The One That Got Away (25 page)

And we had to find her. So we could return her bag and textbooks. But mostly so I could apologize for her unfair and abrupt dismissal. Especially since I suspected she knew I was the one to blame for leaving the candy out.

Gloria tilted her head to one side. “What do I get if I tell you?”

“You get to continue living in our home rent-free,” I told her. “How’s that sound?”

Her eyes turned serious, not sure if I really meant it, but also not sure if it was a risk worth taking. She scrunched her brows, the same way I do when I’m really trying to remember, and finally blurted out one word: “Lambs!”

“Huh?”

“There are lambs there,” she said, proudly.

“Like at Bloemveld?”

“No, dead ones.”

Dead sheep? I struggled to translate the clue into something meaningful.

“And cheeses, Mommy. Big cheeses.”

The cabbie turned around in his seat and said something in a thick accent.

“Excuse me?”

“The Italian Market,” he said louder. “She means the Italian Market.”

Gloria smiled, then high-fived the driver through the open Plexiglas divider. Then we all braced ourselves as he put the car in drive and screeched off toward South Philly.

Just one block south of the famous Ninth Street Italian Market, where they sold everything from vegetables to spices to sausages and—
yes!
—lambs, Gloria had found May’s building. It was a turn-of-the-century leather goods factory converted into six floors of apartments, the authentic version of the factory turned lofts that attracted yuppies elsewhere in the city. It was quiet and dark save for a few signs of life: weekly grocery circulars, a padlocked bicycle, and a stack of delivery boxes from Amazon.com.

Once again, I had to rely on a five-year-old to direct us. But this time Gloria had no trouble, bounding up the five flights of stairs with confidence as I struggled to keep up with Sam in my arms. On the sixth floor, she stopped by a metal door with two pairs of shoes lined up outside, grinning and proud that she had finally solved the case. And obviously eager to see her beloved May. Her small fist turned pink as she knocked and knocked.

After reaching her and catching my breath, I pulled Gloria’s hand down in time to hear May’s voice call out a Thai greeting.

“May, it’s Abbey,” I said through the door. “Van Holt.”

Silence. I tried again. “May?”

Finally: “What do you want?”

“I have your bag.”

No response.

“You left it at our place. Your textbooks and clothes and stuff.”

“Just leave it outside.”

Sam and Gloria looked up at me with confused, puppy-dog eyes, not understanding why they could hear May but not see her. For their sake, I tried again.

“Look. May, I know you are upset with me. But could you just say hi to the kids? They miss you so much already.”

The dead bolt clanked open and the door swung inward. May appeared in a close-fitting T-shirt, a long black cardigan, and army green cargo pants, with her hair long and loose. In these clothes, she looked so different, and I realized she was close to my age, maybe even younger. She knelt down and the kids ran into her arms, almost knocking her over. As she held them, laughing, the door swung shut, leaving me alone in the hall. I expected her to open it back up, but she didn’t. Man, she was mad.

A few minutes later, she stepped out with Sam on her hip and Gloria’s hand in hers. She didn’t look at me, but I could tell she was near tears. As she hugged them good-bye one last time, trying to be cheerful, I almost couldn’t watch.

May’s hold over them was magical, almost primal. Just like a mother’s. As I watched my children cling to her, a colorful jumble in the drab hallway, I thought I would feel jealous. But I didn’t.

I realized then that I had been judging Abbey van Holt for having a nanny, for outsourcing the work of mothering, when what I should have been thinking was how lucky the children were to have someone else to love them. Especially someone like May, who had no preconceived ideas of what being a van Holt meant and just let them be kids.

And May’s reward? Being fired for something she didn’t do. I felt helpless. Worse—like the villain in a Dickens novel. The evil
employer who brings ruin to a well-intentioned innocent. I had to do something.

“May, I realized that we never gave you any severance.” I whipped out my checkbook, ready to write a check with a lot of zeros. But when I saw “Mr. and Mrs. Alexander van Holt” at the top of the check, I paused. When she deposited this, Alex would know. And he was quite clear on the subject of May. In his mind, her carelessness nearly killed his son.

I shoved the checkbook back in my purse. “Funny! I’m out of checks. I’ll have to send you one later. Or I’ll just bring you cash. Tomorrow. Actually, maybe not tomorrow. Later this week.”

