“When Mallory called this morning,” Julia said, “Walter and I were… arguing. I didn’t think before I invited her over, and then she was saying Kristen would be here, too, before I could make much sense out of what they wanted to talk about.”
“You and Walter?” Sam asked, worried for her friend, even if she still felt a little betrayed. Things had become increasingly strained in the Davis house, as Walter took Bubba’s death and Troy’s unbelievable rampage harder than either Sam or Julia could have anticipated.
“I would have done anything to get my husband out of my hair at that point,” Julia said, “and expecting company before his first cup of coffee did the trick. He was gone in fifteen minutes, mumbling about stopping at Thanks a Latte on his way into the city. I’m sorry. I know that sounds terribly selfish.”
“That you and Mallory set me up, or that you and Walter aren’t getting along? Julia, every married couple fights.”
“Not like this.” Her friend headed back toward the kitchen. “Not about…”
“Not about him drinking so much every night he can’t think straight in the mornings?” Sam followed her, watching Julia grab the sponge from its holder behind the sink to wipe around the coffeemaker that she’d cleaned twice already, while Sam and Kristen and Mallory had discussed plans for the morning that Sam had no idea if she could follow through with. “About you thinking the problem’s going to go away on its own?”
Julia threw the sponge down and faced Sam. She was dressed for the day in a navy blue ensemble she’d no doubt bought at Talbots or some other überconservative store where she found her uniforms, as she called them—the sweater twinsets and coordinating tailored pants and skirts that filled her closet and kept her stylish and comfortable.
The Davis family wasn’t wealthy, but Walter’s job as a CPA for a downtown firm made them comfortable enough that Julia had never had to work. She could spend her free time on anything she’d wanted to. As long as Sam had known her, caring for her family had consumed Julia, followed closely by volunteering in their community, including being appointed to the Chandlerville school board—the salary from which Julia donated to the local Boys and Girls Club.
“It’s not getting better,” Julia admitted.
“I know.” When Sam had moved into the guest bedroom, neither one of them could have known that Julia would end up needing a sympathetic ear living down the hall almost as much as Sam did. “He’s drinking every night.”
“He’s getting drunk every night,” Julia corrected. “Sloppy drunk. In front of the boys, and they’re tired of it. I tried to talk him into going back to bed this morning, he’s so hungover. I could have called him in sick to work, but I think he’d rather be there than here. And the boys know it. There’s no glossing over it with them. Between their jobs and school and friends and dates… They’re finding a reason to be out of the house these days more than they’re here, just like their father.”
Justin, the oldest Davis boy, was a freshman at the local community college, studying photography, while Austin was a senior at Chandler High School. Both were the apples of their parents’ eyes. The Davises had always been close even though they’d faced the same day-to-day challenges as other Chandlerville families. Three months ago, anyone in the community would have agreed that the Davis family had a bond nothing could penetrate. Julia had devoted her life to ensuring it.
Then the shooting had happened.
“Walter coached Troy and Bubba and Nate,” Sam said. “He was in a bowling league with all three dads. What’s happened and the community still fighting over it is hitting him hard.”
“Yes,” her friend agreed. “Except he’s not doing a thing about dealing with it.” Julia pinned Sam with a knowing gaze. “Just like some other people I know.”
Sam held up her hands, her awful confrontation with Brian earlier replaying in her mind. “I’ve asked my husband to talk about things realistically. I’ve asked him to meet with a counselor, so we can get help dealing with this. I’m letting you drive me back to school today to be there for Nate if he needs someone, when I doubt we’ll make it halfway there without having to pull over at least once so I can hurl on the side of the road. I’m trying my best to deal with everything I can, Julia. I really am.”
Her neighbor pulled her into a hug. “I know you are. You’re doing what you think is right for your boys and for Nate, too. You’re not giving up on Brian. And I’m right here for you, if you need me. Always.”
“You, too.” She and Brian were lucky to have such wonderful friends, even if Julia and Walter’s relationship seemed these days to be almost as dysfunctional as theirs was. “We’ll never be alone, you and I. Never. Right?”
Sam sounded desperate. She felt desperate. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, and she wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep until tomorrow. As frustrated as she still was with her friend, she’d never get through the rest of what she had to do today without her neighbor’s help.
Julia nodded fiercely. “You bet your Yankee butt,” she promised.
Chapter Seven
“Do you have the Kelsey proposal prepped and ready?” Jonathan Whilleby asked the moment Brian walked through the door of Whilleby & Marshal Associates.
“What?” Brian had sat in the parking garage for almost an hour, and he still couldn’t think about anything but this morning and Sam. He barely remembered saying good-bye to their boys.
His mind wouldn’t settle. He was a total mess these days. He couldn’t think, or work, or sleep, or… tell his wife he loved her unconditionally, just the way she was now. And that was clearly what she needed to hear. What he should have said this morning.
But how did you love someone who was ripping apart the security that had kept you going for so long?
