by Wendy Wax
“I might have been if you’d taken me into your confidence at any point before you announced it to the world. This . . . secret life of yours . . . this public admission . . . demonstrates a complete disregard for my church and everything I stand for.” His hands fisted at his sides. His eyes were hard, as if all of their warmth had been suctioned out.
“You don’t mean that,” Faye whispered. “I helped you build Clearview because of what you stood for.” Her own eyes narrowed, not because of her hurt and anger, which were all too real, but in a futile effort to see the real Steve.
“And now you seem to be single-handedly trying to tear it down,” he said.
“That’s not true.” Faye backed away from her husband, no longer wanting to see what might remain behind Pastor Steve’s façade.
“Isn’t it?” His grimace of disappointment in her—and the ease with which he passed judgment on her—rankled.
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with the benefits of living with Shannon LeSade,” Faye retorted. “She helped put the kids through college, helped build your church, earned the seed money for Clearview’s charitable works.” She looked deep into Steve’s eyes, still searching for the man she’d married.
“And our lovemaking—all that great sex?” She smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. “Did you never wonder why our sex life just kept getting better at an age when most couples’ is on the wane?”
His eyes flickered for a moment, but his face didn’t soften. His lips set into an even firmer, and in Faye’s opinion, more judgmental, line.
“You had no problem living with Shannon LeSade—as long as you didn’t have to know it.” Her own jaw set as she tried to push past her disappointment in him. “You want to know why I didn’t tell you?” she asked, finally understanding the true reason behind her inability to confide in him. “Because you didn’t really want to hear it. Any more than you want to know anything at all about me that isn’t a flattering reflection of you!”
He didn’t acknowledge or dispute her accusation. “I don’t have time for theories and rationalizations,” he said, his tone clipped and dismissive. “Right now, the key to this whole mess is damage control. My congregation is upset. The media are having a field day. We’re going to have to make some sort of joint statement.”
It was then that she realized just how deeply the pastor had buried the real Steve Truett. Her husband would have wanted to understand her feelings and motivations. They would have mattered to him because they mattered to her.
Pastor Steve was all about how to fix things so as not to jeopardize his position or upset his flock. And one of the things that had to be fixed was her.
42
Everything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And later on you can use it in some story.
—TAPANI BAGGE
Tanya could barely get up in the mornings. Making it to the Downhome Diner on time, which used to be hardwired into her internal clock, became harder and harder. In fact everything had become too difficult for words.
Darby had called the day after Tanya got back from Chicago to tell Tanya regretfully that Masque was dropping her, which meant no anthology, no lead category titles. “I’m sorry, Tanya,” she said. “I was looking forward to hiking part of the Appala- chian Trail with you before the national conference in Atlanta this summer. And”—she cleared her voice because Darby had a large heart but lived in fear of letting anyone know it—“you’re one of our most popular authors and one of the, um, easiest to work with.” She cleared her throat again and Tanya could picture her running a hand through her spiky blond hair. “I’ll miss working with you.”
Tanya had hung up the phone and confronted the fact that she was now a waitress and a Laundromat attendant. Not a professional writer. She’d picked up her cell phone immediately, wanting to call Kendall. Or Mallory. Or Faye.
When she remembered they weren’t talking to each other, she locked herself in the trailer bathroom and cried.
By the end of the week, Tanya’s customers were watching her warily. Tanya knew she needed to snap out of it before they fled her section altogether, but she just couldn’t seem to concentrate.
“Darlin’,” Jake Harrow said carefully. “I ordered steak and eggs.”
“Yeah?” She’d been thinking about the media circus still surrounding Faye’s unmasking and word that she’d been refusing to “repent” in front of the Clearview Congregation. Last night when Tanya had been surfing reader websites she’d seen Mallory’s recent posts and the flurry of fan comments, which seemed to be evenly split between those willing to forgive Mallory for not sharing her true personal life with them and those whose sense of betrayal made them swear they’d never buy another one of Mallory/Marissa’s books no matter what she called herself.
“I realize I’m no expert,” Jake said, “but this looks a whole lot like corned beef hash.” He paused, his expression pained. “With maple syrup poured all over it.”
Tanya looked down at Jake’s plate. “Aw, shit,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jake. I just . . .” To her complete horror, her vision blurred with tears.
“And, um . . .” the long-haul trucker beside him smiled apologetically, although it was clearly Tanya who should be doing the apologizing. “I ordered coffee. This is Coca-Cola.” He pushed it toward her with a grimace. “Diet Coca-Cola.”
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “I am sorry. I . . .” Tanya reached for the plate and glass, but Belle swooped in front of her and snatched them up.
“Tanya,” Belle said, “why don’t you go on in the back and get ahold of yourself?” Her look added, And do it quick. “I’ll make sure Jake and Graham here get their breakfasts just the way they like them.”
Belle pressed the wrong orders into Tanya’s hands for disposal and began to flirt with the two regulars. “I’m sorry about the delay,” Belle said. “But we’re going to get you all squared away. And your breakfasts will be on me.”
