The Promise Girls

by Marie Bostwick

  Meg Promise Hayes sat in the dining alcove that doubled as her home office, her desk heaped with papers, looking out the window. Mrs. LaRouche was tromping dutifully down the sidewalk, holding an umbrella in one hand and Punkin’s leash in the other. Meg waved and then checked her e-mail, hoping there might be a message from the mortgage broker saying their new client’s loan had been approved. She’s unlikely to hear anything on a Saturday, but checks anyway. With Asher’s winter work wrapping up, they really needed that job.

  Finding nothing in her in-box, she went back to work. As usual, there were more bills than all the rest put together. It was discouraging. She sighed.

  It wasn’t Asher’s fault that building Not So Big houses generated Not So Big profits, or that they never completely regained their footing after the recession. What bugged her was that he wasn’t more concerned about it.

  “We make enough to get by and can feel good about what we do. That’s more than a lot of people can say. I’ve got no complaints.”

  That was Asher in a nutshell: no complaints. About anything.

  After one look at those laughing eyes, Mrs. Hayes decided to name her son Asher, which means “happy” in Hebrew. It suited him. “Happy” was Asher’s default mode and one of the reasons Meg fell for him so hard and so fast—that plus the dizzying, disorienting chemistry between them, an instantaneous attraction that was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.

  Joanie still told the story of what happened when Meg moved to Seattle and Joanie introduced her little sister to Asher, a friend who was helping remodel her decrepit Capitol Hill bungalow. Joanie made lunch for the three of them and spent the whole time talking and talking, trying to fill the silence while Meg and Asher stared at each other across the table.

  “The most awkward hour of my life,” Joanie would say. “But I probably didn’t need to say a word. For you two, there was nobody else in the room.”

  True enough. After one look at Asher, Meg was off the market. Not that she’d ever really been on the market. Until that moment painting was her only love. Asher changed all that.

  His eyes were brown with flecks of gold, and his smile so bright and easy that it was impossible not to smile back. He didn’t have a beard yet, but even then he wore his hair long, in a ponytail that was as thick and strong as stout manila rope. He stood six foot six and had shoulders that went on forever.

  He played the guitar, read voraciously, loved hiking, skiing, and telling terrible parrot jokes. If that weren’t enough, with a load of good lumber and a little advance notice, he could build just about anything you could imagine. He was sweet, funny, considerate, and incredibly masculine, a kind of urban mountain man, the perfect mix of hip and homespun, the kind of man that Seattle was made for.

  What girl wouldn’t have fallen in love with Asher?

  They were married just six weeks after they met. She was nineteen and he was twenty-two. Nine and a half months later, they became parents of a baby daughter, Trina. They bought their first house a year later and barely escaped with their lives when it burned to the ground. Even now, Meg could close her eyes and smell the smoke, feel the heat of the flames, and remember how it felt to stand on the curb with Trina sobbing in her arms and Asher’s arm heavy over her shoulders, watching the flames devour their home, grateful to be alive even as she wondered how and where they were to live.

  But Asher, happy Asher, never complained, not even after realizing the insurance money wouldn’t be enough to replace what they had before. He built them another house—better but much smaller—on the same lot and with his own hands.

  That experience convinced them he should go into business building smaller, smarter, quality-constructed homes. They started RightSize Homes with what little was left in Meg’s trust from the sales of The Promise Girls and thirty thousand borrowed from Joanie.

  Asher was a good builder but a bad businessman. He could construct a 600-square-foot house that was cute as a button, tight as a drum, and as comfortable to live in as one twice its size. But he couldn’t keep track of scheduling, contracts, expenses, and, most importantly, income. Months could pass before he got around to sending bills for his work. Meg gave up painting entirely and became his bookkeeper, scheduler, office manager, and co-designer.

  When she heard of it, Minerva left a voice mail rant about how stupid and selfish Meg was to abandon the artistic gift her mother had sacrificed so much to develop and nurture. Meg blocked Minerva’s number. That worked for almost a year. Then Minerva got a new number. Meg blocked her again . . . and again . . . and again. Now, unless she knew exactly who was calling, Meg let the phone ring.

