“I had my driver turn around. I left my house keys,” she said as she stopped at the door. Her posture was straight but her eyes betrayed the façade, and Violet glared at her as I let her in. I watched as she gingerly stepped past us and silently shuffled towards the elevator, bouncing her keys in her palm.
“Jill?” I said as she got a few feet down the hall. She turned around with slumped shoulders, looking like she’d gone nine rounds with Foreman.
“How was it?” I asked with a watery smile, and her face and spirits lifted exponentially.
“Amazing. You couldn’t even imagine…” she said dreamily, searching for words. “Like, I’m ruined for all other men for all of eternity.”
“I wanna be ruined for all other men,” Violet pouted to herself in a whisper.
I just nodded.
My mind wouldn’t turn off as I lay in bed that night. It’s not like I wanted things to happen this way, but I can’t regret the course my life has taken. And it’s not like I didn’t want to have the answers to all of Violet’s questions—and more. I’d craved these answers privately sometimes. I wanted to remember, I just…couldn’t. When I reached in my mind for the puzzle pieces, it was like looking directly into the sun. There was no planet, no star, just blinding white stillness. There was nothing.
I had very little to go by. No name, no account of a conception, nothing concrete. I knew there was a time when I sought him, but, I only know this from the secondhand accounts by August, and it took me years to ask. I didn’t dare even mention my curiosity to Jill and Violet, knowing what a difficult period it was for all of us. My entire pregnancy was almost a blank, and the little I did remember I wanted to forget.
Funny thing about maturity and motherhood. You gain all this room in your mind. Spaces, corners, doors both opened and closed. I guess you could credit it to the complexity of taking responsibility for another living person. I felt more focused raising Tristan in every way, but this one vital thing…it was vapor. But Violet was right; things were changing.
In the pace of my life, with happiness as a major distraction, I’d never troubled myself intensely. Maybe I was like Jill. Maybe I didn’t really want to know. If that was truly my motive, I’d managed to keep it hidden away from even myself. Or maybe I was afraid of what I’d find there if I really, really looked. Maybe.
But I needed to try.
Chapter 3 - Satellites & Reconciliations
Clouds of billowing smoke transformed into color, and in the fumes an image slowly began to materialize.
I was walking in the park, just like the day before, when I saw Violet and Tristan ahead. They stood holding hands with their bodies turned away, appearing in deep discussion, so I stood silent. They didn’t register my presence, and when I listened, I couldn’t understand their words.
Violet pointed to something, and I followed the direction of her finger. It was empty space, but from thin air her favorite statue appeared. I laughed, realizing she was giving him the prerequisite speech again, but she quieted and turned to me solemnly. I knew it was her, but she looked ethereally foreign.
“Don’t you remember, Bree?” she asked, her eyes intelligent, knowing. I felt a pain in my chest.
“I can’t,” I replied, shaking my head.
The air began to shimmer, and I lunged to cover them as the ground quaked beneath us, but it was too late.
~o~
I woke up with a jolt, my arms outstretched grasping nothing. Through the wall of glass windows in the bedroom that faced the cityscape across the river, I could see outside that it was not yet dawn. I checked the time on my phone, which was docked on the bedside table. It was 5:00 a.m.
I puffed out a curse and flopped back onto my pillows.
~o~
Hours later, I was at my showroom reviewing invoices with my assistant, Claire. I owned and operated Valentine Designs, a furniture design firm. It began serendipitously after Tristan’s birth. On my first trip home with infant Tristan, my dad’s work shed just called to me. I’d grown up woodworking beside Mitch, assisting his big projects, making and hiding my small things. I went out while Mitch watched Tristan sleep, and in a few days I had made a dresser. Mitch drove us back to New York with it in the back of his pickup. When she saw it, Violet asked if I would make a display table version for her, so I day rented equipment, worked in her back room, and was done in a week. She put it in the flagship store for her fashion line Luxe by Marie-Violet Valentine. At Violet’s grand opening, someone offered her an obscene amount of money for it on the spot, and the rest is history.
