by Leigh Himes
My confusion turned to fury. The thought of all these women propositioning Alex—even thinking he could be theirs—was maddening. I was tempted to call every number and announce that Alexander van Holt was a happily married man who adored his wife and two small children.
It was admittedly some small consolation that the cards and notes were left in pockets or in the trash, discarded or absentmindedly forgotten. But still it gave me pause: How long would he be able to resist these women? Especially if he won the election and spent long weeks in DC without me? And what about before… had he ever succumbed? Just how happily married was my husband?
These were questions any reasonably aware married woman could answer. But of course, most women had known their husbands for longer than seven days.
Gloria walked in and announced that her brother was up. Together, we went to retrieve him, enlisting his help for our next challenge, the living room. Sensing Gloria was losing interest, I tied Swiffers to her and Sam’s feet with rubber bands and handed them each a feather duster. As they skated around the floors giggling, I tried to join in on the fun, but my mind kept rereading the tawdry notes.
I moved to the windows and looked down at the sidewalks below. As Alex traversed the city, jumping for event to event, did he pass any restaurants or bars or a park bench—our “special spots”—and think of me? When he saw young children, did he miss us and long to be home? Was he still “in love” with me?
And did he ever feel jealousy—like I was feeling now? It was a strange emotion, and one that left me scared and vulnerable. A feeling I’d never felt with Jimmy. Not once.
“Mama,” said a tiny voice from below. It was Sam, already wanting a snack.
I walked to the kitchen pantry and scanned the shelves for something easy. I reached down for some crackers, and in a corner, I saw a Drexel University tote bag stuffed with books and clothes—May’s. I carried it to the kitchen and plopped it down on the large island.
Inside was a blue sweatshirt, a pair of black plastic sunglasses, an umbrella, some diapers, a notebook, some highlighters, and a sippy cup. Also two textbooks, one on biology and one a review of American literature from 1920 to 1968. I stared at it and felt a rush of guilt. In getting Sam to the hospital, she must have left her things. And now was too scared or mad to retrieve them.
Gloria ran into the kitchen, demanding to know what was taking so long. I shoved the books back in the bag, and before she could say anything else, I grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around toward the door.
“Get your shoes on,” I told her. “We’re going out.”
It was the second time the taxicab passed the same antiques store. And the third time it passed the old man walking the beagle in an argyle sweater. And the umpteenth time we bounced along the uneven bricks along Jewelers Row.
“Are you sure it’s this street?” I asked my daughter again. “Maybe it’s one farther that way?”
I pointed south toward Washington Square, but she just shook her head and continued to scan the streetscape. I was beginning to think Gloria was just toying with me, and that despite her loud avowals otherwise, she had no idea where May lived.
“I know it has lots of shops,” she said, her brow crinkling in concentration. “And signs like that one.” She pointed to a pink neon scrawl: “We Buy Gold.”
Shops and signs. Well, that narrowed it down to just about every city street on the East Coast.
We had spent the last thirty minutes driving around under Gloria’s direction. The Russian taxi driver seemed confused but not especially irritated; I think he was enjoying the hunt as much as Gloria. Me, not so much. I was losing patience. And feeling carsick. I told the cabbie to pull over.
“Think, Gloria. What else is on the street? A restaurant? Or a park? It’s very important. Only you can find her.”
And we had to find her. So we could return her bag and textbooks. But mostly so I could apologize for her unfair and abrupt dismissal. Especially since I suspected she knew I was the one to blame for leaving the candy out.
Gloria tilted her head to one side. “What do I get if I tell you?”
“You get to continue living in our home rent-free,” I told her. “How’s that sound?”
Her eyes turned serious, not sure if I really meant it, but also not sure if it was a risk worth taking. She scrunched her brows, the same way I do when I’m really trying to remember, and finally blurted out one word: “Lambs!”
“Huh?”
“There are lambs there,” she said, proudly.
“Like at Bloemveld?”
“No, dead ones.”
