Vicki laughs softly. “I can tell by your silence it was indeed a rough night.”
“You could say that. Can we rain-check for tomorrow?”
“No way. I’ve decided that as your newest and, let’s be honest, only girlfriend, I am sworn to uphold all our standing plans lest we both drown in the murky waters of suburban white-girl ennui.”
Phoebe laughs despite her pounding headache. No more bourbon for her, ever. “Did you double up on your happy pills today or something?”
“How did you know it was Double Dose Wednesday? Now get up and make yourself look decent for real. I am taking us out today.”
Cold strings tighten around her gut. “Out?”
“Yes, Rip Van Winkle. Out. Let’s go flaunt our Amex cards in the village. I’ve been wanting to hit all those cute little shops since I got here.”
Phoebe quietly groans. Her favorite thing about Vicki has been her complete lack of interest in things like going out or having girly shopping excursions. But at least she only wants to go down the road and not to the Magnificent Mile. In the middle of a weekday, it will be quiet. “All right. I’ll be ready in an hour.”
“Bazinga!” she cries. “People are still saying that, right? Come over when you’re ready. It’s nice enough that we could even walk if you want.”
She nearly groans again. Exercise? “Sounds great!” she says, trying on chipper for size and finding it a poor fit.
After the phone call, she lies back down for a few more minutes, hoping to pump herself up. Maybe Vicki could give her a little bit of whatever she’s having. She wonders if something happened to change their fortunes. An influx of cash, perhaps? Hard to go on a shopping spree when you’re broke.
Letting out a deep sigh, she gets out of bed and drags herself into the shower. When it’s over, she feels almost human again, and more open-minded about the day’s prospects. How long has it been since she left the house to do anything but buy a few groceries, anyway? A little retail therapy would do her some good. It’s actually a nice day too. Not too hot or humid, perfect for a leisurely stroll. And there is that great little European bakery where they could eat every calorie the walking would burn. That officially sells her.
After combing her wet hair and stepping back into the darkened bedroom to get dressed, she sees someone sitting on the corner of her bed and screams. Then recognition kicks in. “Jake?” She fantasized about a moment just like this last night, where he’d use the key she gave him to let himself in and slip back into bed with her like nothing happened. And then she chastised herself for being so quixotic.
He comes to her, his eyes shining in the dimness. “I was such an asshole. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m so sorry.”
“Shut up.” She grabs his shirt and yanks him toward her. “We only have a few minutes. Show me how much you’ve missed me.”
Thirty minutes later, Phoebe is walking with Vicki along the quaint cluster of shops in Lake Forest known as Market Square, and feeling far less burdened by her conscience than she expected to. Before parting ways for the day, she and Jake mutually agreed to just enjoy each moment together as it comes, and she’s applying that same principle to this one too. It does mean building thicker walls between the compartments in her mind, going out of her way to keep conversations from straying to personal things that remind her exactly who Vicki is. This puts her dangerously close to the waters of self-delusion, but she only needs to do it for a couple hours at a time. It’s simple, Phoebe. Just maintain your hard boundaries, and you might be able to end each day not curled into the fetal position.
Phoebe hasn’t walked this much in a long time, but she’s always loved strolling through the historic cluster of buildings that comprise Market Square. With its brick and stucco façades, gabled roofs, open courtyards, and elegant foliage and landscaping, which is particularly lush this time of year, the outdoor shopping district brings her back to the trips she took to Europe with her parents growing up. That she lives within walking distance of such a place and rarely musters the effort to even leave the house most days fills her with shame, and she makes a promise to herself to get down here more, at least once a week. Yet she knows the promises people make to themselves are the most brittle of all.
However, the number of bags they’ve amassed so far makes her wish she’d insisted on driving. When they reach the checkout at Williams-Sonoma, she’s about to suggest they text Jake to come pick them up (so much for those strong boundaries), but they hit another snag entirely when the perky young woman ringing up Vicki’s sprawling pile of housewares becomes a little less perky. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it says your card has been declined.”