  In truth, it was a relief to give up the artificial seeds of aspiration planted by Minerva upon her birth. If Meg had been braver, more realistic, she’d have scrapped it all years before, like Joanie. She’d have been happy, like Asher. For a time, she was.

  It was good working alongside her husband, building beautiful little houses that people of modest means could afford, even better to build a business and family and life together, something solid that they could be proud of.

  But this far in, shouldn’t life be a little more certain? Shouldn’t she know for sure what and who she could count on? But she didn’t anymore. She hadn’t for months. That was what bothered her, far more than finances.

  Meg opened the Visa bill and groaned when she saw the total. The screen door slammed and she heard Asher in his work boots clumping into the kitchen.

  “Hey, babe! I dropped Trina off at the Science Center and then went to the job site. They delivered an electric water heater instead of gas, so I’ve got to return it. I thought I’d swing by, grab some food, and say hi.” He opened the refrigerator and started rooting around. “Do we have any of that leftover quinoa salad?”

  “Trina finished it,” she said without looking up from her work.

  Asher came into the alcove carrying a container of potato salad and a spoon. He stood behind her and bent down, pressing his lips onto the curve where her shoulder became her neck.

  “How’s your morning going? Feel like taking a break?”

  “Asher, not now. Really.” She twisted her shoulders, breaking contact. “We’re either three thousand dollars under budget or six hundred over. I need to figure out which.”

  “Bet I know,” he said with a wry smile. “And what difference does an hour make? We’ll be just as broke at one as we are at noon, won’t we? And since Trina’s not home . . .”

  He lowered his head again. Meg scooted her chair closer to the desk and sat up very straight, refusing to look at him.

  “Asher. Stop. I’m not in the mood.”

  He was quiet, so quiet that she thought he might have left the room. But after a moment he walked around to the side of the desk. For once, he didn’t look happy. He took the credit card bill from her grasp and laid it down on the desk.

  “Meg, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. You haven’t been in the mood for six weeks, three days, and fourteen hours. Not that I’m counting or anything.” A wisp of a smile broke through his somber expression, but quickly dissipated. “We’ve never gone six days before, let alone six weeks. It’s not just the sex. I miss you, Meg. I feel like you’re a million miles away.”

  Meg felt her jaw set. “I’m tired, that’s all. And drowning in paper. I’ve got to get the tax stuff organized, pull together that new bid—even though I’m sure they’re going to go with somebody else—all the husband could talk about was price per square foot. I also have to write the grant application for the new computer lab at Trina’s school by myself.”

  “Wait . . . I thought Rhonda somebody-or-other was helping you with that?”

  Meg shook her head. “It’s Robin. And now she can’t. Her mother has cancer so she has to go to Florida. I’m fine. Just tired. Tired, overworked, and overwhelmed.”

  He studied her as she talked, his brown eyes searching.

  “And you’re sure that’s all. There’s nothing you want to tell m
e?”

  “No!” she snapped, irritated by his prodding. “Anything you want to tell me?”

  His concern turned to confusion. “Like what?”

  Meg grabbed the Visa bill and stabbed her finger toward one of the charges. “Like what you bought for $478.28 at Best Buy?”

  “That was the telescope. For Trina’s birthday. We talked about it.”

  “Not for five hundred dollars we didn’t. Do you know how tight things are for us right now?”

  “It’s her birthday,” he said, as if this should be explanation enough. “You only turn sixteen once. And it’s not like it’s something frivolous, like a toy. You know Trina. She’ll use this for years and . . .”

  His voice trailed off. He stood there. Meg could see he was struggling, trying not to lose his temper. She almost wished he would.

  “You’re right,” he said at last. “We should have picked it out together. Listen, I’m going back to work.” He squeezed her shoulder and carried his dishes back to the kitchen. Meg wilted in her chair and rubbed her forehead, feeling guilty.

