Reaching for the page I’d penned with my initials, Patrea said, "You could always threaten to go public.”
“With what?” I reached across the desk to gather up the papers and put them back in the folder while I tried to make sense of what she meant.
"Your story. There's nothing in there that prevents you from issuing a press release. Tell the public what he did to you. The family won't want the publicity, and I'm betting he'll make a fair settlement. He's the one who effectively ended the marriage, and he should pay."
I goggled at her. “I would have liked to keep my car, but I don’t want his money enough to air my dirty laundry to the media. He’s getting everything else; I’d like to retain a semblance of my pride. Besides, as you pointed out, I already signed the dissolution papers, so I'm not even sure why I’m here.”
Probably because my life had just been shattered and scattered and abandoned to the winds of change. I needed an anchor, or better yet, someone to throw me a lifeline.
Patrea offered neither, but she did give voice to the question already pinballing around in my head. “What are you going to do now? Do you have a plan? A place to stay? I have a spare room if you need—”
I cut her off with a wave of my hand before she could finish the offer. “Thanks. I’ll manage. Thank you, though.” I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and prepared to get on with the worst day of my life.
The woman behind the counter at the U-Haul rental center took one look at my face and gave me a sympathetic look. “Where you going, honey?” She waited to key in the address. The question flummoxed me. I knew I had to get out of my house. Nothing could keep me there another night, but that was as far as I’d taken the thought process.
“Home,” was the only answer. “I’ll go home and find a job and a place to rent.” As I said it, it made the best kind of sense.
“I gotta have an address to figure up the mileage.”
I gave her my parent’s address. “How many days you think it’ll take to get yourself settled?”
The woman was full of hard questions. “I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting to have to move. I’m not sure.”
Her fingers danced over the keyboard. “I can cut you a deal on that one for a week.” She pointed out the window toward a cargo van with the company logo splashed across the windowless sides.
“Best I can do is a hundred bucks plus taxes and mileage if you go over the three hundred allotted.” Her kindness nearly undid me. “Should buy you a little time to decide where you’re going.”
A week. I had a week to sort out a new life. Entirely doable, right? Hey, I knew it was a long shot, but a girl has to have hope.
Ten minutes later, I settled my African violet next to my purse on the passenger’s seat and fought off the urge to climb in the back and give in to the ache of misery trying to seep into my bones. My body was a dry, hollowed-out husk held together by the sheer will to move forward.
You can do this. I sat in the driveway and just stared at the house that had been my home just the day before. It seemed so alien to me now—as if it had undergone a transformation in the last twenty-four hours, and while everything might look the same, nothing was as it had been.
Should I knock? Silly when I had a key, but I still felt like a trespasser when I pushed open the door.
“Paul! Are you here?”
No reply broke the echoing emptiness. Why wasn't he standing guard to prevent me from making off with the silverware or anything else that might be construed as a marital asset? On the one hand, it could mean he didn't share Winston's view of my greedy nature. On the other, it could mean he didn't even care enough to say goodbye. Or both.
He needn’t have worried; I wasn’t planning on cleaning him out. I did indulge in the momentary and extremely satisfying fantasy of using the hedge clippers to make silk confetti out of his tie collection.
A quick tour of the place proved Winston had been correct in his assessment of what I’d brought to the marriage. But then, silly me, I’d believed Paul when he insisted my love was all he needed.
My leaving wouldn’t make much of an impact on the decor. There was little of me in any room of the house. Not a pop of color relieved the grays and whites with which Paul chose to surround himself.
There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but I was too tired to look for it.
It took less than two hours to pack and when I pulled out onto the street, my back ached, and my hands were shaking on the steering wheel, but my eyes were dry. Such a paltry span of time to take apart something meant to last a lifetime, and I hadn’t even called my parents to warn them I was coming home.
CHAPTER 3
There’s nothing better than an hour-long drive to lull one into a state of contemplation. Not at all what I needed at that particular time, so I cranked up the stereo and found a station playing classic rock. The base-model van had a scaled down interior lacking any sort of padded trim, so the music sounded tinny and strange, but it was better than silence.
Singing along distracted me from my thoughts, which was a blessing, and partway into the drive, my spirits lifted in that false sense of freedom that often follows a break-up. I didn’t need Paul. I would be fine on my own. My brain scrambled to list all of his petty annoyances and the things I’d be able to do now that his opinion was no longer a factor.
Somewhere deep, I knew the inevitable emotional crash would come, but at the moment, I felt fine even if my eyes itched with fatigue. Scorching guitar solos and pounding drums set my fingers tapping on the wheel until my stomach grumbled loudly. It had been at least a day since I’d last eaten, which probably accounted for half the hollow gnawing in my belly.
Another fifteen miles rolled away under my wheels before I saw the gas station sign, and like most of the mom-and-pop stores near my hometown, the gas pumps were only there for convenience. The real money came from selling beer, subs, and pizza. This one offered a selection of fresh-baked goods and a broader menu, and diner seating in a room off to the right of the main store. There’s no better balm for the soul than the scent of freshly baked bread, and my stomach clamored again as I stepped up to give my order.
