A few minutes later, What’s Her Name sauntered into the kitchen and announced that I could keep working; she “trusted me in the house.” She meant it as the highest of compliments, but of course it was actually an insulting sentiment—which Nina picked up on with a subtle eye roll. Then they were gone.
That was it, really. Not much of a meeting at all. But it was still a reference point that made me think it was possible that our conversation today had been sincere rather than a coffee-shop performance. Then again, they both could have been performances. I shut off the lights, locked up my workshop, and walked to my truck, telling myself none of this mattered. Whether she was a decent person was in some ways as wholly irrelevant as her looks. It didn’t change what her son had done, and it wasn’t going to change my decision. Yet as I drove home, I found myself wondering about her—who she really was as a person. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted—somehow needed—to know the truth about Nina Browning. Which is why I was more than a little intrigued when I received her email that night—and unable to resist the back and forth that followed.
Tom,
Thank you so much for meeting me with me today. Although it was difficult, I’m glad we had the chance to talk through things. I was wondering if you’d be open to getting together again, this time with Finch and Lyla? Obviously I won’t press the issue if you’re uncomfortable with the idea, but I think it might be good for both of them. Let me know your thoughts.
Best,
Nina
…
Thank you for following up and for the offer. Let me talk to Lyla and see how she feels. Oh. And I think I figured out where we met. Do you have a friend who lives in a brick house on Lynwood? Pretty sure I met you while working there a number of years ago. T.
…
Oh my goodness! Yes, I do! Melanie Lawson. I totally remember chatting with you now! (And this proves that I am bad with faces, because I remember everything else about our conversation :) Nina
ps You did a beautiful job at her house. She still raves about you.
pps She’s a Windsor parent, too. Did you know that?
…
No. I’m not really into the whole Windsor social scene.
…
I hear you. I love the school, but it is quite a scene at times. We’ve been there since Finch was in kindergarten so I’m used to it at this point….Also, I’m not sure that this is at all relevant, but I feel like I should tell you that that’s where the kids were the night in question (at Melanie’s house). Her son had a party (without her permission). Small world. Or something?
…
I’ll go with “or something.” And nothing is really in question, is it?
…
Yes. Two poor expressions to use under these circumstances. I’m sorry. And I’m so sorry again for what Finch did. I know those are just words, but they are heartfelt. I really want to try to make things right. I hope you believe that. And I hope Finch will have the chance to meet with Lyla and tell her all of this himself.
…
Thanks. I’ll talk to Lyla and be in touch soon.
There was no such thing as a kept secret in the Windsor community, and although I hoped the fire would be contained, I knew that it was only a matter of time before it raged. Based on my experience with other people’s drama, I gave it a week.
I was pretty much dead-on because by the following morning—six days after Beau’s party—my phone was blowing up with friends, and even some acquaintances, gingerly “checking in on” me. I suppose some were genuinely concerned over the development. But I think most were more in Kathie’s camp, on some level, perhaps even subconsciously, reveling in the gossip and indifferent to the fact that they were so casually and cavalierly deepening the crisis not only for Finch (who arguably deserved what he was getting) but also for Lyla.
I crafted a pat reply (“Thank you for your concern and kind words”) and vowed to avoid my usual stomping grounds—all the places where I inevitably ran into people I knew. Starbucks and Fix Juice, the Green Hills mall and Whole Foods, my spin and yoga studios, and of course the club.
The only person I continued to discuss it with was Melanie, who was so fiercely partisan that I think I could shoot someone on Belle Meade Boulevard and she’d say I must have had a good reason. She sent me screenshot after screenshot from people opining on the matter, often with rumors they’d heard through the grapevine: Lyla was completely naked; Finch had put something in her drink; the two had engaged in sexual activity. The story was constantly being embellished.
Every time, Melanie came fiercely to Finch’s defense, setting the record straight, typing replies in all caps with a bounty of exclamation points. Even when it came to the true parts of the story, she rationalized and insisted that this was “a good kid who had made a mistake.”
On one level, I truly appreciated her loyalty, particularly when she was correcting falsehoods. On another, deeper level, her indignation made me incrementally more ashamed. After all, Finch was guilty. Maybe not guilty of all the accusations swirling around the rumor mill, but guilty nonetheless. It was a fact that seemed to be lost on her, just as it was on Kirk.
On Friday evening, she showed up at my house, distraught and in disarray—at least by Melanie’s high grooming standards.
“What happened?” I said, opening the door.
“Didn’t you get my texts? I told you I was on my way over….”
“No. I haven’t looked at my phone for a bit,” I said, having put it away so I would stop checking to see if Tom had written me back. It had not been twenty-four hours since I’d asked to meet with Lyla, but I was starting to obsess over his decision. I led Melanie into the kitchen now.
“Sit down,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She sighed and tossed her monogrammed Goyard tote at her feet before taking a perch on a kitchen stool. “That bitch Kathie—” She stopped, looked around and said, “Is anyone home?”
“Kirk’s not. He was home for twenty-four hours—but left again. Finch is here—but up in his room,” I said. “So fire away.”
She pressed one hand to her temple as the other played with the folds of her tennis skirt. “That bitch Kathie is now telling people that Beau hooked up with Lyla. After Finch took the picture.”
“Um…did he?” I asked at my own peril. Melanie and I had never had an argument, but she could be oversensitive and thin-skinned, especially when it related to Beau or her daughter, Violet, who had more diva tendencies than any child I’d ever known who wasn’t on a sitcom.
“Oh, God, no,” she said, her spray-tanned leg bouncing on the barstool.
“What’s she basing that on, then?” I said. “Just Lyla being on Beau’s bed in the photograph?”
“I have literally no clue! But I bet Lucinda is behind it. She’s a total C-U-next-Tuesday. I detest that child….She’s been posting articles on Facebook about sexual assault and misogyny.” Melanie reached down and pulled her phone out of her bag, then began to read in a high, prissy voice, presumably imitating Lucinda. “?‘Forty-four percent of reported sexual assaults take place before a victim is eighteen. One in three girls is sexually abused prior to leaving high school….And yet secondary schools are irresponsibly reluctant to act on this information…resulting in the current frequency of college sexual assaults.’?”
I felt a stab of grief, thinking about both Lyla and my own experience at Vanderbilt. “I know Lucinda is as obnoxious as her mother….But unfortunately, she’s right. If it were coming from someone else—”
“It would still be obnoxious!” Melanie said. “Keep your opinions off social media!”
I actually disagreed with her—and thought that activism of this kind is one of the only decent upshots of social media. Otherwise, it’s just a regular brag or snooze fest—a way to either show off your vacation or bore everyone with your Brussels sprouts. I almost said something along those lines, but Melanie was on a roll.