“I don’t want your money,” she said flatly.

“A recommendation, then? I am happy to write one—”

My words were cut off by the slam of her door, leaving me openmouthed and stunned in the cold hallway.

As the dust swirled and then settled again, I realized what she wanted. The truth.

I grabbed each child by the hand, moved toward May’s doorway, and started shouting through the heavy door. “May, listen to me. It wasn’t your fault. It… it was mine. I should have been more careful. And I should have admitted it to Mirabelle. And fought for you.”

I paused and leaned my head against the cold metal. “The truth is… I was scared.”

There was no response, no sound. Even the children were still and quiet, staring at me. Their sea blue eyes were wide and anxious, as if to say
Please, Mommy. Please, make this right
.

I knew I had to. But as I turned to leave, guiding a shell-shocked Gloria and a bewildered Sam down the stairs, I realized I didn’t have any idea how.

M
eeting Collier van Holt, I didn’t understand why everyone was so nervous about him. He seemed harmless and sweet and slightly confused, and I liked him immediately.

He was shorter and stouter than Alex, and his thinning hair was wispy and silver, combed gently over his smooth, tanned head. He wore a caramel-colored suit with a subtle navy pinstripe, a smooth light blue dress shirt, and polished brown shoes. He had an elegant but lost look about him, like a nobleman from another era flung into the modern world of skinny lattes and keyless entries.

He seemed especially awkward among his own family, almost shy, as if these people were strangers, not his flesh and blood. When his hands were not in his pockets or holding a glass, they shook.

“Abigail,” he said warmly, as we entered the mahogany-paneled library, the same room where just one week ago I sat with Father Fergie before downing a few dog biscuits. “How are you, my dear? Mother tells me you had a little accident.”

I gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek, and he seemed taken aback—but pleased. Gloria and Sam ran up and began circling and clawing, playing a game only the three of them knew. He feigned
surprise as the kids found two peppermints hidden in his coat pocket.

“Careful, my little lobsters,” he whispered to them as he helped unwrap the cellophane. “If Grandmère sees the candy, she’ll be cross with me for spoiling your dinner.”

At the mention of Mirabelle, Collier glanced toward the kitchen nervously, then headed toward the bar to fix himself a drink.

Mirabelle burst into the room in a cloud of creamy silk, gardenia perfume, and mock exasperation. Her spotless outfit was topped with an equally spotless black apron with the words “Kiss the Cook” embroidered across the front.
You’re not fooling anyone, lady,
I thought. Behind that door were at least three hired helpers; the only thing Mirabelle would be cooking up tonight was opinions.

“Finally,” she said as she saw us, throwing up her arms for emphasis, as if we were hours late, not fifteen minutes. She walked straight to Alex for an embrace, and then went through the motions of air-kissing me before dropping on one knee to greet Gloria and Sam.

“It’s going to be a while. Your
father
wanted steak, so Cook had to go back out,” she instructed Alex. She whispered the word “father” as if there was some question as to Alex’s parentage, and she avoided looking in the old man’s direction.

Next she was beside me, signaling she wished to speak privately. “So, my dear, how is our boy?”

“He’s fine. Slept well, ate a good breakfast. Drank lots of milk per doctor’s orders.”

“No, I don’t mean Van. Alex.”

“Oh. He’s fine. Why?”

“Well, I heard he skipped the Ed Rendell dinner last night.”

“His son was in the hospital, Mirabelle. Of course he skipped it.”

“But there’s only two more days. Alex just doesn’t seem himself… I can’t tell if he’s just exhausted or distracted. Something.”

I had a feeling her “concern” was about me, not Alex or the campaign. This woman’s instincts were too good. She knew something was off, but she couldn’t figure it out. And it was killing her. I smiled inside, knowing little old Abbey Lahey knew something she didn’t.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I told her, watching her eager expression drop.

She pretended to hear a noise in the kitchen, and then turned on her heel, annoyed. I’m not sure if anyone else felt it, but the room seemed to sigh with relief, suddenly warmer, when she disappeared back through the swinging door.

Collier walked over to Alex and extended his hand as if greeting a business associate. “Son,” he said. “I hear it’s been a tough race but you’re standing your ground. Within six points I hear.”

“Six and a half,” Alex corrected.