For God’s sake, Sam, we’re going to work this out…
He’d yelled at her. Berated her. He was terrified of never getting her back. He’d said unforgivable things he’d promised himself he never would. Because who would he be, how would he go on without her?
“The Kelseys?” Whilleby prompted. He was the firm’s founding partner and senior architect. He wasn’t prone to panic, but his manner at the moment registered just shy of frantic. “I know it’s been a difficult time, and we’ve tried to be patient while you and your family work through this. But you’ve postponed the Kelsey presentation twice. They’ve been waiting in the conference room this morning for half an hour. Tell me you’re ready.”
The Kelsey proposal.
Right.
Brian wiped his face with his hand. He needed at least one cup of coffee before he could charm the socks off his workday. He opened the overflowing briefcase he wished he could toss across the firm’s entryway. He rifled through the mess of folders and papers inside that he’d tried and failed to work on last night, all weekend, and all last week. His fist clenched on the spine of the portfolio he wasn’t ready to present, even though this account had been his baby from the start.
The Kelseys’ massive renovation was the largest project he’d bid on and developed entirely on his own. It had practically dropped into his lap, because he’d known Ginger and Jefferson for close to six years through their kids’ school.
The Kelseys owned the most expensive and secluded spread on Mimosa Lane. The estate, everyone called it. Their home was set back in the woods beyond Brian and Sam’s cul-de-sac, at the crest of a hill, like a manor house overlooking the rest of the kingdom. It was three stories, with terraced lawns front and back, a separate mother-in-law suite and two gated entrances—one for family and guests and the other for deliveries and groundskeepers. It was a study in conspicuous consumption. And it was a drop in the bucket of the assets Jefferson had acquired by being a fearless, talented and more often right than he was wrong entrepreneur.
Jefferson and Ginger bought and sold and rented property like they were dabbling in the latest fashion trends. They owned a condo in Atlanta and other properties in various cities across the country and
beyond. They didn’t care that they’d priced themselves out of the real estate market with what they’d already done to their Mimosa Lane house. They wanted what they wanted the way they wanted it, and they’d decided Brian was the architect du jour who could satisfy their latest whim.
The Kelseys were having their third child—a girl, finally—and what had first been Ginger’s interest in turning a spare bedroom into a nursery was fast becoming a revamp of the entire top floor, from the studs out. No expense was to be spared for the arrival of their princess.
“I have their plans right here.” Brian held up the portfolio for Whilleby to see.
He was still wearing his overcoat, making it stifling hot inside. He unwound the scarf Sam had bought him as a stocking stuffer at Christmas—ordered from Barneys in New York, where she’d snagged him something, no matter how small, for the holidays every year since they’d married. It was too warm outside now to be wearing it or his wool coat, but they reminded him of his wife. So he kept putting them on each morning, the same as he had since January.
He stuffed the scarf in the top of his briefcase.
“I’ll be with you in five minutes,” he said. Ignoring the skepticism in his senior partner’s gaze, he took the hallway toward his office.
“Fine.” Whilleby’s glacial tone was his way of announcing just how not fine Brian’s performance had been lately.
Brian had no way of knowing how many passes the partners intended to give him, even though they’d been patient since the shooting. And at the moment, he didn’t give a good damn. He’d put everything on the line for the firm for years, rather than busting his ass building a career in the type of architecture he would be able to do only if he struck out on his own. The partners owed him a little more time to set the rest of his life to rights. He ducked into his office’s quiet dimness. Without flipping on the lights, he flopped into his plush desk chair.
“You look like a man with the entire world on his shoulders,” a concerned voice said from the doorway behind him.
“Hell…” Brian pivoted from staring at the window that was covered floor-to-ceiling by blinds. “You would know, Pete. It wasn’t four months ago that you had everyone in the neighborhood wanting to stage an intervention to yank your head out of your ass so we’d get you and Polly back after Emma’s death.”
His friend leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest, one ankle propped in front of the other. “Mallory took care of that faster than the rest of you could have.”
Mallory had moved to Mimosa Lane with no clue how to become a part of their community, but desperately wanting a place in their world. The Lombards had been grieving for Pete’s wife, who had died the January before. Somehow, all the need and emotional hurt Mallory and Pete and little Polly were dealing with had created a bond among the three that was unshakable.
And Mallory’s remarkable survivor’s story of growing up living on the streets with her homeless, mentally ill mother had created an instant connection between her and Sam, once Sam shared a bit of her 9/11 memories and how hard they were to handle. Mallory seemed to have that effect on everyone she met.
“You’re a lucky bastard,” Brian said to his friend of almost ten years. “Your fiancée is an inspiring woman.”
“So is your wife,” Pete said.
Yes, Sam was. Despite what he’d said that morning, Brian had always known she was. He’d always told her how proud he was of her, especially that day at the hospital. But she was so certain now that she couldn’t count on him or anything he said.
So why had she stopped by the house on her way back to Julia’s, not to make breakfast for the boys but to leave Brian the first note she’d written him since she’d moved out?
