by Kate Hilton
“So did I,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” I say again.
“Nothing,” she says. “Nothing.”
“But you’re crying,” I say.
“You think you’re the only one allowed to cry?” she says. “You think you’re the only one who wants to be alone?”
“I . . . no,” I say. Although I do, sort of.
“I have to go,” she says, and she walks into the woods and disappears.
I watch her go. I’m disoriented. I’ve been out of my own life so long that it is no longer familiar to me.
I take her place on the rotten log. It’s as good a place to cry as any.
“Don was supposed to adopt you,” I say.
“Yes,” says Jenny.
“But he decided not to.”
“That’s right.”
“When Peter came.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why your parents got divorced?”
“Yes,” says Jenny. “My mother considered it an irreparable betrayal. He had been promising to adopt me since their marriage, and kept putting it off. When Peter came back, he told her he wouldn’t do it.”
“When did she tell you that?” I ask.
“In bits and pieces over the years,” says Jenny. “But I didn’t get the whole story until he died. He consulted Peter, as it turns out, about the adoption. He asked how Peter would feel about having a legal sibling. Peter asked him not to do it.”
“Jesus,” I say.
“He left everything to Peter, as you can probably guess. Everything except his stamp collection. He left that to me.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Guys?” It’s Tara. “Are you ready to come up?”
I open the studio door and let her in. She pulls me into a hug. “You okay?” she asks.
“I’m ready for a drink,” I say. “More than one.”
“It’s going to be fine,” says Tara. “You’ll see, Avery.”
“How will it be fine?” I say. “I’m in disgrace. My career is over. Our major developer runs a prostitution ring, and we should have known. I should have known. A competent chief of staff would have known. Peter’s right. I got in over my head.”
“Wow,” says Jenny. “Did he ever do a number on you.”
“He’s right, though,” I say. “What experience did I have? I should have been able to protect Peter from someone like Adam Rothman. I didn’t do enough research.”
“Did his firm submit the best bid?” asks Tara.
“Yes,” I say.
“Was there a committee that reviewed the bids?”
“Yes.”
“Were there people on the committee that review bids more or less all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Were you one of those people?”
“No.”
“So,” says Tara, “to recap, you participated on Peter’s behalf in a committee process that determined that Adam Rothman’s firm was an appropriate choice for the waterfront development, and you agreed with the decision of the committee.”
“Right,” I say.
“And that decision having been made, you worked with Adam and his employees, as you were required to do, and briefed Peter on those meetings.”
“Right.”
“So let’s remember all of that,” says Tara.
“Right,” I say.
We troop up to the main cottage. Matt meets us with a tray of cocktails. “The news is coming on,” he says. “Do you want to watch it? You can say no.”
“Will you hold my hand at the scary parts?” I ask.
“Always,” he says.
We gather as one tribe around the television. Peter is the top story. Aidan Clarke stands outside city hall, with a thin gloss of seriousness plastered over his obvious excitement at the scoop of his career.
“City residents are reeling from the news that their mayor, Peter Haines, is being investigated for influence peddling related to city contracts, and for his alleged participation in a prostitution ring,” says Aidan Clarke.
“What?” I say.
“Shhh,” says Matt.
“This story continues to unfold as we speak,” Aidan continues. “Mayor Haines spent last night at police headquarters, speaking to investigators about his relationship with a local developer, Adam Rothman. Mr. Rothman was arrested yesterday on a variety of prostitution-related offences. The police statement issued earlier today states that Mr. Rothman is the owner of the Buckingham Club, an exclusive sex club that caters to the wealthy and powerful. According to police, yesterday’s arrests were the result of a year-long investigation into a prostitution ring, allegedly operated by Mr. Rothman.”
“Oh my God,” I moan. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Yesterday, city hall was shocked by the firing of the mayor’s long-time chief of staff, Avery Graham, for ‘errors in judgment’ relating to the waterfront development file, Mr. Rothman’s involvement in that development, and a wrongful dismissal lawsuit against the mayor’s office.” Footage appears on the screen of Matt leading me out of city hall.
“I look terrible,” I say. “I look guilty.” I hear myself moan. “My career is over.”
Matt holds my hand. “Nothing’s over,” he says.
“Tonight, however, new revelations are emerging about the mayor’s own involvement with Mr. Rothman and the Buckingham Club. Police have confirmed that the mayor has been a regular visitor at the Buckingham Club during the period of police surveillance. And several women employed by the Buckingham Club have come forward with their stories.”
A beautiful blonde with more than a passing resemblance to Peter’s wife, Hannah, appears on the screen. “Mr. Peter was a popular member at the Buckingham Club,” she says.“Very handsome, polite. He liked to be with different girls each time. We were not allowed to take any money from him. Mr. Adam said that he was our honoured guest and everything for him was on the house.”
“I need to stand up,” I say. Matt lets go of my hand and I pace. I can’t watch, but I can’t stop listening.
“Aidan,” says the news anchor, “this is extraordinary. What is the reaction from other members of city council?”