Unbelievably, this was all they said to each other. Each of them retreated to different sides of the room, Alex returning his attention to his phone, Collier to his single-malt scotch. I wiped the sticky drool off Sam’s chin and walked back over to the older man.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “Alex is making great headway. He could actually pull this off.”

“I like your attitude.” He smiled and nodded his head. “Positive thinking.”

“It’s more than positive thinking. You should see how people respond to him. They can’t get enough.”

“He always was such a charming boy. Smart too. Nothing like his old man.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I said with a wink.

“Well, his mother is,” he said, swirling the last of his drink and gulping it down. “And around here, that’s all that matters.” He paused, then added, “Surely you know that by now, Abigail.”

I smiled at him, then looked down, unsure of what to say. It was apparent that for whatever reason, this man wasn’t welcome in his own home, and I was taking a risk fraternizing with the enemy. I stepped away to pick up the kids’ discarded boots and coats off the wool rug.

I pulled out some Matchbox cars from my boxy Prada purse and ushered Sam toward the hardwood. Gloria was banging out “Chopsticks” on the Steinway in the corner, her tentative, clanging tune adding to the uncomfortable vibe of the room.

And my sister-in-law Aubyn’s arrival moments later didn’t improve it. She came in dressed in a black velvet coat, riding pants, and boots, with her hair in a low ponytail. Her face was makeup-free and pale, her bright blue eyes the only pop of color. She ignored all the adults, scanning the room. Eventually her eyes fixed on Gloria, peeking out from the piano.

“
Tu veux voir les moutons?
” she asked her.

“
Oui!
” shouted Gloria, hopping up with a clang and running toward her aunt. Then, remembering, she turned back and asked, “Is it okay, Mommy?”

“
Oui,
” I said, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

Aubyn and Gloria left hand in hand. When their voices grew more distant and some faraway doors slammed, I realized they might be heading outside. I grabbed Gloria’s forgotten jacket and headed after them. Though it had not begun to rain, the skies were ominous.

Glancing back to Sam before I left the room, I saw Collier awkwardly bouncing him on his knee while Alex watched from a corner. I guessed Collier would watch Sam; Alex would watch Collier.

When I reached the wide front hall, I didn’t know which direction
Aubyn and Gloria had taken or which of the three doors they had exited through. Then I remembered the dark stairwell from my first night here, and headed toward it. I was right; when I opened the door, I heard the faint sounds of riding boots and little-girl chatter.

Descending the worn stairs carefully, I found myself in a dim corridor lit by bare bulbs, the air several degrees colder than the floor above. The walls were rough-hewn brick and the wood floorboards soft beneath my feet. Beside me on the wall was a modern gray fuse box hung next to a dusty wooden case of brass bells, like the kind I’d seen on
Masterpiece Theatre
to summon servants. Two of the bells were tilted, hanging askew in anticipation, whoever triggered them still waiting for that cup of tea, those shined shoes.

The rest of the hallway revealed more contrasts of old and new. One room held antique furniture, a locked case of long shotguns, old fishing equipment, and dented, dusty steamer trunks, as well as outdoor heating lamps, sports equipment, and gold-tone party chairs stacked to the ceiling. Another held bikes, skis, and sleds, all relics from Alex’s childhood, plus an old Victrola, its lily-shaped amplifier tarnished and silent. The last room was the largest, and as I stepped inside, I noticed it still smelled faintly of soot and cooking grease. Shelves lined both walls, and on some stood crockery and jars, while others housed only empty hooks and cobwebs. Long, rough-hewn tables were pushed into a corner along with a giant barrel with “B.V.” stenciled on its side. I stepped closer and saw a date etched into the worn wood—1883.

I tried to imagine this gloomy space bustling with servants filling soup tureens for a formal dinner or roasting turkeys for a fox-hunting party. I would have loved to see Bloemveld as it would have been a hundred years ago, with the people and animals and commotion that give a house like this purpose. I could not imagine growing up here—then or now.

At the end of the basement hallway was another flight of servants’ stairs. As I climbed them and emerged outside, I saw Aubyn and Gloria slowly making their way up the hill in the distance. Two of Aubyn’s three wolfhounds trotted ahead of them.

As I started after them, my heels sinking with each step, I watched my daughter and her aunt intently. With her niece, Aubyn seemed more relaxed, almost jovial. At one point, they both climbed and jumped over a low stone wall, Aubyn seeing Gloria over safely and then hopping over with a laugh. Then they both disappeared over the hill.

