Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing, or how sad Mom sounds for me.

  She lifts my chin and wipes at my cheeks with her fingertips. “It’s not that I don’t like Noah. It’s just that I guess I’m more like Grandpop than I want to admit. He never thought any guy was good enough for me, and I feel the same way about you. Because I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.” I lay my head on her shoulder. When I was little and something was wrong, just being this close to her always made me feel better. Some things don’t change, I guess. “I know you’ve been upset about Dad for a while,” I say. “I’m really mad at him for lots of reasons but mostly for making you so sad. If I knew how to make things right again—”

  Mom squeezes my hand. “I know. Just be you. That’s all I need you to do.” She stands. “How about some hot tea? Maybe it will help you sleep.”

  Sniffing, I smile up at her. “Now you sound like Nana.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She turns.

  “Mom?”

  Pausing in the doorway, she glances over her shoulder at me.

  “So…you’re still cool with me visiting Noah in Montana whenever I want, right?”

  She crosses her arms, tilts her head and smirks. “Nice try, Sweetie. Nice try.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Cecilia Dupree

  Day Planner

  Monday, 01/15

  1.

  7 a.m.—Weight Wackers weigh-in.

  2.

  8-noon—Leave open to study for continuing education course.

  3.

  3 p.m.—Pt. Appt.—Joy Cowles (divorcing).

  At eight o’clock, I leave the Weight Wackers diet and exercise center after my workout. Showered and dressed for the office, I walk through the parking lot with my tote bag over one shoulder and my hands burrowed into my coat pockets, on the lookout for anyone watching me. Several days ago, a guy with a camera snapped my picture as I stepped from my car on this very lot. My nerves have been haywire ever since.

  Willa’s on the phone when I enter the office. She points to the receiver and widens her eyes at me. “I’ll certainly give Ms. Dupree the message. Yes, sir, I wrote down the number. We’ll be in touch.” She hangs up. “Girl, you will never guess who that was.”

  I set my briefcase beside her desk and frisk my palms together to warm them. “I won’t even try then. Who?”

  “20/20. They want to interview you about the Parkview Manor sex scandal.”

  “How many times do I have to say this? It isn’t a sex scandal. It—”

  She stops me with an upheld hand. “I’m just calling it what everyone else is.”

  “Everyone else?” Unbuttoning my coat, I sink into the chair across from her desk.

  Willa lifts a second pink slip of paper with another phone number scribbled across it. “People called, too.”

  A tremor ripples through me. It isn’t excitement. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. And it gets worse.” After opening her center desk drawer, Willa pulls out a magazine then holds it up. Newsflash. She passes the tabloid across the desk to me. “Page six. I marked it.”

  The article talks about the “scandal” but is predominantly about me. The therapist who gives others advice on how to live their lives successfully while her own spirals out of control. And there are pictures.

  Me in my car in the Weight Wackers parking lot, scarfing a doughnut before my workout. Bert and his bimbo fiancée kissing in front of his condo. Mother and Oliver dancing at a nightclub, the only two gray heads in a room of gyrating teens and twenty-somethings. A blurry Erin dressed in a skimpy outfit, body painted à la Goldie Hawn in her Laugh In days. The breasts are too large to be hers, though I swear I see nipples poking through the clingy fabric of her top.

  I start to shake. “Where did they get these?” I meet Willa’s sympathetic dark gaze. “They’ve invaded my privacy…my family’s. I’m going to murder somebody, I swear to God, Willa, I am.”

  Tossing the magazine on the desk, I stand, grab my briefcase and start for the door.

  Willa stands up so fast that her chair, which is on rolling casters, bangs into the wall behind her. “Hold it, CiCi. Calm down.” Her phone rings. “Don’t you go do something stupid you’ll regret. Gulp down some air while I take this call.” Her eyes never leave me as she lifts the receiver to her ear. “Cecilia Dupree’s office.” She pauses. “Let me check.” Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, she whispers, “Your ex. Are you here?”

