I reply:
I scroll through the rest of the emails and try and wipe the message from my mind.
Unfortunately, it leaves some kind of sticky residue I can’t get clean, and I spend the rest of my morning with my stomach in knots.
Is this why that guy was outside of the store harassing me about Gary Lindquist? God, what if the Brookes are hiding something? I mean, I don’t think Hunter would be involved but his mother?
I get on the phone and call Gennifer.
Chapter 21
Strange Women with Strange Tales
Dear Miss Behave,
My name is Barbara and I run the Furry Angels Cat Rescue center here in town! I’d like to thank you for speaking so lovingly about our four-legged friends in your column! It takes a special person to share their love of our furry fellow-travelers in such a public forum and I’m very glad that you wish to share your love of kitties with the world!
However, I am not certain that you are taking the responsibilities of pet ownership seriously.
Cats are not an acceptable cure for relationship problems.
If you have readers who are willing to consider the rigors of pet ownership, they are welcome to contact us at the number posted below! But I beseech you to stop using felines to avoid having to give any real answers.
Have a purr-fect day!
-Barbara, Furry Angels Cat Rescue
Dear Ms. Kill Joy,
Thank you for the work you do for the cats. And your rather passive aggressive letter. Nothing is more cat-like.
Sincerely,
-Miss Behave
From: Abigail Swenson [email protected]
To: Piper Anderson [email protected]
Subject: Brookes Diamonds
Piper,
FYI, your feature on Brookes Diamonds will run on Sunday. Love the angle on the actress who will be wearing the Brookes’ peacock tiara at Cannes.
Let’s hope it brings less hate mail that your last Miss Behave column.
-A
News Editor
Pendleton Falls Herald
I rub my eyes as I stare at Abigail’s email. Should I mention in the byline that I’ve kind of slept with the guy I interviewed for the piece? It’s maybe just the slightest of conflict of interest. I open the file and put in an endnote about how the Pendleton Falls Herald is owned by the Brookes family and feel a bit better.
I yawn as I haven’t slept very much lately. I’ve only popped into the house to grab my clothes. Gen and Dad are never around when I’m in, so I just sort of make myself at home at Hunter’s.
Part of me knows that it’s bad. Whenever I think about the fact that he owns the paper that I work for my stomach ties into knots, but since his true time and energy are spent with the jewelry business, I don’t think about it much. Like if I stuff it down far enough inside it will no longer be true.
In reality, my professor abused his power, and I know that Hunter isn’t, but the fact that I technically work for him bothers me.
“Hey, you got that piece on last night’s hockey game ready?” Gennifer asks as she stuffs her face full of bagel.
“Yeah, it’s all set,” I say as I pull out the chair to my desk. I hate this chair, one wheel is lower than all of the others and I end up sitting lopsided all day. I sigh as I stretch out my back. Maybe I should sit on one of those yoga balls instead.
“Why are you all smiley?” Gennifer asked, her eyebrow up, making her look like a goth girl in a bright red jacket.
“I’m not smiley.” I say and take a sip of coffee as I open up my email. Work stuff, blah blah. Oh, an email from Hunter to just say hello.
My chest warms and my mind zings with the memory of last night and all those things we did around that campfire.
“See! Right now, you’re smiling. No one should be allowed to smile before ten am. It’s just unnatural.” Gennifer’s words are partially obscured by the quickly disappearing bagel. She wipes her hands on her jeans. “If you don’t want to tell me who he or she is, then fine, just make sure you get that story in quick so I can get going on the layout.”
“Yeah, okay.” I scroll down the email and am just about to close it so I can concentrate on the job here at the paper, when a new message pops up. The name sounds familiar so I open it.
