“She wasn’t drunk, was she?” asked Gretchen, as if Lincoln had not spoken.
“No, no, she wasn’t drunk. But to be behind the wheel of a car sober at that age…” Don didn’t have to finish. There was a tentative knock on the door. “Yes?” Even in the slightly imperious way Don said that single syllable, Lincoln could see the CEO in the guy; it was bred in the bone somehow.
The door opened, and Ennis poked his head into the room. “I was looking for Gretchen….” He trailed off.
“Ennis! Perfect timing,” Gretchen said. “Don was just telling us that Justine was picked up by the police. She took Mom’s car and went out for a joyride.”
“She did?” Ennis came into the room slowly as if it were alien territory. “What did she do that for?” Gretchen just shook her head. “Well, we’ve got to go get her, then, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Gretchen said. “We do. Right now.”
“Ennis, you and Gretchen can take my car,” Don said. “I’ll call Garry back and tell him you’re on the way.”
“Where is she?” Ennis asked.
When Don said, “At the police station,” Gretchen emitted a little moan.
“Go ahead, go now—as soon as you can. I’ll go out and look for Lenore. You”—he looked at Betsy—“try to find Pippa and see if you can get some help around here. God knows we’re paying her enough.”
Lincoln watched and marveled. Look at how smoothly Don took charge of everyone and everything. Jeez, some guys just had it, didn’t they? That I’m-the-one-running-the-show gene. Why had it skipped him? And if it hadn’t, would he be the one standing here in his Great Neck manse giving the orders?
“No, wait,” said Lincoln, stepping into the limelight. “Why don’t you stay here to help Betsy? I’ll go and look for Lenore. I’m the one who saw her last.” Lincoln knew this last comment was irrelevant, but he was grasping at straws here, desperate to find some emotional purchase, some basis for his newly assumed authority.
“Would you?” Betsy said, bringing her clasped hands under her chin like a little girl. “That would be such a help.”
“Good plan, Dad,” Gretchen added. “Do you have your cell phone? In case you need to call us?”
Lincoln tapped the breast pocket of his shirt. His tooth hurt like a bitch, but he made a command decision to simply ignore the pain. “I could use a raincoat, though. And an umbrella.” It was still pouring and showed no signs of letting up. He thought briefly of his shoes, which were apt to get ruined slogging through the wet grass, mud, and sand. He’d have to navigate the wedding in ruined shoes. But what the hell? Everyone would be looking at Angelica, not at his feet.
A few minutes later, draped in the XXL yellow rain slicker that Don had graciously loaned him, Lincoln opened the kitchen door and stood there for a moment. Rain pelted him from all sides, and the wind yanked at the umbrella in his hand. He had not a clue as to where to begin or what direction to take. But, then, hadn’t that been the story of his life? Armed with that dubiously useful insight and one of the dainty white umbrellas earmarked for the guests, Lincoln set off into the storm.
Sixteen
“This is all my fault,” Gretchen kept saying as they drove the few miles to the police station. “Totally, completely my fault.”
“Stop saying that,” said Ennis, who was driving. “Stop thinking that.”
“But it’s true,” Gretchen said. “And if it’s true, why shouldn’t I think it? Or say it?”
“Because it isn’t.” Rain streamed down the windows and made the road a blur; he drove slowly, hunched over the wheel, peering intently ahead.
“How would you know?” Gretchen said bitterly. “Though you’re right: it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that we get to her. That we help her.”
“You make it sound like she’s in serious trouble,” said Ennis.
“She is!” Gretchen stared at him. “She is in trouble. I just haven’t told you.”
“Why not?” Ennis said, turning his eyes briefly from the road to look at her. “You should have, hey? It was my right to know.” He sounded accusatory.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know it. No, that’s not true. Because I wouldn’t let myself know it. Until now.” She slumped against the rain-glazed window.
