Heart of the Matter (26 page)

“At least Tina doesn’t have to face the nation,” I say. “Can you imagine?”

“No,” Romy says. “I can’t believe these women go on television like that.”

“Yeah,” April says. “I’d be gone in a heartbeat.”

MC and Romy murmur their agreement, and then they all look at me, waiting for me to weigh in on the subject, giving me no choice but to tell them I am in perfect agreement. Which I am. I think.

“Would you find it harder to forgive a prostitute or a love affair?” April asks, reading my mind.

MC chortles. “Burned to death or drowned?” Then she turns to Romy and says, “Sorry, hon. Unfortunate choice of words. Damn. I always put my foot in my mouth . . .”

Romy shakes her head somberly and reaches out to pat MC’s hand. “It’s okay, hon. I know what you meant.” Then she fiddles with her diamond ring, spinning it twice around, and says, “I could never forgive Daniel if he slept with a hooker. It’s just so gross. I couldn’t forgive anything that
sleazy,
I’d rather he fall in love with someone.”

“Really?” MC says. “I think I could get over something physical—maybe not a hooker, but a purely physical, one-night-stand kind of thing . . . But if Rick actually loved someone . . . that’s a different story.”

April looks contemplative and then says to me, “What would bother you more, Tess? Hot sex or love?”

I consider this for a second, then say, “Depends.”

“On what?” Romy says.

“On whether he’s having hot sex with the girl he loves.”

They all laugh as I think of Nick’s text, feeling sick to my stomach, hoping that I never have to find out exactly what I’d do in any of the above scenarios.

28

Valerie

Charlie
Anderson has a purple alien face.

They are words Valerie knows will be seared into his consciousness forever, part of his indelible life story, along with Summer Turner, the little girl who convinced him to remove his mask and show her his scars, right before issuing the cruel proclamation that made three children laugh, Grayson among them.

It happened on the Friday of Charlie’s first week back to school, just as Valerie was finally feeling optimistic. Not home free by any means, but out of the danger zone. She had just successfully argued a motion for summary judgment in front of a notoriously misogynistic judge, leaving the courthouse with a renewed sense of confidence that comes with success, with the feeling of being good at something. Life was returning to normal, she thought, as she reached into her purse for her keys and checked her cell phone, seeing four missed calls, two from Nick, two from the school. She had only turned her phone off for an hour, a rule at the courthouse, and although it occurred to her that something
could
happen in that short a window, she didn’t think that it actually would. Envisioning another accident, and knowing that she could get a report from Nick faster than a web of secretaries at the school, she frantically got into the car and dialed his number, bracing herself for his medical report.

“Hi there,” Nick answered in such a way that confirmed to Valerie that the calls
were
about Charlie, and that something bad
had
happened, but that it wasn’t as dire as she feared. She felt her panic recede slightly as she asked, “Is Charlie okay?”

“Yes. He’s fine.”

“He wasn’t hurt?”

“No . . . Not physically . . . But there was an incident,” Nick said calmly. “The school tried to call you first—“

“I know. I was in court,” she said, feeling overwhelming guilt for being unavailable, and even more so for allowing herself to care about work, however fleetingly.

“Did you win?” Nick asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Nick. What kind of an incident?”

“A... playground incident.”

Valerie’s heart sank as he continued, “A little girl called him a name. A few kids laughed. Charlie got mad and pushed her off the monkey bars. She’s a little scraped up. They’re both here in the headmaster’s office.”

“Where are you?”

“With Charlie. I just stepped out of the office for a second to take your call. . . When your secretary told the headmaster you were in court, Charlie gave them my number. He was pretty upset—about the name-calling, about getting in trouble.”

“Is he crying?” she asked, her heart breaking.

“Not anymore . . . He’s calmed down . . . He’ll be all right.”

“I’m sorry. . .” Valerie said, feeling somewhat surprised that Charlie didn’t call Jason or her mother before Nick. “I know how busy you are . . .”

“Please don’t be sorry. I’m glad he called me ... I’m glad I could come.”

“I am, too,” she said, stepping on the gas pedal, feeling a vague sense of déjà vu. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Take your time. Be careful. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” Valerie said. She nearly hung up, but instead mustered the courage to ask what the little girl had said to Charlie.