It’s someone that I emailed from Dad’s black book. The name was crossed off in the book but I had gone ahead and sent out a quick email, anyway. The email is short and to the point:
I am sorry but I do not know anyone who goes by that name. I suspect, however, that it may be an alias for a man I am looking for, one Mr. Robert Glenn. Would you be kind enough to send a picture or call? Thank you. –Glenda Howard
What on earth do I make of that? Dad’s name, Phillip Anderson, isn’t remotely related to Robert Glenn. But still, I’d feel bad if I had a chance to help her out and didn’t, she was kind enough to take the time to respond to my first inquiry, so I write her back and ask her to send a picture of this Robert Glenn.
An acrid sinking sits low in my stomach as I embed a photo I have of my dad to my reply and hit send.
“Piper, what the hell? You’re zoning out on me. The hockey game? Your story? I need it like now.” Gennifer’s voice pulls me out of the funk. “Oh, and if you have a follow-up piece about that New Canaan Cassanova? I have space to fill.”
Dad is in no way a Robert. A nasty thought flashes across my brain. No, he’s not the New Canaan Cassanova, either. I’ve always imagined that guy probably looks more like Daniel Craig.
Loading the picture of Dad, I hit send. There’s no way he’s Robert Glenn.
“Now, please. I don’t know what you’re doing over there but if you’re Googling pictures of half-naked dudes instead of emailing me your article I’m going to be pissed.”
“Sorry, sending it now.” I’m being ridiculous. I send Gennifer the article, happy I took the time to cobble it together right after the game.
After lunch, I sit down at the computer and see that the woman emailed me back.
She attached a picture of my father. The only words in the email are:
This is Robert Glenn. Call me.
She leaves her number and no further explanation. Foreboding lodges like rocks in my throat and that tuna fish sandwich I had for lunch threatens to reappear.
This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all. I tell Gen I have to run outside to the car for a minute and she nods, completely engrossed in her search for the perfect clip art to place in beside the weekly calendar events.
The sky is cloudy and the wind frigid, I huddle against the side of the building and call the number the woman left me. My fingers sting in the cold, and my jaw clenches. I pull up my scarf and wrap my coat in closer around my shoulders. She picks up on the third ring, “Glenda? I’m from Pendleton Falls, calling like you asked.”
My words fall out in a jumbled rush, and my eyes focus on the branches of the squat, twisted pine tree out by the end of the office walk as it bends in the wind.
Cheeks chapping by the second, I wait for her to answer. Nothing. “Are you there?”
“Yes. The picture. Did you get the picture?” Her voice is unsteady, like this conversation is uncomfortable for her, too.
“I’m sorry, you have to be mistaken, his name isn’t Robert, it’s-“
“I know who it is. That’s Robert. You don’t think I’d know the man I spent six months sleeping beside? Why are you doing this to me?”
The wind snips at my eyes, confusion blanks out everything, reducing my world the granite of the sky. “I’m not, I don’t understand. I thought you were listed as a work contact-“
“Who are you? The police?”
“No, I-“
“Because I’ve told you people everything, and to drag it all up again now like your-“
I shudder, fear icing my stomach. “Police? Why would the police be-“
“Who are you if you’re not the cops?”
“His daughter.” I say wi
thout thinking. The truth suspended between us, catching in the creaking limbs of the pine.
Silence looms between us, growing larger by the uncertainty eating at me, a world of possibilities, of horrible imagined scenarios flittering across my mind like scenes from a movie.
Eventually, she asks, “Where are you?”
“Connecticut. Pendleton Falls.”
“I’m in Stamford. You better just come down. I’ll email you the time and address,” she says and then she hangs up.
Ann
The soup kitchen can be counted on for one thing; it’s never boring. Each day brings a new challenge or joy, and today, it’s joy. Fits of anxiety can be good, as it turns out, as she’s been inspired to clean out closets and to find stashes of clothing she’d thought she’d gotten rid of years ago. Freshly washed, she hands clothes to Amber, a young mother, and Jess, her daughter, and claps as they come out of the bathroom modeling their new fashions. Amber looks great in her old interview suit, though she may want to rip out those shoulder pads. “No one will refuse your job application now.”
