With shaking hands, she pulled Marin into her arms and dialed Kip. She should have called an ambulance first, but all she could think was that she needed Kip.
His secretary pulled him out of a meeting. He told her to call an ambulance, that he would meet her at the hospital.
In the ambulance, riding to Lankenau Hospital where Marin had been born, she felt calmer and more in control. Hearing Kip’s voice had snapped her out of her hysteria. And in Blythe’s arms, listening to her soothing words of comfort, Marin calmed down just a little bit too.
For ten days, Blythe and Kip had to change the dressings on Marin’s bandaged burns. It was imperative that they keep it sterile and prevent an infection. Every time they touched her bandaging, Marin cried like she was experiencing the burns all over again. Blythe could barely endure it, but Kip was there with a sure and steady hand.
The burn specialist told them if they kept the areas out of the sun, chances were it would heal so well, they’d never even know it had happened. Sure enough, the marks disappeared. But Blythe’s guilt over the whole incident didn’t fade one bit.
She stopped going to the ballet classes. If she hadn’t been so selfish in the first place, if she’d just been home with her baby as she should have been, there wouldn’t have been an accident. Oh, how she blamed herself. Kip, to his credit, never did.
It was so easy, in retrospect, to cast herself as the victim in her marriage, the selfless mother who did all the heavy lifting while her husband put his career first. Yes, in many ways, he did. But if Blythe had wanted to find her way back to a career, he would have been supportive. The simple fact was, after Marin was born, she wanted to be a full-time mother. Maybe it was her own insecurity about that choice that made her resent Kip’s ability to have it all—the family and the blockbuster career. And that was certainly why she had been so appalled by Marin’s broken engagement. It seemed she was making the opposite choice that Blythe had, that in a sense, she was rebuking Blythe. Of course, that hadn’t been it at all. Marin had simply been in the midst of making her own messy decisions.
Warren lifted his glass of wine. “To past lives,” he said.
She touched her glass to his, trying to offer the man the genuine smile he deserved.
When Rachel called Luke to cancel the dinner—blaming it on Marin’s making her feel bad about crowding Amelia and Kelly—he said, “If you still want to do it, bring everything over here. My dad and Bart will be into it. Just count Paul in because he’s here swimming and will probably stay for dinner.”
Rachel, already emotionally invested in the dinner plan, agreed.
The only wrinkle in the whole thing was Fran. What would Luke think of her mother? Oh, who cared? It was never going to happen between them. His opinion didn’t matter. She had to change the way she thought. She had to let it go.
In the kitchen at Thomas and Bart’s house, Rachel squeezed one last burst of lemon juice onto the kale salad, then tossed it. She sprinkled pine nuts on top of that, then handed the bowl to her mother to carry to the table.
“I love this kitchen!” Fran said, toying with Thomas and Bart’s mint-green vintage toaster.
“Can you stop fondling the appliances and help me get food out to the table?” Rachel said.
“But this toaster,” cooed Fran. “So smooth…so shiny.”
Rachel looked at her. “Are you high?”
Of course she was. She had disappeared for a while with Paul. Rachel sighed and carried the salad into the dining room herself. By the time she returned to the kitchen, Fran had drifted off to another room.
Rachel twisted the cap off a bottle of Kim Crawford sauvignon blanc and poured herself a glass just as Paul walked in and deposited a bottle of Tito’s vodka and half a dozen limes on the counter.
“I thought we’d do kamikazes tonight,” he said. He pulled one more bottle out of a brown paper bag. “The secret ingredient: Combier.”
“Go for it. I’m sticking to wine.”
He found a handheld juicer in one of the utensil drawers, then cut a lime in half and squeezed it into a shallow glass. “Let me ask you something. What the hell is going on with Kelly?”
Rachel looked at him blankly. “I have no idea. What do you mean?”
“Oh, cut the shit. I’ve known her a lot longer than you. I’m family too, you know.”
“Paul, honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about. She and Amelia have been away for a few days. They got back earlier but I haven’t really seen them. Why? What do you think is going on?”
“Maybe her cancer is back. This is how she acted last year when she was diagnosed, going MIA.”
This was all news to Rachel. She didn’t know anything about Kelly having cancer in the past and had no reason to think she was sick now. She decided that Paul was just paranoid from the pot.
“I have to get dinner on the table.”
The mood was festive. Everyone seemed genuinely thrilled to have Fran in the mix. Thomas was clearly having a good night, Bart was celebrating a big sale at the gallery, and Paul was happily infatuated with a guy he’d met at Lobsterfest. The wine flowed, Rachel’s cod was apparently superb—she had to take their word for it, since she wouldn’t eat it—and Fran was trotting out her most debaucherous LA stories, including her classic one-night stand with Anthony Kiedis.
“Was that during the One Hot Minute tour?” asked Bart.
“Their worst album,” muttered Rachel. It was true, but she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to say it. Except she was suddenly angry at Fran. Furious.
Fran was oh so fun, oh so amusing—unless she was your only parent.
“Rachel, this cod is truly fantastic,” said Thomas. “I think it’s the paprika that really makes it pop.”
“I can’t believe you can cook,” said Fran.
“Yeah. Amelia’s a great teacher,” said Rachel.
“Unlike me,” Fran said, laughing like it was a joke.
“That’s right,” said Rachel. “Unlike you.”
Fran, realizing this was not just banter, put down her fork. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I mean—that’s a fact. You never taught me much of anything.”
“I knew that’s what this whole trip was about! I wasn’t a good enough mother, so you have to run off looking for something better.”
“That’s not what this is about. Although, yeah, if you were more of a mother, I might not have felt like something was missing my whole life. But you know what? I guess in the end you did me a favor, because it pushed me to find the rest of my family.”
“You have no idea what it’s like being a single mother!” Fran yelled.
“That was your choice!”
“Okay, Rachel?” Luke said. “Why don’t you and I take a walk, get some fresh air. Bart and Paul can clear the table? Right?”
“Yes,” Bart said. “Absolutely.”
Rachel threw down her napkin and followed Luke to the door.