Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  Yanking another tissue from the box I keep in the car, I dab my eyes and hope I don’t look like an extra from Sweeny Todd.

  Sitting in silence, I stare at the clock like it’s the enemy. Silence makes my head and lungs and insides churn. It’s hell, a space for thoughts to grow and expand and metastasize into monstrous assumptions.

  He couldn’t have done it. Dad couldn’t have stolen from that woman. He just couldn’t have.

  Pounding my fist into the steering wheel of the parked car, I scream. Why can’t Phil be more like Ted?

  I love Ted.

  It’s such an easy thing, loving Ted. It’s like breathing. Loving Ted doesn’t come with any caveats or questions or doubts. I love him as he is, faults and all, and it’s easy.

  Loving Phil has never been easy. Defending him to my sisters? Not easy. Defending him to myself when he would stand me up? Not easy. Doing mental gymnastics to figure out a way that he might not really have stolen from this woman Glenda? Not easy.

  Maybe not possible.

  The Bible says that love is patient, sure, but when is enough, enough? When can I walk away and have it not hurt anymore?

  The phone in my bag buzzes. It’s Hunter. I let it go to voice mail. I can’t talk to Hunter right now. I don’t know what to say, don’t know if I’ll ever be able to even look at him again.

  Shame and self-loathing battle for supremacy as I listen to the little buzz that signals that he left a message.

  Chest aching, I reach over and grab my bag, pulling out Dad’s black book. Using my phone, I create a boilerplate email and send it out to each and every person I haven’t contacted yet in the book, making sure to attach a picture so that everyone is clear as to who I’m asking about.

  The law of averages clearly doesn’t apply to my dad. Even if he didn’t steal from anyone else, I have to know if there are any others.

  I blink and I think of Mom. Did dad steal from her, too? No, he couldn’t have. I mean, they had four kids, stealing from mom would be like stealing from us and he wouldn’t-

  Shaking my head, I wipe that line of thought away before my emotional state gets really ugly. I have to get myself together, have to make nice with mom’s new friends.

  Of course, pulling myself together would be much easier with a glass of water and a shower. Or ten.

  I throw some lip gloss on over parched and salted lips and pray I can do this without becoming a sobbing plane wreck of a woman.

  Deep breath, Piper, in and out and let’s cowgirl up and do this! I push open the door to the car and the cold air slaps my cheeks like a wet fish.

  Ugh. Maybe I can’t do this, not now.

  A pair of women passes me, dressed in chunky heels and long wool coats, smiling and laughing and radiating a kind of girl power warmth. Mom is inside, and probably Mags and Aunt Elise. This is exactly where I need to be right now.

  I take a step into the nasty cold and send my heels click clacking on the pavement until I step up beneath the columned overhang. Pulling open the large wooden doors, I enter the foyer.

  Muzac pumps through speakers that are most likely hidden in the urns overflowing with bright yellow and red and orange mums. I close my eyes, and let the instrumental version of Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit calm my twisting nerves.

  I’m not so sure that it smells like Teen Spirit out here, more like some kind of baked chicken.

  My stomach lurches. Food is just what this body needs to set itself right. I pull open the heavy wooden doors and enter into a wood and marble entryway. A snazzy butler offers to take my coat and tells me that I have to wait until the opening speech finishes before entering the main dining room.

  Oops, so yes, I am a bit late. He helps me out of my coat and waits with his hand out as I yank off my gloves and hat. It’s odd, having a butler. Not my thing, really. I can’t help but think that it has to be the crappiest job ever. He disappears down a staircase off to the right and I’m left facing a set of closed doors sandwiched between two marble-topped sideboards.

  One of the sideboards holds a tray and a crystal goblet of water. I look around, I guess they must have had some sort of appetizers in here. I take the glass and drink it, careful to wipe my lip gloss off of the rim. Not seeing another tray to put the empties, I just place it back down where it was.

