“Yes, but—”
“And what about your husband? Are the two of you just shitty family history repeating under a different roof?” I’d forgotten Sam’s abruptness. Despite the remark, laughter ignites a zing of pain through my cheek. “I’m afraid that’s going to hurt worse before it feels any better.”
“Are you talking about my face or my husband?”
“Like I said, is history repeating?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Rob’s not my parents.”
Sam places the check on the dresser. “I don’t know enough about your life or your marriage to get how you feel about it . . . him. But you are standing here. You told me a hell of a story last night. You did . . .” He stops. “From what I see, you still don’t have a lot of love for the girl who looks back in the mirror.” I glance away from him and all nearby mirrors. “There’s a big part of you that likes people to see nothing but the trouble part. I get it. It’s self-preservation, kind of like readying the beers before ole Hudson burns you with a cigarette. I understand how far a person would go to avoid that kind of pain.” My gaze cuts sharply to his. “But you’re a good person, Liv, and you should know that.” I attempt to speak; he cuts me off. “And another thing I’ve learned in the past year or so, life’s not that long, sweetheart. Whether it’s a house or a husband, know what to save. Know what to walk away from. Don’t waste time.”
Instead of looking at Sam, I glance at the rumpled sheets. Hotel room beds are amazingly telltale compared to everyday ones. “Last night must be is a good indication of how I feel about my marriage . . .” Something sinks hard into my gut—sleeping with Sam, it’s one giant counter argument to everything he’s saying about me. Good people don’t make these kinds of mistakes. “And last night, no matter your opinion of me . . . It’s right on par for the girl in the mirror. I’m not wrong about myself, Sam.”
He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I can see why you might think that given the circumstance.” Sam’s line of vision travels the same route as mine, landing back on me. “If it weren’t for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He points to the culprit bedding. “Nothing happened, Liv. Nothing that should make you dislike the girl in the mirror even more. You cried . . . you bitched. You bled. Once that all calmed, it did get hot and heavy. Then, um . . . then you stopped.” I narrow my eyes at Sam’s recollection. I honestly have no idea what happened last night. “The same way you did a minute ago.”
A weight I might not have imagined lifts from my entire being. “Nothing . . .”
He comes closer. “Don’t give yourself all the credit.” He hesitates and grins. “But you know me—that was never my style, doing other guy’s girlfriends . . . wives.”
“But the other day, in the parking garage. You all but . . .”
“Hell. Clearly, I’m tempted. But I was a few drinks in the other day.” He frowns. “Weaker moment. But it didn’t happen then . . . Or last night. Got it?” He studies my bruised face. “You don’t remember any of it?”
“No. I don’t.” Sam pulls me close, and I hang on for dear life. “Back in the day,” I say, “it’s one reason you always stuck so close. One of us could handle our liquor . . .”
“The other was there to make sure nothing bad ever happened.”
“Right.” I feel tears soak into the undershirt that Sam is wearing, the one matching mine.
“Last night, you needed a body in the bed. That was all.”
“It’s still hard to believe nothing . . .”
He holds on tighter. “Don’t push it, Liv. I’m reasonable. I’m far from perfect, and I just did ask you to run away with me.”
“But you weren’t serious.”
“I wasn’t not serious.”
“Thank you for saying that.” I feel his mouth on the top of my head. “Thank you for wanting me . . . for not making a bad situation worse. No matter what Rob’s done, I don’t know how I could face him if we’d . . .”
My words trail off as his lungs fill with air. And in this moment, I’m so very grateful Sam Nash is alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Olivia
Street parking is full, the sidewalk thick with joggers and people enjoying a late-fall day—shopping, coffee at a café, sightseeing if they are in town for the weekend. As I hurry up the brownstone steps, the glances of strangers brush over my bruised and gowned appearance. My thoughts layer like falling leaves, piles of them. Maybe Rob isn’t home. Of course, the alternative to that is more disturbing. With my hand on the knob, I stop. I imagine the three of us in a showdown. One where Sasha has rolled out of my bed, her pixie frame and silky toffee-colored skin wrapped in Rob’s wrinkled white dress shirt.