  I take the phone. “Hi Bert.” He’s yelling. “Yes, I saw…no, you listen…I didn’t take the pictures. I’m as pissed off as you are. I—no, Erin hasn’t had a boob job…I don’t know, I can’t be with her every second of the day and night. I guess I could bar all the doors and windows in the house and hide the key.”

  Drawing a breath, I let him rant uninterrupted for a minute, then I start yelling, too. “Well, poor little Natalie. I’m so sorry she’s humiliated. I’m sure it’s not the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last since she’s marrying you.” I slam the receiver down and grab my briefcase again.

  Willa comes around the desk, takes my arm and herds me into my office. “Sit down. Give yourself a minute, then call your attorney and see what he says about this.” I slip off my coat. She hangs it on the rack in the corner. “Girl, I’m telling you, you won’t do yourself any favors by killing Erin or that photographer outside.”

  Slouched in my chair, I blink at her. “What photographer?”

  “You didn’t see that bozo lurking in the bushes out front? He’s been there ever since I came in this morning.”

  I shake my head and blow out a breath. “What a mess.” Propping an elbow on the desk, I cover my face. “Erin…”

  “Don’t be too hard on her. Kids her age all do stupid things. I sure did. Just didn’t get caught on camera, thank you, Jesus.”

  “It’s me I’m mad at, not Erin. What kind of mother doesn’t know what’s going on with her own daughter?” I look up at Willa. “Where have I been?”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, either.” She smiles, her teeth flashing white against her caramel skin. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “Thanks. Put a shot in it, would you? There’s some Southern Comfort in the top kitchen cabinet.”

  “You sure? It’s eight-thirty in the morning.”

  “I promise I’ll get an earlier start on the drinking tomorrow.”

  “Girl, if tomorrow’s anything like today, I’ll join you.”

  The Colby brothers’ secretary finally made it back from maternity leave. She answers when I call for Nate, and in her raspy smoker’s voice, informs me cheerfully that he’s out of the office for most of the day on a mediation.

  “Figures,” I say. “Men are never around when you need ’em.”

  She laughs and agrees, then promises Nate will return my call.

  At noon, fearing a run-in with photographers or reporters if I leave, I order lunch to be delivered and hide in my office. I watch The Scoop on television. Somehow I just know there will be a tidbit about the case, and I’m right. Their “Update” segment practically repeats the article in Newsflash, complete with identical photographs, making me suspect that the same people own the program and the tabloid.

  The phone rings at twelve-thirty. Willa’s out for lunch and I don’t want to answer, so I let the machine pick up. It’s my three o’clock appointment calling to cancel.

  I spend the next couple of hours doing paperwork, then leave before three to drive to Erin’s school. There’s no orchestra practice today, and I want to be waiting when she comes out so I can warn her about the photos, if she doesn’t already know.

  When I spot Suzanna’s Honda Civic in the high school parking lot, I pull to the curb across the street. Suzanna gave Erin a ride this morning since Erin had a flat tire. I wait, my gaze on the door I think they’ll exit.

  Sure enough, they emerge side by side, surrounded by a swarm of other students. I grab Newsfla
sh from the seat beside me and hurry across the parking lot to meet them.

  “Erin!” By the time I reach her, I’m out of breath.

  She stops walking, her books clutched to her chest. “Mom? What are you doing here?”

  I don’t want to make the hike back through the now-crowded parking lot to my car and drag out Erin’s worry, so I turn to Suzanna and nod at her vehicle. “Could we have a minute alone inside?”

  “Oh.” She tucks her long blond hair behind one ear and looks from me to Erin and back. “Sure.” Placing her books on the hood, she digs through her purse and produces a set of keys. She unlocks the Civic then leans against it. “I’ll just wait here.”

  The inside of Suzanna’s car smells like a mix of stale corn chips and perfume. I settle behind the wheel eyeing my daughter, who sits on the passenger side. Her face is pale, her eyes dark and wide.

  “Is Nana okay?”