I created a small furniture line, manufactured by hometown artisans back in Sweetwater, made from timber milled at the plant my father had been foreman of for over twenty years. It had taken one hot design to stick, and it did. Most of my business was through distributors now, factory direct, but I kept the space I’d bought next door to Violet’s as my showroom. It became additionally useful when I started taking on custom commissions for one-of-a-kind pieces. Woodworking was my first passion, after all, and the factory productions kept us comfortable.
Not bad for a girl who went to school to become a CPA.
My musings were interrupted when I heard the bell chime echo from next door and the clicking of heels. I glanced up and watched Violet hand her purse and sunglasses to her store manager, who tucked them in a drawer behind the counter.
The massive columned archway we’d blown out between our two spaces now annoyed me. I was unsettled by my dream and by last night. She never could leave well enough alone. I sighed and tried to look busy as she flipped through mail—I started fake typing when I heard her clacking across her marble floor, then across my stained concrete one. It sounded like a countdown.
“This is yours,” she said, extending an envelope. Avoiding eye contact I glimpsed the letter.
“No, it’s not,” I hit some more keys. “It’s addressed to Marie Valentine, not Mary Valentine.”
“My mistake,” she replied lightly.
I pursed my lips at the screen.
One night after the divorce, a ten-year-old Violet clawed up my tree and into my bedroom window with a suitcase tethered to her waist. Her mother had promised a mother/daughter night so she excitedly decorated their McMansion with every holiday adornment she could find. It was a madhouse with birthday streamers and orange balloons with jack-o-lantern faces flooding the floor and a holiday tree spiraled with toilet paper, dotted with cotton balls. She cried and told me how Sharon had shown up rabidly drunk at three a.m., tearing down the tree, screaming this was why her father didn’t want any part of her. She said the child support was bribe money to keep her away. Then Sharon grabbed Violet so hard she broke her arm.
My father woke up and found us huddled together crying. Violet moved in with us permanently after that, many years later mending a connection back to Sharon that consisted of casual brunches over bottomless Bloody Marys and blank envelopes with checks inside. But that night I asked my father Mitch if she could be a Valentine. I wondered if her intention with handing me the Trojan horse letter was to remind me of that.
My sympathy waned when I remembered that first day in ballet class. While she pretend puffed a candy cigarette, she informed me I couldn’t be Mary anymore because our French ballet instructor, Madame Evie, pronounced “Mary” as “Marie” and there couldn’t be two of us. She asked me my middle name—Gabrielle—and came up with Bree. Madame Evie instantly agreed and moved on. I disliked it but Vi railroaded me—convincing the other kids to call me that, too. I retaliated by calling her by her middle name instead of the name she so coveted, and no one’s known us by the treasured first name since.
She was a pushy know-it-all who disregarded other people’s feelings, even at the age of six. “Violet, whatever you’re up to, I can’t deal with your games right now,” I said tiredly.
“No games,” she chimed. “I’m just surprised to see you here, that’s all. I figured you’d have stowed yourself away in Tristan’s backpack
for the day.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I replied back.
“Oh, nothing.” She shrugged one shoulder and swirled her finger across the counter separating us and inspected her finger for invisible dust. “It’s just I’ve never seen the umbilical cord stretch this far.”
“You’re being a witch,” I pointed out. “But I won’t let you provoke me. I know that’s what you’re trying to do.”
“Me? Never. Oh, look at the time,” she sang, giving me the same superior treatment she gives unavailable men. “I’m having lunch downtown with two Saudi princes. Twins. Enjoy your oat crackers and whatnot.” She waved towards a brown paper lunch sack on my desk and whirled around, intentionally clacking harder on the floor.
Distressed, I called Jill. I spoke as soon as her line clicked.
“Is it wrong to want to replace Vi’s conditioner with hair remover?”