Vicki frowns. “Excuse me? That can’t be correct. Can we run it again?”
“Of course,” the girl says, more out of an obligation to maintain rapport than any belief that running a dud card again will make it a nondud. A second later, she shakes her head, this time with a bit of fear creeping into her eyes as she braces herself for what could be a DEFCON 1 situation. “I’m really sorry. It declined again.”
“Well that just makes no sense!” Vicki cries, making the girl shrink back a bit. “I assure you, there should be no problem with these cards. I’ve been using them all afternoon, and I know my balances.” She begins digging in her wallet for another card, muttering under her breath, ruddy blooms of color rising in her cheeks. Phoebe’s anxiety mounts as she remembers Vicki’s outburst the day the dishwasher sprang a leak, and wonders if being in public will be any deterrent to her having a similar meltdown. Phoebe makes brief eye contact with the clerk, hoping to assure the poor girl that she won’t let this get out of hand. Vicki sticks a different card into the card reader’s chip slot. “This one should give you no troubles.”
The girl grins nervously as she waits. After a torturous fifteen seconds, during which Phoebe wonders whether Vicki really is trying to shop on nearly maxed credit cards, the telltale beep of rejection sounds again. Color drains from the clerk’s face, but she’s only just opened her mouth when Phoebe steps up with her card. “Here, try mine.”
“Phoebe, no!” Vicki sounds as if Phoebe is stepping in front of a bus to spare her life.
“Vicki, yes. I told you I wasn’t going to let you leave here without that wine aerator, and I meant it.”
“There has to be something wrong with their system. I can put the stuff back and come for it later.” Her voice doesn’t carry much conviction, and the tears in her eyes only underscore that she knows very well it isn’t the system malfunctioning. Phoebe also notes with considerable discomfort how much those eyes resemble Jake’s.
“Whatever the case may be, I’m happy to get this. So settle back, all right?”
She pats her friend gently on the shoulder, hoping to calm her down, her guts stirring with embarrassment on Vicki’s behalf. Anything else she might try to say to make her feel better (“I have more money than I know what to do with” or “A few hundred bucks is as inconsequential as a sneeze”) would only make things worse. When the register produces its mile-long receipt, the clerk hands it to Phoebe with a grateful look. “Thank you so much, ladies! Have a wonderful day!” Her overly chipper voice makes Vicki wince.
“Our pleasure,” Phoebe says, taking their bags and leading Vicki out of the suddenly oppressive store. On the sidewalk, she hands Vicki her bag.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” she says.
Oh, I believe I did, Phoebe thinks. At least to save that poor employee in there a bout of unearned wrath. “Hey, there’s this amazing European bakery just up the block. Let’s go stuff our faces with sugar.”
Vicki shakes her head. “I don’t know. I think I just want to go home.”
“Listen, this part was going to be my treat, regardless. I absolutely insist on cake.”
She smiles weakly. “Cake does sound pretty good, now that you mention it.”
“That’s the spirit.” They link arms and walk. The tiny bakery is blessedly empty, so they can take their time admiring the confections showcased behind the domed glass like edible art pieces. Vicki asks Phoebe to pick something for her. Phoebe goes with a slice of Black Forest gateau, a raspberry-almond tart, a small selection of French macarons, and two coffees. At a back corner table, Phoebe arranges their spread between them.
“We’ll never be able to eat all this,” Vicki says.
“Not with that attitude.” Phoebe picks up a fork and goes right for the gateau. It tastes as glorious as she remembers, and she makes a note to come down here more regularly for a slice. To go. “Find me a better combo than cherries and chocolate. I dare you.”
Vicki takes a bite and her eyes roll back in her head. “You’re right. My God.”
They eat in silence for a couple minutes, sampling everything. Vicki puts down her fork with a sigh and sips her coffee. “Thank you, Phoebe. Really. I . . . I don’t even know what to say.”
“How bad are things right now? You can tell me.”