Tanya left Jake and Graham protesting Belle’s generosity, but it was clear they were pleased. It was rumored Belle had once given away a stick of gum some time in the seventies, but she continued to deny it.
Tanya scraped the plate into the garbage and put the plate and glass into the dirty dishpan. Then she went to sit on a stool near the open back door of the kitchen, trying to understand why she was so tired and confused now that she no longer had to sit up hunched over her laptop into the wee hours of the morning, and got a whopping seven hours of sleep every night.
Brett moseyed over and leaned against a tall metal shelf of restaurant-sized canned goods. She could just make out the words This End Up poking out from behind his dark hair. She’d spent the whole week either avoiding or ignoring him, but she was too far off her game today to expend that much effort.
“You look like you’ve been in a nuclear blast,” he said.
“Me?” she asked, irritated that she’d let her guard down enough to get cornered. Or that he’d summarized her life so easily. If he offered so much as an ounce of sympathy, she’d have to work up the energy to move.
“Hell, yes, you.” He folded his arms across his muscled chest. “You’ve been floating around here all week like you don’t know who you are or what you’re doing.” He peered at her as if he were trying to see right inside her. “What’s got into you?”
“You mean other than the fact that I made a fool of myself on national television, lost my book contract and my friends, and completely pissed off Trudy by telling the world that she’s an alcoholic and a horrible mother?”
“Rhonda was not the most sympathetic character I’ve ever read,” he admitted, once again surprising her.
“You read Sticks and Stones?” Tanya met Brett’s gaze, certain that he must be joking. “When?”
“As soon as my mother called and told me I was in it.”
Tanya groaned. “Go ahead. Make a joke. File a lawsuit. Tell me I had no right to co-opt your life and call it fiction.” He had a hell of a lot of nerve smilin
g comfortably when her whole world had crumbled like an ancient pile of dog shit.
“It’s kind of hard to object to being described as ‘ruggedly handsome’ and a great father. I mean I did blush a little when you described my sexual abilities in bed but . . .” He shrugged. “I guess that’s the price of fame.”
“God, you’re full of yourself,” she said, irritated and, as always when it came to Brett, intrigued. “And I guess it’s my fault.”
He laughed at that, his smile lighting up his whole handsome face. She wished to hell he wasn’t so good looking.
“That’s too bad about your contract and all,” he said. “I thought this was your best writing ever. But I bet it won’t take you any time at all to find another publisher. You just have to write something else.” He shrugged as if there was no reason in the world why she shouldn’t do this.
“My name is blacker than mud right now in the publishing industry. Masque’s dropped me and I’m going to have to work more hours or pick up a third job to replace that money. I wouldn’t have time to write if I wanted to.”
She didn’t add that the idea of writing without her friends behind her just made her heart hurt. She imagined she might be able to find a way to do it. But did she want to?
“You know, if it’s just a matter of some money to tide you over while you write,” Brett said, “I could . . .”
Tanya’s head shot up. “No. No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll get this worked out. I don’t need to be leaning on anyone.”
He looked at her strangely. “You are the prickliest woman I have ever known. Taking a little help when you need it doesn’t make you a bad person. Or a weak one. When people care about you, they want to help if they can. And I can.”
“Well that’s very nice of you, Brett,” Tanya said. “I appreciate the offer. But I am not interested in depending on anyone for anything.”
“We all have to depend on someone for something,” he said.
“I don’t,” she said. “I won’t.” She looked him in the eye. She would have liked to be the sort of person who could accept his offer and believe things would turn out well. But she knew better.
“That’s how disasters happen,” she said. “People lull you into this false sense of security. They act like they want to take care of you; that they’re always going to be there for you. And then they never are.
“My mother gave birth to me and that was the last time she willingly lifted a finger for me. I made the same mistake with Kyle, my ex. ‘Oh, don’t worry so much, Tanya, baby. You don’t have to work so hard. I’ll always be here for you and the girls!’
“Ha! One whiff of motor oil and he was off to the next race. Every once in a while he remembers he has two children and sends me fifty bucks. Think I should have listened to him?”
She was on such a tear now she couldn’t have stopped if he’d had an answer, but he didn’t.
“And then I meet Mallory, well, except that’s apparently not her real name. And Faye. Of course, she’s not who she said she was, either. And Kendall, who is what she appeared to be, but whose life I got way too wrapped up in.
“They saved me. They believed in me as a writer and a person. They were my best friends. My mentors.” She smiled sadly, certain she must look every bit as stupid and pathetic as she felt.
“They were my ‘peeps.’ ” She started crying full out then, which really, really sucked. “And now when everything’s fallen apart, where the hell are they?
“I just lost my best friends,” Tanya said, not liking the whine in her voice one bit. “And they never even thought enough of me to tell me who they were. Why would I ever let myself in for that again?”
She felt like an idiot crying in the back of the Downhome’s kitchen. He thought it was so simple. He thought he could say, “Here I am” and she’d just faint dead away into his arms in appreciation.