Conversely, my appearance will come with its own shocking statement—the combo of streaky mascara, a burgeoning black eye, and unknown whereabouts lending curious talking points. My hand brushes over the beaded gown—surely a frock worn so early in the a.m. equals an admission of guilt. I step inside the brownstone and hear a low rumble of voices, including Rob’s, along with a strange man, and . . . my mother?
I inch around the corner. A policeman is in my living room. There is a pang of déjà vu; it’s about thirty years old. “Jesus, Liv!” Rob puts down his coffee cup and darts across the hardwoods. “Are you all right? Where the hell have you been?” He grabs my shoulders and gives me a shake that’s hard to label. “You bitch; you kept me up all night”? Or “Darling, whatever became of you? I’ve been worried sick . . .”
“I take it this is Mrs. Van Doren?”
“For the moment,” I murmur. Rob offers a confounded look before replying.
“It is.” He turns back. “For God’s sake, Liv, what happened to you?”
“I fell.” Although I suspect it’s not what he’s asking.
My mother, who has the advantage of previous vanishing acts, is more direct. “Too much to drink, Olivia? And is it still considered running away from home when you’re forty-six? I’m curious.” I purse my lips and my gaze turns evasive. She jerks upright from the sofa—age not slowing her accusations. “I told you,” she says, speaking to Rob and the policeman. “Whatever stumbles my daughter made last night, she’d ultimately be fine.” Her glare drops from my bruised face to my hands. “Fingers in one piece?” I flex them and nod obediently. “I guess that’s something.” The police officer and Rob’s mouths are agape. “This is precisely what I said, Olivia reverting to old behaviors, bad habits—two authority-related episodes inside ninety days. It’s classic. Her father will be disgusted but hardly shocked.” Her misspeak draws my glance, but I don’t say anything. She turns to me. “Of course, now that I know the catalyst—Sam Nash having pulled a bad penny trick—it all makes sad sense.”
“Eugenia, please. You’re not helping,” Rob says. But clearly he’s brought my mother up to speed on the many things that are not her business. “Where have you been, Liv? We checked the local hospitals.”
“Did you check the local bars, hotels?” she asks.
“Eugenia.” This time Rob’s teeth are gritted. He reverts to me. “What do you mean you fell?”
“Tripped,” I offer. “Getting out of a cab last night.”
“Did the cab get lost?” he asks. “Or should I assume your destination wasn’t home?”
The questions are a blend of accusation and concern, as if Rob is unsure what side he should come down on. Although the cop in the room indicates he was leaning toward concern. On the other hand, it could be that Sasha has advised this scenario. Having his state of mind on the record is surely in Rob’s best interest. Can’t say I’m surprised not to find Sasha here. It reads like a bonus confirmation of their . . . relationship.
“Mrs. Van Doren,” the cop says again. “I’m Officer Wheeler. Your husband contacted us early this morning, like three a.m. early. He says last night, without any warning, you left an affair.”
“Or she went to one . . .” my mother chimes from under her breath.
> The officer, who is a sizable African American man, absorbs much of the energy. He ignores my mother and presses the question. “Mrs. Van Doren, did you leave the event of your own volition? Are you all right?”
“In what sense?” My tone mimics the one I used with Judge Nicholson—unresolved authority issues. “I’m fine . . . Well, except for the obvious,” I say, holding up my scraped forearm. “I’m sorry for the trouble. The bruises are my fault. I’m not in need of police assistance.”
“End scene!” My mother claps her hands like she’s at the opera. She sits again, looking blankly at the officer and Rob. “What? I’ve attended this performance before. Though I will say her creativity has dampened—perhaps her stamina. Home in less than twenty-four hours? Vanishing to New York for five days when you were sixteen, then another four six months later—now there’s a showstopper meant to get your attention.”
The policeman flips closed his notepad. “So solely a domestic issue then? One that doesn’t reflect on your injuries?”
“That’d be one way of describing it.” He continues to stare at my rumpled appearance. “I fell. I swear; Rob wasn’t anywhere near my collision with concrete.”
