by D. J. Palmer
“Come on,” Ginny said in a plaintive voice after Nina broke the news. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“Sorry, I’m really sorry, but I’m swamped here. I can’t do it, Gin,” Nina said, looking at the mini mountain of papers and folders on her office desk, thinking it wasn’t exactly a lie.
Ginny’s lengthy silence said even more than her words. She didn’t come right out and blame Simon, or rehash old concerns, only because she didn’t have to.
“Work can wait,” Ginny eventually pleaded. “This is us, the gang, the gals, once a year.”
“I wish I could go, I really do, but my clients need me,” Nina said, exchanging one kind of guilt for another. She loved her friends dearly, and it broke her heart into pieces to disappoint them. But Simon was a factor, and his concerns were valid and had to be taken into account. Barring some serious ailment or act of God, Nina made a silent vow that this would be the one and only girls’ weekend she’d ever miss.
“Work, work, work,” Ginny said, sounding annoyed now. “How did they get on without you before, huh?”
Nina returned a nervous laugh. “That’s how much they needed me,” she said.
“Well, no wonder Simon thinks you’re having an affair.”
Nina’s breath clogged. “What?”
“Yeah, I saw him at Dunkin Donuts, and he told me about how busy you’ve been, how he thinks you might be shacking up with somebody at work. My words, not his.”
Hot anger raced through Nina’s veins. “What were his words exactly?” she demanded.
“I don’t know . . . I mean, I think he was just kidding, right? He said something about you hooking up with somebody at the office. I didn’t find it very funny, actually it was kinda weird, so I didn’t press him on it. I sort of ignored it, until now, because, well, I can kind of see why he might have made that remark.”
“I’m not having an affair,” Nina said, feeling the muscles in her neck tense, her pulse rising. “That’s really hurtful.” How could Ginny, of all people, be so unaware of how that comment came across? Nina had told Ginny and Susanna about meeting Teresa, what she’d learned of Chris the stalker, and of Glen’s drunken indiscretion that, considering the source, could have been more than a one-night fling, so she had to know it was still a deeply sensitive subject.
“Oh. My. Gosh. I am the biggest ass,” Ginny said, finally making the connection. “I wasn’t thinking, honey. I was upset about the weekend, is all. You know how much I love you.”
Nina let her anger settle so that she could redirect it to where it belonged—at Simon.
She ended the call with a promise to talk later and got Simon on the phone.
“Hey, babe,” he said, sounding delighted to hear from her. “What’s up?”
“Why would you say that to Ginny?” Nina’s voice quaked from a second jolt of adrenaline.
“Say what?”
“Tell Ginny you thought I was having an affair.” She spoke through gritted teeth.
“What? She said that?” Simon sounded utterly perplexed.
“You two were in line together at Dunkin Donuts, and you told her you thought I was so busy at work because I really was having an affair. That’s incredibly hurtful, Simon, especially given what I’ve been through. You know how sensitive I am about that. Why would you say that to my friend?”
“Because I didn’t,” Simon said indignantly. “I remember that conversation quite clearly. What I believe I said is that they wouldn’t let you come up for air, and if she misheard that somehow, well, that’s Ginny’s problem, not mine.”
Nina’s outrage left in one great breath, followed soon after by a string of apologies.
Once again, she’d doubted Simon, and once again, he had a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“It’s okay, babe,” Simon said, himself sounding a bit out of breath, like his pulse had spiked as well.
But it wasn’t okay. Like the incident with the TV remote, or when her start date had cost them all a surprise vacation, or her sneaking around about Hugh, the hours she’d been working, Maggie’s struggles with him—all of it ended up making her feel guilty, as if she’d done something wrong.
Simon did his best to reassure Nina it was no big deal. He was already over it. He was far more concerned about what he was going to wear out to dinner with the superintendent of schools and his wife tomorrow night. Nina uttered a small gasp.
“What dinner?” She had no memory of any dinner plans.