I’m so sorry…
She was driving him insane. Every damn bit of this situation was, because he couldn’t get a handle on any of it. He’d barely been able to look at the tiny yellow square she’d left on the counter. He’d wanted to rip it to shreds.
Somehow, he’d made his wife feel unwanted and misunderstood, which was categorically untrue. But in other ways, she was right. He clearly couldn’t handle hearing her say the things she had that morning, no matter how much she thought she needed to say them.
His wife was giving up, and that he’d never accept.
“You two haven’t worked anything out yet, have you?” his friend asked.
“Look,” Brian answered. “I have a meeting I’m already late for. And my wife’s made it clear she doesn’t want to talk to me—not about working things out. I evidently don’t understand her, or anything we’ve tried to build together since we left New York. She’s determined to make me agree that we’ve been doing it all wrong. And my reassuring her that I’m trying to understand, and that I just want to help her get over all of this before it drives us even further apart, is making things worse instead of better.” I’m never going to be the Sam you want me to be again… “Working things out with me is clearly the last thing she needs right now.”
“Yeah.” Pete rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, beneath the hairstyle his position with the fire department required him to keep shorter than any of their other friends. “But what do you need, Brian? What do your boys need? I get that Sam’s spinning right now, even more than the rest of us. She’s a loose cannon. And trust me, Mallory’s not happy that she’s still at Julia’s, instead of home with you and whatever the two of you need to go through together. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s your wife, and…”
A faraway look dimmed Pete’s gaze.
Brian grimaced.
They’d had this conversation a long time ago. How, good or bad—and Pete and Emma had had their own share of bad times, just like every married couple did outside of romance novels and TV sitcoms—Pete would give anything for the chance to see her again, and to talk with her about what had happened and the mistakes he’d made when it was clear she wasn’t going to survive the cancer, but he hadn’t been able to let her go. He still blamed himself for how hard a time Polly had after her mother’s death, and his complete withdrawal from everyone for a while, even his own child.
“It’s not the same situation, man,” Brian said.
“I know. You two still have a chance to work this out.”
“Not if my wife has anything to say about it.”
The Sam you thought I was is gone…
“Yeah, well…” Pete sighed. “Mallory just called and woke me up on my one day off this week, telling me to get over here and talk to you in person. Sam’s on her way in to school to help with Nate on his first day back.”
“What?”
“Kristen Hemmings stopped by Julia’s this morning and asked Sam to help out.”
Brian stood and braced his hands on his desk.
“Sam’s hardly left the neighborhood since the shooting,” he said. Each and every time she’d run an errand, someone in town had found a way to let him know—as if an APB had been declared on his wife. He could count on one hand the number of people besides their neighbors who’d seen her since she’d come home from the hospital and the media frenzy over the shooting had kicked into overdrive. “But now she’s on her way back to the school?”
“Julia’s driving her in, so Sam can wait in Mallory’s office.”
“For what?”
“For Nate to need her. Because he’s still messed up, but his parents think he needs to be back at Chandler with his friends.”
“James and Beverly need to get back to focusing on work full-time, you mean, without worrying about whether things are okay at home.”
“That’s got to be a lot of pressure on a kid. And Sam might be able to help Nate feel his way through that, if what Mallory’s hearing from Julia is even part of the pressure your wife’s feeling to pull herself together for you and your boys.”
Brian stared his friend down.
“I’ve been there every day for her since 9/11. I’ve never pushed her to do or feel anything she wasn’t read
y for. I’ve given her all the time in the world she’s needed to get better, and I haven’t begrudged her a single bit of the solitude and privacy she’s said she’s needed. I haven’t taken a day for myself in more than a decade without first checking to make sure she’s okay.”
“Hell, I know that. I’m the last person who’d judge you for doing what you have to do for your family. I know how much you love Sam, how demanding this job is, and how much you’re juggling so she can heal. But maybe Sam hasn’t known what she’s needed, is all I’m saying. Like Nate and his parents can’t really know. And she wants to be there to help him figure some of this out, even though going back to Chandler must be scaring the ever-loving shit out of her. And whatever’s going on between you two,” Pete pressed, “you don’t want to regret not being there for her. If it turns out to be a bad scene, even if she resists your help, at least you’ll know you tried.”
Like Brian had tried just that morning, and had completely screwed things up?
He was no good for Sam or his boys this way.
“I found her with Nate,” he said. “They’ve been meeting at the park, early enough that no one’s suspected. I yelled at her for interfering in the Turners’ problems, then for not being there for our family. I let it get ugly…” He shook his head, reliving it all. “I should have been more patient. But she was refusing to talk sensibly, and then she seemed almost… relieved.”
“That you knew about Nate?”
“That our marriage might not make it, because I can’t accept the stuff that’s been coming out of her mouth since she woke up at the hospital. Not when she sounds like she wants me to fall apart with her, and if I don’t that means I’m the one who doesn’t want to make this better.”
Meanwhile she was pushing her already fragile well-being to the breaking point, to help Nate Turner through his own confusion over the shooting?
Brian dropped his head. “How did things get so screwed up?”
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