Amber sends her a shy grin, making her look all of sixteen, and Ann’s chest clenches. “Let’s hope not.”
Sister Hazel clears her throat from somewhere back in the kitchen and Ann shuffles off to throw on the hairnet and get back behind the serving line. Tucking the last strands of hair up into the stupid thing, she pulls a tray of lasagna from the over and places it in the warming tray only to see a familiar face staring at her from the other side.
Her mouth drops and her heart races.
“Now don’t go opening your mouth. Let me say what I’m going to say so we can be done with this.” Elise’s eyes are wet and Ann’s throat tightens.
Ann nods, knowing that it’s best to take her sister literally at times like this.
“I’m pissed at you, Annie. Not for the affair. That’s none of my business. I’m just pissed that you felt like you couldn’t tell me. That you thought that there’s anything in this world you could do that could make me think less of you. It hurts.”
Ann looks down at the table. “I love you.”
The man in line behind Elise shoves her to the side and Ann dumps a spoonful of lasagna on his plate. She doesn’t look up when she says, “I was mortified, so frightened that you would leave me, I couldn’t-“
“Shut up and come here.” Elise walks around the table and hugs her, never in her life has Ann ever needed her sister’s touch more than right now.
“I’m so sorry.” Ann whispers.
“And that’s the last time I’m going to hear you say that, okay? Except if you’re apologizing in advance for making me go to that Daughters of the Royal Mountain cult family thing tonight.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“Good, then I’ll pass and hear about it later.” Elise smiles. “Cut me out again and I kill you. Fair?
“Fair.”
Piper
My head’s fuzzy as I drive down to Stamford. The trees passing as gray and red and yellow blurbs out of the window. Normally the stone arches over the Merritt Parkway impress me, standing for so many years in their quiet, lovely watch, but today they just look cold.
I pull off the highway like I’m on autopilot, numb because I have to be. I Googled the address Glenda gave me. Someplace called Java and Juice. It’s downtown and parking is kind of a pain so I’m running a few minutes late.
The café isn’t at all like any of the adorable coffee shops in Pendleton Falls. It’s a city coffee shop, surrounded by tall, characterless office buildings and wide empty sidewalks.
I stop just outside of the door, frozen, realizing I’m unsure for the first time ever of what character I’m supposed to play.
Screw it. I can’t think about it right now, I just have to go in.
My cheeks flame as I walk into the blasting heat and bland jazz of the shop. It smells like old coffee and over-toasted bread, and there, in the corner, is a well-dressed older woman sitting in a booth checking her phone.
Do I order or do I just sit down? The shop is empty this late in the day, and the baristas in their sterile green polos wilt behind their cappuccino machines. I tear off my hat and fluff my hair, standing in the middle of the world of orange tiles and black round tables.
“You’re from the Pendleton Falls Herald?” The woman asks, staring up at me over the top of her phone. “None of what I tell you can go in the paper, is that understood?”
I open my mouth and shut it again, tugging at bottom of my jacket. Nodding, I approach and hold out my hand. Please just let me survive this meeting.
She leaves it suspended over the table. My stomach twists as I pull out the plain metal chair and sit. I leave my coat on, cold.
Her hair is short and blond and well-shaped, a stylish bob partially covering sharp, gem-studded glasses and striking brown eyes. She’s wearing a suit that I can only assume is tailored, since it fits her perfectly, even while seated.
I sit and put my hat on the table, leaning forward. She stares, her wide owl eyes capturing me in their gaze and my skin pricks. I take the hat off of the table again and place it on my lap.
Her makeup is sparse, the collar of her button-down shirt sticks out of the top of her suit jacket, sharp lines matching her laser focus.
Mouth dry, I say, “I’m Piper. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Is it really?” She asks, her lips tipping up at the corner as she runs her fingertips around the rim of her paper cup.
