“You’d still have an IP address. She may be crazy and reckless, but she isn’t stupid. I’m sure she could figure it out, if she hasn’t already.”
“Oh. Well, so what? We were going to talk to her anyway.”
“True, but . . .” He drifted off in thought.
“But what?”
“Never mind. I’ll handle it.”
“Handle what?”
“Zoe.”
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought, but I’m telling you to forget about it. I’ll take care of this. Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course,” Lizzie said.
“Good. Then go about your business, and pretend this conversation never happened.”
Lizzie wasn’t sure she could keep that promise, but she agreed anyway because, at the moment, she knew she didn’t really have a choice.
* * *
That afternoon, Lizzie’s mom called. Lizzie had barely said hello when her mom jumped in.
“Before you say anything, I want you to know that I’m sorry,” she said. She sounded as if she were in a car, speaking on Bluetooth. “I should have told you about the lumpectomy. About all of it, really. I was just scared. I’m still scared, if I’m being honest. But when I found out, I panicked, and I knew you had a lot on your plate and didn’t want to upset you. If I’d known you’d end up finding out from your dad . . .” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean for it to go that way. I’m really sorry.”
Lizzie took a deep breath. She was a bit taken aback by her mother’s apology. Lizzie had developed a script in her mind of how the conversation would go when her mom finally called back: She would act defensive and tell Lizzie she was sorry but that it wasn’t her business and she was sure she was doing the right thing, and Lizzie would say it was her business because she was sure coffee enemas were not the right thing, and her mom would say, Says who? and Lizzie would say, Says the FDA and the American Cancer Society, and her mom would say, Oh, those liars, and Lizzie would say, You want to talk about liars, and then she’d tell her about Zoe. It had all gotten very emotional and heated in Lizzie’s head.
But her mom didn’t sound angry. She sounded contrite and a little scared and, well, like the mom Lizzie knew and loved. So instead of launching into a detailed, point-by-point explanation of why her mother was headed down a fool’s path, Lizzie simply said, “That’s okay,” even if deep down she still didn’t fully feel that way. “I just wish you would have trusted me enough to tell me.”
“Oh, sweetie, it had nothing to do with trust. Of course I trust you. It’s more that . . . well, it’s hard to explain. Someday when you have children you’ll understand. I didn’t want to burden you with my problems. I’m supposed to take care of you, not the other way around.”
“But I want to help you.”
“I know you do, sweetheart, and I appreciate that. But I’m fine. I’m feeling much better, and I’m getting help from some really great people.”
“I actually wanted to talk to you about that. Dad said you’ve been experimenting with alternative treatments.”
“Hello? Lizzie?”
“I’m here. Can you hear me?”
“Sorry, sweetheart, I think you’re breaking up.”
Lizzie moved to the far corner of her bedroom. “What about now? Better?”
“I . . . oh, boy, I’m losing like every other syllable. Damn it. I’m using the Bluetooth in Gary’s car, and I’m not . . . Hang on. Maybe if I pick up the phone.” Lizzie heard rustling on the other end of the line. “How do you disconnect the Bluetooth? Do I press . . . oh, wow, no, that was definitely the wrong button. Why am I looking at a number pad? No. Back. Go back. Ugh.”
“I hope you’ve pulled over the car,” Lizzie said.
“What? I’m sorry, I still can’t hear you. Maybe the problem is on your end.”
“I can hear you fine.”
“What’s that? You think it’s mine?”
Lizzie was losing patience. “No, I said I can hear you fine,” she shouted.
“It’s all coming out like gibberish. I’d say I’d call you back, but I’m at my doctor’s office and I’d be late for my appointment. Why don’t we talk later, or maybe tomorrow?”
“Okay, but before you go I need to tell you something.”
“Does that sound okay?”
“Mom!”
“Yeah?”
“The stuff you’re doing doesn’t work. That site you read? The Clean Life? It’s all bullshit. There is no Marie. She died five years ago.”
