Yes, I was. The New York Times, LA Times, CBS News, Good Morning America—almost every major news outlet and a bunch of documentarians had requested an interview as they “look back” at the attack ten years later. September was still months away, but producers were lining up their segments. They all promised a sober, reflective tone that would be a tribute to our loved ones lost that day. I hadn’t even responded to the emails. Like the letters on the kitchen table, the prospect of reliving the events of the day on a national scale filled me with dread and guilt. “Yes, but what does that have to do with this?”
“I think we should tell Candy you’d like to talk to her in advance of events, a chance to catch up with you and what’s happened since that day. But mainly, about what’s happening with you in the future. Then you slip in the fact that you are newly single, your life has changed abruptly again, but you have a bright future.”
“I do? Have a bright future?”
“We’ll make up something. Come on, you’re not my daughter for nothing. I spent years staring into a lens pretending to be somebody else—somebody stronger or sexier or sluttier. You can fool Candy for five minutes.”
Flickers of the Suzi Clements Blakely of yore. I liked it. And she was right about the sooner, the better before the reality of the situation really set in. “Fine. Can you set it up? But I do have to tell the museum first.”
“Of course. I’ll call her and catch up first, then debrief her on the situation and suggest a lunch between the two of you. Sound good?”
Nothing sounded good. “Super.”
“Well, this has been a productive day already.” My mother stood up and began gathering the letters backs into the tubs from whence they’d come. “How about a massage at the Inn?” My mother’s one indulgence, besides good clothes, was lavish spa days at the Ojai Valley Inn and Spa, a nearby oasis of tranquility. “Lavender Sugar Body Polish or Rosemary Sage Scrub?”
Chapter 4
I’d sat in dozens of hotel bars by myself. In the early days of our marriage, when Casey was trying to transition into travel and architecture photography after an unsuccessful run at lifestyle work, I’d travel with Casey on assignment if my schedule allowed. The cities were domestic, usually West Coast, and the hotels were modest, but I used the time to slip into galleries, artists’ studios, picking up pieces I liked.
In the evening, I’d sit patiently in the hotel lounge, waiting for him to wrap for the day. I never minded the wait. I was comfortable alone, cloaked in anonymity and nursing a beer while taking in the comings and goings of fellow guests. At the time, I adored my husband, and his career made me feel worthwhile somehow. A couple of nights in a Courtyard Marriott in San Diego seemed like a real perk.
When had I stopped traveling with Casey? About the time Marissa started working with him, I recalled. The newness had worn off, and my work at the museum intensified. He was getting better gigs, but so was I. My work took me to Munich, Venice, Abu Dhabi, and Dallas, all great cities with world-class hotels and bars perfect for people-watching.
But this was the first time in years I’d sat in a hotel bar alone and was actually alone alone. What the hell was I doing here sitting at the Tap Room at the Langham Pasadena drinking a gimlet by myself?
Tai, who had been checking in with daily calls and texts, had promised to meet me at the bar to shepherd me through the next few hours. “Like an AA sponsor. But with drinks.” Unfortunately, he begged off at the last minute, something about his sick grandmother, an oft-used excuse. I’m sure she was sick, but does the whole family have to rush to her side every time she coughs? I’m the one who needed a minder, not his obaasan. I’d just have to go it alone.
I was hiding out. My ten-day countdown to exterminate all signs of Casey Harper from my life was over. A text from Tokyo informed me that Casey would be home around eight that night and he wanted to talk. You’re about five years too late for that conversation, buddy. When he arrived at the house tonight, he’d find the locks changed and a manila envelope taped to the door with an official letter from my new lawyer, a Russian female divorce attorney highly recommended by Luther. Valentina Lugonova didn’t think much of marriage in the first place and even less of Casey when I told her the facts of my situation. She’d been briefed by Luther’s office, so I didn’t have to go into too many gory details, but still, Val wasn’t impressed by Casey Harper. “Not one penny. Not one,” she promised.
The letter stated that he must vacate the premises immediately and contact her office for any future communication. There was also a key and a map to a storage unit, home to everything he ever owned and brought into the house, including a half case of terrible light beer and a tub of old trail mix he insisted on buying the one time we went to Costco. Thanks to Javier, the storage unit was inconveniently located in an industrial park in the Inland Empire.
I didn’t trust myself not to open the door to Casey, not to give in to the subtle manipulation that he was so good at, so I packed a few things and checked into a local hotel for a few days. I know it would have been more imaginative to strike out for a glamorous room on the beach where I could stand on the balcony with a tearstained face and windswept hair, but the past week had drained every drop of drama out of me. I’d faced the music at work, telling my tale of marital woe to Caterina, who was both incredibly sympathetic and incredibly outraged on my behalf. I’m also guessing she had heard about the twins because she made a comment that hinted at prior knowledge: “Now it all makes sense.”
I didn’t ask what made sense. I really didn’t want to know what she knew and when. I felt foolish enough.
In a gesture of sisterhood, Caterina took me to lunch, talked very loudly about all the terrible men in her life, including her current much-older boyfriend, drank three glasses of wine while I had seltzer, and then proceeded to delete Casey’s name from our official mailing list when we arrived back at the offices with some pageantry, like a direct mail exorcism. She vowed to support whatever changes I needed to make in my life but made me promise not to move too fast in leaving town altogether. “We can’t let you go yet.”
After that, I lunched with disgraced Rose Queen Candy, someone I’d met a few times in high school and spotted at social events over the years, but it had been a long time since we’d been face-to-face. My mother and I had worked out an outfit that said “calm and in control,” which wasn’t hard because most of my closet said “calm and in control.” I arrived at the Parkside Grill in a simple blue sheath dress, Ferragamo pumps, and my favorite short trench. My mother loaned me a vintage silver cuff to wear for some sort of secret protection, like Wonder Woman. When I hung up my coat, Candy recognized the bracelet right away as an Elsa Peretti piece from the seventies. “Your mother’s, right? I miss seeing her around town putting the rest of us to shame as we all desperately chase style and she simply is style. How is she? She was always a bright light here in Pasadena.”
“She’s well. Ready to come back to town more and be part of the scene. That’s why we thought it would be great to catch up. Big changes in my life and hers.” That was a little more desperate and direct than I’d intended to be in the first two minutes with Candy. I’m sure my mother would have pulled off that opening line with a lighter tone and a self-depreciating reference, but, as I’d always told my mother, acting was not my thing. I was desperate.
Candy quickly waved the waiter over; we both ordered the salmon salad, and then she took out her tablet. “So, what’s happening?”