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “you’re picking Trina up at the Science Center. Her workshop ends at noon.”

  “Great. Downtown traffic.”

  “You want me to go instead?”

  “No, no. Get the water heater. We’re three weeks behind schedule already.” Meg spun around so she could see him. “Hey. Sorry I’m such a witch today.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled that everything-is-fine-nothing-is-ruined Asher smile that she knew so well, then grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and headed toward the back door. “By the way, your sister called me.”

  “Which one? Joanie or Avery?”

  “Joanie. She called me to find out why you haven’t returned her calls.”

  “It’s spring—sort of. Bid season, tax season. I’m busy.” Meg furrowed her brow as she tried to remember what she’d charged for $62 on PayPal.

  “That’s what I told her. She said to tell you to call back anyway and that she hates CoupleQuest.com. Oh, and something about some guy who wants to make a documentary about you and your sisters. She said not to tell you about it, so if she brings it up act surprised. Mostly I think she wanted to vent about the dating thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” Meg said distractedly. “Tell her she’s never going to meet anybody if she doesn’t make an effort. It’s not like some great guy is just going to knock on her door and declare himself.”

  “Yeah, I’ll let you tell her. See you tonight. Love you.”

  The door slammed. Only after she heard the truck pull out of the driveway did Meg whisper, “Love you too.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Meg’s desk still wasn’t clean, but she had sorted out the accounts. Sure enough, they were already over their monthly budget. She made an online funds transfer from savings, then checked her cell phone.

  Joanie had called her again. So had Asher. She didn’t have time to talk to either of them now. Asher was probably calling to check on her and ask, yet again, if anything was wrong. In previous days, she’d thought his solicitousness was sweet. Now it felt stifling. Or disingenuous? Time would tell.

  Meg checked the time. If she didn’t leave in the next five minutes, she’d be late picking up Trina. She ran into the kitchen, plugged in the Crock-Pot, then went back to her desk to check her e-mail one last time, still hoping for some good news. Instead she saw a message that she hadn’t been expecting for another two weeks, one that could allay her suspicions. Or confirm them.

  For a moment, she thought about hitting the delete button and forgetting that any of this had ever happened. But it was too late for that. She had to know the truth.

  She scanned the e-mail, absorbing figures and percentages, charts and graphs, until she reached the bottom and knew for certain that her suspicions had been correct. Even so, she sat there for a long moment, trying to wrap her mind around it all, feeling her heart pound but nothing more, feeling numb.

  What was she supposed to do next? Whom should she talk to first and when? What was she supposed to say?

  She scrolled down to read other files, the ones that were supposed to be merely diversionary, finding more figures, more charts, more evidence, a conclusion she could never have anticipated.

  “Dear God,” she whispered, her head dropping to the back of the chair, as if the weight of newly attained knowledge made it too heavy to hold. “I don’t believe it.”

  She lifted her gaze to a wall filled with family pictures, eyes focused on a photograph of herself and her sisters taken at a barbecue in Joanie’s backyard.

  “How could she? After all this time . . .”

  Meg’s heart hammered even harder. Numbness gave way to anger and she felt her fingers clench into fists. She spotted another picture, one that Asher had taken four years before, in August.

  They had gone camping at Mt. Rainier to see the peak of the Perseids meteor shower, hiked the Skyline trail, and posed for a picture near Panorama Point.

  Trina was shorter then. Meg stood behind her daughter, draping her arms over Trina’s scrawny shoulders, looking over the top of her head. The sky was so bright, the bluest of blues, the mountain so close it looked like you could touch it. They were the only people on a trail that cut through a meadow carpeted with purplish blue wildflowers. It was a perfect day.

  Meg remembered squeezing Trina, wishing she could hold on to her child and that day forever. In the photo, Trina tilted her head, smiling up into Meg’s eyes. She had lifted her hand to rest it on her mother’s cheek. Asher had snapped the picture, preserving the moment, in a way granting her wish.