Dead sheep? I struggled to translate the clue into something meaningful.
“And cheeses, Mommy. Big cheeses.”
The cabbie turned around in his seat and said something in a thick accent.
“Excuse me?”
“The Italian Market,” he said louder. “She means the Italian Market.”
Gloria smiled, then high-fived the driver through the open Plexiglas divider. Then we all braced ourselves as he put the car in drive and screeched off toward South Philly.
Just one block south of the famous Ninth Street Italian Market, where they sold everything from vegetables to spices to sausages and—yes!—lambs, Gloria had found May’s building. It was a turn-of-the-century leather goods factory converted into six floors of apartments, the authentic version of the factory turned lofts that attracted yuppies elsewhere in the city. It was quiet and dark save for a few signs of life: weekly grocery circulars, a padlocked bicycle, and a stack of delivery boxes from Amazon.com.
Once again, I had to rely on a five-year-old to direct us. But this time Gloria had no trouble, bounding up the five flights of stairs with confidence as I struggled to keep up with Sam in my arms. On the sixth floor, she stopped by a metal door with two pairs of shoes lined up outside, grinning and proud that she had finally solved the case. And obviously eager to see her beloved May. Her small fist turned pink as she knocked and knocked.
After reaching her and catching my breath, I pulled Gloria’s hand down in time to hear May’s voice call out a Thai greeting.
“May, it’s Abbey,” I said through the door. “Van Holt.”
Silence. I tried again. “May?”
Finally: “What do you want?”
“I have your bag.”
No response.
“You left it at our place. Your textbooks and clothes and stuff.”
“Just leave it outside.”
Sam and Gloria looked up at me with confused, puppy-dog eyes, not understanding why they could hear May but not see her. For their sake, I tried again.
“Look. May, I know you are upset with me. But could you just say hi to the kids? They miss you so much already.”
The dead bolt clanked open and the door swung inward. May appeared in a close-fitting T-shirt, a long black cardigan, and army green cargo pants, with her hair long and loose. In these clothes, she looked so different, and I realized she was close to my age, maybe even younger. She knelt down and the kids ran into her arms, almost knocking her over. As she held them, laughing, the door swung shut, leaving me alone in the hall. I expected her to open it back up, but she didn’t. Man, she was mad.
A few minutes later, she stepped out with Sam on her hip and Gloria’s hand in hers. She didn’t look at me, but I could tell she was near tears. As she hugged them good-bye one last time, trying to be cheerful, I almost couldn’t watch.
May’s hold over them was magical, almost primal. Just like a mother’s. As I watched my children cling to her, a colorful jumble in the drab hallway, I thought I would feel jealous. But I didn’t.
I realized then that I had been judging Abbey van Holt for having a nanny, for outsourcing the work of mothering, when what I should have been thinking was how lucky the children were to have someone else to love them. Especially someone like May, who had no preconceived ideas of what being a van Holt meant and just let them be kids.
And May
’s reward? Being fired for something she didn’t do. I felt helpless. Worse—like the villain in a Dickens novel. The evil employer who brings ruin to a well-intentioned innocent. I had to do something.
“May, I realized that we never gave you any severance.” I whipped out my checkbook, ready to write a check with a lot of zeros. But when I saw “Mr. and Mrs. Alexander van Holt” at the top of the check, I paused. When she deposited this, Alex would know. And he was quite clear on the subject of May. In his mind, her carelessness nearly killed his son.
I shoved the checkbook back in my purse. “Funny! I’m out of checks. I’ll have to send you one later. Or I’ll just bring you cash. Tomorrow. Actually, maybe not tomorrow. Later this week.”
“I don’t want your money,” she said flatly.
“A recommendation, then? I am happy to write one—”
My words were cut off by the slam of her door, leaving me openmouthed and stunned in the cold hallway.
As the dust swirled and then settled again, I realized what she wanted. The truth.