  “Nana’s fine. It’s nothing like that.” I swallow my sudden nervousness. “The publicity about the lawsuit has gotten out of hand, Erin. I wanted to warn you before anyone says something to you about it. It’s been all over television today.” I hand her the tabloid, already open to page six.

  Her breath draws in so quick and sharp, I hear it. She doesn’t look up from the pictures.

  “I’m sorry, Sweetie. To have your privacy invaded and displayed like this…it’s unfair. I’m just so mad I could—” I blow out a breath. “I’m worried, too. About you. Where was that picture taken? Why were you dressed like that?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mom.” She glances up at me then quickly down again. “I don’t go there anymore. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I am worried.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Not a big deal?” I point at her breasts in the photo and struggle to stay calm. “You’re right. They aren’t big—they’re enormous! Don’t you realize how you look, dressed like that?”

  She turns and stares out her window. “Why do you have to make a federal case out of everything? Who cares how I dress?”

  I lose the struggle. “Me, that’s who. I want you to tell me right this minute what’s going on with you.”

  “Or what?” Her sharp glare pierces me. “You’ll ground me? I might as well be already my curfew’s so early. You’ll forbid me to see Noah? Well, we broke up, remember? And he never felt comfortable coming around anyway. You made him feel unwelcome, no matter how nice he was to you. What’s left? No moving out in the fall? You already struck that down. Taking away my keys? My phone? Fine. Go ahead. I have friends, Mom. You’re not the only person in my life. They’ll come get me if I ask them to, and you can’t stop me from leaving.” She tosses the tabloid at me and opens her door.

  “Erin, wait.”

  “Why don’t you get your own life, Mom, and stop trying to run mine?” She gets out. The door slams.

  Too numb to move, I grasp the steering wheel, my knuckles bone-white. Outside, Suzanna stares in at me, her mouth forming a circle as round as her eyes. After a minute, I force myself to open the door, to step out. With a choked voice, I thank Suzanna. Erin stands beside her friend, her back to me. I want to say something to her, too, but what? I feel like a twisted dishrag, every word, every good feeling and ounce of hope wrung out of me. Nothing’s left.

  Turning away, I walk to my car and drive home.

  Nate’s Porsche sits in my driveway. I find him with Mother at the kitchen table, laughing, mugs of something hot and steamy in front of them. Their laughter fizzles the moment they see my face.

  Mother scoots back her chair. “There you are.”

  “When I called your office,” Nate says, “your secretary said you’d gone home for the day. She told me what’s going on and said you were pretty upset, so I dropped by on the off chance—”

  “I’m sorry.” I toss my copy of Newsflash on the table between them. “I just…” Turning, I start from the room. “I can’t talk right now.”

  In the living room, I sit on the floor and lean against the couch. Max climbs into my lap and licks my cheek. Closing my eyes, I bury my face in his soft, sleek neck. I feel the throb of his heart against my hand. The calm, faithful beat of it steadies me.

  After a few minutes, I look up to find Mother and Nate standing over me. “Oh, Sugar.” Mother wads up the tabloid. “This is nothing but a big ol’ bunch of trash. What they say about you is untrue. You’re a wonderful therapist. You’ve helped so many people.”

  “That doesn’t bother me as much as having our privacy invaded. Yours and Erin’s. Even Bert’s.”

  I stare into Max’s sad eyes. “Let’s not talk about this now. It makes me too crazy.”

  Nate squats beside me. “I have an idea that might make you feel better. Will you come with me?”

  I shake my head. “Thanks but, right now, I don’t think anything can change how I feel.”

  “Sitting around here mulling over your troubles certainly won’t,” Mother says.

  Nate offers his hand. “When I want to pound someone’s head in, this always does the trick. Keeps me out of jail, too.”

  Doubtful, I blink at him. “What?”

  He winks. “Trust me.”

  Relaxing my shoulders, I hold the bowling ball out in front of me, bend my knees slightly, focus.

  “Okay,” Nate calls from where he sits at the scorekeeper’s table behind me. “See that center pin? Imagine it’s the Newsflash photographer. And the one to the right of him? That’s the reporter from The Scoop. You see them?”