“What’s been going on?” Ennis asked. Even though he kept his eyes on the road, she could feel his empathy, his concern. “Can you tell me?” So Gretchen told him everything, all the bits and pieces she had been gathering and saving. Justine’s fits of inconsolable weeping, for one thing. Or the way she would totally freeze Gretchen out as if she neither saw nor heard her. Her near-fanatic obsession about her grades. “She got an A-minus on a history paper, and when I told her I thought it was a terrific grade, she was so furious that she threw a mug of hot cocoa against the kitchen wall. I made her clean it up, of course. But I didn’t really get into how much it scared me.”
“She’s always been intense, hasn’t she?” said Ennis.
“That’s what I tried to tell myself,” Gretchen said. “But this is more than intense. This is serious; this is bordering on dangerous. Until now I was hiding from what I knew. I can’t do that anymore.” She hesitated before adding, “I mean, we can’t.” Because it was we—like it or not, she wanted Ennis’s involvement. More than wanted—needed it. No matter what else happened—or did not happen—between them, she had to enlist his help with Justine. She saw that very clearly now.
“What do you want me to do?” said Ennis quietly. “Just tell me. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
How about turning back time so that you never touched that girl? Gretchen wanted to say. Instead she said, “I don’t know, Ennis, but when I do, I’ll tell you.”
She turned her face away, and they rode in silence for a few minutes. Finally Gretchen felt compelled to ask, “Shouldn’t we be there already? Don said it wasn’t far.”
“Just about there,” Ennis said. The car’s GPS had directed them along Kings Point Road; they had passed Tideway Street and then Lighthouse; Stepping Stone Lane, their destination, should have been right up ahead.
“Wait—why are you stopping?” Gretchen asked as the Mercedes slowed and then came to a halt.
“Look,” said Ennis. “Just look.”
Gretchen had to open the window to see anything. Ahead of them was a dip in the road; a rush of water, maybe five feet wide and who knew how deep, was pouring across the depression, making it impossible for a car to pass. On the other side of the gushing stream stood a cluster of men in bright orange rain gear. Then she saw the squad car. Police. One of the cops was speaking loudly into a cell phone. The others were talking, pointing, and, from the looks of it, arguing.
“Hey,” called Ennis, sticking his head out of his window. “Is there an alternate route?”
“We’re working on it,” one of the orange-clad officers called back. “But the road we usually use is washed out too. It’s really coming down.” Ennis pulled his head back inside the car. Mist from the rain had filled the small space, and Gretchen could feel it moistening her cheeks and forehead. She glanced anxiously at the clock on the dashboard. Three fifty-nine. How long would they have to sit here? Behind them a line of cars had already formed and begun to sound a chorus of blaring honks and angry beeps. Ennis took his hands from the wheel, a gesture of surrender that affected Gretchen like a jolt from a cattle prod.
“What are we going to do?” she said. She knew she sounded shrill, but she didn’t care. “Justine is at the police station. She’s waiting for us.”
“There’s nothing much we can do,” Ennis said. “You heard him. Both roads are washed out.” He put his hands back on the wheel as if he didn’t know what else to do with them.
“The word is not oot,” she said angrily. “It’s out. OWT,” she repeated for emphasis. “You’ve been living in the United States for more than two decades. Enough time to get it right.”
“Fuck off!” said Ennis. “Attacking my accent
is juvenile. Juvenile and not worthy of you.”
“So I’m juvenile. Deal with it. I’m mad too. Furious, in fact.”
“I know you are. But don’t take it out on me. None of this is my fault. I’m not responsible for the rain, the washed-out road, or Justine’s latest little attention-getting ploy.” He emphasized the syllable—oot—in what seemed like a burst of spite.
“Is that what you think this is?” she shot back. “A ploy? Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
“Yes, I heard you. She’s angry, she’s moody, she’s in trouble. Well, maybe what she needs is a firm hand. Maybe both the girls do. Which you, clearly, have not been able to provide.”
“What are you talking about?” Gretchen could not stand how self-righteous he was.