“Still, Mrs. Van Doren, if you’re feeling at all unsafe . . .”
My mother interjects. “Honestly, officer, if you knew my daughter . . . Tell me, Olivia. Do you ever think? It could have been broken fingers instead of scraped-up arm, bruised face. How would that look—”
I hold up a hand, speaking louder than my mother. “I don’t feel unsafe.” I assume this is proper code for abused spouse. “I’m perfectly fine in my own home. Again, I’m sorry for the confusion.”
The officer taps his pen against the leather-covered notepad. His gaze moves around the inviting interior of the brownstone. I believe we all feel his point. Socioeconomic status is not an indicator of domestic harmony, or lack thereof. He starts for the door, but passing by Rob, he stops. “This is my regular beat,” he says to us both. “One way or another, work it out. Let’s keep this to a one-time visit if we can.” He exits, the door shutting hard enough to rattle bric-a-brac.
Rob comes back into the living room; his eyes don’t move from my disheveled appearance. But it’s my mother who attacks first. “What do you have to say for yourself, Olivia?”
“As you can see, Mother, except for some slight wear and tear, I’m fine. The rest really isn’t your business.”
“The hell it isn’t.” Her coffee cup hits the coffee table with a startling thud.
I move as far as the matching club chairs, and my fingertips dig into the plush back. “No, it isn’t. When I was fourteen . . . and sixteen . . . and even twenty, you got to do this. But the window has long passed. I appreciate you rushing over here because . . .” I narrow my eyes. “Exactly why are you here—just for the floor show?”
She stands. “Because your husband called at three a.m., wanting to know if my daughter had shown up. I found the question disconcerting since you haven’t spent a night in the Wellesley house in more than twenty years.”
“And if only I could have avoided the twenty plus years before that!”
“Typical ingratitude. See it however you like, Olivia. But—”
“Enough—both of you!”
Rob is standing near the bar, hands clenched in tidy fists of anger. “Your mother came out of concern, Liv—no matter how you translate it.” My mother only has time to smile before Rob finishes his thought. “Other than that, Eugenia, Olivia is right. This is between my wife and me. I appreciate you coming over, but as you can see, she is . . . basically in one piece, so . . .” His hand waves toward the brownstone door.
Her head tilts compliantly at Rob. If he looked good before, I’d imagine his stock has risen in multiples since three a.m. She makes a slow gliding exit, as if mentally forming each word on her approach. She leans in. “You’re right, Olivia. This isn’t about us, something far beyond repair. But remember the things I warned you about.” A whoosh of fall air rushes past as she exits.
Silence fills the space the police officer and my mother invaded. Rob is at the bar, his arms leaning into it. I have no urge to speak first. Sasha and Rob—by not making an audible accusation about the two of them, it won’t be true. Or maybe I just want them to confess it.
Rob does no such thing.
“Are you all right?” A sideways glare cuts to me. “Physically?”
“I’m fine. Nothing a little hydrogen peroxide and pair of sunglasses won’t fix.”
“Good.” He stands erect. “Then do you want to tell me where you were all night? Or better still, why?” He is in negotiator Rob mode—demanding yet coaxing.
He can be cunning to a fault, and I do not wish to be on the receiving end—at least not until I’ve had a shower, used the hydrogen peroxide. “Not really.” I turn and start to head up the stairs.
His bare feet thunder across the hardwoods. At the stairs, he pounces and grabs my unscathed arm. I lose my balance. Rob closes in, pinning me between him and the wall. A safe recovery or cornering his prey? “I don’t think so, Liv. You can beat the shit out of my car with a bat, but you don’t get to do this. You show up looking like you’ve spent the night in an alley—which might be easier to hear. Wherever you’ve been, on top of that, I’m notified of your abrupt departure via a cryptic message from the other spare man in your life.”
“Cryptic message . . . Spare man?”
“Yes. Theo McAdams. The other thing—since your ex showing up—that’s turned you into someone I don’t know. From the moment you met him, something’s been more off than usual. So start there. Why does some kid you barely know approach me like he’s going to take my head off, and then inform me you’ve ‘left the fundraiser’?”