She snickered. “No, but don’t make me laugh. Hold on a sec,” she whispered quickly, the receiver became muffled. “Where’s my foam? Do you see any foam in this cup? And I said get the Venti. If you mess this up one more time ‘grande’ will be Italian for unemployment line.”
“Sorry, I’m back,” she said and I jumped when I heard a door slam closed in the background. “Is she still in Marie-Violet Valentine mode?”
“Yes, and on the scale of national security threat levels, she’s a red on the diva act,” I was shooting for playful, but it came out flat. My heart I wondered if she’d ever forgive me for making Jill the godmother.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. She is so petty, sometimes,” she tsked, and I thought of her cheesecake. “I’m glad you called. I have something I want you to take a look at.”
“Okay?”
“Well,” she stalled. “There’s this company I found. And they…find people,” she said delicately.
“Huh.”
“I know what you’re thinking, but let me explain. They have access to almost every database in the country. Millions of people registered in their system and—”
“Jill,” I interrupted in exasperation. “In order to search, don’t you need criteria? There is nothing to search.”
“There is one thing,” she paused. “It searches DNA. It’s a new database that can run Tristan’s and pull anyone that’s a match, even distantly. From there, it won’t be difficult to narrow down.”
“That’s great,” I replied, overwhelmed. “Where do they get all this DNA from?”
“Lots of places. Ancestry databases, state records, military records…”
“And by state and military records, you mean prisons, brigs, and asylums?”
“Potentially.”
“I’ve got to go, Jill. My stapler just sprouted wings and flew off to mate with a blue jay.” I hit end.
Within seconds of hanging up, my phone buzzed. I answered hoping it would lighten the mood.
“Bree!”
“Hi, Ian.”
“Hey, um,” he hesitated. Weird. “I don’t want to pry, but have you spoken with Jill yet?”
I couldn’t believe she’d recruited him.
“Ian, if this is about that cesspool database of vile criminal pond-scum, I am not interested. I’m not saying I’m perfect, but where do you all get off assuming that his father must be the bane of society? Do you think so lowly of my son that we have to start the search at the bottom? What has he ever done to deserve that? He’s a good kid, Ian. The best. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair!”
“Bree?” he said.
“Hm?” I huffed, breathing heavily from my tirade.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh.”
“It’s all right, Bree,” he soothed. That was the longest conversation I’d ever had with him on the subject. Serious Ian was not a side revealed often.
“I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’m fine,” I replied after a moment. “You were calling about Jill?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Did you guys discuss anything? You know, girlie talk?”
“You want to know if she kissed and told,” I replied smugly, leaning back in my leather swivel chair and smiling at the ceiling.
“That kinda indicates she did,” he chuckled, “She’s not returning my calls.”
“She will soon. I promise,” I assured him.
“Good to hear,” he said and he let out a big exhale. “Thanks for setting it up.”
“You should be thanking Violet, don’t you think?” We both laughed.
I’d set Ian and Jill up the same way Violet had tried to set Ian and me up. She told me I had to meet the developer for lunch to review final details. I got to the restaurant and found Ian, who I’d met once before, and sat waiting for the meeting to begin. He ordered wine and started flirtatious conversation. We were fifteen minutes into what he thought was a lunch date before we figured out Violet had set us both up. I apologized, standing to leave, but he asked me to stay. Intimidated by Ian and the prospect of dating, I used the best repellent I could think of.
“I have a baby,” I blurted. “At home. Right now. He’s probably spitting out peas as we speak.” It was meant to be gross, but I smiled at the visual.
“I know. Violet told me,” he said, pouring some wine. “Kids put some guys off. I thought to myself ‘now that’s a girl who knows how to show a guy a good time.’” He looked serious—but his seriousness faded into laughter so hearty it shook the crystal chandelier overhead like a wind chime.
“You should see your face,” he chuckled, fair-skinned and wide-jawed. I spun on my heels, embarrassed, but he grabbed my hand. “I was only kidding. Have a heart, will, ya? Please don’t make me have lunch alone.”