“Obviously, the news has rocked city hall at all levels,” says Aidan. “We had the opportunity to speak to Roger Wozniak earlier, and here’s what he had to say.”
I glance back at the screen. Roger Wozniak appears, with Rick in the background. “The mayor and I disagree about many things,” says Roger. “And today, it’s clear that we disagree about even more than I thought. A real man doesn’t have to pay for sex.” Rick leans forward and whispers something in Roger’s ear. “Of course, these are only allegations for now. We hope that this mess will be resolved quickly so that we can get back to the business of running our great city. That is all.”
“I need another drink,” I say. I go into the kitchen and fill a wineglass to the brim. I sit down on the floor with my back against the bottom cabinets and close my eyes.
A few minutes later, I hear footsteps. “Avery,” says Matt quietly. “I know this is a lot to take in, but you need to see this. Peter is making a statement.”
The screen shows the podium in the city council chamber. Peter strides to the microphone. “Good evening,” he says. “I will not be answering any questions about specific allegations today, other than to say that I am absolutely innocent. However, it is clear to me that the current investigation will interfere with my ability to serve this city as mayor. The city needs, and deserves, a mayor who can lead with singular focus and attention. I cannot be that mayor while devoting myself to disproving these outrageous accusations. These events have been traumatic for my beloved family, and I want to apologize to my wife, Hannah, for the distress this has caused her. I need to take the time to heal my personal relationships and to cooperate with the ongoing investigation. I have, therefore, come to the very difficult decision that I must step down as mayor until these matters are resolved.”
>
“Karma’s patient,” says Jenny. “But she’s a real bitch.” Tears are running down her face. And Tara’s. And my mother’s. Matt’s expression is one of deep satisfaction, but not surprise.
“My God,” I say. I look at Matt. “You knew.”
“Will called an hour or so ago,” says Matt. “The story broke online this afternoon. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. It will take some time to absorb. We’ll hang out here for a few days and avoid the circus.”
“But what then?” I say. “What happens after that?”
“That’s up to you,” says Matt. “You’re the writer. You get to decide what happens next.”
“But I don’t know,” I say.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “I have faith in you.”
{CHAPTER 22}
Friday, July 21, 2017, and July 1988
On Friday morning, we act as though it is a long-weekend Saturday, except that no one goes to get the newspapers. I suggest that we do, and Matt says, “Let’s take a little break from the news.”
Mom bustles around the kitchen, making waffles and bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice. We chat about the neighbours, and Matt’s job, and some of our friends that Mom knows, and then we are out of ideas. I make a mental note to develop interests unrelated to my employment, if indeed I have employment again someday.
I think of going for a swim, but I hear Tara’s kids down on the dock. I’m not ready to see them. I’m not ready for them to see me. I find the idea that anyone feels sorry for me unbearable. “I’m going to go for a walk,” I say.
“Do you want me to come?” says Matt.
“No,” I say, smiling to take the sting out of the words. “I want to process a bit.”
Matt reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I’ll help your mom clean up,” he says.
I walk down the driveway and out along the dirt road that leads to the paved road that leads to the highway. The way is lined with tall pines, whose slender trunks crack and sway in the wind. Pine needles in various stages of decay collect in the tire grooves and give a comfortable spring to the surface of the road as I lose myself in the steady rhythm of my body. I’m looking down, hands in my pockets, so I don’t see him approaching until I hear the crackling of twigs under his feet.
He’s dressed in shorts and a T-shirt designed for people who run on a regular basis, with a high-tech gadget strapped to his wrist and white buds protruding from his ears. He looks nothing like I remember him, but also exactly the same.
He stops, far enough away so that one of us could still make a break for it. I hold my ground. It is his turn to run, if that is what he chooses. And anyway, seeing him is strangely satisfying. Here is the one person on this earth who cannot possibly feel sorry for me.
But instead of retreating, he takes the buds out of his ears and turns off whatever it is he is listening to. I imagine it is an audiobook, but given the other transformations in evidence, it could be anything. It could be some band that only people on university campuses know about yet.
“Hi, Hugh,” I say.
“Hi, Avery,” he says. He comes closer, not close enough to hug, but close enough to talk without projecting. “It’s been a long time.”
I brace myself. “Hit me with your best shot, Hugh,” I say. “Say whatever you want to say to me. I deserve it.”
He smiles, but there isn’t any malice in it. “You look older,” he says.
Dad takes me out in the rowboat for a talk. I’d prefer the sailboat, so we can sit side by side, or the canoe, so I can sit with my back to him, but he isn’t having any of it.
He’s proud of his even strokes. He used to row at school, and he likes to exercise on a rowing machine in the basement at home. He can make the boat fly across the lake. But now we are drifting down the shoreline, because Dad gets winded when he pulls the oars too hard, and he wants to save his breath for me.
Jenny and I had a fight this morning, a bad one. She’s been edgy this summer, quick to take offence. I complain about this to my mother and she says Jenny isn’t the only one. She says that Berry Point is awash in hormones, and it is getting tiresome. She says Peter should stay in the city for a few weekends and let everyone settle down. I say it has nothing to do with Peter.
