How Lucky You Are (9781455518548)

by Kusek Lewis, Kristyn

  “Well, I don’t think there’s been a whole lot of fallout for him, no matter how despondent he may have acted when he came to see me. Stephanie, the other woman, resigned the day the story broke and hightailed it back to the Midwest. The Post ran an online survey yesterday showing that Brendan still has plenty of support. Kate also said that the Republican Party is fully behind him so he’ll have no problem continuing to campaign without her family’s money.”

  Why are we wasting so much time talking about Brendan? I think. I came over here assuming we’d pick up where we’d left off at Finelli’s. I need to find out more about where her head is about everything if I’m going to be able to help her. “Anyway, the other night—,” I start, but then the phone in the kitchen rings. I’m closer so I jog back and grab the cordless off the counter. Before I hand it to Amy, I glance at the caller ID.

  “It’s Mike,” I say. “Langley and Rutherford Internal Medicine.” Speak of the devil, I think. Literally.

  “Hey!” she says after she takes the phone from me. Her voice sounds like the wide smile on her face.

  “Oh,” she says and turns away from me, walking back into the kitchen. I follow right behind her.

  “But—” She sighs and scratches her head.

  “Okay.” There’s a long silence, during which she picks up a couple of nearly microscopic pieces of lint off the floor, straightens the dish towel hanging from the handle on the oven…and doesn’t dare look at me. It’s on purpose, I’m sure. What did the prick say to her?

  “No, it’s fine, I understand,” she finally says. She clicks the phone off without saying good-bye.

  “Sorry.” The energy in the room has dropped like a storm is moving in. I swear, the room is actually darker. You can see it on Amy’s face, like an internal dimmer switch has been dialed down. “You ready to go?” she says, picking at something in her eye, or pretending to.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Amy bites her lip. “Have you said anything to Kate about what I told you?”

  “Of course not.” The truth is that had everything not blown up with Brendan, I would have told her by now. While Kate might not be the best person to reach out to for heartfelt words of encouragement, she is perfect when you need someone to be honest about how you should handle a situation.

  “What about Larry?”

  I shake my head no. It’s a wimpy attempt at a lie and we both know it.

  “Remember how I told you that Mike was going to see a counselor? I made an appointment for him with a psychiatrist for this afternoon. A great one, Waverly. She specializes in…” She pauses, looking for the right words. “Mike’s problem. She’s written some groundbreaking research on helping men turn themselves around.” She stops and throws her hands up into the air, and then shakes her head, exasperated. “Even he was excited about her when he read her bio!” she yells, looking up at the ceiling.

  She walks to the counter next to the refrigerator, where a pile of mail sits unopened. She straightens it and then straightens it again. “But apparently he’s changed his mind,” she says quietly. “He says he’s not going to go.”

  “He changed his mind about counseling?” I force myself to keep my voice steady. “Who does he think he—” I stop myself, remembering one of the tips I’d read on one of my websites: Don’t criticize the abuser’s partner.

  Amy continues to rustle the mail. “Yeah, he said he just changed his mind.” She straightens the pile a third time, angrily knocking it against the counter as she neatens the stack, and finally stuffs it into the basket on top of the counter.

  “How do you feel about this?” I hate the earnest, touchy-feely sound of my voice, as if I’m the therapist. But I worry that if I tell her what I really think, I might just drive her away. The best thing is to just be supportive right now, I remind myself. She’s probably already fully aware of my opinion.

  When Amy turns to me, her bottom lip begins to quiver. “It’s not okay,” she says, her voice a tiny whisper, like she’s talking to herself. “He has to see a counselor. We had a deal.”

  She walks across the room to the breakfast bar, hoists herself onto one of the wrought-iron barstools, and starts fiddling with the edge of a stack of St. Patrick’s Day–themed paper napkins before she finally speaks.

  “Everything has been so great,” she says, making tiny tears in the napkin she’s pulled off the top of the stack. “I mean, I know what you must think.” She glances quickly at me. “I know you’re worried. If it were you and Larry, I would be, too.”

  This would never happen to Larry and me, I think. But then the realization comes in a flash: Amy surely assumed the same thing about her relationship before it happened to her.

  “Mike and I had this huge heart-to-heart a few weeks ago,” she says, brushing the napkin shreds into a tiny mountain on the counter. “It was so great, like a time machine had taken us right back to the early days. It’s been idyllic around here, Waverly. Nothing has happened.” Her eyes flicker toward me. “For the first time in years, we’re finally talking again. I mean, really talking. He knows what he’s done.” She pauses. “He apologizes every day.” She pauses again. “I know that you must hate him.”

  Abhor him is more accurate.

  “He’s not what you think he is, Waverly. He’s really not. And he’s been proving it every day.”

  “Except today,” I say carefully.

  She exhales a slow and heavy burst of air as if she’s a balloon that I’ve just popped. “We’ve been talking so much about our future,” she says. “Just last night we were talking in bed about how much fun it would be to rent a place on the Outer Banks this summer. I sent my parents and my sisters an email about it this morning to see if they’d want to come. This weekend, we’re going to drive into D.C. to take Emma to the zoo.” She sighs again. “I just don’t know what to do to convince him that he needs to see someone. It was so hard to get him to even consider it in the first place.”

