“What guy?”
“I’m not sure. He’s wearing a suit.” We both shrug and then I brighten.
“Maybe it’s one of the designers!” Oooh, wouldn’t that be cool. I bound down the steps behind Juliet. “How’s George feeling?” I ask.
“He’s doing great, regaining strength every day.”
“That’s good,” I say as I fling open the front door to find a guy in his late twenties absorbed in his blackberry. He looks up and swiftly slips his phone into his pocket. Well, I can tell he’s definitely not a designer by the way he stands there all stuffy and dull.
“Can I help you?” I ask, mildly irritated by the interruption.
“Are you Lane Carson?” he asks. He adjusts his thick-rimmed glasses, and I notice a large manila envelope in one of his hands.
“Yes, I am.” I raise my eyebrow. What the hell is this all about?
“I’m sorry to do this on New Year’s. One of the interns was supposed to deliver this days ago.” He glances at his envelope and then hands it over, mumbling, “You’ve been served.” And then he flees down the front steps and up the path.
I’ve been what? Mortified, I turn to Juliet who had joined me at the door.
“Lane, you should sit down,” she says, pulling me inside.
I sink onto the stair in the foyer. My newly painted nails smudge as I tug at the envelope with trembling hands, but I couldn’t care less. This can’t be what I think it might be. No, of course not!
But, as I skim the first page, my brain picks out all the words I need to know and I nearly faint with distress.
Lane.
Michael (Micky).
Divorce.
Irreconcilable differences.
The papers fall from my hands and sweep their way across the landing floor.
Divorce. Micky doesn’t want me. Oh God!
“Lane.” Juliet is at my side, cooing softly. She hooks her arm through mine and leads me upstairs, though through my haze of shock I might as well be drugged because I barely register what’s happening.
She helps me into bed, where I lie in a fetal position, shivering. NO! This can’t be happening. Losing the money was bad, but this—this is part of my family.
Micky doesn’t want me.
Oh God.
“Lane, drink,” Juliet orders and lifts my head. I sip, thinking it’s water, but almost choke when my throat burns from the vodka. There’s an instant burning heat and simultaneous comfort, which I cling to.
“Lane, I saw the documents when they fell. I’m so sorry,” Juliet says, sitting on the bed beside me and taking my hand. I close my eyes in disbelief. I can’t believe this.
Divorce!
That’s it.
And what about the girls? The most upsetting part is he doesn’t even care. When I close my eyes, Micky’s face is all I can see—the way he looked at me with such tenderness, the way he smiled when he held me. It’s all over.
I lie there for who knows how long. I don’t know if I sleep, or if I just drift into a shocked, sad sort of state.
The next thing I know, Juliet is gone and Liam is here instead. God, what’s Liam doing here? He doesn’t speak, but crawls onto the bed behind me. The attic is dimly lit from the small lamp I used when I did my nails, and the bed canopy blocks most of the light.
Liam pulls my body into his so we’re lying like spoons and folds me into his embrace. His hands stroke my cheek, my arms, and my hair. His light touch is mesmerizing, his body incredibly warm and comforting, and I feel myself relax for the first time since receiving those papers. Liam holds me in his strong arms until, finally, I turn my body to face him. I lift my eyes to meet his. His face is full of sympathy and understanding, but not pity. I attempt a small smile but achieve a slight lip twitch instead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I nod. “I know.”
“Close your eyes, love. Everything always looks better in the morning. You’ll see.”
While Liam’s fingers trace my back, I stare into his face until my eyes grow heavy and I surrender. Then I bury my face into his warm, smooth chest and inhale his scent. And, as I’m drifting off to sleep, I swear I hear him whisper, “I would never have let you go.”
“Rise and shine.”
I groan and cover my head with the pillow. Wait—is that Liam?
“Liam?” I cry, flinging the pillow away and propping myself up, surprised. Liam is sitting on the side of my bed, holding a steaming cup of coffee. I know it’s coffee because I can smell it. “Liam?” I say again, confused.