“I told you about it last week,” he said. “I even reminded you about it this morning before work. Dinner, tomorrow, with my boss and his wife; we’re going to Surf and you said you wanted the crab bisque.”
I did? thought Nina.
“Simon, honey, that’s . . . that’s not possible.”
Simon laughed almost playfully, but with a hint of annoyance, too. “Well, it is possible, and it is also happening, and we did talk about it.”
“What time tomorrow?” she asked.
“Five,” he said.
“I can’t go,” Nina said. “I have a client appointment, and I can’t cancel. I’m so sorry. I swear we didn’t discuss this.”
The voice in her head again, the guilty one, spoke up: But you probably did talk about it—just as you probably told him to make damn sure the TV got turned off at six, because you are distracted, because you are working too much, too hard. And it’s bad for Maggie, for your struggling family . . .
Simon sighed.
“Dang,” he said, accustomed to finding alternative words for cursing because of his students. “We made the plan last week. When did you book the client?”
“Monday. Rona has been piling on the work.”
“It’s my bad. I should have written it down for you, sent some text reminders, something. Seriously, no worries. You’ve got a lot on your mind with this job of yours. I’ll be better at communicating our plans so we won’t have a mix-up like this again.”
They said their good-byes. Nina did her work, met with her clients, helped straighten bent lives, and in the quiet moments, had a fleeting chance to reflect. Her thoughts went to Simon, the accusations she made about him, the suspicions she harbored, and the dinner plans she screwed up, all of which left her wondering if she had it in her to be a good wife to anybody.
Chapter 39
The phone rang at five o’clock exactly. Of course, my phone was in my hand. I must have checked the ringer a dozen times to make sure it was on. I was terrified of missing his call.
When I first heard his voice I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. I thought, No way, this isn’t possible, it’s a dream; it can’t be him. But then he called me “Bunny” and I lost it. It was the hard, couldn’t take a breath, felt like I was going to pass out, full-on sobbing kind of cry. I was alone in my bedroom but had to muffle the sound with a pillow because Mom was somewhere, downstairs probably. I didn’t know where Simon and Connor were, if they were even home, and I didn’t much care. All that mattered to me was that for the first time in nearly two years, I was talking to my father. His voice was warm, exactly as I remembered, soothing like hot chocolate on a cold day.
“Hi, Bunny,” he said again. “Hi, my sweetheart.”
“Daddy? Is that you?”
I don’t know which was shakier, my speech or my body.
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Dad.”
His voice was kind of soft, like he was straining to speak, or exhausted, I don’t know what. I tried to answer him, but felt like my throat was full of sand, almost like I was having an allergic reaction.
“Hey, Bun, I know this is hard, but talk to me. Let me hear your beautiful voice again.”
Earlier that day, I’d received a Talkie message from Tracy Nuts letting me know that my father would call at five o’clock sharp, so I should have my phone handy and be somewhere we could talk privately.
Daddy!
All day, I had barely been able to contain my excitement. It was the only thing I could think a
bout, and sitting through my classes had been the worst kind of torture. And now that it was happening, I couldn’t find any words to say. I heard his voice, his actual voice, and my tongue was tied in one big knot.
“Maggie, are you there? Did I lose you?” He sounded panicked.
“Dad—”
Turned out talking to my missing father was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I moved into the closet, closing the door behind me, thinking an enclosed, dark space would be comforting, wishing I’d brought Daisy for emotional support. I needed her now more than ever.
The start of our conversation was a lot of back and forth. I miss you, Bunny. I miss you, Dad. I can’t believe I’m hearing your voice. I can’t believe I’m hearing yours. That went on for a bit, him and me, both of us full-on blubbering. But the tears stopped when he said, “I can’t talk for long.”
I snapped right back into myself. I got that every word mattered. Every second counted. I couldn’t, wouldn’t let him go again. He had to come back. I had to convince him to come back.
“Where are you?”
Finally, I managed a sentence where I wasn’t choking on tears.
