Chapter 15
Hostile Takeover
I got the lay of the land, alright. More like the Lay of the Century. In the lounge, the Jacuzzi, and on decks one, two, and three.
It was a wonder I could even walk. Sea legs? I had
I been fucked silly
legs.
I was still on a high when I returned home the following night and fell to bed in a heavy, dreamless sleep.
The patio door slamming shut and Palmer’s muffled voice outside woke me the next morning.
Making my way down the shamble of stairs, I shuffled to the kitchen, blindly seeking coffee. Palmer stomped back in with another bam of the sliders to slap a magazine onto the table.
“Phone’s been ringin’ off the hook.” His voice was hard as a railroad spike against the soft blanket of sleepiness swaddling my head.
I was sorting through the cereal boxes, thinking I might-could be cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs when I huffed some hair from my eyes and answered halfheartedly, “Has it? I didn’t hear a thing.”
“No, s’pose you wouldn’t have,” he bit, stationed against the far wall, big arms crossed over his chest. His long hair still wet from the shower left large, damp teardrops on his t-shirt. “Gettin’ home so late and all.”
I focused on those wet patches growing on pale blue fabric. The slits of his cornflower irises were too angry, his jaw too stony. I put the cereal down. “What’s goin’ on, Palmer?”
“Exactly what I wanna know.” Releasing one hand from its punched-up place under his armpit, he shoved the magazine across the table. “Have a look.”
I turned the recognizable glossy cover around. “
Charleston Magazine
? We don’t subscribe to this.”
“We don’t, do we?” He tromped closer, bending his knees so I had no choice but to meet his stare. “Strange this, turnin’ up on our doorstep, ain’t it? Now, I thought nothin’ of it, until my momma called. You know how she likes to read all the hob-nobbing goes on with the rich folk, right?”
Dumbly, I nodded, a scared crawling of nerves unsettling my stomach.
“Run your eyes over
The Party Scene
section,
darlin’
. Somethin’ of interest there.”
The way he said darlin’ sent curdled bile into my throat. I stood frozen.
“Here, let me help you. Wouldn’t wanna tax you after a hard night’s work.” Ripping the magazine from me, he flicked through it, leaving tears in the pages. The sound of paper shredding echoed the hole in my heart, rending open a final time.
I was unsteady. I sat down. I was numb. “Palmer, slow down.” My voice was ghostly. “Tell me what–”
“Here it is!” He folded back a page, his top lip curling while he scanned it. “Yeah, this is what I wanna know about, Shay.” The crack in his voice was audible, but his unbreakable expression cranked even more closed.
Accepting the magazine from him, my hands shook. The pages rustled as the A/C kicked on with its loud hum. The same as the ends of his thick hair making big splotches on his shirt, my tears dropped onto the page where an image took up more than half the space.
Bachelor tycoon Reardon Boone of Radaman-Slaughter Holdings with his companion, Shay Greer, at a FUNdraiser for The Gibbes, hosted at Mr. Boone’s lavish Tides penthouse. Aperitifs for associates and benefactors were followed by an unveiling of Jeremy Ladson’s photographs. July, 2013.
“Looks downright cozy.” Palmer’s soft words turned harsh. “Companion? Companion, Shay? That what they’re callin’ it nowadays?”
“I was gonna tell you–”
“When? Fucking when, Shay? When you took a break from blowin’ this Boone fella? After you made me a goddamn public laughin’ stock?”
“No, I’d decided–”
“You decided?” He smacked the heels of his hands against the table. “
Everyone knows.
It’s in full-friggin’ color...right...here.”
I was mortified. Losing Delilah had been ruinous. This was near as bad. No, this was worse in another, more disgraceful way. I’d caused this.
Disgusted, he raked his fingers down the page, stabbing Reardon’s face. “This? This is how you’ve been makin’ money? I thought you were a personal assistant, goddammit! Took that role a little too far, didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” I uttered the completely useless words.
“You’re a whore, is what you are.”
“I’m not...it wasn’t...I’m not a whore, Palmer.”
“You took his money, right? You had sex with him, didn’t you?” The side of his jaw pulsed, his nostrils flared.
I nodded once, leaving my chin dropped toward the floor. “Yeah, but…” I wanted to explain, it wasn’t about the money, but that would make it worse. I deserved this anyway.
His lips were screwed so tightly I was surprised he could manage any words. But he did. The ones I’d been waiting for, the ones I wished had come about a different way. “It’s over.”
I stood with my eyes closed, whispering, “I’ll leave.”
“And move in with him?”
“No!”
He fingered the page again. The swirl of his thumb hovered over my face. “You know, it’s not even what they said–could mean anything, couldn’t it?” When he raised his eyes, they trapped me in pain. “It’s the way you’re lookin’ at him. It’s the way you look.”
He hooked it over to me. I ducked my head. Grabbing my chin, he made me see he was right. There was the beginning of love, staring back at me. I pushed the article away, sickened by my reprehensible behavior.
Interrupted by the ring of the phone, he shouted, “That goddamn phone!” He tore it from the cradle, thrusting it at me. “Your turn. It’s your momma.”