I grabbed each child by the hand, moved toward May’s doorway, and started shouting through the heavy door. “May, listen to me. It wasn’t your fault. It… it was mine. I should have been more careful. And I should have admitted it to Mirabelle. And fought for you.”
I paused and leaned my head against the cold metal. “The truth is… I was scared.”
There was no response, no sound. Even the children were still and quiet, staring at me. Their sea blue eyes were wide and anxious, as if to say Please, Mommy. Please, make this right.
I knew I had to. But as I turned to leave, guiding a shell-shocked Gloria and a bewildered Sam down the stairs, I realized I didn’t have any idea how.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Meeting Collier van Holt, I didn’t understand why everyone was so nervous about him. He seemed harmless and sweet and slightly confused, and I liked him immediately.
He was shorter and stouter than Alex, and his thinning hair was wispy and silver, combed gently over his smooth, tanned head. He wore a caramel-colored suit with a subtle navy pinstripe, a smooth light blue dress shirt, and polished brown shoes. He had an elegant but lost look about him, like a nobleman from another era flung into the modern world of skinny lattes and keyless entries.
He seemed especially awkward among his own family, almost shy, as if these people were strangers, not his flesh and blood. When his hands were not in his pockets or holding a glass, they shook.
“Abigail,” he said warmly, as we entered the mahogany-paneled library, the same room where just one week ago I sat with Father Fergie before downing a few dog biscuits. “How are you, my dear? Mother tells me you had a little accident.”
I gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek, and he seemed taken aback—but pleased. Gloria and Sam ran up and began circling and clawing, playing a game only the three of them knew. He feigned surprise as the kids found two peppermints hidden in his coat pocket.
“Careful, my little lobsters,” he whispered to them as he helped unwrap the cellophane. “If Grandmère sees the candy, she’ll be cross with me for spoiling your dinner.”
At the mention of Mirabelle, Collier glanced toward the kitchen nervously, then headed toward the bar to fix himself a drink.
Mirabelle burst into the room in a cloud of creamy silk, gardenia perfume, and mock exasperation. Her spotless outfit was topped with an equally spotless black apron with the words “Kiss the Cook” embroidered across the front. You’re not fooling anyone, lady, I thought. Behind that door were at least three hired helpers; the only thing Mirabelle would be cooking up tonight was opinions.
“Finally,” she said as she saw us, throwing up her arms for emphasis, as if we were hours late, not fifteen minutes. She walked straight to Alex for an embrace, and then went through the motions of air-kissing me before dropping on one knee to greet Gloria and Sam.
“It’s going to be a while. Your father wanted steak, so Cook had to go back out,” she instructed Alex. She whispered the word “father” as if there was some question as to Alex’s parentage, and she avoided looking in the old man’s direction.
Next she was beside me, signaling she wished to speak privately. “So, my dear, how is our boy?”
“He’s fine. Slept well, ate a good breakfast. Drank lots of milk per doctor’s orders.”
“No, I don’t mean Van. Alex.”
“Oh. He’s fine. Why?”
“Well, I heard he skipped the Ed Rendell dinner last night.”
“His son was in the hospital, Mirabelle. Of course he skipped it.”
“But there’s only two more days. Alex just doesn’t seem himself… I can’t tell if he’s just exhausted or distracted. Something.”
I had a feeling her “concern” was about me, not Alex or the campaign. This woman’s instincts were too good. She knew something was off, but she couldn’t figure it out. And it was killing her. I smiled inside, knowing little old Abbey Lahey knew something she didn’t.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I told her, watching her eager expression drop.
She pretended to hear a noise in the kitchen, and then turned on her heel, annoyed. I’m not sure if anyone else felt it, but the room seemed to sigh with relief, suddenly warmer, when she disappeared back through the swinging door.
Collier walked over to Alex and extended his hand as if greeting a business associate. “Son,” he said. “I hear it’s been a tough race but you’re standing your ground. Within six points I hear.”
“Six and a half,” Alex corrected.