“Because we’re good together,” he said. “And because I’m not your mother or your ex-husband or your writer friends. I’ve never run away from a damned thing in my life. And when I say I’m somewhere, I’m there.”
She shook her head, dashing the back of her arm against her eyes to swipe away the tears. It would have been so wonderful to be able to believe.
“I never would have thought you’d turn out to be such a coward,” Brett said. “You act all tough and hard, but you don’t even have the guts to have a relationship with me!”
She wanted to argue, to yell some, to tell him he was full of it, but he was right. She was hanging on for dear life and she simply couldn’t take the risk.
Tanya Mason couldn’t afford to lose one more thing.
A little over three weeks after her ill-fated appearance on The Kristen Calder Show, Faye Truett had had enough censure to last a lifetime. Her daughter refused to speak to her or allow her time with her granddaughter. Her husband, who seemed to have almost completely disappeared into the persona of Pastor Steve, came and went. But though they continued to live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, and sometimes even spoke to each other, they no longer communicated.
Faye, who had always prided herself on her ability to take action, couldn’t figure out what action to take.
For the first time in almost thirty years, she faced no deadlines and had nothing she needed to write. Her presence at the church she’d helped found was no longer welcomed. Even at Rainbow House, the volunteers and staff’s discomfort made her reluctant to spend time there.
More than anything Faye wanted to talk to Kendall and Mallory and Tanya, to talk about what had happened to them and what might happen next. But she was ashamed of all that she’d kept from them and felt lost in a morass of her own making.
She, who had always been so busy, now spent her days either pacing the confines of her home or walking in the Botanic Garden or along Lake Shore Drive. She’d never felt so alone or so unsure.
She was in the midst of one such walk that Wednesday when her cell phone rang. She’d almost stopped carrying it since almost everyone had stopped calling. When she flipped open the phone to check the caller ID and saw Sara’s number, she allowed herself to hope for reconciliation. But when she answered it wasn’t her daughter’s disapproving voice she heard. It was her granddaughter’s piping one.
“Gran Gran?” The five-year-old voice was wobbly and worried. “Where did you go? How come you never comed over to see me anymore?”
Faye stopped walking as she tried to get her breath; Becky’s hurt had sucked it right out of her.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Faye said. “I’m so glad to hear your voice.”
“But where are you?” the little girl asked plaintively. “I been missing you.” And then, “Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Oh, Becky, honey. Of course I do!” Faye swallowed back her tears, ashamed that she’d let things slide so far. Even in the midst of the standoff with Sara, she should not have allowed her granddaughter to feel abandoned. “I’ve just been . . . busy,” she said. “But I should have called to let you know.”
She paused, realizing that this was the first time the five-year-old had ever called on her own. “Where are you, sweetheart? Did somebody dial the phone for you?”
“The babysitter helped me,” Rebecca confided. “I showed her the ’mergency list with your number on it. But I don’t think I’m supposed to tell my mommy. She’s at yogurt class.”
There was a pause while the child apparently thought about this. “Is it lying if you don’t tell somebody you did something?”
This, of course, was the million-dollar question. For years Faye had wanted to believe the answer was No. That somehow her charitable ends justified her potentially objectionable means. That the sin of omission was smaller and more forgivable than that of an outright lie.
But that had been rationalization pure and simple, Faye thought, as she considered her response. A cowardly way of doing what she wanted to without facing the consequences.
And when she had finally told the truth, it was
only because she’d felt compelled to protect Mallory and Kendall. Not out of any sense of moral necessity.
“You shouldn’t keep anything from your mommy, Becky. It’s OK to tell her we talked,” Faye said. “And I’ve missed you so much. I’m going to talk to your mommy, too. And you know what else?”
Faye’s mind began to move more nimbly, sorting through possible courses of action, considering and rejecting. “I’ll see you at church on Sunday. I’m going to come by your Sunday school class right after services so we can visit.”
“Do you promise, Gran Gran?” the little girl asked. “Will you really?”
“Absolutely positively,” Faye assured her granddaughter, incredibly relieved to have made a decision. It would take a veritable army to stop her. “I can’t wait to give you all the great big hugs I’ve been saving up for you.”
Faye hung up the phone and continued her walk as she sorted out the best way to do what she’d just committed to. One thing was for certain. She was finished hiding as if she’d committed some mortal sin.
Sara and her group had been after her to denounce what they still insisted on calling pornography and apologize for embarrassing the Clearview congregation. Even Steve seemed to want her to speak out. She’d avoided church these past weeks rather than give in to the pressure, but she was more than ready now to address the congregation.
How they were going to feel about what she had to say was something else altogether.
43
How do I know what I think until I see what I say?
—E. M. FORSTER
Mallory was sick to death of posting apologies all over the Internet and blogging about her thoughts and feelings to anyone who owned a computer. She was even sicker of pacing the brownstone and fending off the quiet.
She hated not talking to Kendall, Tanya, and Faye. And she especially hated how much she missed Chris. But no matter how many times she picked up the phone and started to punch in his number, she couldn’t seem to actually place a call.