  Meg closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She couldn’t give in to her emotions. Not now. She had to get her daughter, get through this day, and consider her options. It wasn’t just about her.

  * * *

  Usually, Meg avoided I-5 when it was raining. But it was the only practical route to get downtown. Since it was early she thought maybe she’d get lucky.

  She didn’t.

  Meg squinted through the opaque haze left by windshield wipers that should have been replaced months ago, overwrought and anxious and late, stuck in the middle of a line of cars with red brake lights that stretched for miles. Her cell rang and she picked up without looking at the screen.

  “Trina? Sorry, honey. Traffic is a nightmare. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Meg?” The woman’s voice sounded surprised. “It’s me. Don’t hang up.”

  Meg was quiet for a moment. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t a mother talk to her daughter? It’s been more than a year.”

  It had been two years, but Meg didn’t say so. In Minerva’s hands, any contradiction or even an innocent observation could become a hook to drag others into one of her dramas. Best to say as little as possible. She thought about hanging up; she wasn’t quite sure why she didn’t.

  “I don’t have time for this today, Minerva. Just tell me what you want.”

  She expected her mother would now cut to the chase. Instead, Minerva surprised her by saying, and in a voice that sounded as if she really cared, “You don’t sound like yourself. What’s bothering you, sweetheart?”

  Meg was bruised, feeling vulnerable. She had to fight back the desire to open up to her mother, like she had in the old days, and tell her everything. But that was crazy. Just crazy. Minerva wasn’t trustworthy. She never had been.

  The rain began to subside. The neon necklace of brake lights changed from red to pink as cars began to move, first at a crawl, then something akin to a steady walk. Meg inched her aged, rust-bucket Subaru forward.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just tired. I spent the whole morning doing paperwork.”

  “Paperwork.” Minerva puffed dismissively. “Are you painting?”

  “No.”

  Of course she wasn’t painting. Minerva knew that. Meg pressed her foot more firmly on the gas. The speedometer progressed from ten, to twenty, to fort
y.

  “Well, there you are,” Minerva said.

  Meg could envision her throwing up her hands and setting her mouth into a self-satisfied line, the way she always did when she felt she’d won the argument, whether or not she actually had.

  “No wonder you’re tired. Who wouldn’t be? Playing secretary to that handyman you married.”

  “Asher’s not a handyman, he’s a contractor.”

  “So? He’s not much of anything if he’s willing to let you waste your talent. You’ve got a gift, Meg. It’s meant to be used. You’re not tired, you’re bored. And blocked, creatively blocked. What you need to do is start a new canvas. Get back to the work you were born to do, not shuffling around piles of papers. You’re an artistic genius, Meghan. You cannot be happy unless you’re creating.”

  I am not a genius! None of us is. Not me, or Joanie, or Avery. It was a lie, a way for you to live out your own demented fantasy through the lives of your children!

  Meg drove faster now, tailgating a blue Prius. Feeling trapped, she lurched into the open left lane with barely a sideways glance and swallowed back the silent harangue in her head.

  Arguing with Minerva, she reminded herself, especially about her epically bad parenting, was like trying to argue philosophy with a drunk: All you’d end up doing would be shouting the same thing over and over. And in the morning, not only would the drunk remain unconvinced, he wouldn’t even recall the conversation.

  “Minerva, what do you want?”

  “I got a call from a man named Hal Seeger. He makes documentaries. He wants to make a film about the book, about all of you.”

  Meg frowned. This was another of her mother’s delusions; it had to be.

  Minerva’s rise to fame had been meteoric. Her downfall had been even more spectacular, more a high-speed crash than a downfall, taking all of them with her. But no one cared about Minerva or her daughters anymore. And thank God for it.

  “He’s a famous director,” Minerva went on, the rush of words signaling her excitement. “One of his documentaries, Spells the End, was screened at Sundance. You remember it, don’t you? It was about homeschoolers competing in the National Spelling Bee.”