The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (94 page)

***

I must’ve been more exhausted than I thought because the next morning, I didn’t get up until an insistent knocking roused me from my sleep.

It was almost ten and sunlight already filled the house. 

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Gilles usually didn’t pick me up until I called or messaged him. 

I grabbed an old robe and put it over my pajamas and shirt, collecting my tangled mess of a hair into a loose bun as I made my way to the door.

Slowly cracking the door open in case it was going to be a mad moment out of Notting Hill where a sea of reporters were standing outside, I took a peek and found myself poleaxed.

“Hello, Charlotte.”

Eyes narrowed, I widened the opening of the door and scowled at my mother who looked as fresh as a peach in a white sweater and khaki trousers. It irritated the hell out of me.

“I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“I thought so too but I couldn’t leave—not without talking to you first.”

I snorted. “Yes, well, take a number. Given my fondness for you, it might be a while.”

I started to close the door again but she thrust a hand out to stop it. “Please, don’t send me away. I just need a few minutes of your time.”

“You’ve long lost your right to require anything from me,” I said stonily. “Fourteen years, to be exact.”

Her eyes, as bright as the turquoise sea just as mine were, glimmered sadly. “I know. I’ve kept track.”

I raised a brow. “Were you trying to break a record or something? If you are, trust me, while it has been ages, it hasn’t been that long for you to win the award of longest abandonment of a parent to her child on record.”

This time, she stared back at me steadily, braver that she’d been that night of the party. “I remember you to be such a sweet child, Charlotte. You always had a smile for everyone and you always laughed your heart out.”

Well, she couldn’t have dug a grave deeper than that for herself.

“Many argue the realistic ratio of nature versus nurture and while I’m still not sure of the actual percentages, I must say that they both come into play,” I answered with grating, academic indifference. “I think I’m still a happy and good person most of the time. What bitterness I learned, I learned from you and Dad—a feat for such absentee parents like yourselves. Your influence has definitely been far-reaching into my life.”

She didn’t say anything for a while but she didn’t make a move to leave either.

I made no effort to conceal my dismay at her presence but I silently gave her kudos for trying to stand her ground and stay on it.

“I knew that seeing you again wouldn’t be easy at all, despite what your husband assured me of,” she said, silently knotting the strap of her caramel-colored purse absently. “I know how much I hurt you, Charlotte, and I came when Brandon asked not because I wanted to suddenly become your mother again now that you’re at the top of the world, but because I wanted to find some way to let you know how sorry I am, for whatever it’s worth to you.”

I scoffed in disgust. “Sorry doesn’t really cut it, mother. Did you expect I was just going to graciously accept it and let you go back to your nicely set up life now that you’ve finally put your guilt to rest?”

“I didn’t expect graciousness or generosity from you because the sins I’ve committed against you are grave, and it’s something I’ve prepared myself to accept as my cross in life,” she answered candidly. “I expect to suffer through it for my remaining days, as I deserve. What I didn’t expect is for you to ruin your life, happy and full as it finally was for you, because of your anger and resentment at me and your father.”

My fists clenched angrily. “Are you telling me that my unhappiness is my fault?”

She shook her head and sighed. “No. I’m telling you that your unhappiness is your choice.” 

“Why don’t you enlighten me, oh-so-wise mother?” I snarled.

“There is nothing I can do to make the past better, Charlotte,” she said, tears spiking her lashes. “It will forever remain ugly and horrible because I had no excuse why I did what I did. I left for purely selfish reasons. That’s all on me. Your father dealt with his problems like he always had—with a drink and a death wish—and he got what he asked for. That’s on him.”

“You were left to take care of yourself, to make something of yourself out of the ashes,” she went on, her chin trembling as her tears cascaded down her cheeks. “You chose to fight to be happy, to make it anyway, no matter how downtrodden you were or how dire your circumstances were. You overcame all that. Even from afar, I could see you were happy. You were still who you were, no matter how unconventional, and you had people who respected and admired you for it. You were making a difference. You were well-loved by a man who took a gamble at possibly chasing all your ghosts away for good. You had it all, but at the first test of your trust, at the first test of your own capacity for it, you let it all slip away from your hands without a fight, because maybe you still think you’re not entitled to have any of it, having been without for most of your life. To think yourself unworthy, to shrink away believing that it was all too good to be true, that’s on you.”

