“She’s only thirty.” Sixteen years younger than Brad. “She would’ve been twelve when Dylan was born. Twelve! She could have been his babysitter.”
“Dear God. Well, we see it all the time, darling. Curtis Endicott just married a forty-year-old! He’s seventy-two! She’s younger than his daughters. At least Patrice died and didn’t have to see her husband making a fool of himself.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I confessed. “I want our family to stay intact, but I don’t know that I can ever forgive him, even if he wanted to work things out.”
“Of course you would forgive him, darling,” she said soothingly. “Many spouses have dealt with infidelity and even become stronger for it.”
I wondered if she was speaking from experience. “Is Charles on the Cape, too?” I asked.
“No, he had meetings all day,” she said. “Well. I’m going to drive to Brad’s office and give him a piece of my mind. I was too in shock last night to speak, but he’s about to endure the wrath of his mother, and you know how he’s always been with that.”
She stood up and hugged me again, and for a minute, it felt like all would be put right by this woman, my champion and friend. “Let’s have dinner tonight, just you, Dylan and me, shall we? Make a reservation somewhere fabulous. The Red Inn, perhaps? I’ll call you very soon. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get this straightened out.”
Oh, I loved her. She understood and was on my side, in a way I would never get from my own mother. Off she went in her Audi, and I sat back down, feeling better than I had since May 12. I called the Red Inn, and they told me they were now booking in October, so I called Victor’s instead. Their food was just as good, and they had a table for three at six thirty.
* * *
I went to work and did my thing, but I was itching to hear from Vanessa. Maybe Brad had fallen apart in the face of maternal disapproval. Maybe he’d come back home this evening, sternly led by his mother, apologize and tell me how wonderful I was, that yes, it was a midlife crisis and he was an idiot.
I did a routine checkup on Tiana, who was expecting her fourth child in six years and was a goddess in the delivery room. “Can you tell me the gender?” she asked.
“You don’t want to wait for an appointment when Trey’s here?” I asked.
“He’s watching the girls,” she said, “and I can’t stand the suspense.”
“You got it,” I said, smearing goo over her tummy.
I turned on the machine, pressed the controller against her gorgeous belly. A second later, I had her answer. “It’s a boy!” I said, and she burst into tears of joy.
“I’d be just as happy with a girl, but oh, Lillie! A little boy! You know how that feels! Let me call Trey. He’ll be thrilled.”
Get ready to have your heart broken in eighteen years, I thought darkly. Be grateful you have daughters. Raise your son so he doesn’t cheat on his wife.
As Tiana talked to her husband, I checked my phone. Nothing from Vanessa.
When five o’clock came, I still hadn’t heard from her, and a tingle of anxiety weakened my knees. I’d ridden my bike to work, and I took my time on the trip home, breathing in the scent of the fallen pine needles and rambling roses that twisted and climbed the trees in the MacGregors’ yard. The sky was perfectly clear and dazzlingly blue. Deep breaths, no tears. I had my health. I had my son.
Vanessa didn’t contact me. I called Victor’s and apologized, and they kindly said it was no problem, they had plenty of people waiting.
Finally, at seven forty-five, she texted. Had to go back to Boston unexpectedly. Brad and I talked. More later. Sorry about dinner.
That was not a good sign. That was not a white knight on horseback. That didn’t sound like the wrath of a mother.
The next day, Vanessa emailed me to say she was so very sorry, but she and Charles had decided not to take sides, even if they didn’t approve of the way in which Brad was conducting himself. He was their son, and I would always be the mother of their grandson, but it would be best if they didn’t get involved.
Vanessa, who had swooped in when I lost my daughter, who had known just what to do, bringing over homemade mac and cheese, sending Brad and Dylan out for the day, letting me cry unfettered. Vanessa, who told me a thousand times that I was a remarkable mother. Who thanked me for making such a beautiful life for her son and grandson. The woman who had taught me firsthand what motherhood should be like.
She was ditching me, too. It almost hurt more than Brad.
CHAPTER 4
Melissa
Missy Jolene Cumbo was thirteen when she realized her looks were going to take her places—specifically, out of Wakeford, Ohio, tucked in the Appalachian Mountains, spitting distance from West Virginia, and the second poorest town in the state.
The gym teacher, Mr. Lambert, had brushed up against her, and she’d felt something odd . . . his erection, she realized. Ew! But also, like, interesting? Mr. Brent, the history teacher, called on her, and she thought there was a difference in his voice. Like, he totally wanted to hear what she had to say, even though she got Cs in his class. Leesa, the so-called smartest girl in their class, gave her a filthy look as Missy was getting her backpack out of her locker, then whispered something to Nicolette, and they laughed, glancing at her, then laughed some more.
Jealousy? Interesting! She’d never had any use for Leesa and Nicolette, since they thought they were all that, but their mean laughter told her something.
Later that week, she went to the Dollar General to test her newfound power, and there it was. Shane Lewis’s daddy gave her a long gaze, then jerked his eyes away when he realized it was her, same age as Shane. She got a gross smile from the pervy guy in the pickup, who was drinking beer in the bed of his rusty truck. Dirty old men, she thought, but with a little hint of pride, too.
She walked home and went straight into the bathroom, closed the door and wedged the board under the handle, since the lock had been broken all her life. She stared in the mirror. Missy-Jo might come from a long line of hillbilly white trash, as her father proudly proclaimed them, and she wasn’t exactly book smart, but that mirror was telling her something. She was pretty! She was . . . hang on a sec . . . oh my word! She was beautiful! She had always known she was prettier than Mama, and (sorry, sis) prettier than Kaitlyn, but thunderation! All of a sudden, pretty had gone and grown into gorgeous. Holy heck.
The face in the mirror had high, defined cheekbones—she’d lost that baby fat in the past year or so; clear, pale green eyes; naturally blond hair (a little dingy, but she could work with it); and a full, Kardashian kind of mouth (the Cumbos might have their electricity shut off a few times a year for not paying the bills, but they sure as heck had cable).
Suddenly, the world held new possibilities. Even at thirteen, Missy-Jo knew she wasn’t going to stay in this loser town. Wakeford wasn’t even a real town, just an unincorporated blob, filled with moldy trailers and rickety farmhouses, rusting cars, stray dogs, a garage that was open when the mechanic was sober and the Dollar General store. Missy-Jo had never left Ohio. The furthest she’d ever been was Portsmouth, and only because she’d broken her arm when she was nine.
Anyone with half a brain would want to get out of there. Very few did.
But she would.