“Blair! What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m alright, I just spilled some coffee.”
“You’re drinking coffee again?”
“What?”
“You aren’t supposed to be drinking coffee, remember? Your migraines.”
“Yeah, well I only had a little,” I say, eyeing what’s left of the twenty ounce cup.
“Are you still taking the Imitrex?”
He remembers that?
“Sometimes,” I say, although I’ve been taking it religiously. I hear commotion in the background. “Where are you?”
“Well, that’s what I was calling you about. I’m at the airport. I’m taking a little trip.”
“A trip?”
“Yeah, it was last minute. For my birthday... ”
His birthday isn’t until next month. As if reading my thoughts he says, “An early birthday gift. I’ll be in Florida for all of next month. At an academic conference.”
Birthday gift? From who?
“My flight is leaving in about twenty minutes. I wanted to reach you before I left to tell you I’ll be out of town.”
Before I can ask where he’s going, I overhear the blaring PA system. “Flight 313 to Barcelona is now boarding at gate A5. Calling first-class passengers at this time.”
Barcelona? Who the hell is he going to Barcelona with? Again, the answer tumbles into my lap. I hear a voice—a female voice—say, “Hon, they called our row.”
“I’ve got to go,” he says, “I’ll be in touch. Oh, and Blair?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry about that whole bracelet thing. I’ve been thinking and I realize that was wrong. I shouldn’t have gone about it that way. I’m sorry.”
Before I can say anything I hear another gate call in the background.
“Look, I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you when I get back.”
Although I’m certain I did, I feel the need to pretend I didn’t just overhear that he’s heading to Barcelona with a woman. Barcelona. The city we used to talk about visiting—together. I’ll also have to pretend that we didn’t sit in front of his computer and plot out said trip, making a list of all of the places we were dying to see. It will be especially hard to pretend that he didn’t present me with a brochure to a hotel he’d found that was “perfect” for us—because it was within walking distance to the Museu Picasso, yet close enough to the ocean so that from our room, we could hear the waves crashing.
I’d forgotten all about that. Just like I’d forgotten that it was Dylan who was with me the day I went to the emergency room because a migraine drove me to tears. And that he was there a week later when I met with the neurologist who prescribed Imitrex and told me to lay off the caffeine. And that it was Dylan who would always stop me from ordering a cappuccino after dinner, “as per doctor’s orders.”
My intent had been to stand my ground and call his bluff. I was prepared for a fight with a ranting madman. But what I got, was an apology, delivered in a voice I once knew so well. A voice I even used to love.
*****
Maritza calls me to the door.
What are they doing here already? Am I late again? I check the clock. No, I’ve still got more than an hour to get ready.
“You ladies are way early,” I say as I start down the steps, pulling my rollers out of my hair as I descend.
But it’s not Tricia and Kelly, my two sorority sisters who’d asked me to carpool with them to our annual luncheon.
There, standing in my foyer, is Celine.
“Uh, hi,” I say, “I ... I thought you were still in New Hampshire.”
She shakes her head. “No. We brought Mum back down a few weeks ago. We have her in an assisted living facility in Lincoln Park.”
“Oh, how is she?”
“Better. She’s got a lot of recovery ahead. But, her surgery was a success.”
“Oh good.” What the hell is she doing here? “I’m sure she’s glad that you’ll be close by.”
“Yes, Ed has his colleagues taking extra-good care of her.”
“Um, would you like something to drink?”
She slides her sunglasses up onto her forehead. “That would be wonderful.”
She follows me to the kitchen where she casually sits at the breakfast bar. I boil water and shift on my feet, anxiously waiting for the pot to whistle. I could kill Maritza.
“The girls sent her the most delightful flower arrangement.”
“I’m sorry?”
“To Mum. When she was in the hospital.”
“Yeah?” I’m sure it’s the same arrangement to which they had asked me to contribute. I deleted that email.
“Yes. She loved it. It meant a lot to her. And to Ed and me.”
“How nice.” What is taking this water so long?
“Evelyn and Sophie even offered to drive up and see her after the surgery, but I told them no. It wasn’t necessary. Them calling and showing their concern was gesture enough.”
“That’s nice.”
Mercifully, the pot squeals. I snatch it up from the burner and pour the water into a mug. Slowly, she spoons exactly one and a third teaspoons of raw sugar into her cup, followed by a teensy drop of milk. Then she stirs, what feels like a hundred times, before bringing the cup to her thin lips.
She stares at me in between sips and says, “I’m your friend Blair, you do know that, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, if there was ever something you wanted to tell me, to confide in me, I would never betray your trust. You know that, right?”
“Celine, I’m not following.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you believe that.”
“Believe what?”
“That I’m your friend. I know we haven’t known each other long, but I feel close to you. I consider you one of my closest friends and I hope you see me as one of yours.”
She can’t be serious. Is she in here talking about friendship? As she sits in almost the exact place where she stood on Christmas Eve gossiping about my family.
