“Well, you either lied then, or you’re lying now. Which is it?” Quarterman asks.
“I was lying then, sir. And I’m very sorry for that. But I’m telling you the truth now. I didn’t take the photo of Lyla.”
“Well?” I yell at him. “Who took it, then?”
“Polly took it,” he says, glancing at Quarterman, then back at me. “I was covering for her….But after what she said to Lyla? And what she wrote on your porch? She doesn’t deserve my help.”
He shakes his head, then stares me down so boldly that I am positive only one of two scenarios can be true. Finch is either completely innocent or a total sociopath. He’s either more like his mother or exactly like his father. I have no clue which one it is, but I will find out.
Iwake up a little after 4:00 A.M. in my childhood bedroom, knowing that I won’t be able to fall back asleep. I’m just too anxious, my mind spinning with thoughts of the past, the future, and the miserable moment of limbo that I’m in. Part of me regrets my candor last night. First in telling everyone about my plans to file for divorce—because no matter what he’s done, Kirk deserves the respect of hearing my decision before others. But also in telling Teddy about what happened to me in college. I know what they say about the truth setting you free, but really, what was the point in worrying and upsetting everyone?
Worse than regret about my past decisions, I dread what’s to come. I dread seeing Kirk, and I dread confronting Finch about the concert and the incident at our home. But I know I must, and that there is no point in stalling any further. So I get up, quickly make the bed, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I throw my pajamas and toiletries back into my overnight bag and tiptoe downstairs, expecting to leave a goodbye note and slip out the door. But my mother is sitting in her bathrobe at the counter, playing solitaire on her laptop.
“You’re leaving?” she says, glancing up at me before clicking on her next move. “So early?”
“Yeah. I have a lot of stuff I need to do today.”
She nods, then asks if she can make me a cup of coffee for the road.
“That would be great, Mom,” I say. “Thank you.”
She stands, walks over to the stove, and turns on the kettle. I smile to myself, realizing that she means instant coffee. Sure enough, she pulls out a jar of Folgers, along with powdered creamer and packets of Splenda and Equal.
“Black’s fine,” I say, thinking I might dump it out once I’m on the road and wait until I pass a Starbucks, or at least a Chick-fil-A. Then again, maybe my mom’s instant coffee is exactly what I need right now.
We both lean against the counter, waiting for the water to boil, looking straight at each other. “I’m so sorry about you and Kirk,” she finally says.
“I know, Mom,” I say. “I’m sorry, too.”
“I know this is none of my business, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she begins—which is sort of an unprecedented disclaimer for my mom. “But…do you think there’s someone else?”
I shrug and say, “Honestly, Mom? I’m not really sure. Probably so…But that’s not really why I’m leaving….I could get over an affair, I think, if that were the only issue.”
“You could?” she says.
“Yeah. I think so. Good people make mistakes,” I say, hoping this statement applies to Finch. “But…I’m afraid that Kirk isn’t a good person anymore.”
Mom nods, not even making a cursory attempt to come to the defense of her son-in-law.
“Did you ever like him?” I ask, thinking of Julie’s putt-putt memories.
“Of course I did,” she says a little too automatically.
“Really?” I say. “You can tell me the truth…please.”
Mom sighs, then says, “Well, in the beginning? I was unsure. I liked him, but I thought he was a little snobby, and that you two didn’t really…fit together….But I could tell you felt he was what you needed….”
“I did,” I say, nodding, amazed that my mother saw this so clearly—even before I did. Yet I also feel wistful for how things could have turned out. How we could have evolved together in a different direction.
“And I did love how he took care of you. He was a gentleman. But somewhere along the line that changed,” she says. “He changed. He seems a bit…selfish now.”
“I know,” I say, thinking that was an understatement. “When do you think that happened? When he sold his company?”
“I think so, yes,” she says. “He just got a little big for his britches. And I also think he started to take you for granted….There’s a certain…lack of respect that disturbs your father and me.”
I nod, knowing she’s right, cringing at the example Kirk has been setting for Finch—and the fact that I’ve allowed it to go on for so long. I say as much to my mom, and then add a hopeful, “Better late than never?”
“Definitely,” Mom says, scooping a generous tablespoon of coffee crystals into a University of Tennessee travel mug that I can trace back to the eighties. “I think Teddy would agree with that statement, too.” She looks up at me hopefully.
“Mom,” I say, shaking my head.
“What?” she says with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just saying.”
* * *
—
ABOUT TEN MILES outside of Nashville, I get a call from Walter Quarterman. “There’s been a development,” he says. “Can you please come in?”
“What sort of development?” I say, my heart sinking, wondering if it has anything to do with Melanie’s voicemail.
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone,” Walter says.
“Okay,” I say, then ask if he’s talked to Kirk.
“No. I called you first,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, then tell him that I’ll be there just as soon as I can.
* * *
—
TWENTY MINUTES AND several traffic violations later, I park in front of Windsor and run into the school.
“I have a meeting with Mr. Quarterman,” I tell Sharon at the front desk. “He’s expecting me.”
She nods and tries to hand me that damn sign-in clipboard, but I blow her off, muttering that I’m already late and dashing down the hallway.
When I arrive at Walter’s office, I knock, then walk in to a small crowd of people. Walter is behind his desk, and in front of him, in a semicircle of chairs, sit Finch, Tom, Polly, and Polly’s parents.
My stomach drops as Walter stands to greet me, then points to the only remaining free chair, which happens to be right next to my son. As I sit, I acknowledge Tom, Polly, and her parents with a nod, glancing at Finch last. Everyone looks relatively composed except Polly.
“Will Kirk be joining us?” Walter asks.
“No, he won’t be,” I say. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Walter nods. “Yes. As I told you on the phone, Nina, there’s been a development…and unfortunately, we have two very different versions of the story.”
Polly lets out a sob, covering her face with her hands, as her father puts his arm around her and softly shushes her.
“Can someone please…cut to the chase?” I say.
“Sure thing,” Tom snaps, his voice cold and livid. “Someone wrote slut on our porch.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
Tom ignores this and simply says, “Finch says Polly did it.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Finch nodding, while Polly wails in protest. “It wasn’t me! I swear!”
Her father tries to soothe her again, as Tom continues, “Whether or not the artwork is, in fact, Polly’s, she did call Lyla a slut yesterday. At your house. Polly admits this much is true. Which is really lovely.”
“She’s very sorry for using that word,” Polly’s dad says. “But she had nothing to do with your porch being vandalized. She was home all night with us.”
Walter attempts to cut in, but Tom talks right over him. “Now Finch is also saying that he didn’t actually take the infamous photo of Lyla. That actually, Polly took it, and he’s been covering for her all this time.”
“That’s not true!” Polly yells, her face covered with tears and snot. “It’s a total lie!”
“You’re the one lying,” Finch says, perfectly calmly.