“Hello?”
“I saw it.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Shay, girl! What you playin’ a–”
“I can’t talk now, Momma.”
Palmer paced in front of me.
“Shay.” Her pitch lowered. “You were wrong, baby. But it don’t mean what you feel isn’t right.”
How the hell was I supposed to untangle her mixed message without a Miss Cleo-call-me-now crystal ball?
“I gotta go,” I sniffed.
“Y’all call me later.”
“He’s your lover.” Palmer announced soon as I hung up.
I nodded.
“Not stayin’ in the same house as my cuckolding wife.”
All the love I’d ever felt for him flooded me. The memory of our first kiss in the front seat of his old truck. The day we got married and how his hands shook when he lifted the veil from my face before touching my mouth with his newly ringed finger, tracing my smile. My first ultrasound when our fingers wrapped tightly together, our eyes clinging to the wee wavy image of Delilah. How he leaned over–carefully, so as not to disturb the technician–fully kissing my lips.
I reached for his hand. “Palmer, I–”
He snatched it away. Standing at the back doors, he scanned the yard ending at Delilah’s garden. “Why?” He gritted his teeth. Even now, he wouldn’t cry. His voice quieted. “Was it because I couldn’t make you a mother?”
Even now, he blamed himself.
“No.” I stood next to him, but I wouldn’t trespass. I wouldn’t touch him. “You know it’s been over.”
Turning his head, he bristled at the sight of me. “I should kick you out.”
I agreed, repeating, “I’ll go.”
“You can’t. I won’t do that to you.” His hand came over, caressing my cheek solemnly. “You can’t leave, not with Delilah’s garden here.”
Sobs threatened me. I swallowed them one by one while Palmer stalked outside, and I followed.
The sun shone so surely. It filtered through his wheat colored hair and dashed off his face.
Reliable.
Blinking quickly, Palmer stroked the statue for our baby. “I’ve always loved you.”
I had to touch him. From behind, I wrapped him in my arms, snuffling into his back. He slouched against me, gathering my hands and bringing them to his chest.
Stepping apart, sad awkwardness sat between us.
“I’ll pack some things.”
“Where will you go?” I walked behind him into the house.
Starting up the stairs, he stopped with his hand gripping the banister. “Curtis has a room over the garage.”
My heart plummeted with every step he took and every trip to his truck. Arms laden with boxes of belongings that had been part of our life since high school.
I rapped on the window of his pickup as he started the engine. Unwinding it, he stared straight ahead.
“Please call me.”
He fingered the crease of his baseball cap and gripped the wheel like it was one of those Louisville Sluggers he used to crack balls with. He didn’t say anything.
* * * *
Leave a message at the sound of the beep:
“Shay, you’re late.”
I huddled under the covers, pulling them over my ears.
Leave a message at the…
“Shay, where the hell are you?”
I was walking through the house. It was empty.
Incoming call: Palmer Greer.
“Palmer?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Silence.
“Right. Dumb question.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m at Curtis’s.”
I squished the wet ball of a tissue in my hand. “Okay. I’ve got his number.”
“Don’t! Don’t you call me, Shay.”
Dial tone.
Leave a message at the sound of the bleep:
“I’m getting worried now.”
In the spare room, I sat on the futon amidst a crowd of sheets and blankets bearing Palmer’s imprint. His twisted-up PJs peeked from under the corner of a flattened pillow.
Leave a–
“Fuck, Shay, where the hell are you? Are you okay?”
The panic in Reardon’s voice echoed mutely. I hadn’t moved from Palmer’s bed. He’d forgotten to take the ultrasound picture of Delilah, the one with the cherubic frame and frilly words:
Daddy’s Little Girl.
TEXT:
Shay, answer the damned phone.
Reardon Boone
CEO Radaman-Slaughter
Sent from my iPhone
Out back, I was swarmed by memories. The mother and babe in stone mocked me.
Was it a day? Two days? The calls piled up like the Kleenex. Like my hair standing on end and snarled into wads at the back of my head. Knocks on the door went unanswered. Shouts from outside went unheeded.
Augie came. He wouldn’t leave. Crouching on the other side of the door, I listened to his cell conversation.
“I assume she’s here, the car is.”
I patted my fingers against the puffy swells beneath my eyes.
“Thing you should know about Shay is she’s one stubborn woman, and I say that affectionately.”
I nervously nibbled a hangnail.
“Yes, sir. You gotta be persistent with her, but mind, she don’t like bein’ taken under hand.”
I peeled strips off the rubber flap on the bottom of the door.
“’Course, I know you understand that, but it makes me wonder why I’m the one standin’ on her stoop, and y’all are not.”
I picked at a scab on my hand until it began to bleed. Then I started feeling all
out damn spot, out
and Lady Macbeth-like, so I stopped that shit right away.
“Well, I’m not leavin’ ’til I see her.”
Like a kid freebasing Co-Cola, Augie insistently leaned on the doorbell until it rang inside my head.
Asshole.