Let’s see, I remember Juliet being here, and Liam cuddling me. Why was—
Oh.
Oh, God.
The divorce.
I flop back on the bed and yank the pillow back over my face. Divorce papers. Micky. My stomach sinks and the queasiness builds. I moan as the reality hits me like a freight train.
“Have some coffee, love,” Liam says.
I pull the pillow off again and stare at him, feeling miserable.
“Come, on. Drink up.” He lowers the cup to me, so I roll toward him and take the steaming mug.
I bring it to my lips and sip, enjoying the coffee for a millisecond. Then I remember Micky, and the misery resumes. “I can’t believe it,” is all I can say.
“I know it must be a major blow. But, I think everything happens for a reason. And to tell you the truth, Lane, I think he’s a bit of a jackass for leaving you like this and never being in touch. Actually, he’s a major jackass.”
“I know. But it doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Why not? You’re not losing a wonderful person here. Think how much you’ve grown and changed since you’ve been on your own. You’re succeeding at everything you’re trying. And you’re surrounded by so many people who love you.” Liam smiles and his eyes crinkle around the edges, making him look so wise and genuine.
But I don’t know what to think of it all. Am I really better off alone? And why? Why are we getting a divorce? Did he meet someone? Did he want to get a divorce even before he lost the money?
“Do you mind if I shower?” Liam asks, and I shake my head, still consumed with thoughts of the divorce.
“No, wait, I don’t have a shower here. You have to have a bath.”
Liam grins. “Do you have bubbles?”
What is this, a fun factory? “Actually, there’s Disney Princess bubbles, if you’re desperate.”
“No worries, see you in a few.” He strides to the bathroom, still wearing handsome suit pants and a white shirt he must have worn specially for New Year’s.
Poor guy. What a miserable wet blanket I ended up being. We didn’t even do the countdown. I feel like calling “Happy New Year” after him, but that would sound ridiculous, considering. And plus, what kind of happy bloody hell new year is this, anyway?
The door to the bathroom closes, and I sink back into the bed, sipping the coffee as my mind frantically searches for clues.
Were we happy? I thought so.
Was it weird we had separate bedrooms? I didn’t see anything wrong with that.
Were there any women in his life he talked about? I can’t remember any.
Was there anything unusual or suspicious? I rack my brain as I suck back the coffee, searching…searching for anything.
There was the yacht incident when Micky hired John Childs. That was weird. He was supposed to play the role of Micky’s client, Fenwig. Yeah, that’s weird. But nothing else. Did anyone say anything? I try to think back to the people we associated with. I mean, I haven’t seen anyone from that life recently, except Victoria Hughes.
Victoria Hughes—wait, she said something that was a bit off. I mean, I didn’t pay attention to her, but she said something about Micky. If only I could remember exactly what she said?
I dive out of bed in search of my phone. I find it beside the nail polish bottle and scroll through the contacts and press talk. It rings a couple of times as I will her to pick up.
; “Mrs. Hughes’ phone, may I take a message?” It’s one of the maids. I don’t recognize her voice.
“Can I speak with Victoria?”
“I’m afraid Victoria is unavailable.”
“Can you get her? It’s really important. I’m a friend, Lane Carson.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Carson. I haven’t seen Mrs. Hughes yet this morning, considering last night was New Year’s and all.”
“Oh. Right. Okay, can you hang up, and I’ll call back and leave a message?”
“Of course.”
I’m not going to trust anyone to pass on a message when I can do it myself. I call back, and after four rings, her voicemail clicks on.
“Victoria, it’s Lane. Uh…Happy New Year. Listen, you said something about Micky when I told you what had happened. Something about me being sure and you could have sworn something. Anyway, I received…well, things have taken a turn for the worse, and I need you to… I’m hoping you can enlighten me. Call me ASAP! Thanks.”
I hang up and start pacing the floor. Liam emerges from the bathroom, looking rejuvenated and bright eyed. I shoot him a disgruntled look and resume agonizing.