  The butler reappears, and as soon as he slips a little wooden ticket with brass numbers 53 into my hands, there is massive applause in the dining room and he opens the door to usher me inside.

  I slip the wooden ticket into my purse and follow him to the one empty seat in the room, next to my mother.

  She looks perfectly coiffed and put together, as per usual, but much to my dismay, the other ladies at the table are all unknowns, no Aunt Elise or Mags or even Betty or Stacy.

  Great, so now I really have to hold myself together. Mom’s smile is tight as I take my seat and whisper an apology.

  Some woman on the dais hits a gong and conversation rolls over the room in a wave.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I shake my head and gulp down some water out of the large glass in front of my place setting.

  “You okay? You look pale.” Mom reaches out like she’s going to touch my hand, then takes it back and clutches her napkin.

  I can’t answer that, not really. So I gulp down more water until the glass holds nothing but the reflection of the chandeliers overhead.

  “So, you’re Piper, the reporter! How wonderful!” A jolly woman with swan-like white hair and black eyeshadow calls from across the table. “I’m delighted to meet you! I’m Rosalind, yeah, it’s a terrible name, I know. Lordy knows no one these days wants a name with more than one syllable, am I right?”

  Her goose laugh honks out across the table and I rather like her instantly. “Yes, I’m Piper.”

  “Your mother tells me that you write that Miss Behave column! The girls and I love that column! How much fun it must be, to work for a paper with such a wide reach. The Herald covers all of the Berkshires, am I right?”

  “Yes, it’s a blast.” I pull the napkin onto my lap, wanting this dinner thing to be over so I can talk to Mom.

  “Of course it is! What’s your beat, darling? Is it the police blotter? I love a good mystery! Like that Agatha Christie!”

  The other ladies at the table seem to adore this Rosalind, and they grin like little chicks, nodding their heads at her every word.

  “No, I pick up features here and there, but I’m mainly on the sports beat.”

  “Wonderful! Sports! I dated a rugby player in college, Lord, the buns on him! Am I right, girls?”

  Ah, yes, the legendary rugby buns. I’ll be sure to mention them the next time I cover the mens’ religious rugby team, The Scrumbags. I’m fairly certain we’re the only area around that features priests, rabbis and imams all playing rugby together, they’ll be thrilled when I discuss their buns in the paper, I’m sure.

  The girls giggle amiably and my mom grimaces. Aunt Elise is the one that enjoys lengthy discussions of men’s buns, mom, not so much.

  “We just love your mother, don’t we, girls? What she does for the community by running that soup kitchen? On a secretary’s salary! We’re delighted that she’s considering joining our little social organization! Charity is just the noblest cause! And so underrated!”

  Mom has worked her butt off at the soup kitchen for years and years. Every Thanksgiving I remember that we would eat an early dinner so we could all go down and help serve dinner to the homeless.

  “Anyone would do the same,” Mom demurs and glances up at me in concern as we’re served our main course. I guess I missed the salad.

  Rosalind can’t seem to stop gushing, it seems, about the charitable works of her fellow Daughters of the Royal Mountain.

  “What was your charity, Rosalind?” I ask through mouthfuls of chicken.

  “I send money to those darling sweet orphans in the Africa! The poor babies don’t have enough money for shoes, never mind books!”

  A
frica comprises quite a lot of land mass, as it’s a continent and all, but I don’t really feel like pushing her as to where exactly in Africa these orphans of hers reside.

  One of the ladies at our table helped fund a pediatric cancer wing at the hospital but Rosalind cuts her off and turns the conversation to her pesky gall bladder.

  As soon as I place the last bit of chicken and asparagus in my mouth, one of the women in the center of the dais stands and bangs on her glass. Mom and I straighten and Rosalind lets out a huff as she turns her chair around.

  The woman introduces herself as, I kid you not, Federica Von Hurstenburg. Lord knows how she made it through middle school. Federica, or Richie, as I’m sure both her friends and enemies call her, goes off on this tangent about good works and charity and how the Daughters of the Royal Mountain stand for something something community something something.

