Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “And you’d put that in a book? Why?”

  “Because I know what sells—particularly when it comes to American tragedy.”

  “That’s your incentive?”

  Shep narrows his eyes at me but continues. “Survival is my incentive. Mrs . . .”

  “Van Doren,” I say, glad I did not share Klein with him.

  “Any idea what a newspaper salary pays compared to the earnings of a bestselling author?” My gaping mouth furthers Shep’s defense. “You can’t hold me responsible for the public’s desire to watch a train wreck. Don’t blame the messenger.”

  “But you’re fine with the public plunking down fifteen bucks to read it.”

  “More like $24.95. My agent’s sure it’ll be hardcover, maybe a bidding war.” He gives me a long once-over. “Hey, don’t worry about your buddy’s heartbreak. If Theo had married the Church girl it might have made for a juicy mention. As it is, who cares? Of course, being as I know the adoption detail . . .” I widen my eyes. “I might be more curious than Claire about Theo’s pre-adoption past. Is there anything there that makes his story worth telling?” Shep winks at me. “It’ll take some digging, something I excel at. But don’t sweat it. What are the odds the kid’s biological roots will make my book any more of a page-turner?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Olivia

  My heart pounds the way it did the day I gave Theo away. It won’t be tragedy, but it will be tabloid fodder if Shep Stewart learns the facts about Theo’s adoption. I made it private. I didn’t seal it in a tomb. With Shep’s admitted dogged determination, he’ll figure it out. When it turns out Theo’s biological father is a household name, famous athlete, it will be Shep’s book hook. Theo didn’t want to be part of Shep’s human interest pieces in a Boston newspaper. Imagine how much he’d hate being part of a twisted best seller. I glance into Bates Hall and at the corner behind me, the one into which I’ve painted myself. What the hell am I going to do about it?

  I could confide Shep’s end game to Claire. But what are the odds she’ll believe me? And if she does, she’ll want to know why I’m so interested in protecting her son’s private life. Worse, I do not like what I’ve just learned about Theo’s mother. It sounds like something my own mother would have orchestrated: “Olivia, your friends are a reflection of you . . . and us. Sarah Schaffer’s parents are divorced; her mother had an affair. It’s all over town.” Then years later, with Sam: “Olivia, what is he exactly? The icing on your defiance cake? Did you go to UNC looking for the boy with the most unsavory background? What did we do to deserve this?”

  It could be that Claire McAdams is a stealth-like version of my mother. Through the crowded room, Claire soaks up the many accolades being cast upon her. She is popular and well received. Her personal tragedy gives her status that will never be questioned. Everyone wants to be her friend; everyone wants to help make her life easier. But my chat with Shep brings a different lens. It appears much of Claire’s unconditional love for Theo is tied to his inbred perks—something for which she can thank his biological parents.

  Shep’s other bombshell slides back to center: Theo and India. According to Theo, Claire was devastated when his fiancée left him. Maybe it was just a good disguise for relief. The urge to do something with Shep Stewart’s information is palpable—Claire’s controlling nature and the potential fallout of Shep’s tell-all book. Yet I’m wary. This is the place where I generally make a colossal mistake. I can’t afford one. Talking it through would be wise. Of course, at the moment, my list of viable confidants is shorter than Claire’s. I can’t tell the whole story to Rob, though he seems like my best bet. Rob’s entire wheelhouse centers on being smart with slippery information. The exit into the library hall, it’s the direction Rob went. A few twists and turns through the crowd and hall and I spy him on an exterior balcony. He’s still on his phone. I keep moving, formulating an abbreviated version of the facts as I go.

  Two separate French doors frame the balcony. The one to the right is partially open. I slip through without touching it. Rob is alone, facing the library courtyard. Behind me is the garbled noise of partygoers. His words carry crisply on November air. “Sash, it has to be done. We agree on that much. All I’m saying is it’ll be better coming from you. The way things have been between Liv and me lately . . . It’d just be one more blow up I don’t need—” I freeze and listen. His voice sounds soft, tender. “Yeah, well, I don’t know that saying it was accidental is going to carry much weight in terms of an excuse . . .” If biting down on a gasp is possible, that’s what I’m doing. “Hey, you know Liv. She’ll be pissed. But she’s fairly indestructible.” He looks at his phone. “Listen, I’ve got another call. It’s important. Can we talk about this later?”