I dashed the back of my hand against my wet cheeks, openly crying now because the storm had hit land, unleashing its devastating power inside of me. I only hoped that in the aftermath, when most things had been stripped clean and washed away, I would still recognize parts of me in the rubble, and that with the same seeds, I could start anew this time.

I backed away from the door, shoulders shaking, and leaned against the wall, my face buried in my hands as I cried, harder than I ever have in my life. 

I crumpled to the floor, my arms crossing over the top of my knees where I rested my head as I let the tears fall, willing every last bit of hurt I’d carried inside of me for years to pour out until I could be emptied of this unbearable weight.

I didn’t want to hurt anymore. 

I wanted to be happy—I was finally so happy—but all that I’d done was find more reasons why I couldn’t be. 

I knew what it was like to have nothing that I feared could be snatched away from me. It reassured me that with nothing to lose, nothing could hurt me. Not anymore. Not ever again.

But to have everything with Brandon and this strangely surreal life I’d claimed for myself, I had plenty to lose, plenty that could hurt me. One more time. Over and over again.

I cried, for the girl that I’d been, the girl that I’d wanted to be, the girl that I’d become and the girl that was all of them somehow. 

I cried for the family I didn’t have, the family I’d found, the family I wanted to have and everything that they’ve taught me, both good and bad.

I cried for the love I’d thought was as far-fetched as fairy tales, the love I’d found unexpectedly, and the love I’d given up on like a coward when it was the one thing I’d fight for to my last breath.

I cried for my mother, for all her faults and decade-late apologies, for my father, for his defeat to the drink he’d doused his wounds with, and for myself, for all my preachings and principles and my own phantoms that put them to the test.

I cried, because when I was finally left raw and ravaged, enfolded in my mother’s arms as she comforted me for the first time in years, I felt free.

And maybe then, unchained at last, I could search out the light I’d run away from.

***

While there was no instant happiness after spending the day with my mother, talking about her small scrapbooking supply business and my two half-sisters whom I suddenly had a fierce desire to meet, there was definitely a sense of lightness that carried me through what someone might consider a gruelling ordeal, facing the woman your anger had been anchored on for years.

It was by no means a reconciliation but I felt oddly alright with having a civil conversation with her where I didn't constantly feel the need to lash out. There was nothing to be done for the past except leave it where it was.

I realized later that evening, when I was finally alone in the house, that if I could do something as extraordinarily brave as facing my demons, I should be able to manage something that came naturally and easily to me—loving Brandon.

We had made such a muck of our marriage that I didn’t really know where to start. Did one figure out a route or did one just dive in?

Either way, we had to figure something out before we lost everything once and for all.

Gilles was off that day because he’d spent the weekend driving me back and forth for all my Championette duties. I met up with Aimee and Rose for breakfast at Marlow’s, much to Aimee’s relief, because she was about to come pounding on my door despite my explicit warnings to be left alone. 

She didn’t ask me much about Brandon but she smiled and said, “You have that look on your face I’d seen before.”

“What look?”

“The same one you had on when you said you were going to go to Paris regardless of what your father thought of it,” she explained. Aimee had seen me in the worst of my past and while she didn’t hover, she certainly knew what she was talking about. “You look like you bought a one-way ticket to paradise and you’re going to pack up what little stuff you have, whistle a tune, and leave without a backward glance.”

“I’m not going to escape this time,” I told her with the first real smile I’ve had in a while. “I’m going home.”

I walked because it gave me time to think and summon my courage. 

I didn’t exactly know what I was going to say when we saw each other but something had to be said.

By the time I made it to the penthouse, I was a knotted tangle of nerves, which was really odd because I was rarely nervous.

The only people who get nervous are people who are not prepared to fight. I’m always prepared to fight—sometimes a little too prepared. I just never know if the next person is going to shake my hand or strike me.

When there was no answer at the door bell, I let myself in with my keys and surveyed the condo with a fast-growing frown.

It was utterly silent. Things were a little messy but there were no dirty plates in either the sink or the dishwasher. The produce in the fridge was wilted and Brandon’s office was as cluttered as it looked the night I left, including the empty bottle of brandy. The only significant thing missing was the the infamous stack of photos.