“What was that look for?”
“For looking so friggin’ perfect and relaxed.”
“Ah, you’ll feel better soon too. Get dressed, we’re going out.”
“Going out? I can’t go out!”
“Sure, you can.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere important.”
“Oh, that really narrows it down.” Important? What’s that supposed to mean. What’s important to him may not be important to me. Is it important exciting or important boring?
“Dress casually.”
So, that means important boring.
We stop at Liam’s condo on the way downtown so he can change. I’m super curious for clues into his personal life. I feel like he knows so much about me, while remaining veiled in mystery himself. Liam lives in a contemporary, sleek, low-rise building. We take the nanosecond elevator ride, and I follow him to his door. It’s mammoth-sized polished wood with stainless steel hardware. Even the door is impressive.
When Liam opens it, I turn to him in surprise. “Did you just move in?” There’s hardly any furniture—or anything else for that matter.
“No. I told you, I don’t need things to be happy. I don’t even own a car.”
I glance around the space, shocked by the lack of stuff. He has a square wooden table with four chairs, and a single steel light above it. A tatami mat covers the living room area and an elevated bamboo tray is propped against the wall. There are no visible TVs, stereos, computers, or electronics of any kind. There isn’t even a couch.
“I have a laptop,” he says, apparently reading my thoughts. “Anyway, I’m going to change.” He disappears, and I continue my inspection of every square inch of his condo.
In this main living space, there’s a total of three pieces of art—all nature photographs—on his walls, and one plant—a white orchid—perched on a small shelf.
His kitchen is better equipped—at least it looks like someone lives in there! It has über modern stainless steel appliances, ebony granite counters, and a mosaic backsplash of emerald glass tiles. I continue the tour and find his bedroom, which features a low platform double bed covered in a white down duvet. Aside from the bed and a modest nightstand, there isn’t another piece of furniture. His closet does have large doors, but I’m going to guess it’s pretty sparse in there.
“We should go, we’ll be late,” Liam says, standing behind me as I eye his bed.
“Oh. Okay.” To the important, boring place we go!
We grab a bus to Burrard and West Georgia, and I look around, feeling hopeful. I have Louis Vuitton, Tiffany, Hermes, and Christian Dior, all within a stone’s throw.
But Liam is walking toward the old church that sits on the corner. Actually, I love this church. Inside, it’s as comforting as a womb, warm with dim lights, gorgeous stained glass, and nostalgic wooden pews. My mom used to take me here sometimes for services when I was little. But it’s New Year’s, why are we going to church?
“Why are we here?” I ask Liam.
“We’re here to serve lunch,” Liam says, holding the door open for me.
“Serve lunch? I don’t get it.”
“For the poor, love. Let’s go.”
With dismay, I follow him down the stairs. This wasn’t exactly my idea of an activity to lick my divorce wounds.
In the kitchen, there are about twenty people—mostly women—all mulling around. Everyone cheerfully greets Liam and welcomes me. Someone thrusts an apron at me, which I tie on, all the while wondering how I can make an escape.
"Have you volunteered in a soup kitchen before?” Liam asks, handing me a tray of glasses. He picks up another tray and leads me into a dining area.
“Uh, not really,” I say. I don’t mention Dad and I had to resort to eating in them sometimes after Mom died and he was too depressed to work.
“Well, this is a bit different. The food is actually really good, and the whole point is to serve the guests to make them feel like they’re in a restaurant. The idea is to honor their dignity.”
“Okay,” I mumble, and follow Liam’s lead placing glassware on the tables.
Half an hour later, the tables are set, complete with small bud vases.
The street people start milling in, looking relieved to be warm and out of the cold. Many of the volunteers and guests know each other and exchange New Year’s wishes. Risers are set in the corner of the large room, and a dance troupe is preparing to perform.
“So, you can take drink orders now. Coffee, tea, milk, juice or water,” Liam says, handing me a notepad and pen.
