innocent man be condemned to prison.”
I shot a half smile across the table at him. “Wow, Connor. It’s like I’ve never heard any of this before. Thanks for explaining the basics of the justice system.”
“That was almost a smile.” His finger waved at me. “That’s about the first one I’ve seen this week.”
“It’s been a shit week,” I confessed, wishing the mineral water would magically transform into a martini. However, I rarely drank in front of my co-workers—couldn’t ruin the illusion I’d built of being high on life and drunk off success at this point in my career.
“And the jury hasn’t even read their verdict.” Connor made a face. “Can I request tomorrow off?”
“Denied.” My head shook. “If I have to witness the look on Skovil’s face when he finds out he got away with performing heinous acts against children so he can go commit more on other children, so do you.” My eyes met Connor’s. “It keeps you sharp. Watching a known criminal be set free into the world makes you better on the next case, and every one that follows.”
Picking up his fork again, he picked at his half-eaten salad. “I can’t imagine putting together a better case than the one we did with Skovil. I mean it,” he added when he guessed I was getting ready to object. “Representing the prosecution, we have to accept than sometimes we’re going to watch guilty men go free. The defense does their job and we do ours. Although I can’t comprehend how any attorney can defend a guy like Skovil or any of the other monsters we’ve come across.”
I was absently watching a boy scribble the coloring sheet of his menu with a green crayon, and I wondered if he’d be next. Or maybe the boy at the next table, laughing over something his mom had said.
Skovil’s victims weren’t close to him, as most pedophiles preyed upon—he targeted the random c
hild in a park, the one on his way to school. Darryl Skovil was the type of child molester every mother assumed strange men who wandered too close to her child were. He was the nightmare, wrapped in a small-statured, unthreatening package with a smile that could fool the devil himself.
“I’m not in the mood for a pep talk tonight. I know how this whole thing works. I believe in the system and that in the quest of preserving it, bad men will go unpunished.” I waved at the server to bring the bill. “Some days my conviction in it all fades to doubt. But don’t worry, I’ll be back to parroting my usual legal psalms tomorrow.”
“Making your dad proud.” Connor shot me a wide smile. “Which I have yet to do where mine’s concerned.”
“Not sure conditions being tied to your parent being proud of you is a goal to strive for, my friend.” I handed my card to the server without checking the bill. An urge to get home hit me, though I guessed Andee would already be in bed by the time I got back, and god only knew if, and when, Noah would be home.
“Enough about work. How’s your home life?” Connor finished the rest of his tea and waited as I signed for the bill.
“I’d rather talk about work.”
“That idyllic, huh?” Connor pushed out of his seat when I did, the look on his face expectant.
Smoothing out my slacks, I relented—Connor seldom gave me a free pass where dissecting my personal life was concerned. After working with me for five years, it was as though he felt he’d earned a vested interest.
“Andee still won’t talk to me, but at least I haven’t seen any signs of that loser of a kind-of, maybe boyfriend of hers.”
“Hey, every teenager has to experience at least one serious loser in order to recognize a winner when they come along.”
I nudged him as we wove through the restaurant. “Not exactly reassuring when you’re speaking to the parent of a teen mixed up with the leader of the loser club.”
Connor chuckled. “So Andee is doing swimmingly, checking off every box of parental approval. How are things in the Noah department?”
The look on my face must have tipped him off before my verbal response could.
These Violent Roots Page 2