I checked the answering machine which was blinking like crazy. The saved messages went all the way back to last week.

“Where the hell is Brandon?” I muttered, a tight, ugly feeling churning in my gut as I poked my head into the master bathroom. The sink was dry, the water stains on the surface old and dusty.

The place hasn’t been lived in for several days now.

I practically sprinted to Martin’s house. 

Thank God I dressed in sneakers, jeans, a T-shirt and a jacket. Not only was I comfortable, I was also incognito. 

The old man had just finished lunch when I arrived.

“And here I thought you were never going to show your face to the world again,” he said with a warm smile as he beckoned me for a stroll with him along the garden. 

I gave him a pained smile. “I, uh... I had some personal issues.”

“Which one? Your mother’s unexpected appearance? Your alleged affair with Jake? Or the ugly fight that ensued between you and my mule-headed son? Probably all of it.”

My brows went up. “How do you know all of this?”

This time, he raised his brows at me and I held up a hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer it. I forgot you’re omniscient.”

“I know because I can tell when my son’s suffering,” he said gently. “And even though he’s had years of practice holding up the world on his shoulders, he can still rest his head down on my knee and cry like the little boy he’d never really been.”

My heart twisted, my head lowering. “Now, you probably completely regret ever thinking it was a good idea to throw your son and I together. He’s hurting because of me.”

Martin gave me a faint smile. “I don’t enjoy seeing him hurt, or you, for that matter, but in the grander scheme of things, he’s only hurting because he’s found the one person he can be absolutely happy with in this life. I don’t think Brandon has felt or cared so much before he met you.”

“And how did I pay him back?” I said with a groan. “I threw his efforts in his face, made all kinds of assumptions about his motives, and walked out on him when a simple explanation would’ve fixed our problem. I’m the worst kind of person.”

“Charlotte, do you remember all those times you and I just sat in Marlow’s, talking about all kinds of things, and I would tell you about heroes and villains?” Martin asked.

Martin and I talked about everything in those times he and I would sit at Marlow's. We talked about everything—and those conversations, random or not, were full of stories about people and the roles they picked out in life, may it be heroes or villains or the regular human in between.

I ate them up like I was starved because between the silence of my mother’s absence and the drunken bitterness of my father’s downward spiral, contemplations about right and wrong were more preferable to a kid who had no idea what to do with the rest of her life now that she'd been given it and left with no manual about how to live it. I stayed sane owning up to Martin’s words and making them my own even when it had been so easy to wander and get lost. 

They came to me when self-loathing lured or when indifference became more tempting than the right thing.

I blinked the tears clear from my eyes and nodded. “Yes. I'd never forget them."

A small, choked laugh escaped from me. “Actually, I sometimes sound like an annoying, drunk televangelist muttering on and on about heroes and villains, preaching about all the right things and the wrong ones. I’m so full of philosophical shit sometimes, I feel like a goddamned walking golden book of life—and look at how well I did at my own life! If there’s an award for irony, the winner’s over here!”

“You were a fanciful kid, full of hope when you had no reason for it,” Martin said, patting the hand I’d laid on his arm with fatherly patience that had an amazing calming effect. “I didn’t want you to lose sight of that and I thought that if I told you about heroes and villains, you’d want to be a hero even when your life has made you a shoo-in candidate to be a villain, hating the world back as it hated you.”

“While I know the little stories helped you see life a different way, I think you’ve come to an important conclusion all on your own,” he added with a kind smile. “We all have a hero and a villain in us. No one is all light or all darkness. Without some contrast, you can’t tell one from the other. It’s yours to decide which one you choose to embrace but never think that your heart will be completely pure of one thing or the other. Even though you may be the best of us, you’re still going to make mistakes. And those who are the worst of us can still do something right.”

I dashed my tears away and nodded. “I know that, dammit.”

“If you do, then what are you still waiting for?” he asked. “You and Brandon made mistakes because neither one of you is perfect. Your hearts are always going to carry the divide between the good and the bad and your actions are always going to be a risk to either one. No one walks this earth unsabotaged by their deepest fears. It’s what we do about it that makes our lives and our stories interesting.”

