Some Women (15 page)

“Well, I'm sorry. Forgive me if I'm not comfortable with you showing up unannounced after over a decade and getting to know your daughter, as you put it. If you'd wanted to know your daughter on any level, you wouldn't have left or remained MIA for eleven years.”

“I've made mistakes.” He nodded pensively.

“
Mistakes?
A mistake is when you forget to call a friend back. Or when you send an e-mail to the wrong person. Running out on your family and staying gone isn't a mistake. It's a decision. One that has consequences.”

“Fern wants to know me. She wants to know her father.”

“Fern is a ten-year-old little girl with a vivid imagination. She's created this inflated idea of you in her head. An idea that likens you to some sort of superhero and is, clearly, far from the truth.”

“I have the right to at least see her, Piper.”

“Do you? By whose estimation?”

“I don't know.” He shook his head. “This isn't how I thought this would go.”

“Really?” She balked. “What, exactly, did you expect? That I'd welcome you with open arms? Invite you over for poker night?”

“You play poker?”

“No. But that's not the point.”

“Piper, I'm not going anywhere.”

“Don't threaten me.” Her voice was shrill. “And, by the way, that's a bit hard to believe coming from you.”

“
Please
, Piper.”

“Please what? Stay. Go. Join the circus, for all I care. Just leave me and Fern alone. We've done just fine without you.”

“I meant I'm not going anywhere until I can see Fern again. Tell her my side of things.” He exhaled. “Please give me that chance.”

Piper sat silently, unsure of what to do. What to say. Until finally she stood up, grabbed her coat and purse, and stomped out of the diner without looking back.

The holidays had come and gone too quickly this year, at least for Mackenzie's taste. Unlike so many other women she spoke to, she'd never viewed Thanksgiving and Christmas as burdens to be endured until visiting family members returned home, stringent diet regimens could be resumed, and children were back in school, where they belonged. In fact, it had come as quite a surprise to Mackenzie, when she'd first gotten married and moved to the suburbs, to hear people griping about being saddled by seemingly endless to-do lists relating to a season that was meant to be synonymous with unadulterated joy.

There were catering orders to be outlined and then placed, because God forbid anyone should crack open their stove or light a burner. There were gifts to buy for significant others, parents, children, and even pets. That had been another culture shock for Mackenzie—the concept that people invested a great deal of time
and energy into considering what their cats and dogs might like to find under the tree. Rarely was it a chew toy or a meaty bone for the Busters of Eastport to gnaw on, but rather some sort of fur coat to keep them warm. Weren't they born with those? Or perhaps a pair of rhinestone-studded rain boots, for fear that their paws might go unembellished, or, worse, that they could get damp in inclement weather and subsequently track muddy footprints onto their owners' antique Tibetan rugs.

Mackenzie felt especially grateful to have avoided all of that nonsense this year. To have eschewed dressing in her finest and being forced to sit at CeCe's elaborately decorated dining room table, with waitstaff swirling around them in a frenzy, as CeCe barked orders and clenched her jaw at each and every misstep. Inevitably, there would be one scapegoat: the one who had revealed himself to be the weak link from the onset, unaware that exposing vulnerability was tantamount to jockeying for abuse in the Mead household. The poor soul would be railed on by CeCe without relenting. And there was nothing discreet about it. In front of family, CeCe's true colors were vibrant and often blinding. In her mind, there was no one to impress or put on a show for. The two faces of CeCe. Unfortunately, neither of them was particularly pretty.

Mackenzie had often wondered if CeCe had been different when Trevor's father was alive. If perhaps his death had changed her fundamentally, hardened her into the woman she'd become. CeCe never spoke of him, nor did she appreciate being asked. How many reporters had committed that interview-ending mistake? For Trevor's part, he rarely mentioned him either. He'd been on the young side, age nine, when his dad had died due to complications from a lifelong issue with his heart. Still, by nine you knew who your
father was. Most likely you worshipped him. Wanted to walk in his footsteps until you could wear his shoes.

Jonathan Mead had run his namesake publishing company until the day before he'd passed away. A week after he'd been buried, CeCe had glided into his position, as it had been told, with the ease of a professional ice skater. She'd sharpened her blades by changing the name from Jonathan Mead Publishing to Mead Media, and had swiftly purchased a dozen regional magazines and journals, amassing them all under one large umbrella, no doubt preparing herself for her impending rainmaking.

