Some Women (2 page)

“I'll call you later. We'll figure everything out.” He was calm. Cool. Collected. He'd thought this through. Henry always thought things through. Important things.

“Wait.” She lunged toward him. She wanted to pin him to the ground with her bare hands. To tell him he had to stay. To tell him that they were a family. And that no family was happy all the time. Marriages are work. Kids are tougher work. But they could
work harder. She could work harder for all of them. Perhaps she had been complaining too much lately. It was just that she'd felt so exhausted and alone in her attempt to keep everyone's lives running smoothly. She'd force herself to relax more. Yes, that was it. Forced relaxation. Only none of those thoughts came out. Instead she said, “Are your brown slacks in that bag?”

“What?” He furrowed his brow.

“They've been missing for months. I thought maybe . . .”

“Jesus, Annabel.” He shook his head disbelievingly.

“I'm just saying!” She'd searched high and low for those brown slacks. Why didn't he appreciate that?

“I'll be in touch.” Henry walked toward the door without so much as a perfunctory kiss good-bye. Before leaving, he turned toward her. He was changing his mind. She knew it. He was going to sink his exhausted body back down into that sofa, put up his feet, and settle into his comfortable life once more. “And, Annabel, please don't try to manage this the way you do everything else. My mind is made up.”

His mind was made up? What about her mind? Ten years of marriage and, just like that, he was prepared to toss her in the trash like a used tissue?

That was when it hit her. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Henry was cheating. Because, honestly, why else would anyone leave someone who'd devoted her entire life to her family? Someone who worked hard every day with the interests of her husband and children at the forefront of her mind.

Suddenly Annabel had never been surer of anything in her life. The only question was, who was he cheating with?

“I cleared out this whole chest and a big section of the closet, which really isn't that big, since the closet itself is tiny.” Piper Whitley scurried around her bedroom, opening and closing drawers and shoving her own crumpled clothing haphazardly wherever it would fit. She wanted Todd to feel at home in her house, as if it was theirs together. “Do you think that'll be enough space? If not, I can probably purge some of my stuff.”

She could definitely purge some of her stuff—most of it, actually, considering how half of it dated back to college, a time in her life when she was considerably fitter and at least ten pounds slimmer.

“There's plenty of room for my things,” Todd assured her. She knew he hadn't brought over everything from his place. Not yet.

“You'd tell me if there wasn't, right?” she asked anxiously.

“Come here.” He waved her toward him and then placed one
hand on each of her arms to steady her. “Relax. Take a deep breath. And remember this is a good thing.”

“Says who?” Piper's ten-year-old daughter, Fern, appeared in the doorway.

“Who says what?” Piper turned toward her, hopeful that a quick but knowing glare would shut down her daughter's newly developed disdain toward her mother's boyfriend.

“Who says Todd moving in is a good thing?” She folded her arms across her chest petulantly. “I don't recall anyone asking my opinion.”

Fern's apparent contempt for Piper's boyfriend was a new and unwelcome shift in their mother-daughter dynamic. Piper and Todd had been dating for over a year now and, at first, Piper had been pleasantly surprised by the ease with which he'd blended into their family of two. Fern had accepted Todd from the start. She'd been a willing and eager participant in the many activities he'd arranged in an attempt to form and later solidify their bond. Todd had taken her to see
The Nutcracker
last Christmas, only weeks into his relationship with Piper. He'd trailed Fern for hours at the library while she'd meandered up and down the stacks, showing him every one of her favorite books. And there were many. He'd even bought tickets to a New York Rangers game, making the hour-long drive each way into the city simply because she'd expressed a passing interest in the team. As it turned out, Fern was no more a fan of hockey than she was of any other sport. Like mother, like daughter.

Todd had fallen into the role of father figure with more grace and fluency than most real fathers Piper knew. And Fern had been his enthusiastic guinea pig, ready to try whatever new and
interesting pursuit he suggested. Even eating rattlesnake, which, she'd confirmed, tasted just like chicken.

“No one asked your opinion? I'm so sorry about that. We definitely should have.” Todd wasn't oblivious to Fern's distorted behavior. But, at the same time, it didn't make him uncomfortable and it hadn't scared him off. He was reasonable, rational, and evolved beyond Piper's expectations.

“Fern.” Piper's tone was firm but not harsh. “We talked about this at great length.”

“Yes, but telling someone something and asking their opinion are two different things. Am I right, Fern?” Todd winked at Piper when Fern wasn't looking.

“I guess,” she grumbled. “I have homework to do.” Fern pivoted toward the door and stalked out with her arms still crossed.