“Those awful piercings Justine has! Portia’s crazy hair color! How could you let them do that?” he demanded.
“It seemed very important to them,” Gretchen said quietly. “And it wasn’t important to me at all.”
“Maybe it should have been. It’s important to me.” He sounded sincere; she had to give him that.
“You’re free to voice your opinion. And your disapproval,” Gretchen said.
“How? You won’t let me.”
“Who’s stopping you? I haven’t kept the girls from you.” And she hadn’t. Or had she?
“You have!” He smacked his hands on the wheel for emphasis. “You’ve kept me from both of them. Why was it a given that they both got to live with you? Justine could have lived with me, hey.”
“Where? In that frat house you call home? Or with that underage tart who wrecked our marriage?”
“She is not underage, and she did not wreck our marriage!” he shouted.
“Well, excuse me!” Gretchen was taken aback. Ennis rarely raised his voice.
“We both wrecked our marriage,” he said more quietly.
“You’re implicating me in this? What are you talking about?” Didn’t this have a name? Blaming the victim?
“You withdrew. Not physically. But emotionally. You were somewhere else. Distracted. Preoccupied. You stopped wanting to have sex—”
“We had plenty of sex!” she interrupted.
“We did. But I always had to initiate it. Always.” It was true. Gretchen said nothing. “I hated that, hey? Made me feel you never wanted it; you were just doing it to accommodate me. Sex was something you submitted to because you felt obligated. Or because you pitied me.”
“I never pitied you,” she said. “Never. That wasn’t it at all.”
“Then what?” His voice got softer, more coaxing. “What was it? Because even though what happened with Eve was not the way to deal with it, there was something wrong between us. There was—you know it too.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, so something was off. But did that mean you had to go and screw a student?”
“I don’t want to talk about that. We’ve already talked that one into the ground. I want to talk about us.” He paused. “What happened to us, that’s what I want to know. Can you tell me?”
You want to know what happened? Gretchen thought. Life happened. You had kids, and raising them completely took you over. One of them was in trouble, and you didn’t really want to face it, but somewhere deep down you knew. You had known for a long time. And you never really figured out what it was you wanted to do with yourself, did you? That made you feel like a stranger to yourself and to everyone else too. But all she said was, “I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you,” Ennis said. “You’re just not telling.”
“If you felt I wasn’t emotionally available, wouldn’t it have been better to talk to me about it? Instead of screwing her?”
“I tried,” Ennis said. “You know I did.”
Gretchen was quiet. It was true. There was the time he’d made all the arrangements for a weekend away, just the two of them. She refused to leave the girls. He’d make reservations at a restaurant, and she would claim she was too tired to go out. She stayed up late, long after he’d gone to sleep, so she wouldn’t have to talk to him, at least not about anything of substance. She still loved him; she loved being married; but she so often felt ground down to the nub by the wheels of her own life; there was just no energy left for him anymore.
“At least we’re talking now,” Ennis said. “We’re talking, and talking is good. That baby”—he was so excited he couldn’t seem to get the words out fast enough—“that baby was a sign, Gretchen.”
“A sign of what?” she said, suspicious.
“A sign that we could try again.”
“A sign to you maybe. Not to me.” Gretchen glared at him and then out the window. The rain continued to splatter the windows, and the road ahead was still impassible. This conversation was keeping them from their true mission, which was to get to Justine as soon as they could. “I don’t know why you keep harping on that baby anyway. I’m glad it wasn’t yours, especially for the girls’ sake. But it doesn’t change a thing between us, Ennis.”
“Doesn’t it?” He leaned over to cup her cheek with his palm.
“No.” She let herself feel the warmth of his hand for a second before she drew back.
“Don’t push me away,” he said softly. He reached for her again, this time for her hair, not her face. “I love you, Gretchen. I love you, and I’m sorry I hurt you. That’s why I came here this weekend. To tell you that.”
“I thought it was to tell me about…Eve.” The name still stuck in her throat. “Eve and the baby who was not yours.”