Mackenzie had asked Trevor only a few times what he remembered most about his father, what lasting impression he'd left. For whatever reason, she'd expected to hear adjectives like
menacing
,
powerful
,
strict
, maybe even a little bit scary. She'd figured that anyone who'd been married to CeCe, anyone who'd
remained
married to CeCe, had to be a worthy opponent. Because, by Mackenzie's estimation, every relationship CeCe engaged in was another game of Russian roulette, and she'd never witnessed anything different. As irony would have it, Trevor had not used those adjectives. Quite the opposite, in fact. He'd admitted that his memory of his dad was somewhat foggy, given that he was a workaholic and his hours spent at home were limited. However, during what little quality time they did have together on the weekends or on family vacations, Trevor said he recalled a man who was kind and generous. A man who was impervious to his mother's absolute way of thinking and her fluctuating moods, which—if his memory served him correctly—did not have the vast range of volatile emotions they did today. He was also a man who loved his wife deeply, but still knew how and when to put her in her place. Mackenzie had relished this particular piece of information. She couldn't help herself.
In all of the years she'd known CeCe, she'd never seen anyone—not one single individual—even attempt to put CeCe in her place.

Lately, Mackenzie had been thinking about Trevor's father and wanting more than ever to give Trevor a child of his own. Though, truth be told, nature hadn't been altogether reliable on the baby-making front, and Mackenzie was beginning to think that CeCe might be right; maybe they should see someone. Get to the bottom of why things weren't going the way they'd hoped or planned. She opened her desk drawer to find the card CeCe had given her with the name of the physician she'd met at the American Cancer Society gala. Dr. Stanley Billingsly. The
top
fertility specialist in New York City, according to CeCe and her “sources.” It was impossible to tell who CeCe's “sources” actually were, whether they were real, live people or fabrications of her imagination, but, either way, she always referenced them when there was a point to be made. “My
sources
said it's indisputably the best Italian restaurant west of Florence.” “My
sources
insist that red no longer looks good on magazine covers.” “My
sources
told me dogs who accompany their owners to work live longer, happier lives.” Apparently, Aspen agreed. He may have been her “source” on that one.

Just as Mackenzie was about to dial Dr. Billingsly's number, there was a knock on her office door.

“Come in,” she called, guessing it was Trevor; otherwise her assistant, Rose, would have buzzed her over the intercom first.

“Hey.” Trevor let himself in.

“Hey, honey.” She stood up and walked around her desk to give him a kiss. He'd returned late the night before from a business trip and had been up and out of the house before her alarm had buzzed this morning. “You look stressed.”

“Janet completely screwed up the press release for the new journal we just acquired, and I need you to deal with it.” He slumped into the chair across from hers, frowning, as she returned to her seat.

“Sure, of course. Have her e-mail it to me before she sends it out.”

“She already sent it out. That's the problem. Not only did she get the name of the journal wrong, but she misspelled the editor's first and last names too. I mean, for Christ's sake. Is it that hard to spell Laurie Barker properly? My mother doesn't even know yet, and I need to fix things before she gets wind of it. She'll be here in two hours, after her hair appointment.”

“Shit, okay.” Mackenzie's job was in large part about dousing fires, but public relations wasn't really her department. While there were certainly a number of overlaps between PR and marketing, what many people didn't understand was that they were not one and the same. Not to mention that there were completely separate departments of people devoted to running and overseeing each of them. “Obviously, I'm happy to take this on, but can I ask where Andy and Mike are? Aren't they Janet's bosses?”

“My mom fired Mike, and I think Andy is in way over his head, for obvious reasons. You know, until we find a replacement.”

“Mike is
gone
?”

“Yup. Effective three o'clock yesterday, when my mother reprimanded him for something and he told her to lay off him.”

“No.”
Mackenzie widened her eyes in horror.

“Yes.”

“Poor Mike.” Mackenzie had always liked him. The best word to describe Mike Harrington was
mensch
. He was a guy whose
office was littered with photos of his wife and four kids. A guy who never left said office past six o'clock, so he could make it home in time to have dinner with his family. But also a guy who could be counted on to work from home once his two daughters and two sons were safely tucked into their beds. Mike Harrington was a faithful husband, father, and employee. He was also an idiot for having talked back to CeCe. Or maybe he was the smart one.

“Yeah.” Trevor sighed. It was hard to tell whether he actually cared about Mike being let go or whether he was beleaguered solely by the burden he was left to bear in his absence. The burden he was now transferring to her. “So anyway, I can trust that you'll make this right?”

“Absolutely.” Mackenzie checked the clock. She'd promised Piper she'd meet her for lunch at one. More precisely, that she'd meet her at the restaurant where Henry Ford was dining with an as-yet-unidentified companion.