  “Did he say anything about why he changed his mind today?” I ask. There are sirens going off in my brain, fire trucks roaring down the pathways between my ears. I want to scream a million different things at her (Get out! How can you still love him?!), so it kills me that I feel obligated to stick with these doughy, cautious questions.

  She shakes her head. “He just said that he got too busy with patients and that he really doesn’t think he needs the help anyway because he’s realized how lucky he is to have a family like ours.”

  The way she says it is so sad, so lovelorn, that I somehow manage to simultaneously feel complete sorrow for her and absolute outrage that she could be so blinded by this…this…what do you even call him? He’s not a man; I know that much.

  She looks at her watch. “I’ll figure it all out,” she says resignedly. “You know what? I’m sorry. I’m going to have to skip our walk. I forgot about an errand that I need to do before I pick up Emma.”

  “An errand?” It worries me that she’s suddenly changing our plans. It’s not like her. None of this is like her.

  “Amy, I’m starting to get really afraid for you,” I confess. I have to say it. I know with all of my heart that her safety is at stake and I can’t be so concerned about offending her that I put her at risk by keeping my mouth shut. “I’m here for you, you know,” I say. “I’ll do anything to help. Anything at all.” It takes every ounce of my willpower not to start pleading with her.

  Amy nods and smiles, a little too easily. Now that I know what’s going on, I feel like I can infer so much more from her every move. Every smile is a sign that something is off. Every emphatic Amy-ism is just a clue that she’s covering up. “I know you’re here for me, Waverly,” she says, in a way that’s a little too lighthearted for me to feel good about.

  “Anything you need,” I say again. “Anything at all.”

  On my way to work I call Kate and tell her everything. I talk for fifteen minutes straight, with hardly an interruption from Kate save for the occasional gasp, which i
s evidence in and of itself that this is not just ordinary gossip, and somehow makes me feel better about spilling Amy’s secret. It’s obvious now that I’m not going to be able to help Amy on my own. I need her help.

  “I don’t quite know what to say,” Kate says when I’m done. “You know that I’ve never been fond of Mike, but I never figured him for something like this. She really doesn’t want to leave him?”

  I rub at the crease that’s appeared in the space between my eyebrows. “Kate, I think you should talk to her.” I’ve pulled into the small gravel lot behind the bakery and turned off the car. Donovan is smoking outside the open back door. He sees me and flicks his cigarette onto the ground, then rubs it out with his foot before pivoting to head back inside.

  “You want me to talk to her?” Kate says. “What could I possibly say to her? We’ve known each other for a long time but, Waverly, come on. We don’t really talk to each other anymore. Not like that.” She pauses for a beat. “We have nothing in common.”

  “I know you’re not close but, Kate, come on. It’s not like she’s a stranger. You have more in common than you might think.”

  “Oh, what?” Kate deadpans. “Because both of our marriages have turned out to be disasters?” I hold the phone away from my ear.

  “Kate, come on.”

  “What? Seriously, Wave. Why me?”

  “Well, she didn’t say as much, but she seems to think you have it all figured out.”

  Kate laughs.

  “She admires you, Kate.”

  “So because I’ve left Brendan you think I can talk her into doing the same.”

  “Well, yes,” I say, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of my coat. “Come on, Kate. We need to get her out of there.”

  “Why don’t you call her family? She’s so close to them. I’m surprised she hasn’t talked to them about this.”

  “I thought about it, actually, but I think she’d just freak and never talk to me again. And I don’t want to scare her parents. I wouldn’t feel right telling them everything I just told you.”

  “Waverly, Jesus. How do you talk me into this shit?”

  “Talk you into—? When have I ever talked you into anything? When has anyone ever talked you into anything?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth and I hear the silence on the other end of the line, I know what we’re both thinking: Brendan talked her into plenty.

  Kate sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Promise?”

  “Jesus, Waverly.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I rap my fingers against the steering wheel and check the time. I need to get into work. On the other end of the phone, I can hear water running, then the click-clack of Kate’s heels across her hardwood floors.

  “It is pretty shocking,” Kate says, her voice softer. “I always thought they were just simple, you know, family people.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “And I’m sure that Amy believed that most of all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When lunch is over, I force myself into solitary confinement in my office and spend the next few hours counting money. My visit with Amy today has made me so edgy that I am actually, for once, looking forward to sitting down at my desk and getting lost in my work. Plus, I’ve deleted a record-breaking six voicemails from Gary in the past week, imploring me to pay my loan, along with two from my bank reminding me that payment’s past due.

  Once I get going, I discover, unbelievably, that the “incredible, superedible doughnut muffins,” as Jeannette and Randy have started to call them, have brought my sales up a full thirty percent. Thirty percent. Because of muffins. For the past God-knows-how-long, I’ve been scheming to come up with innovative ways to make more money: the dinner delivery service, selling new products, the potential cookbook. Who could have predicted that the thing that would pull me out of this mess would be the muffins I’ve been selling since opening day?