“I’m safe. That’s all you need to know.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you, honey.”
“Are you close?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“To me it does. I need to see you.”
“That’s . . . that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve done something. Something terrible. And I can’t come home. You have to understand that.”
Those hot tears returned to flood my eyes.
“Why?” I croaked out what had to be the saddest one-word question ever.
Dad gave a big sigh. “Some things I can’t explain.”
“What about us? You can’t just disappear. You can’t leave us again—with him!”
“Maybe it won’t be forever,” Dad said, using the be patient tone I recognized. “But it has to be for now.”
Then he started crying harder. It was anguished; beyond upsetting. I shriveled up inside. I didn’t know what to do, because I was the kid, and kids aren’t supposed to comfort their parents. So I listened to my father cry, and occasionally I’d chime in with a nervous “Daddy, are you okay?” but for the most part I let him cry. And then all of a sudden he went silent, like he had had a heart attack and died.
“Dad?” I whispered his name, so afraid he was gone, that I’d lost him, that the call had been dropped, or worse. “Are you there?”
Then I heard a noise, a little creak I recognized right away as the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I sucked in a breath, held it, waited. Another creak, as my father’s words, his text messages to me, flashed in my head: IF SHE FINDS OUT, IT COULD BE VERY BAD FOR ME.
What would happen to him? I wondered. “Very bad” covered a lot of ground. The footsteps. They were getting closer. Was it Connor? Simon? Mom? I focused on the sound.
“Dad,” I whispered again. “Someone’s coming.”
I opened the closet door a crack and slipped out, crawling on my hands and knees. I managed to keep the cell phone where I could see it, making sure I didn’t lose the call as I slithered over to my bed. I heard a knock.
“Maggie?”
It was Mom.
For the first time, I noticed the number. The area code was 802. Wherever that was, I knew that’s where he was calling me from. I climbed into bed and pulled the covers over me. I put the phone under my pillow and kept it by my head, feeling the hum, the buzz of electricity, a little reminder that my father was right there, keeping me safe, keeping our secret safe.
“Honey?” It was Mom again, from behind the closed door. “May I come in?”
I took in a deep breath, but my heart was racing anyway.
“I’m fine,” I answered, realizing too late that wasn’t her question.
“Maggie?” Mom was confused, and the door was opening. I turned my head to see my phone peeking out from beneath the pillow. That’s how close we were—me, Mom, and Dad—to being together again. All I had to do was move my pillow and she’d see I was talking to someone from the 802 area code.
Very bad for me.
Can you keep a secret? I trust you. Only you.
I shoved the phone farther under the pillow.
Mom entered my room, looking around, surprised to find me in bed. Then she saw my face and her expression turned to worry.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” She came in and sat down beside me. “Are you not feeling well?”
“Nothing,” I said, sniffling.
She touched my shoulder.
It hurt, real physical pain, not to talk to my father. It took everything I had to keep myself from pushing the pillow away, to make sure he was still on the phone, to scream out, “MOM! MOM! It’s Dad! He’s alive! He’s okay!”
But I couldn’t break his trust. I couldn’t bring myself to give up his secret—our secret.
“You’re crying,” Mom said, stroking my hair, her hand only a few inches from the phone.
“I was just . . . just thinking about Dad,” I said, giving her a half-truth.
“Oh Mags,” Mom said, in that mom voice. “I know this is so hard for you.”
I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes to meet hers. She leaned on the bed, her fingers brushing against the pillow where I’d hidden the phone. My stomach clenched and released. She shifted position, her hand moving closer to the phone. I took in a breath and held it.
“Do you need to talk? I know I haven’t been as available to you as I should be.”
I need you to go, I was thinking.
“I’m fine,” I managed. “I just want to be alone.”
Mom felt my forehead, looking a bit puzzled. She knew I wasn’t acting like myself.
“Okay,” she said, concern in her voice. “But if you want to talk, I’m here. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I said, watching her go, unable to wait for her to get out of sight before I started to reach under the pillow.