“What?” Nick said, clearly stalling, doing his best to evade her question.

“The little girl. What did she call Charlie?”

“Oh . . . That... It was ridiculous ... It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me,” she said, steeling herself.

He hesitated and then replied, his voice so quiet and muffled that she wasn’t sure she heard him right. But she had. She shook her head, seething, almost scaring herself by the venom she could feel for a six-year-old child.

“Val?” Nick said, the tenderness in his voice making her eyes fill with tears.

“What?”

“It’ll only make him stronger,” he said.

***

Minutes later, a school receptionist ushers Valerie into the headmaster’s office, a stately room decorated with oriental rugs, antique furniture, and a large bronze statue of a horse. She sees Summer first, perched on a leather wing chair, sniffling and cradling her arm. With long platinum-blond hair, bright green eyes, and a delicate, upturned nose, she reminds Valerie of a preteen Barbie doll. She clearly is a fast girl in the making, dressed in an alarmingly short jean skirt, pink Uggs, and sparkly lip gloss. Valerie remembers thinking she was trouble on the first day of school as she watched a trio of mousy-brown-haired girls follow Summer around the classroom like ladies-in-waiting. Ironically, she also remembers feeling grateful she had a boy. They were so much less complicated, especially those not yet prone to crushes. For the time being at least, Charlie was immune to the likes of Summer.

But that was before.

Purple alien face.

She makes eye contact with Summer, doing her best to telepathically communicate hatred as she steps the whole way into the office, now spotting Charlie, Nick, and Mr. Peterson, the headmaster, a tall, slender man with a youthful face, premature gray hair, and owlish, wire-rimmed glasses.

“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Peterson says, rising from behind his hulking walnut desk. He has a slight lisp and modest manner that offsets his position of authority.

“Of course,” Valerie says, then apologizes for being unavailable when he first called.

“Not at all . . . We were all fine. It gave us a chance to chat. . . And it was so wonderful to meet Dr. Russo,” he says, just as Nick stands, looking uncomfortable. He murmurs to Valerie, “I’ll wait for you outside,” then exchanges final pleasantries with Mr. Peterson before making a discreet exit.

Valerie takes Nick’s chair, resting her hand on Charlie’s knee. She looks at him, but he refuses to look back at her, staring down at his double-knotted sneaker laces. His mask is back on, where Valerie has a feeling it will stay for a long time to come.

“We’re just waiting for Summer’s mother,” Mr. Peterson says, drumming his long fingers on the edge of his desk. “She’s coming from work, too. Will be here shortly.”

A moment of small talk later, an older, heavyset woman with a severe bob and an ill-fitting, shoulder-padded suit bursts into the room, breathless. She does not wait for Mr. Peterson to make her introduction, reaching out to shake Valerie’s hand with an unusual blend of confidence and shyness.

“I’m Beverly Turner,” she says. “You must be Charlies mother. I heard what happened. I’m so sorry.” Then she kneels down and apologizes to Charlie while Summer begins to sob—an obvious bid for sympathy which does not work. Instead, Beverly shoots her a fierce look, one that further disarms Valerie. She can even feel herself softening to the little girl—which she thought impossible only seconds before.

“Did you apologize to Charlie?” Beverly Turner asks her daughter, her face stern.

“Yes,” Summer says, her bottom lip quivering.

Beverly is unfazed as she turns to Charlie and asks for confirmation, “Did she?”

Charlie nods, still staring at his shoes.

“But he didn’t say
he
was sorry,” Summer says, whimpering. “For what he did to me.”

“Charlie?” Valerie prompts.

He adjusts his mask, then shakes his head in refusal.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Valerie continues, although she secretly believes they almost might. “Tell her you’re sorry for pushing her.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “For pushing you.”

“Well, then. Very good. Very good,” Mr. Peterson says, looking pleased. His palms come together as Valerie focuses on his gold signet ring. She pretends to listen to his eloquent speech that follows—graceful words about getting along and being respectful members of the community, but she can’t stop thinking of Nick, waiting for them outside, both loving and fearing how dependent she has become on him.