  Fascinating, a call more important than the one easing his mistress’s guilt? But Rob doesn’t take it, ending the call with Sasha and tucking his phone in his jacket pocket. It could be that my husband has too much of a hard-on to do business. Rob turns away from me, heading for the other French door, and disappears inside. He never sees me as I step farther outside.

  Scenes from a heated affair and covert rendezvous plummet into my gut. Champagne and a salmon puff rise back up. Pinning myself to the balcony’s concrete rail, I note that I am two stories high. The fall will not kill me. However, it may maim me to the point of permanent injury, surely a lengthy hospital stay. I am rushed by images of my husband and best friend keeping vigil at my bedside. Each holds a hand as their gazes tangle over me, one part remorse, two parts unbridled passion. Clearly, it’s not the way they’re used to spending time together near a bed. Sasha and Rob would be forced to wallow in their guilt while tending to my every need. God knows I have no child to step in and assist me.

  I pull in a stabbing breath of icy air. It’s cold and it hurts. I grip concrete that’s as dense as my body feels. A different vision slips into focus. Rob and Sasha’s bedside manner only lasts for so long. Rob is too bottom line and Sasha is too busy. Soon it’s a convenient fact that I’m a broken body in a vegetative state. It leaves plenty of room and excuses in my brownstone bed. Before long Sasha’s moved her straightening iron and drawers of cosmetics into my bathroom. I wonder if Rob has seen her without makeup—still attractive, but it does cause a double take the first time. Regardless, my clothes are relocated to the guest room. Even a size-four wardrobe needs closet space. On the empty balcony, a sound emanates from my throat, something like a slowly dying animal.

  The holidays. It would have to be close to the fucking holidays. I will spend them alone—with my mother, packing up the Wellesley house if Rob can’t do me the exit courtesy of saving it. Eugenia and I will move in together, to a walkup rental on the outskirts of the city. Someplace with a zip code that she won’t want to share with her friends; she’ll keep a Boston post office box. Once we’re settled, my mother will spend the rest of her life telling me how I went wrong with mine. Wait. That doesn’t seem quite right. She likes Rob better. There’s a good chance she’ll choose him. I am divided on the outcome of this particular scenario.

  “Liv?” I hear my name, but my feet don’t move and my body won’t turn. “Liv, the folks from the chamber orchestra are done. It thought maybe you’d want to say thank you . . . or good-bye . . . Liv?” I force myself about, swiping at streaks of mascara. The light out here isn’t good, but it’s bright enough. “Liv, what’s wrong?” Theo has never looked or sounded so much like his father.

  “Nothing.” Tears and visibly shaking hands call me a liar. Theo rushes toward me, and I sidestep him with the utmost caution. An outpouring of sympathy, exacerbated by Theo’s own broken heart, is hideously disturbing. Again . . . thank yourself, Liv . . . “Rob,” I start rambling, folding my arms in keep your distance body language. “I just overheard . . . Remember I said it’d been a rough week between us.” He nods. “I have confirmation it’s about to get rougher. Rob . . .” I slap my arm the direction my husband has gone. “He’s having an affair. I overhea
rd a conversation . . .” I force out the rest. “I think he’s in love with my best friend.”

  “With your . . .”

  Theo cannot fathom anything so sordid. I recall his strong reaction to Sam’s response to him. Things like loyalty, obligation, and doing the right thing; these are the qualities that define Theo McAdams. No wonder India was so devastated by her own act of weakness. Theo is hard to live up to. I whip toward the courtyard view and blink furiously. My God, imagine from how many angles I’d be a disappointment . . .

  “Jesus, I’m sorry, Liv. Are you sure?”

  “About as sure as I can be, short of the two of them sending me Snapchats from a motel room.” Through a dripping of tears, I smile. “Seriously, it’s not totally unexpected. It was probably always a matter of time.”