When the door clicked closed, I put the phone to my ear. “Dad, are you still there?”
Chapter 40
Glen couldn’t speak even though he heard Maggie repeatedly ask for him.
It had been painful and wonderful to talk to his daughter, to hear her beautiful voice, but hearing Nina’s, not having prepared for the possibility, made it impossible to talk. His throat closed. The emotions came hard—guilt, regret, self-hatred, all of it pouring down on him in an avalanche of grief.
“That’s her voice,” he finally managed.
“You’re still there!” Maggie exclaimed.
“Your mom. I heard her voice.”
“She’s not in the room anymore. She’s gone. It’s safe to talk.”
“God, I love you all. I miss you all so much.” Tears stung Glen’s eyes.
“Please let me tell Mom,” Maggie said, whimpering her plea. “I can’t keep this a secret.”
Glen checked in with Simon, who was standing next to him, holding the Taser to his neck.
Simon hit Mute on the phone. “Won’t have to. Not long,” he said in a low voice. He hit the Mute button again.
“You won’t have to keep it secret for long,” Glen said. “We’ll tell them soon.”
He knew he’d have to embellish a bit to make the conversation sound natural, but he couldn’t deviate from the main message. If he did, Simon would jolt him—fast. He had threatened repeatedly to drive to the house and end it for everyone if Glen tried to warn Maggie in any way. He’d do it then and there, he vowed. Glen took him at his word.
Simon hit Mute again.
“You gotta get somewhere safe,” he instructed.
Mute off.
“But I have to get somewhere first. I have to get somewhere . . . somewhere safer.”
Simon pantomimed putting a phone to his ear and mouthed the words “Nina” and “Connor.”
“And whe
n I do, you can tell Mom and Connor that I’m all right. Tell them I’m alive and well. Maybe I can even call, like I’m doing now.”
He looked over to Simon, hoping for approval. He had guessed right. Simon’s expression remained placid.
“Where are you calling from?”
Simon shook his head and Glen understood. They’d rehearsed this answer.
“I can’t tell you that,” he said. “You’ve got to trust me, okay?”
Simon gave a nod. Maggie said okay.
“Can you come home?”
Simon shook his head. Hit the mute.
“Ask about Nina,” he said in Glen’s ear.
Unmute.
“No, honey, I wish more than anything that I could, but I can’t. What about Mom? Is she hanging in there?”
Glen’s mind was churning, thinking how to work in something, that one little reference to tell Maggie about the danger, perhaps reveal something of his location. But he had pondered it, turning his ideas this way and that, coming up with nothing. Anagrams for Simon, like “minos,” were nonsensical.
He had tried to think up a sentence where the first letter of each word would spell out a secret message, like he did with “NICE GUY,” but ran into the same problem. Nothing sounded natural, so Simon would know. For days Glen had barely slept, thinking, thinking, but his mind wasn’t sharp anymore.
“Mom’s with Simon now,” Maggie said, as if that said it all.
Mute again.
“Is she happy?”
Glen knew that was for Simon’s benefit, and wondered: Does he think Nina confided in Maggie?
“Is she happy? Does she love him?”
Maggie fell silent for a moment. “No. She’s not happy. She loves you.”
Darkness seeped into Simon’s eyes.
Glen made a noise, a little clearing of the throat. He was delaying. Time was running out . . . he had to get the message to her, now. But Simon was watching him closely. One wrong word . . . one slip. Fear chilled his blood and held him back.
He wanted to scream, “CALL THE POLICE, I’M A PRISONER AT SIMON’S,” but couldn’t risk it. He had timed it, all sorts of variations, and thought it would take two, maybe three seconds to get the words out. A Taser fired faster than that. Maybe Maggie would catch enough to make some meaning of it, maybe not. All Glen heard in his head was his daughter screaming, begging for her life as Simon moved the knife from one side of her throat to the other.