I took both of Martin’s hands in mine and gave them a squeeze, smiling through the tender ache in my heart. “I want you to know that even though I drew the short straw on parents, I found more than a father in you—you were always my friend, my champion, my own wise fairy godfather—and I owe you so much. But most of all, I owe you for Brandon—for making it possible for me to have someone as wonderful and as loving as him in my life.”

“I didn’t know either of your parents, Charlotte, but I knew how deep the wounds they left you were,” he told me gently. “I did what I could from where I stood in your life. I’m glad I was able to do more and that you were able to finally find some happiness with my son.”

“If only I didn’t blow it, right?” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “But I guess I’m just as fallible as the people I blamed for most of my own unhappiness. Sometimes, there really is no good reason for the mistakes we make.”

Martin sighed wearily and nodded. “I know why Brandon did what he did, asking your mother to come, but I don’t know if it resolved anything or if it just hurt you more.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know either. For a while, I thought it was better to never see her again. I didn’t want to find out she had a good reason for leaving me—maybe some kind of double-life or noble sacrifice she had to make to protect me. Something you’d see in books or movies. I wanted to be justified in being angry with her.”

“And did she have a good reason?”

I actually smiled a little. “No. She really just left because she couldn’t take it. Because she loved another man. She knew she would hurt me but she did it anyway.”

Martin grimaced but didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know if I’m relieved or not,” I continued, still confused but somehow clear on at least a few things. “All I know is that whatever she did, for whatever reason, doesn’t have the power to dictate what I’m going to do with my life. Her mistakes are her own. Just because she didn’t love me enough doesn’t mean Brandon isn’t going to either.”

Martin smiled and patted my head. “You took the words right out of my mouth. You know what you need to do, Charlotte.”

I still didn’t have a perfectly mapped-out plan after I left Martin but I knew one thing for certain—fairy tales had happy endings because despite the bump in the road, the prince and the princess followed their hearts.

And my heart must’ve known where it was going because half an hour after I left Martin, I found myself standing in front of the house Brandon had bought for us for my birthday.

Brandon and I had been by many times with Nicole as we ironed out the details of what we wanted so that the renovation project could start but the house was still beautiful in its bare bones.

Entering the front hall, I couldn’t see that much had changed since I was last here two weeks ago. 

I hesitated, wondering if I was being foolish, searching one empty home after another for my husband, like a child chasing after the fading trail of a firefly. 

I tiptoed inside, my fingers trailing past every little thing they could touch along the way, looking for clues or flashbacks as if I were clairvoyant. 

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the new furnace and my shallow breaths as I fought the barrage of happy memories Brandon and I had made here in the few weeks since we’ve owned this house. 

I slowly made my way up to the second floor, seeking the makeshift ballroom where he and I had danced and made love. The drapes were drawn in, bathing the room in shadows save for the pale shafts of light that came through some gaps.

The fireplace wasn’t lit but as I made my way toward it, I spied a form vulnerably curled in sleep on the old, pale blue velvet Victorian sofa that had been left behind in the house.

We’d brought it upstairs along with another abandoned furniture—a burgundy wingback chair—and set it by the fireplace where Brandon and I had passed a few nights cuddled together with a blanket around us.

My heart clenched as I stood over and watched my husband sleep, the profile of his perfect face despite being unshaven and fixed with a frown, arresting me on the spot.

His suit jacket was carelessly tossed on the floor along with his briefcase and shoes. His pants and white dress shirt were wrinkled beyond repair from having been slept in.

Based on the few empty brown paper bags, coffee cups and a couple of half-finished bottles of beer littered around, it appeared that this was where Brandon had been cooped up in for the last several days when he wasn’t at work. 

Why he was still here, asleep, when it was already early afternoon, made me wonder, but recalling what Gilles’s said about Brandon’s private suffering, I decided it was something he could only keep up for so long before it destroyed him.

Oh, Brand. Why do we do this to ourselves?

I didn’t say it out loud but I felt it all the same as I sank on my knees on the ratty carpet we’d flung across the hardwood floor when we first set up this makeshift living room. 

I was close enough to him that I could feel his deep, even breaths but not too close that I could disturb him. I had a suspicion this was the first time in days that he’d been able to actually sleep, if the faint shadows under the dark sweep of his eyelashes were anything to go by.

Just like everything Brandon did, he slept with intent and all seriousness.