Okay, here goes.
“Hello. Can I get you a drink?” I ask a man who’s hunched in his chair, head bowed. He raises his face to mine, and I’m struck by how blue and sad his eyes are.
“A glass of milk, please,” he says in a timid voice, and then slouches over again. He reminds me of a child who’s has been belittled relentlessly and has lost all self-esteem.
I continue around the table, taking orders. There’s a native guy in his thirties, I’d say, who claims to be a healer who helps the street people. There’s a man in a rumpled suit who looks a little lost and won’t make eye contact. There’s a small, proud woman who is obviously doing okay, but may be falling short on cash flow and could use a free meal. And there’s a young mother with her small boy.
I’m sobered by the reality that I could have, or still could be, in the predicament of being cash strapped with hungry mouths to feed. If it weren’t for the kindness and support from my own family and friends, especially George, things could have been different for me.
I feel a newfound determination to never let that happen, to strive and grow and reach for new heights in everything I do.
For the rest of the afternoon, I serve the guests with kindness and respect, the way I would want to be served. I sit with them and watch the dancers, and even get a “thanks” from the blue-eyed man with low self-esteem.
When Liam and I are finally finished helping clean up—when every last dish is put away and all the garbage bags are taken outside—we leave the church.
“How do you feel, Lane?” Liam asks, as he surprises me by draping his arm around my shoulders.
I nestle into him as we cross the street to the bus stop. “Physically spent…but surprisingly pretty happy.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted. The worst thing you could have done today is to wallow in bad feelings. There’s nothing like helping other people to abolish the blues.”
I glance up at his profile, so calm and assured, and conclude there’s a lot about Liam I still need to discover. A smile spreads across my face as I realize we have all the time in the world.
Yes, surprisingly, I feel happy; and I look forward to getting home and seeing my girls.
28
Victoria Hughes got back to me but i
nsisted I come to her house to talk. What’s wrong with the phone, and why do people assume I have nothing better to do with my time than drop everything for drinks on the other side of the city?
Today, Juliet is watching the girls because Dad said something about having to share some quality time with Riley, who is feeling homesick for Brooklyn. Now I’ve heard it all. Bloody Riley! Anyway, Juliet is free, and George doesn’t mind her bringing the girls downstairs.
I pull on some jeans and a no-nonsense, black top. I want to be clear to Victoria that I’m there to find out what’s up, and that’s it. I survey myself in the mirror and realize I look pretty dowdy. I settle on a gray, utilitarian dress and black ankle boots instead. I pull my hair into a low side knot and spray on some scent. Good.
On Oak Street, I get off the bus and make my way into Victoria’s impressive Shaughnessy neighborhood. The broad boulevard in the middle of the road boasts mature trees, which have the most beautiful lush canopies in summer.
After a few minutes’ stroll, Victoria’s white Georgian estate with the massive columns and circular drive comes into view. The gardens are impeccable. I smile and say hello to a gardener cleaning out the flower beds. I don’t think the old Lane would have acknowledged him—the thought brings a slight pang.
I ring the doorbell and wait.
Whatever Victoria has to say, it better be good. At least I think it better be good. Maybe I don’t want to know, if it’s something unsettling. The door flies open, and Victoria herself greets me, which is a surprise.
“Hi!” I say.
“Hello, darling.” Victoria air kisses me and I do the same to her, trying not to choke on her overpowering perfume. Victoria’s a good ten years older than me, and though she can be haughty and overbearing, I like her. Today her hair is slicked back once again, and she’s wearing a Dior pantsuit.
“Come on in. Gina will serve us martinis in the parlor.” Gina, Victoria’s first maid, appears and takes my coat and purse. “Oh, I should tell you”—Victoria lowers her voice—“Trina is here.”
Oh, great.
My heart falls. There’s no way we can talk with Society’s Gossip lurking around. I glance at the time and roll my eyes as I follow Victoria through her expansive house.
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 24