“Because I would tell you if I was going through something. That’s how close I feel to you.” She takes a sip. “So, you can tell me anything. I would never judge you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing to tell you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, I’m sorry we’ve been out of touch lately. I have just been so busy. I’ve been a little under the weather and Vaughn has been traveling...”
“He travels a lot, doesn’t he?”
“Excuse me?”
“It must be hard on you.”
Heat rises in my chest. I reach for the closest thing to me, a damp dishrag, and use it to wipe away imaginary crumbs on the counter. Anything to avoid her piercing gaze. Anything to avoid speaking my mind.
“No, it’s not,” I say.
She comes around the bar and stands before me. “Blair, you don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Celine, I’m fine. Everything with me is just fine. Is there something you need to tell me. To get off of your chest?”
She inhales sharply. “Look, I’m just going to come out and ask you.”
“Ask me what?”
“I’m just going to say it. Have you been avoiding me?”
“Avoiding you?” I laugh. “What are you talking about? You’ve been away for weeks. I mean, I didn’t even know you were back.”
“Even before I left, Blair. You didn’t come to my spa day. You haven’t returned my calls and when I saw you at the housewarming, you were standoffish. Have I done something to you?”
Yes! I want to scream, but I say, “No. I’ve just been busy lately. To be honest, I rarely get out of this house. I don’t have time to see anybody.”
With the timing of Murphy’s law, the doorbell rings. A moment later, Maritza appears in the kitchen to announce that Tricia and Kelly have arrived.
Celine’s eyes narrow.
“I...” I scramble for an excuse before realizing I don’t have to give her any excuse. “I was actually on my way out when you came. And I still need to feed Morgan and get dressed—”
“How is the little princess? Is she here?”
My antennae raises. “She’s sleeping.”
“What a shame. I so wanted to see her.”
“Why?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. This game we’re playing. This cat-and-mouse, chastising, “I want to catch you in a lie”, repartee is wearing thin. I wish she would just come out and say it already.
“What do you mean, ‘why?’ What kind of question is that?”
“What’s your fascination with my daughter?”
“Fascination?”
“Yes.”
“Blair, I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but you need to get a grip. I came here to see how you are,” she says. “Even though you’ve all but ignored me for the past few months. Not to mention your total disregard for my mother’s health.”
“Celine, please. I’ve never even met your mother. I’m sorry about her accident, but we both know that’s not why you’re here.”
She folds her skinny arms. “So, why am I here then?”
“You tell me.”
“My intention was to talk to you, to figure out what’s eating you, to be a shoulder to lean on, but you’re so indignant. I’ve been nothing but a friend to you, Blair. I see now that you don’t appreciate anything I’ve ever done for you.”
“Done for me? What have you ever done for me?”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re just different, you and I. I thought it didn’t matter, but I see now that it does. Ed always tells me that I do too much, but I keep trying with you girls...”
“Excuse me?”
“...you’ll see one day. What real friendship is about.”
“Friendship? You want to talk about friendship?”
She meets my growing hysteria with infuriating calm. “Yes, Blair. Friendship.”
“I heard you! On Christmas Eve. I heard what you and Hannah said about Morgan.”
Her green eyes register nothing. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Cut the shit, Celine. I heard you,” I say, refusing to repeat her words although their branded into my memory.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only had the kindest words to say about Morgan. You must have me confused with someone else.”
“I know what I heard. And friends don’t gossip—”
“I am your friend. So much so that I’m willing to look past this outburst. I know you must be going through a lot.”
“I’m not ‘going’ through anything. And I don’t need people like you in my life.”
“That hurts.” She places her hand over her heart. “It really does.”
“And it hurt when I heard you discussing my child.”
“I didn’t say anything about Morgan. The God’s honest truth. You were drinking that night, maybe you thought you heard something.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I know what I heard.”
“So that’s why you fired Hannah? Because of what you thought you heard?”
“No, because of what I know I heard.”
“And it’s not because you didn’t want a pretty, young girl around Vaughn?”
“Don’t try and flip this. This is about you, not Hannah.”
“I guess I don’t blame you. If I was married to Vaughn, maybe I’d be worried, too.”
“And maybe if you slept with your husband more than once a month he wouldn’t be fucking his temp.”
Just at that moment, Tricia and Kelly appear in the doorway. The air crackles with tension. Celine seethes. She gapes at them both. They look away, pretending that they didn’t hear what we both know they did. The four of us stand in an uncomfortable silence until Celine breaks it.
“I ... I’ve got to go.”
A small part of me thinks I should stop her, apologize even, but I don’t. We’ve gone too far. There’s nothing left to say.
SIXTEEN
The past month flew by. Celine and I haven’t spoken since that awful argument. I don’t expect to hear from her, and although it wasn’t my plan to reveal what I’d heard, it had been bubbling beneath the surface. I had no choice. For days following I second-guessed myself, wondering if I’d done the right thing, but if nothing else, it’s gotten her out of my life. No more need to avoid her calls or make excuses. Now we know where we stand.
