“You need to hang in there,” I whisper into his ear. “Like the way Paul taught you to be patient and smart. Can you do that?”
He nods against my hair.
“Don’t make your dad and Claudia mad, just do what they say so I know you’re safe.”
“I don’t like her.”
“I know. But for now, you need to pretend.”
He pulls away and sniffles once. “You gonna be able to fix things?”
“I’m gonna try.”
* * *
Claudia lives in the gated community of Three Arch Bay. I drive to the gates and wait, and an hour later, when Claudia’s Mercedes pulls onto the Coast Highway, I follow.
We end up at Fashion Island in Newport Beach, an outdoor mall where I’m sure Claudia spends a lot of her time and her father’s money.
“Claudia,” I say, causing her to turn with a fake smile, obviously thinking she’s running into a friend. The smile drops when she sees me and her eyes get big, then they run me up and down and she sneers at my less-than-glamorous appearance. Today, for my beach outing, I’m wearing a Dodgers T-shirt I borrowed from my dad over a pair of elastic-banded nylon shorts.
She turns and continues to hurry on her way.
I hustle in front of her. “Please, Claudia, just hear me out.”
She whirls, her eyes skittering around as she yelps, “I have nothing to say to you.”
She’s either grown a conscience and feels guilty or she’s so humiliated by the truth of the situation, that Gordon beats her, that she can’t look me in the eye. Or perhaps it’s a combination of both.
Again my emotions are torn—I resent her at the same time I feel sorry for her. Claudia and I were never friends, but we grew up in the same small town and have known each other our whole lives. Our boys are the same age, and though I don’t like her, I’ve watched compassionately from the sidelines as she charted a tragic course of destruction for herself, first getting involved with a serial rotation of surfer boys, then getting pregnant by one of them who wanted to live off her money while he continued playing the field and surfing the circuit.
Searching for love
—or actually,
searching for romance
—should be her tagline. I’ve watched for the last twenty years as she’s been sorely, brutally used and her heart bruised, the dozen times she thought she found it, and now she’s with Gordon.
Shame. Desperation. Not wanting to acknowledge she chose wrong again. I get it. Oh, how I get it.
“He hits you,” I say bluntly.
Her head shoots up and scans rapidly around her, certain Gordon’s watching her. I get it. He knows, he always knows.
“Leave me alone,” she cries, running past me. “He chose me, not you. He loves me.”
Pride, obstinacy, vanity, arrogance. I let her go. A wounded bird, desperate to be loved.
Scared, yes. Lazy, maybe. Weak, definitely.
Oh, how I get it.
I get it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to use it. I watch as she race-walks into the mall probably to buy more long-sleeve blouses or heavier foundation, her pale hands swishing against her pants. Her skin is like Addie’s; she probably bruises like a peach.
Time to declaw the lion.
* * *
Nellie Gail Ranch is nestled into the foothills of Laguna Niguel. It’s a wealthy, gated community of horse ranches and mansions. Claudia’s father, Frank Rousseau, and my father have known each other over thirty years. While my dad eked out a living from his restaurants, Mr. Rousseau made a fortune selling him and thousands of other restaurateurs salad dressings and soups. My dad called ahead to let him know I was coming.
I pull up to the sprawling ranch house nestled behind mature eucalyptus and a sprawling, manicured lawn and park in the horseshoe driveway.
The door opens before I reach the steps.
“Hello, Jillian.”
“Mr. Rousseau, thank you for seeing me.”
Tight and petite like his daughter, he has a small chin, a large nose, dark blue eyes, and his face wears a smile and a layer of distrust.
“Would you like to come in?” he asks.
I shake my head. “This will only take a minute.”
He’s relieved.
“Mr. Rousseau, you’ve known my father a long time, and through him, you know me. I’d like you to consider that when I tell you what I’m about to tell you.”
I rehearsed this in the car, my nerves jacked up high. I have one shot, a single chance to turn the tides and get my kids back.
Claudia is Gordon’s Achilles’ heel, she just doesn’t know it. She’s stalwartly loyal. It’s tragically romantic, and I know I can’t change that; I won’t even try. But I don’t need her consent, I just need her pale, bruised skin.