“Sorry, sweetie, I’m still not hearing you, but let’s definitely talk later. Sorry again for not telling you about my diagnosis. I hope you understand. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Lizzie said, but her mom had already hung up.
* * *
Another day passed without any sign of Zoe. More disconcerting to Lizzie was the fact that by the next morning her mom still hadn’t called her back. Was this Gary’s influence? Lizzie’s bemusement with Gary as a partner began to morph into animosity. Screw him. She had overlooked his quirks because he seemed to make her mom happy, but if he was the one behind her sudden aloofness—not to mention her experimentation with quackery—then Lizzie had no use for him.
Lizzie decided to take the reins and called her mom’s cell. This time, it didn’t even ring and went straight to voice mail. She left another message:
“Mom—it’s me. We need to talk. I tried to tell you yesterday, but you couldn’t hear me. I know the author of one of the sites you’re reading—The Clean Life?—and she’s a fraud. Don’t believe all this stuff you’re reading online. I can tell you more about it when you call me back, so . . . call me back, okay?”
She knew leaving a message wouldn’t be enough, but she hoped she’d dangled enough details in front of her mom that a return call would be imminent.
The day wore on, the house eerily quiet without the Silvesters or their usual houseguests. Jim and Kathryn had taken Sam and Barb out on their boat for the day, and Lizzie hadn’t seen Nate since dinner the night before. Kathryn had given Lizzie the day off, but with everything going on, Lizzie was having trouble relaxing. She tried to lie by the pool on one of the lounge chairs, but she found herself looking over her shoulder every few minutes, half-expecting to find Zoe staring at her through one of the windows. She relocated to the beach, but it was a brutally hot afternoon with a minimal breeze, so after twenty minutes she gave up and headed back to the house. After a failed attempt at taking a nap, she’d run out of ideas.
Ultimately she decided to use her free time to clean out the pantry. If she couldn’t relax, at least she’d be productive. She pulled out a big trash can and began pitching stale crackers and tortilla chips. She was surprised at how many half-empty bags and boxes she found. She and Renata were pretty good about using up whatever items were already open before they opened something new. Had they really been so careless to let all of this go to waste? There were water crackers that had lost their snap and seeded flatbreads that smelled musty and sour cream and onion potato chips that probably would have been fine if they hadn’t crumbled into a million pieces. There was even a half-eaten bag of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish at the back. When had they served Goldfish? Lizzie couldn’t remember a single instance.
She chucked it all into the trash, and as she tied the top her phone trilled with a text message. She glanced at the screen. The message came from a Philadelphia-area number she didn’t recognize:
Want to meet up tonight?
Was it Nate? Her instinct said yes, but Nate lived in Washington and, from what she knew, hadn’t lived in Philadelphia for something like fifteen years. Would he really still have a Philadelphia number? She supposed she did, even though she’d lived in New York for nearly a decade. Before she could text back, her phone trilled again.
I’m thinking The Princeton at like 9 or so
Lizzie had never been to The Princeton, but she was pretty sure the crowd th
ere skewed young. At the very least, it catered to more of a party crowd, not mid-thirties professors who studied gentrification. But then Nate had gone to Princeton University, so maybe this was his idea of a joke. It wasn’t a particularly good one, but he had also used the word “egg-cellent” the day before, so already she had doubts about his sense of humor. She texted back:
That sounds good. Assuming this is Nate. This is Nate, right?
Yup its me, see you then
She stared at the screen. No apostrophe in it’s? Nate was rapidly losing his allure.
Btw, how did you get my number?
Before she could wait for a reply, Renata came into the room. She seemed agitated. “Miss Lizzie, there is something I think you should see.”
