All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  “You’ll do great. I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “You say that about every interview,” Paige reminded her. “Are you going to be okay alone?”

  “Of course I am.” Joan swung her legs out of bed, as if to underline her assertion. “You have to stop worrying about me, darling.” She felt immediately guilty. It was her fault that Paige was so worried. It wasn’t every day you got a phone call from a total stranger telling you your mother had suffered a possible heart attack and been rushed to the hospital. Her second such visit in less than a week.

  Of course, it turned out that she hadn’t had a heart attack at all, even though the emergency room doctor had decided to keep her in the hospital overnight for observation. “Looks like it was a combination of indigestion, muscle strain, and anxiety,” he’d pronounced the next morning.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” Joan had said.

  “Better safe than sorry,” had come his automatic response.

  “I’m sorry,” Joan said now.

  “For what?” Paige asked.

  “For causing a scene. For ruining your date.”

  “We’ve been over this. You didn’t ruin my date. As a matter of fact, if it’ll make you feel better, you probably saved me.”

  “Saved you? From what? I thought you liked Sam.”

  “I do. That’s part of the problem.”

  “Liking him is a problem?”

  Paige shrugged.

  “I’m sorry, darling. It’s none of my business.”

  “Stop saying you’re sorry. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “I made you worry for nothing.”

  “I’m just happy there was nothing to be worried about.”

  “Bev calls it the age of hypochondria,” Joan mused aloud, thinking of her sister-in-law.

  “Is it a headache or is it a brain tumor? Is it a muscle spasm or the first sign of ALS? Is it a heart attack or is it gas?” she heard Bev say in her breathy whisper. “I mean, this should be the best time of our lives. The kids are grown. We have money. We have freedom. And yet, there’s this constant specter of death sitting on our shoulders, just watching and waiting…”

  “Which reminds me,” Paige said, interrupting the soliloquy in Joan’s head and sending Bev’s words scattering in all directions. “She phoned while you were sleeping, said to give her a call.”

  “Okay.”

  Bev was probably the last person Joan wanted to talk to. While their relationship had always been cordial, they’d never really been close, and since Heather had absconded with Paige’s live-in boyfriend, they’d been even less so. Bev alternated between apologizing for her daughter’s behavior and trying to excuse it. Joan wasn’t interested in either apologies or justifications.

  “What are you going to do for the rest of the afternoon?” Paige asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe go for a walk.”

  “Nothing too strenuous.”

  “Nothing too strenuous,” Joan repeated. “Now go to your interview. Knock their socks off.”

  “I’ll try.” Paige leaned over to kiss Joan’s forehead. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” She watched her daughter walk from the room, not moving till she heard the door to the apartment close behind her. Then she reached for the phone on the night table beside the bed, punching in her sister-in-law’s number, then hanging up before it could connect.

  Was there somebody else—anybody else—she could call? A friend, maybe? Except she really didn’t have any friends. Not anymore. The bulk of her friends had been Robert’s friends, and those friendships had pretty much disappeared in the months after Robert died. The truth was that her daughter was her best friend, and that wasn’t fair to Paige. It put too much responsibility on her slender shoulders. And the last thing Joan wanted was to be a burden.

  She pushed herself off the bed and retrieved her purse from the mint-colored, overstuffed chair by the window, fishing inside it for her cellphone. She pulled it out and clicked on Autumn Romance, scrolling through the long list of available seniors for her profile. “Oh, my goodness,” she said, noting that she had two recent responses.

  The first was from a man calling himself Lonesome Dove. The accompanying photo was of an elderly gentleman with gray hair and a shy smile. He gave his age as eighty-two, and said he was a widower who liked opera, traveling, and detective fiction. Joan also liked the opera and traveling, and while she’d never been into detective fiction, she loved novels, so it would seem they had a few things in common.

  Still, he was eighty-two.

  Not that the twelve-year difference in their ages was insurmountable or even particularly relevant at this point. They were both adults. But he was eighty-two! Two years older than her brother-in-law, and four years older than her husband had been when he died. How many years—how many good years—did he have left?

  She wasn’t young anymore. Selfishly, she didn’t want to spend whatever time she had left playing nursemaid. She’d already seen one man through the last year of a fatal illness, watched helplessly as his once-strong body and formidable will succumbed to the merciless assault of his disease. She’d watched as pain replaced hope in his eyes. She couldn’t do it again.

  She swiped left, watched Lonesome Dove disappear.

  The second man called himself Simply Pete. Simply Pete said he was sixty-five and very fit, and his photograph—a tanned, nice-looking man in a T-shirt that showed off his sculpted biceps—seemed to bear that out. He was divorced and interested in women who were adventurous and outgoing.

  “I’m adventurous and outgoing,” Joan told his picture, swiping right before she could chicken out.

  The phone on her nightstand rang.

  Joan tossed her cellphone into her purse and answered the landline before it could ring again. “Hello?” she said, expecting to hear her sister-in-law’s voice, reprimanding her for not returning her earlier call.