  When I married Rob, I lived in the moment. I was thirty-nine. Our union wasn’t focused on dreamy rest of your life visions that come with marriage in your twenties. I’d done that. It imploded. Rob isn’t driven by romantic ideals—or at least he wasn’t. It was part of what worked. I didn’t require rose petals; he didn’t have the first clue what to do with them. Seems he’s figured it out. We squeezed our wedding date into a judge’s tight schedule, the symphony’s fall dates, and Rob’s intense negotiations with a Japanese-based business venture. It was fine. Come to think of it, the judge declared us married without ever mentioning forever.

  “My friend. Sasha.” I swallow and grip my stomach. “I never thought she’d . . .” My teary gaze connects to Theo’s drier one. “Though maybe I should have . . . Did I tell you that’s how Rob and I met?” Theo shakes his head, understanding that he shouldn’t speak right now. “Sasha, she went on a date with him first. She kissed him. She even told me he was a good kisser—can you believe that?” I graze fingertips over my lips. “But because Sasha is always looking out for my happiness, she passed him off to her best friend. The one who’s a whirlwind of unstable energy.”

  “Liv, you might be impulsive and say what’s on your mind, but I don’t think—”

  “Theo.” He shuts up. “Do you have any idea what I did to earn one hundred community service hours?” He doesn’t reply. “I was upset over a bad business deal. Instead of talking to my husband about it, I beat the shit out of his Porsche with a baseball bat. Then I mouthed off to a judge, telling the man to go fuck himself.”

  He manages to keep shock in check. “Okay, so everybody does stupid things, Liv. Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “Not at my level. For me it’s an art form. I may be even slightly better at it than I am at playing the violin.”

  “I don’t believe that. And whatever you’ve done, it doesn’t justify what your husband and friend did—or are doing.”

  I draw in more cold air, maybe enough to freeze dismal pain. “You’re very sweet, Theo. You’re also naïve. I’ve been building toward this particular disaster for some time.”

  “You talk like you deserve this.”

  “Trust me. I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “I’m not a bad judge of character, Liv. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re a good person. I watch you with those kids at Braemore. You’ve tried.” My expression turns doubtful. “Okay, so teaching is not your thing.” He looks to the courtyard view and back. “Look, I didn’t say anything because . . . Well, you didn’t. But last week . . . You’re responsible for the brand-new instruments that turned up in my classroom, aren’t you?

  I pull in a shaky breath. “That’s a bold assumption given the circumstance.”

  “Only proves how sure I am about you. Hands-on mentoring isn’t the only meter for being a good person.” His gaze jerks toward the crowded library. “Neither is executing a soirée that, while beneficial, will also make all the society pages. In fact, it could be argued that anonymous efforts are the most selfless.”

  “Don’t do that, Theo. Don’t take one episode of unselfish behavior and slap my image on it. It’s distorted and it’s not true.”

  “Listen, my mother is so absorbed she won’t notice if I’m gone. Why don’t we get out of here, take a walk.” He waits anxiously for a reply. “I do that,” he adds, “when I need to think. I take long walks.”

  The mirroring habit startles me. But because I have so thoroughly deceived Theo, my only option is an acquaintance-like observation. “When India told you what happened with her old boyfriend, is that what you did—walk?”

  His expression sobers, but he’s not about to deny a near-hysterical woman some truth. “No. That part I dealt with because I wanted to convince us both we could fix it. That it was jitters, a few drinks—maybe some risky memories. I did the walking when India told me it was over, when she left me. I save walking for really shitty moments.”

  “How many of those could you have possibly had?” I squeeze my eyes shut at the obtuse remark.

  “On top of everything else, on 9-11, the Boston Police Department had to go searching for a ten-year-old boy. I’d managed to make my way from our house to Fenway. My dad and I had gone to so many games . . .” Theo’s shifts his shoulders. “I thought for sure I’d find him there.” He crunches his forehead—another recognizable mannerism. “At the time, and to a ten-year-old, it seemed more rational than what did happen to him.”

  “I’m sorry. My question was incredibly thoughtless.”

  “Thoughtlessness is understandable given the circumstance.”