  Someone pokes me in the shoulder and my head bounces up. Oh wow, was I nodding off? Mom reaches down to squeeze my hand.

  “To celebrate this crowning achievement, we have procured a rare and special treat. Placed in a goblet of the finest crystal, we will anoint our meeting with water from the purest spring on earth from highest mountains of Osono, Chile and blessed by a Curandero in an eight-hour purification ritual.”

  My ears burn. Goblet? They wouldn’t have just left it siting out in the foyer, would they? I stare at mom, but she is transfixed on Von Snootiburg up on the platform.

  “We place this water in a goblet made from the rarest crystal, to symbolize-“

  Oh no.

  “Devotion and clarity of vision. Then we place the goblet in the center of a circular bronze tray, to represent our endless devotion to good works and the singular fulfillment know only to the hearts of those that care for the less fortunate.”

  “Mom,” I whisper. “Did they leave that goblet full of witchdoctor water in the foyer?”

  “Then we let it sit and collect the pollen of our own atmosphere by letting it ferment outside of the hall, representing the stillness of self and the collection of the silent cries of the helpless.”

  No, no, no, no.

  “And now, please, Carmine, if you would be so kind as to present the water so we can anoint those hopeful pledges to Daughters of the Royal Mountain gathered here today.”

  My mouth dries as Carmine brings the tray with the empty glass of water up to the podium. Oh God, I drank the blessed water from Osono! I’m burning in hell! Hell, I tell you!

  “Mom, mom! There’s no water in the cup-“

  “Shh, sweetheart, this part is supposed to be just magical. They’re going to call me up and-“

  “Mom! You don’t understand-

  “Can I have your attention, please, ladies-“

  “I drank it!” I say just as the room falls into silence. “I was thirsty.”

  Every head in the room turns in my direction, and mom’s color washes clear off her face.

  “It’s not like it was labeled or anything.” My words fall like an iron griddle

  across the room.

  The woman on the dais shrieks, “The water’s gone! We’ve spent months procuring this water and now it’s-“

  Rosalind leaps up and shouts, “C’mon now, Richie, it’s just a cup of water! Just because some peyote-smoking mountain man waved his stick over it doesn’t make it-“

  “We need that water! For one hundred and three years each group of new inductees gets-“

  The room breaks into chaos. Each woman standing up and arguing on one side or another. Some are pro stick-waving mountain man and others are against.

  In the midst of all the fury-spitting, I figure that it’s a good time to make my exit. I stand from the table and take a few tentative steps towards the door when suddenly Richie Von Fancypants shouts, “You! You can’t leave! You have to pay for what you’ve done!”

  My fingertips freeze. What do you do when a cult decides you are to blame for the desecration of something holy? I’d imagine I should run.

  Kicking off my heels, I shoot my mother my best I’m-so-sorry face and I bolt from the room.

  My tights slide on stone floor and each footfall sends icy tendrils of boom racing up my legs but I run and run and run down the stairs until I’m at the coat check and bursting my way through the half door. Where’s my coat?

  Voices flood down from the staircase behind me. I need my coat now! My shaking hands tear through the mass of wool coats until I find mine and I rip it off the hanger.

  Can’t go back up the stairs. Pulling my coat on as I run I see a sign labeled exit and burst through the door only to shout as my feet take their first hit of cold asphalt. Go, go, go!

  Stockings tearing and feet aching, I race to the car and find my mother standing patiently at the door, sans coat.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

  She blinks as a response and I hit unlock just as I hear the first round of pro-witchdoctor ladies emerging from the doors of the club.

  “You better get in or we’re going to have to answer to Richie.” Mom’s voice is measured as she opens the door and sits in the passenger seat.

  I don’t even stop to buckle my seat belt, I just drive down the country club lane and don’t look back.

  “Put on your seatbelt.” Mom’s calm slices through the adrenaline rampaging through my system.