  “Is Paige there?” she heard instead. A voice clogged with tears and filled with terror.

  “Chloe?” Joan asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Matt,” Chloe cried. “He took the kids! I don’t know what to do.”

  “Call the police,” Joan said. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Joan arrived at Chloe’s house within forty minutes, despite the rush hour traffic, never having driven so fast, or so recklessly, in her entire life. Chloe was waiting for her at the front door, her cellphone in the palm of her hand, her beautiful face swollen from the nonstop parade of tears falling from her eyes.

  “Where are the police?” Joan asked, ushering Chloe inside but leaving the front door open. “Did you call them?”

  “They said there’s nothing they can do, that we’re not divorced or even legally separated, and that Matt’s their father, which means no crime has been committed…”

  “Okay. Okay. Tell me exactly what happened. Start from the beginning.” Joan led Chloe into the living room and sat down beside her on the plum-colored velvet sectional, stepping on a stray piece of Lego and hearing it crack beneath the heel of her shoe. “Do you want some water?”

  Chloe shook her head, spraying tears in both directions. “The kids were in day camp. The bus picks them up every morning and brings them home a little after three. Except this afternoon, there was no bus. I waited and waited. I was starting to get scared, thinking maybe there’d been an accident or something. So I called the camp and they told me that my husband had picked the kids up around two o’clock. And I started yelling, ‘What do you mean, he picked them up?’ and they said that they didn’t have any instructions not to let him, that the kids seemed delighted to see him, and were quite excited to go with him, that I should have phoned them if there were problems. And it’s true. I never called them. But it never occurred to me that he
would do something like this…”

  “Okay, okay. Slow down. Take a deep breath,” Joan advised, lifting Chloe’s hands inside her own and noting they were ice cold. “Have you spoken to Matt?”

  “I’ve called his cell a million times. He’s not picking up. I called his office. They said he left early and could they take a message? I didn’t know what to do, so I called Paige.”

  “She’s at a job interview.”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you. I didn’t mean for you to have to come over…”

  Joan brushed away Chloe’s concerns with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand. “You said you spoke to the police and they told you there’s nothing they can do?”

  “They said that no crime has been committed,” Chloe repeated. “That under the circumstances, it’s too early to put out an Amber Alert, and that all we can do for the time being is wait. If Matt doesn’t bring the kids home by suppertime, then I should call them again and they’ll send someone over to talk to me.” Panic pushed its way through Chloe’s tears. “You don’t think he’d hurt them, do you?”

  “Do you?” Joan asked, alarmed at the prospect.

  Chloe shook her head. “I don’t think so, no. I mean, he has a temper, but he’s never…but I don’t know. He’s so angry. Oh, God. Oh, God. If he hurts them, I’ll die.”

  “Okay, okay. Try to calm down,” Joan urged. “We’re getting way ahead of ourselves here.”

  “Where are they? Where has he taken them?”

  “Is it possible there was anything that was arranged before you kicked him out? A birthday party or a dentist appointment?”

  “No. I’m the one who always takes them to things like that. Oh, God. Why is he doing this?”

  “I don’t know,” Joan said, feeling increasingly useless.

  “What if he just takes off with them and disappears? What if I never see them again?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Joan told her forcefully. “Matt has a job and a life here in Boston. He’s not just going to abandon that.” She heard her phone ping in her purse. “Maybe you should call the bank.”

  “The bank? Why?”

  “Do you have a joint account?”

  “Yes. Why? You think he’s closed it?”

  “I think you should call the bank.”

  “I have to find their number.” Chloe ran into the kitchen.

  Minutes later, Joan heard her talking on her landline. She released a deep sigh, pushing her fine hair away from her forehead and extricating her cellphone from her purse, expecting to see a message from Paige. Instead she saw another response from Simply Pete. She opened it, then fell back against the sofa’s pillows in horror. Simply Pete had sent her a message—Just how adventurous are you?—accompanied by another photo—this one a close-up of him from the waist down, a significant bulge protruding from his skimpy, leopard-print thong. “Oh, my good God.”

  “What?” Chloe asked, reentering the room.

  Joan passed her the cellphone. “A romantic gesture from a would-be suitor.”

  Chloe’s face filled with disgust. “What the hell is the matter with these guys? Do they honestly believe women are turned on by this sort of thing?”

  “Beats me,” Joan said, clicking off the site. “This is a whole new world for me. Were you able to find anything out with the bank?”

  “The good news is that the money’s still in the account,” Chloe said, plopping down next to Joan. “The bad news is that it’s only a few hundred dollars. I asked them if Matt had any other accounts, but they said they couldn’t give out that kind of information.” She glanced aimlessly around the room. “What am I going to do now?”

  “You’re going to sit here beside me,” Joan told her, “and we’re going to wait until Matt brings the children home.”

  “Really?” Chloe asked, her eyes once again flooding with tears. “You’re not going to leave me?”