Unbelievably, this was all they said to each other. Each of them retreated to different sides of the room, Alex returning his attention to his phone, Collier to his single-malt scotch. I wiped the sticky drool off Sam’s chin and walked back over to the older man.
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “Alex is making great headway. He could actually pull this off.”
“I like your attitude.” He smiled and nodded his head. “Positive thinking.”
“It’s more than positive thinking. You should see how people respond to him. They can’t get enough.”
“He always was such a charming boy. Smart too. Nothing like his old man.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said with a wink.
“Well, his mother is,” he said, swirling the last of his drink and gulping it down. “And around here, that’s all that matters.” He paused, then added, “Surely you know that by now, Abigail.”
I smiled at him, then looked down, unsure of what to say. It was apparent that for whatever reason, this man wasn’t welcome in his own home, and I was taking a risk fraternizing with the enemy. I stepped away to pick up the kids’ discarded boots and coats off the wool rug.
I pulled out some Matchbox cars from my boxy Prada purse and ushered Sam toward the hardwood. Gloria was banging out “Chopsticks” on the Steinway in the corner, her tentative, clanging tune adding to the uncomfortable vibe of the room.
And my sister-in-law Aubyn’s arrival moments later didn’t improve it. She came in dressed in a black velvet coat, riding pants, and boots, with her hair in a low ponytail. Her face was makeup-free and pale, her bright blue eyes the only pop of color. She ignored all the adults, scanning the room. Eventually her eyes fixed on Gloria, peeking out from the piano.
“Tu veux voir les moutons?” she asked her.
“Oui!” shouted Gloria, hopping up with a clang and running toward her aunt. Then, remembering, she turned back and asked, “Is it okay, Mommy?”
“Oui,” I said, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
Aubyn and Gloria left hand in hand. When their voices grew more distant and some faraway doors slammed, I realized they might be heading outside. I grabbed Gloria’s forgotten jacket and headed after them. Though it had not begun to rain, the skies were ominous.
Glancing back to Sam before I left the room, I saw Collier awkwardly bouncing him on his knee while Alex watched from a corner. I guessed Coll
ier would watch Sam; Alex would watch Collier.
When I reached the wide front hall, I didn’t know which direction Aubyn and Gloria had taken or which of the three doors they had exited through. Then I remembered the dark stairwell from my first night here, and headed toward it. I was right; when I opened the door, I heard the faint sounds of riding boots and little-girl chatter.
Descending the worn stairs carefully, I found myself in a dim corridor lit by bare bulbs, the air several degrees colder than the floor above. The walls were rough-hewn brick and the wood floorboards soft beneath my feet. Beside me on the wall was a modern gray fuse box hung next to a dusty wooden case of brass bells, like the kind I’d seen on Masterpiece Theatre to summon servants. Two of the bells were tilted, hanging askew in anticipation, whoever triggered them still waiting for that cup of tea, those shined shoes.
The rest of the hallway revealed more contrasts of old and new. One room held antique furniture, a locked case of long shotguns, old fishing equipment, and dented, dusty steamer trunks, as well as outdoor heating lamps, sports equipment, and gold-tone party chairs stacked to the ceiling. Another held bikes, skis, and sleds, all relics from Alex’s childhood, plus an old Victrola, its lily-shaped amplifier tarnished and silent. The last room was the largest, and as I stepped inside, I noticed it still smelled faintly of soot and cooking grease. Shelves lined both walls, and on some stood crockery and jars, while others housed only empty hooks and cobwebs. Long, rough-hewn tables were pushed into a corner along with a giant barrel with “B.V.” stenciled on its side. I stepped closer and saw a date etched into the worn wood—1883.
I tried to imagine this gloomy space bustling with servants filling soup tureens for a formal dinner or roasting turkeys for a fox-hunting party. I would have loved to see Bloemveld as it would have been a hundred years ago, with the people and animals and commotion that give a house like this purpose. I could not imagine growing up here—then or now.