  I pull up to the stop sign at the end of the Country Club parking lot and obey her command. Seatbelts are a must.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that it was witchdoctor Osono water I just was thirsty and thought I missed the app-“

  “It’s fine, honey.” She sighs. “An honest mistake.”

  She’s taking this all rather well, actually. “I know how much you want to be part of the Daughters and-“

  “No. It’s fine. I doubt it will affect my friendship with Rosalind, and as I think about it, that’s all that I really wanted.”

  I pull out onto the road and drive us around, not sure of where to go, since both her coat and her car are back at the club. Guess I’ll just give the ladies some time to cool down.

  She says, “Drive me home, it’s getting late.”

  Chapter 22

  When You Can’t Handle the Truth

  The house is warm and smells like Ted’s homemade beer bread that sits on top of the stove.

  I look at my mom, “Why did you leave dad?”

  She deposits the bag on the counters with a thump and grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses and places them on the table between us. After she pours, she sits, holding her glass loosely by the stem. “Even when two people love each other very much, sometimes they grow apart-“

  “Did he steal from you? From us?”

  Her face pales and my heart sinks. Her jaw drops open, hands twisting together on the table.

  “I need to know, mom. I need to know the truth. Not just what you want me to know.”

  Her silence weighs a thousand pounds, and seems to get heavier by the second. Hands twisting, she closes her eyes. “Why now?”

  “Because I know he’s stolen from someone else.”

  “What? That bastard. I told you to be careful when you said he was staying with you. That asshole!” She bangs on the table, then flushes, stammering, “I’m sorry honey, I didn’t mean, I wouldn’t-“

  “It’s okay.” I take a long taste of the wine, tasting the fruit balanced with the smoke of the oak, knowing that I should enjoy it more, but now it just burns. “I met this woman this afternoon, Glenda. And it was awful.” I tell her about Dad disappearing and me wanting to know where he was going, how it eventually led to me driving down to Stamford to meet Glenda and her demands that I make dad repay her the money.

  Mom’s eyebrows come together, her eyes on the darkened window behind me, lost in the chaos of a past I was a part of but don’t even begin to understand.

  When I’m done, we sit, the sound of Ted’s laughter at his shows filtering into the room and blending with the hum of the refrigerator to create the
sounds of home, of my childhood.

  Nothing much has changed except the lens through which I view it.

  She finishes her glass of wine then pours us both another. “You’re sleeping here tonight.” She says as she leans back in her chair. “Ted and I swore that we would never speak about it to you girls. Ted especially, worried that if you all knew what had happened, that it might keep you from trusting the right guy when he came along, that it might deny you girls the happiness that we have.”

  “Did dad steal from us?” My voice is sharp and thin and I barely recognize it as my own. Please say no, please say-

  “Yes.”

  The word slices me in half, crushing my lungs. My hands wrap around my middle and I close my eyes, wanting to erase the knowledge from my mind, but knowing that I never can.

  She continues, “He forged my signature to take out a second mortgage on the house, spent it all doing God-only-knows-what when he was off traveling. One morning he went away on one of his photography expeditions and our checking account was empty, then our savings account. He sent me the divorce papers when he was on his way to Tashkent.”

  I blink, remembering only a little doll that my father sent from that trip. She had an odd headscarf and brightly colored skirts. I had no idea that he was the one who asked for the divorce.

  “He stayed over there, in Uzbekistan, for a bit, or at least long enough so he didn’t have to stick around and watch the banks start to foreclose on his wife and four children.” Her smile was weak. “I had decided to stay with him after my affair and that was how he repaid me.”

  “Did he know?”

  “I think he suspected. It would definitely explain why he seems so vindictive towards women.”

  “But mom, the banks couldn’t have taken the house if the mortgage papers were forged.”

  Her laugh is short and ugly, “Oh, they didn’t care. All they cared about was getting their money.”

  “How did you get them money?”