And with Dylan out of town, my life is resuming a sense of normalcy. I don’t know exactly when he’ll be back and I don’t want to know. Each day I don’t have to think about it, is a good one. I’ll deal with him when he returns, but I’m grateful for this temporary reprieve.
He’s only reached out to me (via text) a handful of times. To inquire about Morgan. They’re only words on a screen, but I sense an increasing warmth in them. They’re not curt and angry like they used to be. I assume his genial manner has everything to do with his trip to Spain. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder from time to time what he was doing. What they were doing. Are they staying at Le Meridien? Climbing the Montjuic? Or strolling hand-in-hand in the Gothic Quarter, like he and I had once planned?
As quickly as the thoughts enter my mind, I shoo them away, forcing myself to take stock of what I have. Of all that I’m so fortunate to have. Of my husband, my rock. Of the life we’ve built together. Of the second chance we have. Of all that lay before us.
“What does it say?” Vaughn asks.
He and I are sitting on the deck of our Bridgehampton cottage, enjoying the quiet of a mid-week getaway. Morgan and Stephanie (the two-year-old daughter of our next-door neighbor) are frolicking around on the grassy knoll below. We’re reclined side by side on our deck chairs inhaling a fresh ocean breeze, the air still warm thanks to our Indian summer.
In my hands is a letter from Norah. It’s the first I’ve heard from her since she got out of rehab. Mom had reported that she was doing well, but I never expected to hear from her directly.
“Says she’s sorry. That she hopes I can forgive her and put the past behind us.” I tell him.
“I told you she would come around. She just needed a little help.”
“We’ll see,” I say as I read the rest of my sister’s words. They’re contrite and blanketed with sincerity. These are the words of my old sister. The one I used to look up to before she became tarnished by the realities of life.
He tells me not to be cynical. I don’t want to be but I don’t know that I can handle another one of her meltdowns. I’m not ready to admit that I miss her or that I believe she’s changed. I’ll keep this hopeful sentiment to myself. I fold the letter and return it to its envelope.
Morgan and Stephanie squeal as they toss handfuls of sand above their heads.
“So, what do you say?” Vaughn reaches over and clasps my hand. “Are you ready for another one?”
I hadn’t even entertained the thought. I was floored to learn I was even able to have Morgan after all of my miscarriages. The prospect of failure terrifies me. I don’t want to disappoint Vaughn, especially now that things are going so well between us. But a baby, our baby, would bond us in a way we aren’t bonded now. No longer would I have to rely solely on his affection for me because I’d always have a piece of him. And as much as he adores Morgan, I know the macho side of him craves a boy, a mini-Vaughn to carry on the Hill surname. While I can’t guarantee a boy or a child even, I can give him hope, something to look forward to, to plan for and something to secure our relationship.
I look into his hopeful face and say, “Yes, I think I am.”
He suggests we start tonight. And I don’t disagree.
PART II
“Everybody, soon or late,
sits down to a banquet of consequences.”
-Robert Louis S
tevenson
SEVENTEEN
I am frantic.
Vaughn left to go to the gym on Tuesday night and never came back. I’d fallen asleep shortly after he left. When I woke in the morning, I assumed he’d risen early and headed out. Until I noticed that his side of the bed was untouched and his watch and wedding band were in their regular spot on our dresser. Rosa told me that she’d arrived a little after six AM and his car was already gone. He’s not answering his cell phone or returning any of my texts. I drove to his office in the city, and according to the security guard, he hasn't been there. I checked all of our joint credit card accounts, but there’s no activity. Cliff told me Vaughn hasn’t given him any direction since yesterday, other than ‘to be on call.’ His luggage, shaving kit and toiletries are all still here and not one of his three personal assistants admit to knowing his whereabouts. My calls to his brothers have gone unreturned. All straight to voicemail. Frank advised that I can’t file a missing person report until he’s gone for at least twenty-four hours. Then he told me to relax; he’s sure we got our signals crossed and I’ll hear from him soon. I don’t want to worry Vaughn’s parents because I know his mother hasn’t been well, but if I don’t hear from him by tonight, I’ll have no choice.
It is nearly ten o’clock at night, and I’m lying awake in bed. The lights are out, the drapes are drawn. I hear the twist of the doorknob. I sit up, prepared to tell Rosa for the tenth time that, “No, I don’t want anything to eat and no I don’t want to talk.” Vaughn is the only person I want to see. The door opens and a dark shadow fills the frame.
I leap from the bed and run to the door. “Oh my God! Vaughn, where have you been? I’ve been going crazy.”
I want to hug him, kiss him, check him over and make sure he’s alright, but now that he's standing before me alive and well, my fear has morphed into anger. Anger that builds as he casually kicks off his sneakers, and places his wallet and loose change on top of the dresser as if it’s any typical day.
A Delicate Truth Page 10