“Excellent. This is really helpful.” He got up, readying to leave.

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about something else. If you have a quick minute.”

“Can it wait until later? I have papers piling up, and my in-box is chiming like a pinball machine.” He ran his fingers through his shock of bushy brown hair.

“Tonight?”

“I have a dinner after work.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“We have that thing. The . . .” He crumpled his face in thought.

“Juvenile Diabetes Gala at the Landmark Club.”

“Yes, thank you.” He pointed his finger in the air.

“I think we should see a fertility specialist,” Mackenzie blurted.
Suddenly it felt urgent and like waiting until the day after next could make a difference, if another must-attend event didn't crop up.

“Oh, um, okay. That was a little out of the blue.” He sat back down.

“Sorry. Your mom gave me this guy's card.” She slid it across the desk toward him, as CeCe had done to her.

“Do you really think it's necessary?”

“I don't know. I didn't. But now I'm wondering. It couldn't hurt to call, right?”

“I guess not.” He shrugged, and she could tell his mind was elsewhere, most likely on righting Janet's gaffe before CeCe volcanically combusted.

“So I'll call and make an appointment?” It wasn't meant to be a question. They were in this together, weren't they?

“Maybe we're getting ahead of ourselves.” Trevor's cell buzzed. “I have to take this. Can we table this conversation?”

“Yeah, sure. That's fine. Go ahead.” She smiled faintly.

“Trevor Mead,” he answered in his business voice, and then mouthed, “I'll call you later,” before turning to leave her office.

Once he'd shut the door behind him, she looked down at the card again. Then she picked up the phone and dialed the number before she had a chance to change her mind. “Hello. This is Mackenzie Mead. I'd like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Billingsly.” She cleared her throat. “The sooner, the better.”

•   •   •

Righting Janet's wrong had been a far more arduous task than Mackenzie had anticipated, which had rendered her fifteen minutes late for lunch with Piper, whom she'd been unable to reach
on the phone to tell her as much. She'd run the three blocks from the parking lot down the street and, now, as she burst through the front door of the restaurant breathlessly, she scanned the room for Piper. This was not how she'd expected her very first stakeout to go.

Zuckerman's Grill was considered one of the chicer lunch spots in town, all the way on the opposite side of Eastport from Mead Media, so Mackenzie had been there a only few times, though those few times had been memorable. She'd been longing for their tomato soup and crispy sweet potato fries since breakfast. Skimming the well-heeled crowd once more for Piper's smiling face and wildly curly hair, she landed on her assistant, Lucy, instead, sitting at a table in the corner by herself.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Mackenzie approached the table and stood across from Lucy, who was obliviously tapping out a text on her cell phone.

“Oh, um, hey.” Lucy looked up, fidgeting in her chair. “Sorry you got me instead. Piper had a last-minute work assignment. I tried you at the office, but Rose said you were already gone.” She seemed nervous.

“Not to worry,” Mackenzie reassured her, then hung her leather jacket and purse over the back of her chair and sat down. “Is he here?” she whispered, because it felt like the appropriate thing to do, given the circumstances.

“Yup. Behind you to your right. Three tables down. It's safe to look,” Lucy whispered back, and a jolt of excitement passed through Mackenzie's body. Of course, she didn't want to actually catch Henry doing something wrong, because that would hurt Annabel immeasurably. But she'd be damned if she wouldn't have fun trying to prove Annabel wrong.

“Shit. He's with a woman,” Mackenzie said, and craned her neck around her right shoulder, then turned back to face Lucy.

“I know.” Lucy twisted her mouth.

“Is it Slutty Red Suit Woman?”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. That's what Annabel has taken to calling her. What I meant is, do you know if it's the same woman he had dinner with at Nellie's Tavern?” Mackenzie stole another quick peek.

“Right. No, I don't. Piper wasn't able to get a picture last time.” Lucy held up her phone. “But I was! And I just texted it to Piper. I'm sure she'll get back to me as soon as she can.”

“She certainly fits the description.”

“I know.”

“Anything romantic? Hand holding?
Kissing?
”

“Nothing that obvious. But she keeps throwing her head back to laugh really loudly at everything he says. And she's touched his arm a few times.”

“Great,” Mackenzie mumbled. “Annabel is going to be apoplectic.”

“About an arm touch?” Lucy didn't seem to entirely get it. Why would she? She'd never been married. According to Piper, she'd never even had a serious boyfriend.