“Dinner is in a half hour,” Piper called after her, though she received no response.

“She just needs some time to process.” Todd smiled, unruffled by Fern's ornery behavior.

Before Todd, Piper hadn't thought a man like him existed. And if he had, she certainly hadn't been involved with any of them.

There had been other boyfriends. A handful who'd taken her out once, twice, even three times when Fern was a toddler. Still, Piper had been so young when she became a mother. Young enough that most of the men she'd met weren't keen on assuming the role of dad to a child who wasn't theirs. Of course, these were the same men who, a decade later, were probably divorced with a couple of kids of their own, and now it didn't seem odd at all to date a woman who was also a mom. Somehow her timing was always off. And,
eventually, Piper had become perfectly content to be alone. Because, the fact was, with Fern by her side, she was never lonely.

When Todd had come along, things had felt different. Or maybe it was Piper who'd felt different. Either way, their connection had been instantaneous yet blissfully uncomplicated. He'd been so forthright that first night at a bar on Elm Street—the one that had been shut down a few months later, thanks to a rash of underage drinking. It was hard to remember why she'd even been out at a bar to begin with, even though it was only a year ago. Ah, yes, her colleague Kim's promotion party. How could she forget? Kim had been bumped up to features editor at the
Journal
, where Piper had been a crime-beat reporter for the past seven years. The new job had come with a lot of extra responsibility, which Piper had not envied, though she was well aware that Kim—a self-proclaimed lifelong bachelorette—was up for the challenge. What she had been jealous of was the bigger paycheck Kim could look forward to, which she'd maintained she was going to invest in a weeklong getaway to Cancún with twelve of her besties. Kim's declaration had only served to remind Piper that it wasn't easy being a single mom. Not that she really needed a reminder. There were no vacations to Mexico with her brood of besties. To be honest, there wasn't even a brood of besties to go anywhere with. Between working and parenting, finding time for friends hadn't been at the top of Piper's priority list.

That night Todd had sent her a vodka martini with three olives, her drink of choice. And then he'd waved from the other end of the bar, smiled genuinely, and pointed to himself and Piper, asking her permission to come introduce himself. She'd nodded and released a quiet squeal, because he was so distinguished-looking.
Not her usual type, with his nearly black hair and equally dark eyes, but there'd been something so comforting about him. Something she knew she could trust.

Eleven months and a whirlwind romance later, Todd had moved in. He'd wanted Piper and Fern to come live with him in his three-story McMansion, which was at least four times the size of Piper's small yellow house with black shutters, but she'd explained that she could only subject Fern to so much change at once. He'd understood, but said he'd hold on to his house anyway. After all, he'd invested fifteen years in his private dentistry practice in order to be able to afford it. Maybe one day Piper would come around, or they'd sell it and buy a new home for all three of them. Until then, he'd insisted he was perfectly happy to move in with her and Fern, even if they didn't have flat-screen televisions in practically every room. It had finally felt like everything was falling into place.

Until things had shifted. Fern had started rebuffing Todd's offers to take her places, even to the bookstore, which was unheard of. She'd also begun ignoring him when he spoke to her, turning to her mother to reply instead. Her developing coolness toward Todd had been subtle at first, but ever since he'd taken up physical residence, things had gone from not great to downright intolerable far too quickly.

“I guess.” Piper sighed. “I'm starving. How about you?”

“Famished. What do you say we go downstairs? I'll put the steaks in. You throw together a salad.” Todd extended his hand for her to hold on to. Piper accepted it gratefully.

“Sounds like a plan.” Her mouth curled into a smile, although she sensed it didn't really reach her eyes.

•   •   •

“Let's go around the table and say what we're thankful for.” Piper straightened her posture, as her grandmother had taught her, and clasped her hands in front of her. “Why don't you start, Fern.” She smiled affectionately at her daughter, whose shock of shaggy red hair framed her cherubic face, with its constellation of freckles. Perhaps the dark storm clouds surrounding her would begin to lift.

“Okay.” She cleared her throat and sat upright, mimicking her mother. “I'm thankful for my book fair at school tomorrow. And my dog.”

“Fern, you don't have a dog.”

“Yes, I do. She's sitting right next to me. Isn't that right, Charlotte?” She nodded confidently before shoveling a heaping spoonful of rice pilaf into her mouth. “Just because you can't see her doesn't mean she's not real.”

“Well, actually, it does mean that.” Piper laughed effortlessly. Fern had been born with an overactive imagination, which—most of the time—worked to everyone's advantage. Like when they took long road trips, or at night when it was time to go to sleep. Unlike other children her age, her daughter was perfectly content to lie in silence, concocting convoluted stories in her head. Stories so elaborate that when she relayed them to Piper the following morning, it was hard to believe Fern hadn't pilfered them from an epic fairy tale. “But she seems like she's going to be a pretty easy pet, so I'm on board. Todd?”

