THAT NIGHT, I tried to talk to Finch. Kirk and I both did. But he insisted that he had to study for a test. Could we talk tomorrow? We relented, and then Kirk went to bed early, declaring himself exhausted. I tried to do the same, but I found myself lying in bed next to him, wide awake and more anxious than ever.
Around midnight, I got up and went to my office and pulled the Windsor directory from a desk drawer. I flipped to the end of the alphabet and found the entry for Lyla and Thomas Volpe. No mother was listed, unlike most divorced families with dual entries, and the only explanation I could think of was that she had died. I hoped not recently; then again, I would have wanted Lyla to have had as many years with her mother as possible. Feeling increasingly melancholy, I scanned down to read their address. They lived on Avondale Drive, a street that didn’t sound familiar, though I knew the 37206 zip code was in East Nashville, over the Cumberland River. I opened my laptop and typed it into Google Maps, seeing a street view of the small bungalow located in Lockeland Springs. From what I could tell of the blurry photo, the house sat up high on a narrow lot, stairs leading from the street to the front door. There was one small tree in the yard and a few bushes planted along the house. After studying the picture from every angle, I typed the address into Zillow. I saw that Thomas Volpe had purchased the home in 2004 for $179,000. I felt a stab of sheepishness approaching shame, thinking of our own house, its price tag just under $4 million. From there, I pulled up our online AmEx statement, cringing at what we’d spent over the last billing cycle. It was amazing how quickly things added up, a few hundred dollars at a time. This particular month, I was the most culpable of the three of us, but I did spot Finch’s thousand-dollar charge at the Apple Store, a $200 charge at Imogene + Willie, and $150 at Pinewood Social, the night before Beau’s party. I seemed to recall a conversation about him “needing” a new phone but couldn’t remember if he’d asked me for permission or simply informed me of the purchase after the fact. I felt certain that he hadn’t mentioned any shopping or dining otherwise. Not that we had any real rules around his spending.
In fact, money was something Kirk and I seldom discussed with our son. Five years ago, when the financial picture had changed, the analysis of what to spend became pretty simple in our family. The question wasn’t “did we need it” or “could we afford it,” but simply “did we want it.” If the answer was yes, we typically got it. The result was that Finch didn’t dwell on money—or think about it at all, really—and had no clue about budgeting or anything normal people, let alone those in actual need, went through. I told myself to stop going off on this mental tangent. What did money or material things have to do with any of this, anyway? Nothing. Character has nothing to do with finances.
And yet, I had the feeling Julie might say otherwise, especially if she knew about Kirk’s bribe—which now seemed increasingly significant. What if Thomas actually needed the money? Did that change the analysis at all? Did it make Kirk’s attempt to buy him off better or worse? I wasn’t sure, so decided to look for more evidence, biting my lip, logging on to Facebook, and typing in “Thomas Volpe.” Three of them came up, but none was local. I tried a more general Google search and once again found nothing that seemed to fit. I then searched for Lyla, finding her on Facebook and Instagram, though both accounts were private. All I could see were her profile pictures, two different shots from the same summer day. It was clearly the same girl from Finch’s photograph, but in these pictures she looked so happy, standing on a dock in a ruffled, off-the-shoulder top and white shorts. She was a pretty girl with a slender figure and beautiful long hair. I thought about her mother again, wondering not only when, but how she had died. Then, looking back at the directory at Thomas Volpe’s email address, I couldn’t stand it another second. I took a deep breath and began typing.
Dear Thomas,
My name is Nina Browning. I’m Finch’s mother. I know you met my husband today, and he shared with me a bit about your conversation. I’m not sure how you are feeling, but I believe that more needs to be said and done to make things right….I was wondering if you’d consider meeting me to talk? I really hope you say yes. More important, I hope Lyla is doing okay, in spite of the horrible thing my son did to her. I’m thinking of you both.
Sincerely,
Nina
I quickly proofread, then sent it before I could change my mind or even tweak any of the wording. The swoosh sound filled my office, and for a second, I regretted making contact. For one, I knew Kirk would view it as a strategic blunder and an even greater betrayal of him and Finch. For another, and from a strictly practical standpoint, what was I going to say to this man if he agreed to meet with me?
Just as I convinced myself it was a moot point because Thomas likely wouldn’t write back (after all, he had taken Kirk’s cash), his name popped onto my computer screen. My heart quickening with a mix of relief and dread, I went to my in-box, opened the email, and read: Tomorrow 3:30 pm @Bongo East? Tom.
That works, I typed, my hands shaking. See you then.
* * *
—
THE FOLLOWING MORNING was nothing short of torture as I paced around the house, stared at the clock, and counted down the minutes until my appointment with Tom. At eleven, I made myself go to a meditation class with one of my most Zen instructors, but it did no good whatsoever. A jangled mass of nerves, I came home, showered, and blew out my hair. It came out a little too full and “done,” so I put it in a ponytail, then loosened a few strands around my face. I did my makeup with a light touch, skipping eyeliner altogether, then went to my closet to pick out an outfit. The transitional spring weather is always tricky, especially when it comes to footwear. It was too warm for boots, too chilly for sandals. Pumps felt too dressy, and flats stripped me of confidence—which I very much needed. I finally selected a simple nude wedge and a navy-blue DVF wrap dress. I kept my jewelry simple with diamond studs and my wedding band, removing my showier engagement ring. I knew it was ridiculously superficial to focus so much on appearances at a time like this, editing such small details, but I also believe that first impressions matter, and I wanted to show him respect without being at all ostentatious.
Overcompensating for Nashville traffic and my own tendency to run late, I arrived at Five Points twenty minutes early, finding one of only three parking spots in front of the small stand-alone building housing the East End coffee shop. I’d never been inside before, but I’d passed it plenty of times and remembered Finch telling me that it was also known as Game Point. I could see why. On the back wall, simple wood-and-iron shelves were lined with more than a hundred board games, many of them vintage, all available for patrons to play. Nearby, an older couple played Battleship. They looked to be newly dating, very happy. At other tables sat many solo customers, most with laptops or reading material.