  I squint. “Yeah, I do. The plaintiffs who filed suit on me are there, too.” An evil laugh bubbles up from my chest. “Doris Quinn’s son is on his knees begging. Sue Kiley’s trying to hide behind the ten pin.”

  “You going to take pity on ’em?”

  “Are you joking? Like they took pity on me?”

  “Good girl. Give ’em hell.”

  I count to three then take off. My arm pulls back, swings forward, the ball leaves my hand and hits the polished wooden lane with a smooth and satisfying thump. It seems to gather speed as it moves up the center and crashes into the pins, scattering all ten of them.

  I squeal and jump, pump the air with my fist. “All right!”

  “Beautiful.” Nate claps as, dancing a jig, I make my way toward him.

  I pause to bow. “Who’d have thought I’d have a knack for this? I haven’t bowled since Erin was little, and then I mainly helped her.”

  Nate hands me my beer when I stop beside him, then clinks his bottle against mine. Earlier, he informed me that bowling without beer was like fishing without bait. “Feel better?” He stands to take his turn.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Works every time.”

  “You do this a lot?”

  He gets up and holds both palms over the air blower to dry them, then hefts a glossy black ball. “Like I said, it keeps me out of jail.”

  Two games later, we drink another beer in the adjoining bar. In the corner on a tiny stage, a cowboy strums a guitar and sings of unrequited love. He’s far too good for this smoky dive. His voice sounds pure and is filled with such longing the melody pulses like heartache.

  When the song ends and our bottles sit empty, we bundle into our coats and head outside to Nate’s Porsche. He opens my door for me. “You did great in there. Both games were close.”

  I climb in. “Next time I’ll beat you.”

  A minute later, we’re on our way. I thank him for the evening and apologize for my earlier negative frame of mind. “I’ve had a difficult few months. A difficult year, really. Too much change in my life, I guess.”

  “You don’t like change?”

  “I’m not good at it.”

  Since he’s an attorney, I expect him to interrogate me. He doesn’t. But I find I want to tell him everything anyway. If he has this effect on witnesses, it explains why he’s so good at his job.

  “My dad died a little over a year ago. Mother sold their house in
Cleburne and moved to Parkview Manor to be closer to us. Not long after, my husband and I separated. Then Mother moved in. She wasn’t happy at Parkview and I was worried about her failing eyesight. I thought she needed me.”

  All at once I realize my true motive for moving Mother in, and the admission slips right out of me. “Really, I needed her. Bert was gone. Erin started to declare her independence and wasn’t home as much. The house felt so empty.” I felt empty. “Now Oliver and Mother have fallen in love and she’s preoccupied, too.” I glance across at him and feel myself blush. “I didn’t mean to go on and on. God, I sound pathetic.”

  “No.” His eyes hold sympathy. “That’s not only a lot of change, it’s a lot of loss. You’ve had a tough time. Change opens new doors, though.” He shrugs. “Might lead to good things.”

  “I’m too scared to find out what’s on the other side.”

  When we pull into the driveway, Noah’s cycle is parked out front of the house. I shake my head. “He doesn’t give up.” Nate frowns and I point to the cycle. “Erin’s boyfriend. She broke up with him.”

  “Smart kid, that boy. Your daughter’s a good-looking girl. Just like her mother.” He leans across to kiss me. When I turn my head, he hesitates, then kisses my cheek. “Erin’s boyfriend isn’t the only one who doesn’t give up easy,” he mutters.

  His mouth hovers close to my ear, and his quiet, deep voice vibrates through me, raising goose bumps on my skin, bringing all my long-suppressed needs to the surface where they hum and shimmer and ache like that love song the cowboy crooned in the bowling alley bar. And I’m tempted. So tempted. And so afraid. To move my head just a fraction, to let his lips touch mine.

  “Isn’t this unethical?” I ask, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

  His breath warms my cheek. “What?”

  “An attorney on the verge of kissing his client.” I risk facing him and smile. “His client on the verge of kissing him back.”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.”