Renata led Lizzie down the stairs and through the mudroom into the driveway. The evening sun sat low in the sky, so Lizzie held up her hand to block out the glare. Zoe’s car was gone, but Lizzie’s mom’s Honda sat in its usual spot. Renata guided her closer, and as Lizzie approached, she noticed huge scratch marks along the side, as if someone had keyed the passenger door. Most of the marks were wild squiggles, but Lizzie swore the drawing beneath the door handle said: “F U.”
“WHAT?” Lizzie knew she was shouting, but she didn’t care. “When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I just noticed it as I was clipping flowers for the kitchen.”
Lizzie looked closer. Someone had definitely written: “F U.”
“Zoe did this, didn’t she?”
Renata frowned. “I don’t think so. Her car has been gone all day.”
“She could have walked.”
“Why would she walk home and leave her car somewhere else? It doesn’t make sense.”
Lizzie knew Renata was right, but she couldn’t think why anyone else would want to deface her car. The Silvesters’ house was highly unpopular with Avalon locals, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize the 2007 Honda Accord didn’t belong to one of Philadelphia’s wealthiest families.
“I’m sure the Silvesters know a good body shop,” Renata said.
“Oh, goody.” Lizzie didn’t want to contemplate how much a paint job would cost. “You know, if they’d closed their stupid gate, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Perhaps they will cover some of the cost.”
“You think?”
Renata shrugged. “You never know.”
Lizzie was pretty sure she did know, and what she knew was that the Silvesters would take one look at her beaten-up sedan and decide it wasn’t their problem. She didn’t have the funds to pay for all of the repairs herself, but she couldn’t imagine asking her mom to kick in the difference, especially given what she was going through. Hey, Mom, I think you should pay for chemo and radiation, and oh, by the way, could you pay to have your car fixed too? I kind of messed it up.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she let out a sigh. It was another text from Nate:
Haha, sorry, I got your number from Katherine
Lizzie clicked off her phone and stared at her keyed car and was so distracted by the damage that she didn’t even notice he’d misspelled Kathryn’s name.
CHAPTER 33
Lizzie walked into The Princeton and looked for Nate, but he wasn’t there. She was a few minutes early, so she tried to scope out a good spot to wait for him. The bar seemed like a logical location. It was big and rectangular and took up most of the room. But even at nearly nine o’clock, the counter was thick with tanned youngsters whose night of partying had already begun. The only hope she had of standing out was by the DayGlo paleness of her skin.
Nevertheless, she found an empty barstool at the far end and decided to claim it. She held her purse on her lap and ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc.
“You want to open a tab?” the bartender asked.
Did she? She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend all night here or that Nate would want to either. The bar crowd made her feel old. It was hard to have a serious conversation in a place like this, and at one time that had appealed to her. But now she didn’t want to shout over screaming drunk people or nod as she pretended she’d heard what Nate said when really she had no idea. She’d rather be somewhere quiet, like the beach or a restaurant or her room.
“No, thank you,” she said before sliding a twenty across the counter.
She sipped her wine and scanned the room. Still no sign of Nate. She wondered where he’d been the past day or so. Even before they’d slept together, they would pass each other in the kitchen and hallway or Nate would make one of his supposedly impromptu visits into the butler’s pantry. But now he seemed to have pulled a Zoe. Was he avoiding her? She knew she shouldn’t be surprised or offended. He was her boss’s son. Things could get painfully awkward if he decided he wasn’t interested. But he’d also given no indication he’d lost interest, and she couldn’t think of another reason he would keep away from her. He’d also arranged this rendezvous, so he obviously wasn’t trying to ditch her. Unless ditching her was the entire point of this meetup, which she supposed was a possibility.
She glanced at her phone. No messages or calls. Nate was only a few minutes late, so she wasn’t worried (yet), but it had been more than twenty-four hours since she’d spoken to her mom. Until now, Lizzie had given her mom the benefit of the doubt (maybe she was rethinking her treatment and was meeting with new doctors), but now Lizzie was officially pissed off. She sent her mom a text:
Are you planning on calling me back? As in, this century?