“That was only a prelude to what I really wanted to say. I want to come back, Gretchen. To you. To the girls.” He swallowed. “Give me another chance.”
For a few seconds all Gretchen could do was stare. Then she yanked off her seat belt and got out of the car. “You want another chance?” she said. “Here it is.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going to get Justine. You can come with me if you want.”
“But the road,” he said, gesturing in front of him. “The road’s not passable, hey.”
“Not by car. But I can wade across. Or swim if I have to.”
“Gretchen! Are you daft?”
Daft. It had been a long time since she had heard Ennis use that word, and it still affected her in a soft, private place she didn’t want to have exposed, not even to herself.
“It can’t be that deep,” she said. “And it’s obviously not all that wide. I’ll get across, and then I can walk the rest of the way to the police station. It’s close; you even said so yourself.” She threw down the words like a gauntlet.
Ennis scrambled out of the car and slammed the door shut. “You are daft,” he said with a great exhalation of breath. “Totally, thoroughly, and completely daft.”
“Whatever. I’m going to get Justine. You can do what you like.” Gretchen called to the policemen on the other side, “I’m coming over, okay?”
“You’re doing what?” one of them yelled back.
Gretchen didn’t bother to reply. She could feel Ennis watching as she boldly stepped down and into the water. It was cold but not as deep as she had feared, and she was able to wade rather than swim. She was almost across when she felt one of her shoes—a black ballet flat—come loose from her foot and get carried away by the current. Damn! But there was no time to go looking for it now. She continued on until she had reached the other side. Once there she shook herself off like a retriever and turned to the cluster of incredulous men who had been watching her. “Where’s the police station?” she asked.
“Wait!” cried Ennis from the other side. “Wait for me.” Gretchen looked to see him scramble down toward the water and then plunge in. As she watched him, she felt something rise and bubble inside her. It was not as strong or as sweet as happiness. But it was something.
“What the—?” the officer said as he watched Ennis slogging through the water. “Is he going to the police station too?” Gretchen nodded. “Well, I guess I can giv
e you both a lift. It’s not very far from here.”
Gretchen got into the passenger’s seat, while Ennis got in back. “Sorry about your car,” she said as the water pooled from her clothes and hair onto the floor.
“Don’t even worry about it,” said the officer. He looked at her and then in the rearview mirror at Ennis. “You folks are in a big hurry to get there, huh?”
“Our daughter is waiting for us,” was all Gretchen said. He nodded and didn’t ask anything else, for which Gretchen was grateful. In minutes they pulled up to the police station, a sprawling complex made of bleached-looking stone.
“It looks like a bunker,” Gretchen murmured to Ennis when the officer had deposited them in the parking lot. “Do you think there’s a jail in there?”
“Even if there is, Justine is not in it,” he said firmly. He started walking.
“How do you know?” she asked, scurrying to keep up with him. Her wet, bare foot was like a magnet for every pebble, stone, and leaf it encountered. He didn’t answer and didn’t speak again until they were inside the doors and dripping onto the floor.
“You look like a wreck,” he observed. “But I’m sorry for what I said before. About the hair and the eyebrow and all. You’ve done a good job. And I don’t just mean right now either. It can’t have been easy dealing with them all by yourself, hey?”
“I’ve done my best,” Gretchen said, oddly mollified by his acknowledgment. Now that they had finally arrived, she felt paralyzed. Her earlier fury at Ennis had dissipated, washed away by the rain and the rushing stream of water she had crossed to get here. “Ennis, I can’t even begin to imagine what I am going to say to her. Can you?”
“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand. “We’ll figure it out.” Oot. Gretchen did not answer but squeezed his hand in return. Then, squelching their way toward the front desk, they went in search of their girl.
Seventeen
Justine sat mutely in a hallway of the Kings Point police station, her head tilted back against the wall, her eyes closed. But even with her eyes shut, the events of the past hour and a half played out with relentless clarity; nothing could obliterate them from the merciless exactitude of her memory.
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