Claudia loves Gordon, and Mr. Rousseau loves his daughter. Claudia is searching for love to save her, and hopefully it will. I’m counting on it to save us all.
It’s time to cash in all my chips, ante up all the goodwill I’ve socked away in the solitary hope of convincing Mr. Rousseau I’m telling the truth, something he’s not going to want to believe.
I wait as he turns my words. For as long as he’s known my father, he’s heard my dad bragging about me. While Claudia was getting into trouble with boys and ditching school, I was charging forward in my career and walking the straight and narrow.
When his focus returns, I take a breath, and with great courage, tell him what I’ve been hiding from the world. “Gordon’s an abusive man, and he’s hurting Claudia.”
His poker face flinches, his eyes blink, his right cheek twitches.
“Get out,” he seethes through clenched teeth.
I don’t move. “Please, Mr. Rousseau…”
“Leave. Now.” He closes the distance between us in a stride, and I back-pedal, stumbling toward my car.
Before I reach it, I yell over my shoulder, “Check her arms and legs.” I stutter, “If I’m wrong, I owe you an apology…”
He interrupts, “You owe me an apology now. Accusing a man of abuse is a hell of a way to try and get your kids back. No woman worth a dime would stay with a man who hurts her, and as you said, Jillian, I’ve known you a long time, and you certainly believe you’re worth more than two nickels. Christ, you and your dad think you’re the fucking Queen of Sheba. And now, for the first time, Claudia’s got something you want, and you can’t handle it. Claudia said you were crazy.”
My hand’s on the car door handle, but I don’t open it. Instead, I whirl around and stomp back toward him. He glowers at me from the top step, his arms folded triumphantly.
“I may be crazy, and if I am, it’s because Gordon made me that way. And you’re right, I’d do anything to get my kids back, and I’d do anything to protect them, including lying.” I’m the one seething now, the words spitting like daggers. “So maybe I’m crazy and maybe I’m lying and maybe I’m just a spoiled bitch trying to get my way. The question is, Mr. Rousseau, are you willing to stake your daughter’s life on that?”
I
t took only four hours for all hell to break loose.
“Hello, Frank,” my dad says into the phone. He grunts a few times, nods, then hangs up, his face red with rage. If he were a cartoon character, steam would be blowing from his ears and nostrils.
“Is Claudia okay?” I ask.
He ignores me. “Grace, you need to pick Drew up. He’s at the police station.”
“The police station,” I croak.
“Gordon was arrested. He’s in jail.”
My heart pounds and sings and panics all at once. There’s a small sense of victory that’s completely overwhelmed by the feeling that I’ve just bashed a bat into a beehive.
“Should I bring him here?” my mom asks as she gathers her purse.
My dad shakes his head. “Gordon’s going to be released…”
“What?” I scream.
My dad holds up his hand. “Claudia is refusing to press charges. They only took him in because he was threatening Frank. He’ll be out in a couple of hours. Take Drew to the mall or something, then you’ll need to give him back. Gordon still has custody. Nothing’s changed.”
* * *
My mom returned an hour ago without Drew, and she was so defeated that I couldn’t bear to ask her what happened.
I’m too upset to sit still, so I’m in the garden that’s still nothing more than a torn-up patch of lawn. Unsuccessfully, I’m trying to distract my concerns about Addie and Drew by engaging in a useless struggle against the roots of the magnolia tree that refuses to relent the small patch of yard I’ve declared as mine.
“Jill, someone’s at the door for you,” my dad says from the porch.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and walk around the house to the front.
Gregg Lackey, the officer who arrested me for my DUI, stands on the porch; his black-and-white is parked at the curb.
“Mrs. Kane.”
“Jillian,” I correct.
“Jillian.”
He folds his arms across his chest, then unfolds them, then refolds them, like he’s unsure what to do with his appendages. Finally, he lets them hang by his side. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…I had no idea. The way Claudia explained it, I thought you were trying to set Gordon up so you’d get custody…” His eyes focus on a spot past me, then rise to meet mine and he repeats, “I’m sorry.”
My head nods just slightly, but I say nothing.
“I talked to my captain. The DUI’s going to be dropped.”
“As in gone?” I ask. “Taken off my record?”