Okay…
“Your father is a lying jackass and belongs in jail.” She reaches down into an expensive-looking leather tote. “Look, I’m not going to waste your time. I want him to pay for his actions. But I’m willing to keep it in the realms of the civil courts and not have to go to the criminal courts, because I’d prefer to keep this quiet.”
“Keep what quiet? I don’t know what you’re-“
She rolls her eyes, like she’s sick of hearing the story, or maybe just sick with herself, “I’m not someone who usually falls for this sort of crap, ok? He got me. I loved him. I let him in and he stole my savings. If he pays me back, then I’ll drop it. Part of it is my fault for being dumb enough to fall for him.”
“No. You dated some man named Robert. My dad’s name isn’t-“
“Shut up. Is this your father?” She pulls out a folder full of pictures, four by sixes cascading over the small table between us.
There are pictures of her and my dad on a yacht, smiling and laughing, skin warmed by the sun. Her and dad in Italy, her and dad hiking and shopping and dining and doing all of the things he never takes the time to do with me.
I hold one of the pictures in my hand. It’s a shot of Dad on a beach, standing in swim trunks and a goofy Hawaiian shirt, his hair unkept and his smile as wide as the sky behind him. He looks so handsome, so unabashedly happy, that it hurts. It sits like a granite boulder in my chest.
Nodding, I have to admit that her Robert is my father. Numb fingers drop the photo back on the table. “So what do we do?”
“Well, that bastard married me and then emptied our joint accounts. You have him return the money by the end of the month or I call the cops and give them your information. Piper Anderson of 636 Bee Pond Road in Pendleton Falls?”
“But-“
“Great. It’s settled, all of my contact information is on this sheet of paper. Don’t call or email me until you have the money.” She gathers the pictures from the table without meeting my eye and places them back into an ugly manila folder and takes the smiles from my father that I could never elicit and rips them from me forever, tucking them back into a bag I could never afford.
“How did you meet him?” I ask, startling her as she stands.
She pulls on a long wool coat. Some part of me realizes that she must be not much taller than I am, but she somehow feels a thousand feet tall and I don’t dare stand beside her.
Pulling a pair of gloves from her satchel, “He was covering my gallery opening in
Greenwich for Artistic Times. He wrote to me ahead of time at my work address at the law firm for permission to interview me.” She looks down at her fingers and she pushes them into the gloves. “He was charming, I was stupid. You know how he is.”
“Yeah.” My hands tremble, the word stumbling from my lips, leaving the invisible vice squeezing my middle until I swear my ribs and lungs and heart are going to collapse.
“Just get the money.” She walks out of the café, leaving me alone.
“Dad?” I call as I walk in the door, having to stop, having to ask, having to know if what Glenda is saying could be real.
“Dammit! Are you home?” My voice echoes around the empty house, and I stare at my cell. He hasn’t returned my calls, hasn’t texted me back. Nothing. I must have texted Call Me 911 like fifty times now and nothing. It’s been an hour since the last text-
“Dad! Where the hell are you!” My heart hammers and my stomach burns like it’s been kicked and kicked and then before I notice it I’m kicking the chair. Again and again and again and oh God why?
Why?
I stop, breath short and fast and I wipe my face, smearing my eyes with my coat.
He’s not here. He. Never. Is.
So I might be slightly late in arriving at mom’s introductory thing with her new lady friends due to a few unscheduled sob stops on the ride up.
I sit in my parked car, staring at the country club with its swanky lights and hunks of decorative cornstalks tied to each column, gathering the courage to go inside.
My chest feels like it’s shoved into Spanx ten times too tight and my stomach trembles, threatening to send me bolting for the nearest toilet.
It’s not that I’m overly emotional, mind you, it’s just that every song on the radio was speaking to me personally. Every. Song.
Each and every one was written by a father for his daughter or was about loving someone who has done horrible things but still you love them and oh my God, here I go again.
Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1) Page 23