Normally she would have called instead of texting, but it was too loud at The Princeton and the last thing she wanted was another bad connection where her mom could claim they’d spoken when really they’d merely talked across each other.
Lizzie laid her phone back on the bar. She felt a tap on her shoulder. She swung around expecting to see Nate, but instead she faced a blond twentysomething in a strapless black tube dress.
“Would you mind taking a picture of us?”
Lizzie peered over the woman’s shoulder to see a group of women huddled together, each with a cocktail or glass of wine in her hand. They wore assorted colorful dresses and rompers, their hair ranging from glittery blond to coppery brunette. They were all white. For that matter, so was everyone in the bar. Actually, now that Lizzie thought about it, so was nearly everyone in Avalon. She was white, too—a blindingly pale shade, at that—but she wasn’t used to such homogeneous surroundings. From her elementary school to her apartment in Brooklyn, she’d always lived among a diverse set of races and religions, if not cultures and classes. She wondered if that was why April hadn’t been back. April hated being the token non-white face or having people look at her quizzically and ask, “So what are you, exactly?” Instead of replying “biracial,” April used to stare at people coolly and say, “Bored,” before turning around and leaving. Lizzie always loved her for that.
Lizzie took the woman’s phone from her hand. “Sure,” she said.
The woman scurried to join the group. Lizzie held up the camera. “On the count of three: one, two . . .”
Lizzie marveled as some smiled and others put on their best pout. Was this what she’d looked like with her friends when they’d gone out in their twenties? Probably. She hoped they’d at least been a bit less vain but knew that was wishful thinking.
She handed the woman’s phone back and looked at her own. Still no word from Nate. Had she misread the message? She pulled up his texts. He definitely said The Princeton at nine. It was now nearly nine thirty.
“Hey, don’t I know you?”
Lizzie looked up. Zoe’s friend Trevor had slid between her and the stool beside her.
“Oh, hi,” she said.
“Partying solo. I like it.”
“I’m meeting someone,” she said.
“Lucky dude.” He leaned in. He smelled like booze and pot. “Or chick. I won’t judge.”
Lizzie forced a smile. Trevor was the kind of guy she had never liked: cocky, preppy yet poor
ly groomed, and seemingly only interested in partying and picking up women. Even in her college years Trevor’s type had never appealed to her, and it certainly didn’t now.
Lizzie checked the time. “It’s a ‘dude.’ And he’ll be here any minute.”
“Got it. Well, since he isn’t here yet . . .” He flagged the bartender. “Miller Lite for me. And for the lady . . . ?”
Lizzie had drunk less than half her wine. She nodded at her glass. “I’m good. Thanks.”
The stool beside her opened up, and to Lizzie’s dismay, Trevor took it. “How’s that for timing?” he said as he lifted his beer bottle to his lips. He took a sip. “So where’ve you been? I never see you out.”
“I’m usually working.”
“Yeah, but I mean after that.”
“I’m usually in bed.”
“Seriously? Come on, girl. It’s summer. Live a little.”
“I’m a little old for that kind of thing.”
“No way. You’re only, what? Thirty-five?”
Lizzie tried not to flinch. “Thirty, actually.”
“Really? Wow. That’s definitely not super old. My mom was totally still partying at thirty. She’s still partying now and she’s, like, I don’t know . . . fifty?”
“Good for her.”
“Right? I ran into her at the Windrift the other week and was like, ‘Dude, Mom’s still got it.’ ”
Lizzie wished her seat had an ejection button. “I’m not sure I ever had it, to be honest, so . . .”
“Not true. Zoe said you were on TV or something, right?”
“A while ago. It was a cooking show.”
“That’s what Zoe said. It got canceled, right?” He took a sip of beer. “That must feel pretty shitty.”
“Back then, sure, but a lot of time has passed. . . .” Trevor was possibly the last person she felt like confiding in.
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