CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The wind picked up as Veronica arrived at the Scotts’ condo later that day. Thin clouds skidded across the sky, and the trees murmured softly as their branches caught each gust. She grabbed a pink box from the passenger seat of the BMW and walked slowly toward the front door.
At first Veronica hadn’t realized the date—not until she was leaving her third message on Cliff McCormack’s voice mail. “I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. It’s Sunday, March twenty-third, just after three. Call me back.” And as she hung up the phone, the date had burned on her lips. March twenty-third, her mother’s birthday.
She really didn’t want to admit that she still remembered it. But there it was, written in indelible ink in some part of her mind. It went with a handful of memories she didn’t love to relive—Lianne, tossing back cheap martinis at the midrange steakhouse where they’d celebrated her birthday, getting so drunk she fell on the dessert cart. Another year, when they’d thrown a party for her at the house and she hadn’t even shown up. When she’d staggered in the door at three that morning she and Keith had had one of the few truly nasty fights. And other memories that were, in a way, even worse—the year they’d taken an afternoon dinner cruise, and the three of them had stood silent and peaceful on the deck watching whales play in the wake of the ship. The year Keith brought home Backup, a tiny, wiggly puppy with an enormous bow around his neck, and Lianne had carried him in her arms like a baby all afternoon.
Veronica adjusted the box in her hands. Was it tacky to get a cake during a hostage crisis? What was the protocol? She pictured chocolate frosting with white lettering: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HOPE YOUR DAUGHTER ISN’T DEAD. But this year was her fiftieth, a year with a zero. Veronica had to do something. So on her way to the condo she’d swung by a bakery and picked up a small German chocolate cake. It was her mom’s favorite—or at least it had been, a decade ago.
Lianne jerked the door open moments after the doorbell rang, as if she’d been waiting for it. She gave a little jolt when she saw Veronica. Then she opened the door a little wider. “Veronica. Hi. Sorry, I was expecting … Come on in. We’re on the terrace.”
She followed her mother through the house. It looked much the same, if a bit more lived-in. A hodgepodge of instruments was strewn across the living room floor—a plastic toy accordion, a miniature xylophone, a full-size tambourine with half the zils missing. Half-empty glasses cluttered the coffee table, next to a small stack of newspaper crossword puzzles pocked with eraser marks. A greasy smell hung on the air, the remnants of a week of hastily eaten fast food.
Lianne opened the glass doors and led her out to a balcony jutting out over the bluff. It was decorated with cool slate tile, a wrought-iron railing, and a retractable sunshade. Large earthen pots of bougainvillea and philodendron sat in every corner and cranny, giving the deck a lush, jungly look.
At the far end of the balcony, Tanner sat submerged in a sleekly curving Jacuzzi tub, head resting back against an inflatable pillow. He waved as they came in. “Veronica! We weren’t expecting you.”
“Hi, Mr. Scott,” she said. Then, as an afterthought: “Tanner.”
Hunter sat at a round glass table with an ancient Casio synthesizer, the rhythm set to bossa nova, plucking at the keys one finger at a time. His hair stuck up in the back, and there was a smear of something—barbecue sauce, maybe—at the corner of his mouth. Veronica smiled at him as she set the box down on the table. “Hi, Hunter. How’s it going?”
He shrugged, his eyes wary.
“I thought you were the kidnapping specialist,” Lianne said, sliding the glass doors shut. “He’s supposed to arrive any minute.”
“So you guys are going to pay the ransom?”
“Of course we are.” Lianne took a few steps around the deck, aimless and tense. She wore the same FIND AURORA T-shirt Tanner had been wearing on Friday. Aurora’s face looked strangely stretched out, almost like it was warped with pain.
Veronica watched her mother’s movements—simultaneously jerky and controlled, as if she was thinking about every step, every reach. Like she was just waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes and scream, “Boo!” It was familiar. Painfully familiar. That was how Lianne had always acted in the days before a relapse.
“What’s this for?”
They all turned to look at Hunter, who’d taken the lid off the box and was staring down at the cake. Veronica gave an uncomfortable little laugh.
“Oh. That. Well …” She gave Lianne a nervous smile. “I know it’s not exactly a happy birthday, but I thought we should at least have some cake.”
Lianne’s eyes fell on the box, then darted up to meet Veronica’s. For a moment they stared at each other. Lianne’s mouth fell open, her cheeks pink as well. “Birthday?” Tanner glanced from Lianne to Veronica and back again. “It’s … oh Christ, I forgot again, didn’t I?”
He heaved himself out of the Jacuzzi, water slopping against the sides of the tub. His swim trunks were bright green with a palm-tree print all over them. A few old scars ran across his torso, white against his suntanned skin.
“It’s fine, Tanner. There’s been so much going on. I almost forgot it myself.”
“We should have planned something.” He toweled off, then put a damp arm around Lianne’s shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “Hunter, we forgot your mama’s birthday. We’re gonna have to make it up to her.”
“How come she remembered it?” Hunter asked, staring at Veronica.
The bossa nova drumbeat grooved its way into the silence that stretched out between them all. Was this the moment to tell a six-year-old that, by the way, his mom had another kid? To try to explain why Veronica wasn’t a part of their life? Hunter’s brow was rumpled up in a painfully familiar way—the family forehead, skeptical and anxious. The forehead of a kid who saw everything, heard everything, even if he didn’t understand what he was seeing or hearing yet.
Veronica’s and Lianne’s eyes met over the top of the little boy’s head. Then Lianne slowly sat down at the table next to Hunter, putting a hand on each arm so that he’d look at her.
“Hunter, we haven’t been totally honest with you,” she said, her voice trembling. “You know how Rory’s your half sister, from your dad’s previous marriage? Well, Veronica’s your half sister on the other side. She’s my daughter. She’s your sister.”
Hunter’s little brow furrowed deeper. For a moment Veronica wondered if he was about to cry. She realized she was holding her breath, her heart racing, and she almost laughed. How was it, after the week she’d had, that a six-year-old’s reaction to the news that she was his sister could make her so nervous?
Then Hunter looked back at the cake. “So are we going to eat it?”
Lianne’s lips trembled. She leaned forward to hug Hunter, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “Yes, baby, we’re going to eat it. I’ll get a knife. Can you say thank you to Veronica?”
“Thanks for the cake,” he said. Then he hit a few experimental keys on the keyboard and sang it. “Thanks … for the caaaaake.”
Lianne went into the house to get plates and silverware, Hunter following at her heels and singing to himself. Tanner and Veronica were alone. The awkwardness was almost deafening.
“Thanks so much for making sure your mom had a nice birthday, Veronica.” He shook his head. “I’d like to say I forgot because of … all this. Aurora being missing and all. But the truth is, I’m pretty bad at birthdays. It’s a flaw of mine. But it’s not for lack of caring. I just killed too many damn brain cells.” He gave a hoarse laugh and sat down across the table from her. His blue eyes were the only part of him that didn’t look somehow faded.
Veronica wasn’t sure what to say. She’d never had that problem. Neither she nor her dad had ever forgotten a birthday. They took any excuse to appreciate each other. They’d taken any excuse to try to make Lianne feel loved. And it hadn’t been enough. It had never been enough.