He nods. “And Uncle Frank’s on a rampage. Gordon picked on the wrong girl…” He stops abruptly, and his eyes slide away again as he realizes he just implied that I was the right girl. I let him stew in his discomfort. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean…Anyway, what I meant to say is it looks like Gordon’s going to be suspended from his job.”
“Is Claudia okay?” I ask.
His nose pinches tight as he says, “She will be. Uncle Frank’s sending her to stay in Hawaii with her mom to get her away from Gordon, give her some distance. She’s messed up right now, still wants to go back to him.” He shakes his head. “I don’t get it. He beat her black and blue, and Claudia’s still insisting she loves the bastard.”
My face shows compassion, while inside I cheer. I hate myself for rejoicing that the bruises are bad, but I can’t help the hope that rises knowing Claudia’s beaten body might be exactly what I need to get Addie and Drew back.
I wait for his emotions to settle, and as much as I was determined not to like him and to hold a grudge, I find myself forgiving him. He obviously loves his cousin very much.
When the moment’s passed, his eyes find mine again. “I really didn’t know,” he says. “I thought I was doing the right thing. So many dads get the raw end of the deal.” His stare reveals a hurt that has nothing to do with me.
“You have children?” I ask.
“A son. I haven’t seen him in two years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not an excuse for what I did, though it’s probably the reason.”
“We’ve all done things we regret.”
He toes the ground, and an awkward silence stands between us. It’s because he’s the right age and I’m the right age, and he’s a man and I’m a woman, and all emotionally charged moments between X and Y lead to this strange tension. I wait for it to pass. I don’t know if I’ll ever care for a man again, but I’m certain of my inability now, and as the moment fades, I marvel that despite the apocalyptic condition of my life, the energy still exists.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “If there’s anything I can do to help, to make it up to you.”
I take the card with a thin smile.
“Gordon’s done as a cop,” he says. “I know that doesn’t make up for things, but whether Claudia charges him or not, my uncle’s gonna make sure everyone knows what he did.”
I shrug. Somehow it all seems so far removed from Addie and Drew.
He steps away, then hesitates. He wants to do more, wants to make things right, undo what he did wrong. But it’s never that simple.
I watch him go until the taillights disappear.
I should be celebrating. This is what I wanted, what Connor told me needed to be done. I’ve shaken the foundation—stripped Gordon of Claudia, his job, his reputation. I should feel victorious. Instead, all I feel is terrified.
Back a bear into a corner and you end up with an angry bear.
D
espite exhaustion, I can’t sleep. My pregnancy’s moved from the sick stage to the uncomfortable stage, and heartburn, hiccups, and swollen ankles, combined with incredible stress over the latest turn of events, make sleep impossible.
I pass the mirror in the hallway and catch a glimpse of what I might look like in another twenty years. Dark circles ring my eyes, and worry lines scar my face.
It’s seven in the morning, and my parents are asleep, so when the phone rings, I grab it on its first chime.
“Jill?”
“Gordon?”
“We need to talk.”
“How’s Addie?”
“When can you meet?”
“Is Drew there? Can I talk to him?”
“This afternoon. Meet me at the food court on Sand Canyon at one.”
The phone clicks, and my heart races.
* * *
I walk with measured steps toward the tables with the yellow-and-brown-striped umbrellas. Gordon sits beneath the one farthest to the left. He looks relaxed, his posture slumped back in the seat, his left arm resting on the table.
He wears his Oakley Flak Jacket sunglasses, a newly trimmed buzz cut, and his signature windbreaker that conceals his gun.
I’m scared all the way to my marrow, and all that keeps me moving forward is the thin hope that staying on course might lead me back to Addie and Drew.
In front of him is a tray with a Baja Fresh burrito and a lemonade. I take my seat across from him.
“Aren’t you going to eat? You know you’re eating for two.” He smiles magnanimously at me like he’s my friend, and I realize with a shudder how truly sociopathic he is.
“Where are the kids?”
“You need to eat.” He stands and returns ten minutes later with a gyro from Daphne’s and sets the tray in front of me.
“Gordon, where are Addie and Drew?”
“Eat.”
I push the tray aside, and his eyes pulse.
“Fine, Jill. Be a bitch.”
“Where are they?”