We have that in common, to opposite ends. Marie and Paul would’ve had a home growing up, whereas I would’ve been erased completely. “Why didn’t they?”
“Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Depends how you see it. He was Jewish. No shocker there with the last name Goldfarb. His folks were rich, so Dad kept on the right side of them, figuring the inheritance’d be worth it someday. Beth said they called her everything from a street whore to a gold digger. She couldn’t talk about those people without raising her fists like the fight was still going on.”
“Did you get the inheritance?”
Marie scoffs. “You think my fat ass would be planted in this plastic chair if the answer to that was yes? We were bastards in their eyes. My dad never married our mother either. The man never fell in love with a girl from the right goddamn religion. Those crotchety pieces of shit left everything to the synagogue.”
A hostile laugh escapes before Marie’s next cough. The visit will end as soon as I stop asking questions, so I plug along. “Do you know how they met?”
“Beth was our caretaker after Mom died. She was always at the house, cooking, cleaning, hovering over us.”
I’m rapt. Marie is describing a complete stranger. “Can you share a memory?”
“I have a good one,” Paul volunteers more audibly than before. “She bought me a guitar for my fifteenth birthday. First I thought she’d stolen it because she didn’t have that kind of money, but it turned out she’d been taking a couple dollars out of her grocery money every week.” Paul looks down at his lap with a distinct frown. “It was the nicest gift I ever got. Probably still have that thing somewheres.”
Marie smacks her knee. “I’ll be damned. She never got me nothing. That’s Paul for you. Don’t hear a peep out of him all morning, then he comes out with that sweet story. Didn’t know that one myself.” She rises from the lawn chair, careful to pry the armrests from her sides so the chair doesn’t come with her. “Well, it’s been real nice meeting you, but I have to get off to work soon.” I know it’s an excuse. Her shift doesn’t start for two hours.
I stand. “Thanks for agreeing to meet.” There won’t be a second rendezvous and all three of us know it.
“Uh huh.” She guides me to the door.
“Listen, Marie, if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, or just anything you need, here’s my business card.” For whatever reason, my mother cherished these people. Helping them would be a way to honor her memory.
“We don’t need your money, Bradley, but thanks.”
“It’s Brady,” I correct, embarrassing us both.
“Right, right, Brady. That’s what I was thinking just not what I said.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you needed money. I just know you’re ill. That was all I meant.”
She looks annoyed. Meeting me wasn’t on Marie’s bucket list. “Okay, that’s fine. You travel safe now.” The door shuts.
So that’s how the divorcées feel when I slam the door in their face. I stand there like a complete dipshit. The case is closed, only it’s not. The disappointing fact is that my mother showered two random kids with attention instead of me, my wife jumped off a building to avoid our happily-ever-after, and my daughter enrolled herself in boarding school to get out of one more year in my company. I’m a finance guy. Three women opting out of spending time with the same man is statistically relevant. It’s a trend. Trends are the result of a catalyst, and the only common denominator here is me.
I don’t want to be bitter, but that’s the taste in my mouth as I board the plane. By the time I land in Boston, I’m mentally drained and dreading dinner with Rory and Eve. I conjure up a few excuses to bail on the drive back, but the effort proves unnecessary. I return to an empty house and a note on the counter.
Hi Dad,
We went to Exeter to see the campus this afternoon. We may be back a little bit after you. I hope your big business trip was a success ?
Love, Bean
I have spent a lifetime misreading women.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Madeline
I’m mortified by my first reaction to this Paris trip. It was very Christie Anderson. Their lives are not about me anymore and I need to get over it.
Brady had his new assistant fill every minute of the itinerary, sparing no expense. I thought Darlene would be irritated to work on something so personal, but she can’t wait to have him out of the office for a week. I think she’d have bought the tickets herself. They’re having lunch at Le Jules Verne, taking a boat cruise down the Seine, spending a day at the vineyards of Champagne, and attending a private Louvre exhibition. To account for Eve’s time while he trains for the marathon, Brady booked her an afternoon at the hotel spa and an appointment with a personal shopper at Galeries Lafayette. He bought first-class tickets, a first for Eve and a stab at me. I considered first class an excessive perk for a child, so when Eve was with us we took over a row in coach: me in the middle, Brady on the aisle, Eve at the window. Apparently, it was my battle alone; Brady didn’t hesitate to take the upgrade.
If all three of us were going we’d have gotten one room with two queens, but Brady found the idea of sharing a room with his daughter in Paris depressing, so he booked them each their own. It’s ironic; they’re down one person but somehow more than doubling the cost.
The prospect of spending eight days alone with Eve has Brady tense. He spends half an hour looking for our vacation luggage, only to spend another half hour staring at his closet trying to determine what to bring. Brady never packed for anything that wasn’t work-related. Since getting him to agree to vacation at all was such an effort, I took on any burden associated with the actual trip. I don’t even think he registered that someone packed his luggage until this very moment. Now, flabbergasted, he says aloud, “Another hidden talent, huh, Maddy?”
The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” Eve calls.
“Happy leave-for-Paris day,” Paige says when the door opens.
“Thanks.” Her excitement is tangled with apprehension around how she and Brady will get along, and a deep sadness that I won’t be there for the adventure.
“Sooo … I couldn’t refrain … after you said you loved Wicked I had to pick up some vacation books for you.” She hands Eve a bag from Wellesley Books that leaves me nostalgic for the afternoons I wasted an hour perusing their rows and rows of shelves for the perfect next read.
“Sweet.”
Eve has been devouring our bookshelf. She’ll stay up until one in the morning reading, then curse herself for it the next day, the same way I used to.
“In the interest of full disclosure, I’m hoping you’ll become my book buddy. I can’t go back to book club. Not without—” Paige shakes off the urge to cry.
“I’d love to,” Eve cuts in, looking at the clock on her cell. She has to finish packing.
“Great,” Paige says. “And one last thing.” Eve sighs, bracing for a be careful speech, but that’s not the mission I sent Paige on. “Try to surprise yourself on the trip. Step outside your comfort zone.”