“Absolutely! Can I get your little buddy a treat?”

Fern rolled her eyes. “She's not hungry.”

“Okay. Well, then, we'll feed her later.” Todd squeezed Piper's leg under the table.

“I'm thankful for two things,” Piper spoke up, turning the attention away from Fern's satiated, not to mention bogus, dog. “Anyone have a guess?”

“I'm one!” Fern shouted, flaunting a punctured grin as she shot her arm to the ceiling. The tooth fairy had been working overtime lately. Teeth didn't come cheap these days. When Piper was growing up, she was certain that one dollar had been the going rate. Now the other kids in Fern's fifth-grade class were reporting cash earnings of twenty bucks a pop, which was way too steep for Piper's wallet. Of course, Todd always offered to pitch in, but they weren't there yet. She was more than happy to let him take on some of the household expenses, since they were, in fact, cohabitating now, but when it came to Fern, Piper still assumed the financial responsibility as hers and hers alone.

“You're right! How did you know?”

“Because you always say the same thing, Mom.” She rolled her eyes again, though not in the same way as she had at Todd. “What's the other thing?”

“The other thing isn't any more a thing than you are. It's Todd. I'm thankful that he's here with us and that we can all be a family.”

Fern was silent. She'd always been a good girl. Never defiant or bratty, as so many of the other kids at her school were. Perhaps because of their circumstances, she'd matured faster than her years. If Fern's nose wasn't in a book, then she was researching something online such as brown recluse spiders or goblin sharks. She'd had an enduring obsession with Piper's favorite book since Piper had first read it to her as a child, mesmerized by the fact that she shared her
name with one of the main characters—no coincidence there. To this day, Fern slept with the same stuffed pig she'd received as an infant and had named Wilbur as soon as she could speak. She'd declare to anyone who listened that
Charlotte's Web
was the key to all of life's most vital lessons, a hypothesis Piper never dared refute.

“I'm thankful for that too,” Todd echoed. “But, most of all, I'm so grateful to have you in my life.” He smiled at Fern.

“I'm not your daughter.” She pushed her plate forward and stood up. “I'm tired. May I please be excused?”

“Fern.”
Piper's voice was stern. “You have to finish your dinner.”

“I'm not hungry.” She stared down at her uneaten salad and a piece of steak with one bite cut out of it.

“It's okay.” Todd nodded at Piper reassuringly. “If you want to go to bed, that's fine.”

He may not have been the bearer of permission Fern had expected, but she seized the opportunity nonetheless, not bothering to say good night to either of them.

“I'm sorry.” Piper placed her hand on top of Todd's.

“Go ahead.” He motioned toward Fern's room with a tilt of his head. “She needs you.”

“She can't just act this way.”

“She can and she will. I'm pretty sure it's normal.”

“You are amazing.” Piper stood up, cupped Todd's face in her hands, and kissed him firmly on the lips. “What would I do without you?”

“You did just fine for thirty-plus years. Remember that.”

“I love you. Give me five minutes.”

Piper climbed the steps to Fern's room. The door was slightly
ajar. She'd expected to find Fern reading one of the many books that littered her shelves and the floor of the room. Again, like mother, like daughter. But she wasn't. Her body was coiled into a little ball, and all Piper could hear was the faint whistle of her breath. She moved toward her, sat down on the edge of the bed, and rubbed Fern's warm back. She would come around. She had to. They would find a way forward. Together.

“Mom?” Fern whispered.

“Yes, sweetie?”

She rolled toward her. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What's that, baby?” Piper stroked Fern's flushed cheek and was quite certain, in that moment, that she would do anything to make her daughter happy. Anything at all.

“I need you to find Dad.”

Anything but that.

•   •   •

It had been one of those mornings. The arctic chill from outside was too formidable an opponent for the heat, which was cranking and grinding tirelessly in an effort to overtake it. Piper had lingered under the steam of the shower until her fingers were shriveled like sun-dried tomatoes, all too aware that as soon as she turned off the faucet there would be those grueling seconds, minutes even, between the refuge of the hot water and the insulation of her reliable black cashmere sweater.

Fern hadn't mentioned her biological father again. Maybe she'd forgotten all about it. About him. Was that what Piper really wanted? To erase him from their history? One dad out. Another, much more suitable and reliable “dad” in. It had all been going so
well. There were even days she could almost forget he'd ever existed. Almost.