Mr. Peterson concludes his talk, standing and dismissing them all for the day, offering both mothers a final handshake. Once outside his office, Valerie breathes a sigh of relief as Beverly lowers her voice and apologizes a final time. Her expression is pained and sincere—more sincere than Romy’s ever was.

“I know how much you’ve been through . . . I’m so sorry Summer added to that burden.” She turns away from her daughter and says in an even lower voice, “I recently remarried . . . I have two stepdaughters now—teenagers—and I think the adjustment has been really tough for Summer . . . Not that I’m making any excuses for what she did.”

Valerie nods, feeling genuine compassion for her situation, thinking that she’d almost rather have a victim than a mean child. Almost.

“Thank you,” she says as she catches a glimpse of Nick, waiting for them by the exit, the sight of him making her pulse quicken. Charlie runs toward him, taking his hand, leading him toward the parking lot.

She says good-bye to Beverly, with the odd feeling that they could actually be friends, and a moment later, she is standing next to her car, watching as Nick opens Charlie’s door, helps him into his seat, and pulls his belt across his narrow chest. “It’s going to be okay, buddy,” he says.

Charlie nods, as if he believes him, but then says, “I hate the way I look.”

“Hey. Wait. Wait just a second here . . . Are you telling me you hate my work?” Nick reaches up and gently removes his mask, pointing at Charlie’s left cheek. “I made that skin. You don’t like my work? My art project?”

Charlie smiles a small smile, and says, “I
do
like your art project.”

“Well, good . . . I’m glad . . . Because I like your face. I like it a
lot.”

Charlie’s smile widens as Nick closes Charlie’s door, then leans in to whisper in Valerie’s ear, “And I love your face.”

Valerie closes her eyes and inhales his skin, feeling a rush of attraction and adrenaline that causes her to forget where she is for a few disorienting seconds. As the feeling of light-headedness passes, something catches her eye across the parking lot. A woman sitting in a black Range Rover, watching them. Valerie squints into the sun, looking straight at Romy, who is peering back at her with an expression of surprise and distinct satisfaction.

29

Tessa

Going
out with Cate is better than therapy, I decide, as we saunter down Bank Street right past the paparazzi gathered on the sidewalk outside the Waverly Inn, where she guarantees we can get in without a reservation, jokingly referring to her D-list fame.

“Did they know you were coming?” I ask, motioning toward the cameramen, who are standing around and smoking in their puffy North Face jackets and black skullcaps.

She tells me not to be ridiculous, that there must be a
legitimate
celebrity inside as a pair of twenty-something girls with artfully tousled, long-layered hair nod their confirmation.

“Yup. Jude Law,” the brunette says, raising her hand to flag a cab, while the blonde expertly touches up her lip gloss, without a mirror, and dreamily murmurs, “He’s so freakin’ hot. . . His friend wasn’t too bad, either.”

The brunette adds, “I wouldn’t kick either of them outta bed, that’s for sure,” right before the two slip into their taxi, on to their next venue.

I smile, thinking that this is exactly what I need tonight—to be at a trendy West Village restaurant in the company of paparazzi-worthy stars and a beautiful crowd, an absolute contrast to my real life. On some nights since I became a mother, such a scene might intimidate me, make me feel matronly and clueless, but tonight I have the feeling that I have nothing to lose. At least nothing I could lose at the banquette beside Jude Law, where Cate and I wind up sitting.

Just after we order two glasses of syrah, I consult my watch, thinking of the kids and Carolyn’s scheduled hours, all the details I orchestrated to make sure that the weekend runs smoothly without me. Nick should be returning home from work just about now, and I take secret satisfaction in the fact that I am out and he is at home with bedtime duties.

“So,” I say, glancing around the shabby but somehow still debonair dining room. “This is the new Manhattan hot spot?”

“Not
new.
God, Tess. You
have
been gone for a long time . . . But it’s still hot. I mean, we’re here, aren’t we?” she says over the cozy din, gesturing between us, tossing back her richly highlighted hair, lately drifting toward the reddish-blond hues and quickly becoming her signature look. Aware that she is the recipient of a few double takes, she plays it cool, casually glancing in Jude Law’s direction. She flashes a smile, her dimples emerging, then leans across the table and says, “Don’t look now but guess who just checked us out?”