  I check my math five or six more times; never a bad idea, considering that numbers and I don’t really get along. I can’t believe what I’m seeing on my spreadsheets: If business continues like this for just a couple of weeks longer, I might actually be able to get my house loan back on track, pay the rent, and continue to pay my employees and all of my business costs. I still won’t be able to pay myself—I have a feeling it’s going to be a long while before I see a salary again, and I know I’ll have to stick to a serious budget—but I just might be able to do this. The foreclosure risk would disappear. Alec would stop needling me about late rent checks. I tap out an excited drumbeat on my desk with my hands and look around my little closet of an office. I’m tempted to run out to the kitchen and tell Randy. I want to tell someone.

  Larry’s the person I should be telling. I get the teensiest, pinching pang of guilt: If I’d been honest with him about all of this, I could call him right now. But actually, the thought occurs to me, I can tell him everything now and explain how I fixed it, so it may in fact be a good thing that I’ve been so secretive…couldn’t it? It’s no sense getting caught up in my overanalysis, I reason. Not now, when for the first time in months, I actually have reason to be optimistic about my business. I wiggle my fingers and type off an email to the only person besides me who will appreciate my good news: Gary. Reading it over before I press “send,” I feel amazing, like I’ve just balanced the federal budget. I giggle to myself, shaking my head. Doughnut muffins. The whole thing is ludicrous—and wonderful.

  When I emerge from my office, Jeannette tells me that an event planner stopped in to order five dozen doughnut muffins for gift boxes for a wedding in Maryland next month. I walk to the front of the store, where Randy is chatting with a first-time customer who’s happily scarfing a mini-cheesecake. I start to talk with them but then three hairdressers from the salon down the block stop in for doughnut muffins, and then a UPS guy comes in looking for one, and then an Alan Alda look-alike with his grandson. Around four o’clock, Randy and Jeannette and I talk over the to-dos for the following day and I decide to treat myself and take the rest of the afternoon off. In fact, I think I’ll go home and surprise Larry with a nice dinner. I can’t afford to buy the things I’d like to cook right now (short ribs…or, oooh, scallops), but I’m confident that I can make a damn fine meal out of the random scraps in my kitchen. Right now, I’m confident about everything. I snag a bakery box of half a dozen doughnut muffins before I leave and practically sing good-bye to Randy as I walk out the door. Every business has its highs and lows, right? This was just a lesson I needed to learn.

  Risotto is what I’ve come up with an hour later. Larry’s always loved my risotto. It feels good to be outside of my own head, to be doing something for him for a change. I’m sautéing the spinach and mushrooms I had in the fridge and will add a can of white beans seasoned with a slab or three of bacon along with some rosemary from the plant I have out back. This will actually be quite nice. I grab my kitchen shears to head out for the rosemary when my phone rings. I pull it out of my back pocket, expecting to see the phone number for the bakery on the caller ID, but it’s Amy.

  “Hey, Ame,” I say, cradling the phone on my shoulder as I open the back door.

  “You’re at home?” she says, sounding a little frantic.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Is everything okay?”

  “I’d gone to the bakery. I thought you’d be at work. Can I come over? I’m sort of just around the corner.”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, suddenly feeling chilled. Something’s wrong. I close the back door and walk back to the kitchen.

  “I’ll be right there,” she says.

  I click off the phone and clutch it to my chest. What could this be about? I rush to turn down the heat on the stove and hurry to the front of the house, where I watch from a window for Amy’s minivan. But before I know it, I see her coming up the street, walking, with Emma in her arms. Why is she walking? Where is her car?

  I open the door. “Everything okay?” I say, veiling my panic because of sweet Em.
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  Amy nods. There are tears in her eyes. “I parked down the street. I’m sorry to drop in on you like this.”

  “Amy, don’t be sorry,” I say. And then I notice that she’s also carrying her giant monogrammed duffel bag—the one she carried on the plane to Florida—and it’s packed full.

  “Um,” she says, noticing me looking at the bag as she gently sets Emma down. “Can we stay here tonight?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Of course!” Is it wrong to be excited about this? I pull her into a hug. “You can stay for as long as you need to,” I whisper into her ear.

  We take Emma into the living room and turn on Nickelodeon, and then we walk to the kitchen, where we can see her through the archway separating the rooms but talk privately.

  “What happened?”

  Amy sits down by the island and puts her head in her hands. Seconds later, her shoulders are shaking, and I realize that she’s sobbing.

  “Oh, Amy, it’s okay,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “Everything is going to be just fine,” I say.

  “I just—ughhhh,” she says, looking up at the ceiling and shaking her hands to get ahold of herself, as if she could shake the anxiety right out of her fingertips. “I’m so tired, Waverly. I’m so, so tired of all of this.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I say. “You’re so strong, Amy. Just think of everything you’ve been through, and what you’ve survived.”

  She nods, nibbling her bottom lip. She looks almost childlike, sitting there hunched into herself.

  “You don’t deserve to be treated this way. No one deserves to be treated this way,” I say. “What happened?”

  “I just…when he told me that he didn’t need the counseling…I kept thinking about it after you left and I just…” She shakes her head again.

  “You don’t have to explain it to me,” I say. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

  “He’s going to know I’m here,” she says.