  Joan took the younger woman in her arms and held her tight. “I’m not going to leave you.”

  * * *

  —

  It was closing in on six o’clock when Matt brought the children home.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Chloe cried, racing to the front door and pulling Josh and Sasha into her arms, smothering the surprised looks on their faces with kisses.

  Thank heavens, Joan thought, watching from the living room.

  “You’re squeezing too tight,” Josh protested, wriggling free of his mother’s embrace as Matt stepped inside the foyer and closed the door behind him.

  “Daddy took us to the movies and then McDonald’s,” Sasha said. “I had French fries and Chicken McNuggets.”

  “She didn’t finish all her fries,” Josh said.

  “Did, too,” Sasha protested.

  “No, you didn’t,” her brother insisted.

  “Okay, okay, you guys,” Matt interrupted. “No fighting. Remember what I told you. Mommy’s going through a bit of a hard time, and she needs you to be extra good.”

  “Excuse me—what?” Chloe said.

  “Is your tummy hurting?” Sasha asked her mother.

  “No, sweetheart. I’m fine. I was just worried, that’s all.”

  “Why were you worried?” Josh asked, looking at her with his father’s eyes, a hint of accusation in his voice. “We were with Daddy.”

  “I didn’t know that. Daddy forgot to tell me.”

  “Sorry about that. Guess Daddy has a lot on his mind these days,” Matt said, catching sight of Joan for the first time. “Who the hell are you?”

  Sasha gasped. “Daddy said a bad word.”

  “I know you,” Josh said to Joan. “You were here last week.”

  “Yes, I was,” Joan said. “And I had such a good time that I had to come back and see you again.”

  “Would you mind taking the kids upstairs while I talk to my husband?” Chloe asked her. “Just for a few minutes.”

  “It’s too early to go to bed,” Josh said.

  “Well, maybe we could watch some TV,” Joan said.

  “SpongeBob?” Sasha asked, slipping her hand through Joan’s as Josh raced ahead up the stairs.

  Chloe nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered to Joan.

  “Nice meeting you, whoever you are,” Matt called after them.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Joan heard Chloe demand as she neared the top of the stairs.

  “If you’re going to yell, I’m going to leave,” Matt said with the kind of passive-aggressive calm that made Joan want to go back downstairs and punch him in his handsome face, put a dent in his perfect nose.

  She stopped on the landing, straining to hear more of the conversation above the newly turned-on TV in the master bedroom.

  “You had no right to take them without telling me,” Joan heard Chloe say.

  “I had every right. I’m their father.”

  “Is this the way it’s going to be?” Chloe asked.

  “That’s up to you. You’re the one who’s being unreasonable.”

  “I’m being unreasonable?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Look, Chloe,” Joan heard Matt continue. “You asked for this fight. All I want is to come home and for us to be a family again.”

  “And you think that pulling stunts like this is going to help your cause?”

  “Just trying to show you how complicated things can get.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning you need to think long and hard about what you’re doing to this family.”

  “What I’m doing,” Chloe repeated. “What about what you’ve already done?”

  Joan could almost see Matt shrug. “I can’t change what’s happened. You’re responsible for what happens next.”

  “I think you’d better leave.”
>
  Another pause. “Next move is up to you, Chloe. But I wouldn’t wait too long, if I were you.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Joan heard the incredulousness in Chloe’s voice, followed by the snicker in Matt’s. The next thing she heard was the sound of the front door slamming shut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  She was back in Nordstrom’s, returning all five of the dresses she’d purchased on the weekend, when she heard the familiar, breathy voice behind her. “Joan? Is that you?”

  Run, Joan thought, knowing that she couldn’t, that she was trapped among the rows of expensive designer dresses as securely as if she were locked inside a metal cage. She forced her lips into a smile and swiveled toward her sister-in-law.

  In stark contrast to Joan’s black T-shirt and jeans, Bev was wearing white pants and a stylish navy blazer over a crisp white blouse. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck, and long, heart-shaped rhinestone earrings dangled from her ears. The earrings slapped against Joan’s cheeks as Bev stepped forward to embrace her, kissing the air on both sides of Joan’s head, then standing back to take a good look at her. “Well, you’re looking well. That’s a relief. I was starting to worry. You don’t return my calls, you don’t answer your cell…”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.”

  “Something wrong?”

  Joan did a silent tally of recent events: she’d spent the better part of last night trying to comfort her daughter’s distraught and panic-stricken best friend; her recent attempts to rejoin the dating world had resulted in a hospital stay and a picture of a man in a leopard-print thong; and her presence was expected at a party for her brother-in-law’s eightieth birthday, while her own husband, the man’s identical twin, lay dead in the ground.

  She sighed, knowing she was being unfair. Bev had every right to celebrate her husband’s birthday. Such occasions should be celebrated. “Everything’s good,” Joan said. She had no desire to discuss her recent travails with Bev, whose expressions of sympathy tended to be so over-the-top, they had the strange effect of making you feel worse.