After a long pause, she says, “Bad. And apparently much worse than I thought since I can’t even go shopping without embarrassing myself.” The tears overflow and start streaming down her cheeks. “I’ve been feeling for a while like the walls are just closing in on me. On all of us. Sometimes I think the only reason I’m still breathing is for Jake, knowing he has a chance to get out and make something of himself. At least I did that one thing right, you know?”
She breaks down sobbing. Phoebe, now feeling hollowed out by shame, lets her cry it out, in part because it’s often the best thing you can do for someone in pain, but also because she needs a moment to think. What will it do to Vicki when she learns her one remaining hope is an illusion? Maybe if everything else wasn’t so dire, it would be easier. When the storm begins to wind down into sniffles, Phoebe makes a decision. It goes against every single thing her father ever taught her about friends and money, but she’s also happy for any opportunity to defy him now.
She opens her purse and pulls out a small brown Italian leather case Daniel gave her for her eighteenth birthday. The irony of what she’s about to do with it almost makes her smile. She flips it open and grabs the fourteen-karat fountain pen tucked inside, also a gift from Daniel. “What will be enough to float you guys for a while?” she asks.
Vicki looks up at her with a tear-streaked frown. “What?”
Phoebe starts filling out the check with Vicki’s name. “Will ten grand do it? That should get you caught up on some bills and house repairs, right? Make it a little easier for you to breathe.” What about when you find out I’ve been having an affair with your teenage son? Because if he decides to break your heart by ditching Stanford, it’s only a matter of time before you find out why. Is there a price for ameliorating some of that pain? Maybe she should tack on another ten just to be sure. Guilt money. That’s what this really is, isn’t it? So much for thinking she was defying her father. This is right up Daniel’s alley. Her stomach burns all over again, but it’s too late to stop what she’s already started.
“Oh God,” Vicki says, covering her face again. “This isn’t how I imagined any of this would go.”
“Any of what?”
“Just . . . everything. Look at me. I’m sitting here crying over a demolished piece of cake after you’ve already paid for my goddamn kitchen supplies, and now you taking pity on me by doing this. I made a fool out of myself again.”
“Well, I can tell you from my own experience that things rarely go how you think they will. I can also tell you that I want to help you, and so I will.” Phoebe signs the check, tears it out of the book, and hands it across the table. “Now shut up and take my money.”
Vicki eyes it for a few seconds, and then dissolves into gales of laughter.
“What is it?” Phoebe asks, confused.
“It’s nothing. It’s just . . .” She starts laughing again, making Phoebe wonder if the woman has begun to have a genuine breakdown. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s inappropriate as hell to laugh at a time like this. But your checks . . . are those kittens wearing tiaras?”
Phoebe snorts laughter of her own. “You got me. I’m a total girl. Now, are you going to take this thing or do I have to beg?”
Vicki takes the check and stares at it. “I’m speechless, Phoebe. Truly. My son says no one under the age of sixty writes checks anymore. Maybe if I told him someone as cool as Phoebe Miller had checks, he would get some. Probably Star Wars ones, though.”
Phoebe, who knows this particular interest of Jake’s quite well—they’ve already watched the original trilogy together, and plan to start on the newer movies soon—nods. “I guess I’m a little old-school. My dad taught me to always have paper at the ready just in case.” And it isn’t as sexy to dash off a quick emotional bribe by asking someone for their PayPal address, she thinks. You do it with a five-hundred-dollar leather checkbook and a gold fountain pen.
The smile fades from Vicki’s mouth as she studies the check a bit longer. “I bet Daniel is still teaching you a lot of things.”
Phoebe’s breath catches. She never told Vicki about her father, though she supposes it’s easy enough for anyone to do a quick Google search and get all the sordid details. She nearly brought it up a few times in their conversations, but something always stopped her. Lack of a good segue, maybe, or the desire to avoid unpacking things all over again for someone new, only to have that knowledge sitting between them like a rotting carcass. It was hard enough just to tell Jake.