We were out on the raft, Tara and Jenny and I. I said, “I can’t believe Peter figured out how to build this. He’s amazing.”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look, chasing after him?” says Jenny.
“Jenny!” said Tara. “Don’t be mean.”
“I don’t!” I said, standing up. “Take it back, Jenny.”
“I’m the one who has to watch it all the time,” she said, rising to face me. “He’s not interested in you. He thinks you’re a cute little kid. Everyone is laughing at you.”
I flushed, humiliation warm in my gut. I wanted nothing more than to make Jenny feel the same way I did. I said, “You’re just jealous because your dad loves Peter more than you.”
Jenny froze, then raised her palm and slapped me across the face. She turned, dove into the water, and swam to the dock. Tara and I could hear her sobbing as she climbed up the ladder and ran off.
My mother appeared on the dock a few minutes later. “Avery Graham!” she called. “You get over here, young lady.”
Jenny and I had been forced to apologize to each other, but we couldn’t meet each other’s eyes. And now I was in the rowboat with Dad.
“So,” he says. “Jenny embarrassed you.”
“She told you?” I am aghast.
“No,” says Dad. “But I know you, and I know that nothing bothers you more than being embarrassed. You’re a perfectionist. You get it from me, I’m afraid.”
“Jenny was being mean.”
“I’m not talking about Jenny right now. I’m talking about you. I’m not wading into whatever you girls are fighting about. I’ll let your mother do that.”
“So why are we out here?”
“Because your mother asked me to get you out of the house so that she could have a break from the drama.” I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him. He laughs. “I love that expression,” he says. “You’ve been working on it since you were two.”
“Stop making fun of me,” I say as the tears start.
“Sorry, sorry,” says Dad. He hands me a towel. “No need for that.”
I wipe my eyes. “I hate it here sometimes.”
Dad nods. “It’s a lot of togetherness,” he says. “It’s hard to hide from your mistakes.”
“Jenny was just as wrong as I was!”
“Again,” says Dad, “I’m not talking about Jenny. However much you may hate it, Avery, you’re going to make mistakes in life, bigger ones than having an argument with Jenny. And when you do, you have to figure out how to admit it, to yourself most of all. And then you have to apologize.”
“I did apologize!” I say.
“I’m not done,” says Dad. “After you apologize to the person you’ve hurt, you have to do one more thing. You have to forgive yourself. You won’t feel better until you do. No one is perfect, Avery, not even us perfectionists. The sooner you figure that out, the happier you’ll be.”
“I am older,” I say. “I’m considerably older, even, than I was yesterday morning.”
“I heard,” he says. “I’m sorry, truly.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It is . . . upsetting.”
Suddenly, I’m back in Peter’s office, seeing his cold eyes and the firm set of his mouth, hearing him say that he no longer wants me in his life. I bend over at the waist. I’m out of breath. There is a frightening pain in my chest. “I need to sit down,” I say.
“Here,” says Hugh. He leads me over to a fallen log covered in moss and we sit.
“I think I might be having a heart attack,” I say.
“I doubt it,” says Hugh.
“It’s not out of the question,” I say. “My dad died young of a heart attack.”
“Your dad was in his fifties, had an undiagnosed heart condition, and dove into a freezing lake,” says Hugh. “Also, you are breathing and arguing. But let’s take a look anyway.” He puts two fingers on my neck and consults his wrist gadget. We sit in silence for a minute. “Nope,” he says. “You’re fine.”
“I haven’t felt like this since my dad died,” I say. “At the time I thought I was having sympathetic heart pain.”
“Well, that answers one outstanding question,” says Hugh.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“Did it break your heart to leave me?” says Hugh. “Answer: no.”
“You’re saying I have a broken heart?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Will I feel better soon?”
“Not soon,” says Hugh. “But eventually, yes.”
“Why are you being nice to me?” I say.
“Oh, Avery,” says Hugh. “Because I’m even older than you are. And I recognize my role in our little disaster. You were so sexy and young and such a breath of fresh air, and I was your professor and I had no business starting anything with you, let alone trying to pin you down in a marriage that you obviously didn’t want and weren’t ready for. I kept ratcheting up the commitment, thinking I could keep you, and that if I did it would justify everything that had come before. But the closer I held you, the further you ran. I even knew it at the time, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.”
“That is so completely enlightened,” I say.
“I had a lot of time to think about it. And I have another relationship now that is a much better fit, with someone my own age.”
“Hugh,” I say, “I am so, so sorry. The way I treated you, the way I left . . . I have no excuse. I ran away. It was the height of immaturity. You did nothing to deserve it, nothing at all.”
“I accept your apology,” says Hugh, formally. “How are you feeling now?”
“Calmer,” I say. I rub a hand over my chest. “I’m okay now. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” says Hugh. He stands up. “Oh, and Avery? Next time you want to ask me for a favour? Call me yourself.”