I stayed because something in his eyes when he spoke pleaded with me not to go. He was lonely.
He was a playboy, but as an only child with his parents in Boston, his life was void of connection. Gradually, he began hanging around my store, buying furniture like it was going out of style, bringing us lunch. When he met Jill, he was hooked. He befriended August, bickered with Violet, and bonded with Tristan like the little brother he never had. It was like the news story about the bear at the zoo that latched onto the little yellow duckling; they became best of friends.
One night after the three of us watched a movie, Tristan fell asleep between us and Ian suggested we get married. I couldn’t suppress my laughter because it reminded me of Mitch and Sharon’s misguided motive to marry. He wasn’t offended after I explained, and I’m sure looking back he’s relieved, because now that Jill left Nathan, he let himself hope for more with her. He gave her time to move on, but it didn’t take long to know he’d fallen.
“You’re right,” he relented. “Maybe I’ll send Vi some flowers.”
“That’s a good idea,” I paused. “Ian, I’m glad it’s working out for you and Jill.”
He chuckled. “Guess I’ll always be the one that got away, huh?”
I smiled. “Yes, and the circus just hasn’t been the same since.” His laugh was so loud, I had to pull away the phone.
We bantered on longer before hanging up, and then I was left to watch the clock wondering what Tristan was doing. He was a smart, thoughtful boy, but he hadn’t connected strongly with children his age. Kindergarten was becoming more nerve-wracking by the second. I tapped my pen, contemplating swinging by the schoolyard for a peek. Violet would probably harass me endlessly if she found out, but it couldn’t hurt. It was perfectly normal, right? No, it probably wasn’t. I sighed. And then I stuffed my lunch sack in my messenger bag and told Claire to hold down the fort.
I walked the few blocks to the school, enjoying the blue sky and sunshine. His teacher—coincidentally Claire’s boyfriend, Ari—informed me the children lunched on the playground picnic tables when it was nice out. As I turned the corner and approached the twenty-foot chain link fence that surrounded the playground, I tied my hair in a bun and put on my aviators, trying to look anonymous. It was one thing to go on a covert stalker missio
n to spy on your child—it was another thing entirely to get caught.
I saw a petite woman in a khaki trench coat and bucket fishing cap leaning against the fence with her fingers entwined in the links. I slowed down and wondered if she was another mother. As I got closer, I recognized the sunglasses that covered her face, and I froze.
There, standing longingly outside my son’s schoolyard was the girl who taught me how to braid hair and take a shot of tequila. The one who fought for me when I was picked on in school and explained to me what a period was when I told her I thought I was dying. The one who paid the hospital bill for my delivery when I couldn’t afford it, and the one who still held my hand under the table when I thought about the mother I never met. The one who gave me my name and took mine in return, then accepted and loved my son unconditionally.
I stepped closer, removing my sunglasses, revealing watery eyes. She spun in surprise. We stood stock still for several moments until a sob broke from her chest.
“You freaking bitch,” she cried, flinging herself at me in a hug. I hugged her back, hard. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too,” I confessed.
“Let’s not ever fight again, okay?” she released her death grip and took off her sunglasses to wipe her tears.
“Okay,” I laughed, the lump in my throat loosening. “Do you think that’s possible?” We laughed and she wiped more tears.
“Probably not.” She shook her head, sniffling.
“See, I told you I cry,” I said, as I wiped one loose tear with a smile.
“These are happy tears, they don’t count,” she remarked. “But let’s not fight about it.”
“Deal,” I nodded. “What happened to your Saudi princes?”
“I cancelled. They can wait.” She smiled. I couldn’t agree more.
“Have they come out yet?” I asked, turning to the schoolyard.
“No, not yet.”
“I brought lunch so I guess we can sit and wait—.”
“Bree,” she interrupted, “who’s that guy over there?”
“What guy?” I followed her gaze. A tall man in a baseball cap and athletic jacket—collar upturned— stared into the yard through dark sunglasses.
In the Land of Milk and Honey Page 4