Vicki seems to realize she put Phoebe in an awkward spot, and her expression turns regretful. “Oh jeez, I’m sorry,” she says. “I guess I’m guilty of some online snooping. Given all the women who’ve been coming forward with horror stories about him, I can’t blame you for wanting to keep it quiet.”
“No, it’s okay. I know I can’t hide forever. It’s kind of terrible of me to think I can, given what he put so many people through.”
She places her hand on Phoebe’s arm, her eyes taking on a hard glint. “His mistakes aren’t yours, Phoebe. And being his daughter, you’re as much a victim as anyone else in all this.” Vicki looks like she’s holding back another mouthful of words.
“What is it?” Phoebe asks.
Vicki leans closer and lowers her voice. “I completely understand if you don’t want to tell me, but . . . he didn’t, you know, hurt you that way too, did he?”
It takes Phoebe a moment to comprehend what she means, but when it clicks, she gives her head a rapid shake. “Oh God no. He never laid a hand on me. If anything, it was a struggle getting him to acknowledge my existence half the time.”
“Well, it sounds like the motherfucker did you a favor. Also, pardon my language.”
Phoebe’s about to tell her there’s no offense taken when Vicki’s phone rings. “Hold that thought.” Vicki looks at the display and rolls her eyes before answering.
“Hello, dear.” Her smile fades a little. “Just having coffee with Phoebe down at that little bakery in Market Square.” She pauses, frowning deeply. “Yes, we did a little shopping. Why?”
Her jaw drops. “Are you monitoring—” Another pause. This time Phoebe can hear an angry voice spilling from the speaker, and her nerves begin to crackle again.
“This is ridiculous, Ron. Don’t bother, all right?” A few seconds later, she pulls the phone away and looks at it for a second. “Did that bastard just hang up on me?”
“What’s going on?” Phoebe asks.
“My husband is pissed off again. Nothing new. Jake told him I was out shopping, and he put a stop on my credit cards. Says he’s on his way to pick me up. Like he’s my goddamn father!”
They look toward the door. As if on cue, Ron steps in front of the glass and peers inside for a moment. Phoebe feels a stab of inexplicable guilt, as if she’s been caught red
-handed doing something naughty. Like it was her idea to venture out on this little shopping trip. If only they’d stuck to brunch, this wouldn’t be happening.
“Do you want me to say something to him?” she asks, and then feels like an idiot. As if now that she’s wielded the magical checkbook and fountain pen, this gives her the authority to be Vicki’s bodyguard in all domestic disputes.
“I’ll handle this,” Vicki says, and gets up to go meet her husband outside.
Phoebe watches the scene unfold on the sidewalk as if it’s a silent movie. The two bakery employees also gaze in fascination as Ron begins pacing almost immediately, tossing out the occasional wild gesticulation to punctuate his rant. Vicki’s hands are perched on her hips as she tries to strike a confident pose, but it isn’t long before her shoulders droop and her arms cross in front of her. She then appears to make a tearful plea, and Ron stops pacing and closes his eyes. As Vicki continues to speak, he moves in closer, placing his hands on her shoulders. Phoebe tenses up, wondering if this is the moment he starts either slapping or shaking his wife. She notes there are people across the street who have also stopped to watch the Napier drama unfold. But instead of escalating things, Ron places his forehead against hers, utters a few words, and kisses her temple. He says a few more words in her ear, and Vicki nods. Then he walks off, casting a withering glare toward the bakery. Phoebe is far enough inside to know he can’t actually see her, but she still feels certain that glare was intended for her.
Vicki quickly wipes her face and walks back inside, head high, posture sturdy. She doesn’t sit back down. “He’s waiting for me in the car,” she says. “I hate to leave you like this. Especially after everything . . .”
Phoebe shakes her head. “You don’t need to worry about me. But I am worried about you. He looks like he’s at the end of his rope, Vicki.”
“I know how it looks. Ron can definitely be an asshole, but I’m every bit his match. Trust me. And things are going to be better soon. Thanks to you.” She bends down to pick up her bags and kisses Phoebe’s cheek. “I’ll call you later.”
The Other Mrs. Miller Page 9