  A fresh stream of tears comes. They aren’t all connected to Rob and Sasha. While it was not a future I could have predicted, I am culpable for Theo’s fate and the fate of my marriage. This may be the largest cumulative Liv mess ever. I’m struck by how far and how long it would take to walk to the Santa Monica Pier. Rob alone, Sasha alone, I don’t know that they could drive me to that. But together, with Theo’s lifelong loss tossed in . . . I should start heading west right now. I can’t; I’m wearing completely the wrong shoes. But with Theo waiting, I am forced to make a believable recovery. “I get the walking part, Theo. More than you know. But walking, right now, together, it’s not a good idea.”

  “Okay, so we’ll go somewhere. Talk. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee . . . or maybe a drink.”

  Great, even worse . . .

  “Please, Liv . . . Let me help.”

  “Why?”

  He pauses. His mouth, so like mine, gapes a bit. It forms the same O of vagueness when we are at a loss for words. “I can’t explain it. Not in sentences,” he says. “But since you’ve come into my classroom . . . maybe my life.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know . . . you just make sense to me.”

  I move my hand through sprayed hair. He’s picked a wonderful moment to acknowledge blood kinship. Our eyes meet. The compassion in his is something I need more than my next breath. But I haven’t completely lost touch with reality. I tell him no thank you—I have an old friend in town. I don’t want to burden Theo with my problems. I head for the set of French doors that Rob used to exit. I turn back. Theo so wants to help. If he knew the truth, he’d likely toss me over the balcony rail. “Can you do one thing for me?”

  “Sure. Name it.”

  “Would you tell Rob I wasn’t feeling well and that I left?”

  “Would you mind if I punched him in the face first?”

  It’s the grandest show of support I’ve ever felt. My heart swells. Then it deflates because it makes reality hurt all the more. Theo is a wonderful caring human being. It’s no thanks to Claire—so I’ve decided—or me or Sam or even a dead David McAdams. Theo is proof that not everything is a result of nature or nurture. There are anomalies. I glance back at the drop overlooking the courtyard cement. I’m sorry we’re not on the roof. My husband, in all likelihood, is in love with my best friend (I’d hate to think it’s just about sex). The child and relationship I forfeited twenty-six years ago stands five feet away. Yet for all the good it will do me, I might as well have left him in New Zealand.

  Infants and small children weren’t my strong suit
at twenty-one. That fear lent rationale to giving up Theo. But a relationship with an adult child—I might have been better at that. I sigh into night air. None of it matters. None of it will ever happen.

  Worse than this, Theo’s heartfelt offer of friendship and empathy isn’t what I crave—not in the part of me that acknowledges him as my son. And right now, it’s unconditional love that stings the most. It’s the love of a husband that now belongs to my best friend. It is the love of a son that doesn’t belong to me but to Claire McAdams. It seems I have lost everything, even the things I never really had.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Olivia

  It’s close to midnight when my cab pulls up to the Embassy Suites. This location was not my first intention, nor my first stop. In the past two hours I have learned there are four friendly bars between the Boston Public Library and here. All of them served Macallan on the rocks. Icy rain hits the cab window as the driver asks if he has the right hotel. “Right hotel. Different life,” I slur. But there’s no one left to confide in, only the long-lost comfort zone that is Sam Nash. For a moment, I debate going home. I shove two twenties at the driver, signaling my choice.

  Like I told the last barkeep, turning back time is the only way to avoid what’s in front of me. Sid, a chatty Brit who poured large portions, agreed. “Love . . .” He said in the way Brits do. “If you can turn time back, I say run off and bottle the stuff.” He thumbed over his shoulder, rows of liquid forgetfulness lined up behind him. “I’d never peddle another drop of that, but I’d sell second chances by the bloody pint.”

  A half hour ago, it sounded like a suggestion. I left Sid and his eighty-proof potions, grasping at alternative ideas about turning back time.

  Getting out of the cab, I trip on the curb. The thickly accented driver rushes around to my prone position. Even this drunk I’m embarrassed. Whether it’s Farsi or Turkish, I hear phrases of acute concern. It heightens my urge to escape the public eye. He helps me to my feet. Having face-planted into concrete, I am impressed by alcohol’s ability to do its job. The sting is dulled. Seconds later, someone from the hotel is there, bracing a bloody elbow, asking if I’m all right. Dabbing at my cheek, my fingertips come away bloody. Regardless, I swear I’m fine and push past the cab driver and hotel employee, mumbling that I won’t sue if they just let me get to my room.