“Did he?” I feel a tickle of motherly pride. “Theo and I are friends. Don’t let him bother you.”
“He does. But forget the kid, Liv. Get to the point. Where have you been and why?” His hand is gripped like a rope around my wrist. It’s unlike Rob. Keeping cool is his MO. But is he rattled because of what he’s done, or because I’ve gone off script? He breathes out anger and I suck it in. Then he draws his own conclusion. “You’re fucking kidding me? Tell me Eugenia Klein did not hit the nail on the head about your ex . . . whatever he is,” Rob says, his free arm thrusting upward.
I don’t shrink from the innuendo, my back scraping against the wall as I rise up one step. We’re eye to eye. “Wow. I can’t decide who has more nerve, you or my mother.” I come at him with bolder words. “Or maybe it’s Sasha.” He knots his brow. “You go first. Then I’ll be glad to have a discussion about Sam Nash and my night.”
He lets go. He looks startled, like negotiation tactics have taken a sudden nosedive. “Are you admitting that’s where you were last night—with him?”
Anybody else would find his offense appropriate. But I’m well versed in Rob Van Doren bluffing. “Yes,” I say, smiling. “I spent the night in Sam’s hotel room.”
“Liv . . .” Distress settles over his face and his tone is riddled with disbelief. Nice touch. He swallows hard, like there’s no spit in his mouth. Rob backs off the step and retreats into the foyer. “Honest to Christ, you’re just going to stand there and tell me you spent the night with your old boyfriend . . . ex-husband, whatever the fuck he is? You’re not even going to preface it with ‘Honey, we need to talk . . .’” He shakes his head. “Who . . . who the hell are you?”
“I said I spent the night at Sam’s hotel. I didn’t say I had sex with him,” I say, empowered by Sam’s disclosure. “Of course, I can see how deflection is a smooth move here, considering.”
“Considering what? And why are acting like you’re the injured party? Better still, why are you so pissed off at me?”
While I’d like to play Rob’s cat and mouse game, I don’t have his for taste blood. Emotion wins. “Shut the hell up with the injured-husband routine, Rob! I’m not the one sleeping with somebody’s best friend.”
He blink
s at me, his head almost vibrating back and forth. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I know about you and Sasha. You can cut the stunned-spouse crap anytime.”
He is painfully silent; his mouth hangs open. “Sasha?” My tears from last night begin to well. He runs his hands through his dyed haired. “Liv, hold on a minute. What is it you think . . .”
I come down the three steps. I’m sorry I do. The false height felt like the upper hand. “I don’t think, Rob. I know,” I say sharply. “But I’m not so terribly blind or self-absorbed not to get it. Everything from impromptu lunches to cozy phone calls.”
“Cozy phone calls?”
“Yes,” I say, teeth slightly gritted. “First it’s a chummy call on the house phone—a number Sasha rarely dials. Then it’s a more telling conversation, or maybe I should say intimate one on the library balcony.”
“Do you know how paranoid that sounds?”
“Do you know how evasive you’re being?”
He widens his blue eyes, shaking his head tersely. “If I was talking to Sasha on the house phone, it’s because she did the dialing—ask her. As for the library balcony . . .” He stops. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“You bet. And worth the Miss Manners slip considering the earful I got. Something like, ‘Sure, Liv will be pissed, but she’s tough. She’ll get over it.’”
“Sasha was returning my call. I’d asked her, lawyer to lawyer, if she’d review a long shot but potential loophole in the contract involving the Wellesley house.”
“And I’d need to get over that because . . . ?”
“I don’t even remember saying that to her.” His expression is a designer-worthy ensemble, fall’s dumbfounded look. “I did rush to end the call because she went off on a tangent about . . .” He takes a deep breath. “Jesus, Liv. This is just absurd.”
“Not from my perspective. Particularly after you add it to the lovely tip-off souvenir from The Bed?” His face perplexes. “The Bed,” I repeat. “Manhattan’s Most Exquisite Small Luxury. You stayed there recently.”
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