“Can I get a turkey club?”
“On what kinda bread? We got white or wheat, but you can’t go wrong with the rye.” The woman behind the counter wore a checkered flannel over a pair of dark, men’s-cut jeans and looked to be around my mother’s age. Her smile was friendly while she waited for me to decide. Once she’d mentioned it, I had to choose the rye, and then she talked me into a side of fries.
“Oh no, I …” I realized with a sense of freedom that Paul wasn’t here to wag his finger at my food choices. “Yes, please.” And when she offered, I opted to eat in the little dining area.
I’m one of those people who doesn’t mind eating alone, and I settled on one of the padded spinning stools bolted to the floor in front of a low counter. There was no reason to take up an entire table or booth for just me.
When it came, the food was terrific. A generous portion of real turkey, not the processed deli style, between thick slices of bread with a side of fried potatoes that had never known the icy finger of a freezer. Crisp on the outside, creamy in the middle, laced with ketchup—I sighed and scarfed them down.
Because I'd chosen the first seat at the counter, my view was blocked by the wall between the dining room and the rest of the store, so I only heard the clerk refer to a perk of small-town living: the thirty-day revolving credit for known customers at a lot of the smaller stores.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. You have to pay your tab at the end of the month to keep it running. Thirty days and a hundred dollars is the limit. You know that.”
"C' mon, you know I'm good for the money," came the response in a flirting tone followed by a short silence, and then he spoke again. "I just need another week, and I'll square up with you. I'll even toss you some extra for the inconvenience. Please, it's twenty dollars’ worth of stuff, and I promise
I’m good for the whole thing. Can’t you just give me another week?”
Something about the man’s voice sounded familiar.
After a short silence, I heard fingers tapping on cash register keys and a sigh of relief.
"I'll do it this once, but don't ask again, you hear me?" Equal parts compassion and exasperation colored her voice, but I also heard a little affection in there besides. "Now get on out of here before I change my mind."
The screen door squeaked on its hinges and clapped hard against the frame. I heard the clerk mutter something about the young scamp getting her into trouble with her boss. She was still shaking her head and looking at the door when I came around the corner, so I glanced outside.
Even through the haze of the metal mesh, I recognized the shape of his head, the cocky swagger, and the way he held his shoulders as he climbed into a jacked-up pickup with dark tinted windows.
Hudson Montayne—my second or, given recent events, maybe my third—least favorite man on the planet. What I didn’t need today was a run-in with another one of my exes, not even if this one dated back to my high school days. Not even if my problem with him was mostly of my own making.
Besides, my nerves churned up again as soon as I spied the cargo van and remembered the chain of events that landed me twenty minutes from home, about to drop a bomb on my family.
“Hi Mom, I’m home.” I practiced as I drove. “For good.”
Yeah, nothing like being on the back side of twenty-five with a van full of nearly nothing, begging for your childhood room back. Almost made me want to keep driving, but another of my grandmother’s favorite sayings came to mind: wherever you go, there you are.
If my life had turned to suck, I might as well be among family and friends while I figured out a new way forward.
There was comfort in returning to a town time forgot. Because so little had changed, it all looked familiar and somehow more real than the suburbs where I’d made my home for the past few years. Like the town had been formed from bedrock so solid it could withstand a storm and remain whole. Exactly what I needed right then.
Out of habit, I pulled my foot off the gas pedal and let the van slow down to the twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit just before I passed the grocery store. At this time of day, Ernie Polk usually had his cruiser tucked into the hidey-hole between the loading dock and Joe Parnell’s bait shop.
Nine times out of ten, he’d be doing the crossword puzzle instead of clocking traffic, and I’d always been able to flirt my way out of a ticket, but I didn’t have the patience for it now. And let’s face it, I wasn’t looking my best. Probably wasn’t smelling too great, either. Not after all the packing and carting around of boxes.
Like always, I noticed the fluttering shreds of an old bikini top hanging off the power wires running along the left-hand side of the street. In the official story, Joe Parnell the younger had nicked Nadine Johnson's bathing suit out of her bag and tossed the top up there to prove he could throw it that far. He came off looking like a scamp, and Nadine saved her reputation.
In the true version, tanked on half a bottle of cheap wine, Nadine had stripped off her top to prove the town was so dull she could run down the main drag topless on a weeknight without anyone noticing. She’d been right, by the way.
Young Joe had stolen the top from where she dropped it, stuck a rock in one of the cups, and used it in a misguided attempt at making a slingshot. On the third swing, he let go at the wrong time, and the rest was history. The kind that turned to legend in a small town.
The morning after graduation, Nadine had packed up her little red Toyota, blown out of town, and never looked back. Last I heard, she’d landed an agent and was modeling at fashion week in NYC.
My own exit hadn’t been nearly as dramatic, and I was hoping to keep my return on the low-key side as well, but I didn’t hold out much hope. Rolling up in a moving van was bound to draw more attention than I wanted.
Still, circling the block twice smacked of avoidance, and that was another thing my Grammie Dupree despised. Better to get it over with and admit my failure no matter how sour the words would taste in my mouth.
This time, instead of passing the house, I pulled in behind a two-tone vintage pickup truck I didn’t recognize, and hoped the butterflies in my stomach would settle in for a landing. Pink and purple petunias spilled from hanging baskets on the porch of the craftsman-style house. Cheerful colors against the slate gray paint.
Old Blue barked up a storm in his capacity as an early warning system, and the front door swung open before I had both feet on the ground.
"Everly? What a lovely surprise." My mother greeted me warmly and made an effort to keep her curiosity in check, but her gaze took in the van and every little detail of my appearance. Including, I’m sure, the slight puffiness and telltale redness still rimming my eyes. The woman never missed a trick. Or a chance to weigh in on my choices, but she had a way of settling me down with nothing more than her presence.
“Did we know you were coming today?”
“No, I should have called ahead. I’m sorry.” I hugged her, held on for a moment. It took an effort of will to let go and not dissolve into a puddle of misery right there on the porch floor. I let her lead me inside.
"Dad's home from work, right? I have news, and I'd rather tell it just the one time."
The day already felt like it had stretched into two, and my watch said it was barely time to start cooking supper. All I wanted to do was drop the bomb and then crawl into bed in my old room and sleep for a week.
Mom eyed the U-Haul van, and I knew she’d probably already figured out what happened but would let me get to the explanation in my own time. If I’d been paying attention, I might have realized she had news of her own. In my defense, I was sleep deprived and wrapped up in my own problems.
“He’s out in his workshop.” I followed her inside, where the comfort and safety of home laid enough balm over some of the raw places I could take a breath that didn’t feel like it would break my sternum.
As it always did when I walked into my childhood home, my gaze tracked to the touchstones of familiarity: photos on the mantel, mother’s snow globes, a few of Grammie Dupree’s bells, and the hundreds of books lining the built-in shelves.
Paul had hated every single thing about this house—the stained wood, the saturated colors my mother chose for the walls, the variety of patterns on pillows and throws. Too much warmth for his spartan tastes. I should have seen the signs, but I’d tried hard not to look.
“Did I hear someone pull in?” Dad smiled the way he always did when his eyes fell on my mom, and she returned the favor. Almost thirty years together and they still lit up in each other’s presence. That was the benchmark, to me, of how a marriage ought to be. He noticed me and his grin widened. “There’s my girl.”
My dad's hugs are like warm blankets on a cold night. He pulled me in and patted my back before dropping a kiss on my cheek. "To what do we owe the pleasure of an unexpected visit?" A look passed between him and my mom that should have pinged on my radar but didn't because I was too busy trying to form words.
“Sit down. I have something to tell you both.” I perched on the edge of the chair, my back muscles stiff and aching from the strain of carrying my failure into the house. Now that the moment was on me, there was no stopping the tears.
“You’re scaring me,” Mom said. Her hand fumbled for Dad’s as if she needed his touch for strength.
"I'm getting a divorce." When the words finally came out, relief drained the tension from my shoulders, and they bowed until I huddled in the chair.
To fill the silence that fell after my admission, I elaborated. “Paul was unfaithful. It’s over.”
Mild-mannered to a fault, my father called Paul a few names I’d never heard him use before. His anger on my behalf helped drained off the nerves and brought the first small but genuine smile to my face since the nightmare had begun.
I turned to mom and waited for the
inevitable. She sighed, “I hate to say it, but I did warn you about throwing away your education to marry that playboy.”
“Paul is not a playboy. He runs the manufacturing arm of the family business.” And now she’d made me defend the jerk. Honestly.
Talking to the wall would have been more productive. “You should have stayed in school. You’d have earned a masters by now. An accomplishment to be proud of.” The implication being that the end of my marriage was not.
On that point, we wholeheartedly agreed, but it hadn’t been my choice to make.
Underneath the I told you so, I knew my mother wanted the best for me. Or at least what she thought was best for me. Those rare occasions when we disagreed on what that entailed were the main times we came into conflict and being of similar personalities; we sparked fireworks off each other.
None so bright or fierce as when I had announced my engagement.
I hadn't made it halfway through my three-year bachelor's program before I met Paul. Six months later, I was a wife and a college dropout living in a large home in the suburbs, doing volunteer work to occupy my time. Mother had not been pleased.
Paul’s reasons for insisting I leave school had seemed valid enough when we were planning the wedding. I realized the speciousness of them now that it was too late.
“You’ll go back,” she declared. “It’s not too late to apply for next fall.” She went on with a list of things I would need to do, and in defense of my fragile emotional state, I admit I tuned out most of what she said and looked at my dad.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay here for a week.” Just until the rental ran out on the van. I’d be settled into my own place by then. “While I look for an apartment.”
I’d expected him to say yes and welcome me with open arms. Instead, his face fell and took my stomach along for the ride.
“Oh, Evvie, I wish you could, but we’ve uh … well, here it is. We’ve taken in a boarder. He’s staying in your room.”
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