I picked up my pace, curious to see where they were headed and where this vast estate ended. After awkwardly managing the same low wall, I saw a gray stone barn, a stable, a fenced pasture, and several pebbled paths leading in different directions. And dotting the hillside were what they must have come for—sheep.

Gloria ran toward them with a little squeal of joy. I gasped as she threw her arms around the largest one, which stood motionless as she snuggled into its yellow-beige neck. Aubyn watched her and smiled, then began to feed a lamb something from her pocket. A Canadian goose took off from a shallow pond and the dogs ran after it. The scene was bucolic and beautiful, as if that hallway had transported us magically—like a Narnia wardrobe—from suburban Philadelphia to the English countryside.

“Gloria forgot her jacket,” I called as I got within earshot. Aubyn looked up and eyed my clumsy, heel-sinking approach with cynical amusement. Finally reaching Gloria, I helped her put on her jacket.

Just then two chestnut mares emerged from a patch of trees and came trotting over. Gloria ran toward the smaller one and I limped after her, ready to throw myself between her and the beast if necessary.

“Careful, love bug,” I told her, wary of the animals’ long legs and heavy hooves.

But Gloria reached up and rubbed the horse’s neck with ease. I relaxed.

“She’s just waiting for Gloria, whenever you say the word,” said Aubyn, wiping her hands on her khaki-colored riding pants and walking over.

“Waiting?”

“You told me you didn’t want Gloria riding yet.”

“Right. I guess you think she’s ready?”

“She’s
been
ready. Even though she’s small, she can do it. Petal will know who’s boss.”

Wow,
I thought.
Someone in the van Holt family who actually understands my daughter.
I was about to speak when Gloria interrupted.

“Mommy, please, please, please…” She hopped up and down. “I can do it. I know I can.”

Both Aubyn and Gloria looked at me with matching blue eyes, wide with anticipation. How could I say no? But I also wasn’t sure. Gloria might have inherited a love of equines from her aunt, but she was only five. And so small.

“Not just yet, GloWorm,” I told her.

Gloria’s smile faded and she ran off toward the dogs in a huff. Aubyn looked away, her face taut with anger.

“Of course,” she said under her breath.

“Excuse me?”

She lifted her head. “Do you really think I’d let her do something dangerous? You’re only saying ‘no’ because I bought her the horse.”

I was so tired of these van Holts dictating what was best for my children. I stared at her and told her, “You’re not her mother. I am.”

“Yeah, you’re mother of the year.”

She said it under her breath, but I caught it. My heartbeat doubled up and my face burned.

“What did you say?” I hissed.

“Nothing.”

“How dare you? You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough. You and your liquid lunches and your spending sprees and your constant complaining. My brother deserves better.”

Her words hung in the air, then reached like little fog hands to choke me. I gasped for breath as the quiet evening turned into a hurricane in my head.

“You van Holts,” I seethed. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“All I know is that you were supposed to be different,” she sneered. “But you’re just like all the rest.”

Then, again under her breath: “You’re just like my mother.”

The freight train in my head drowned out all sound. I stomped over to her, about to do I don’t know what, when I slipped on the sloping wet grass, landing on my side with a painful thud, then rolling a few yards down the hill. I tried getting up, but the slick grass became slicker with each attempt and several sheep trotted over, their black faces and feet nudging me all over.

Aubyn walked over and tried to shoo the sheep away. As she got closer, I saw that she was smirking, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Her derision fueled my rage. All the stress and worry and angst of the past week—hell, the past decade—came together into a little ball of fury in my gut. I looked at her glossy hair and cold eyes and they reminded me of my old boss Charlotte. I did something I had wanted to do for a long time, to both of them.

She extended her hand to help me up, but I grabbed it and pulled her down hard. She landed beside me in the wet grass in surprise, a high-pitched yelp stark against the low grunts of the farm animals. I felt her hand hit my chest with a thump as she pushed me. I pushed her back, then pushed her facedown in the mud.

We tussled in the grass like little boys in the schoolyard, rolling
even farther down the hill into a muddy puddle. The herd followed us and with their hooves and fur all around us, we had to separate from each other or be trampled. We then made comical attempts to stand, slipping and falling on the mud like sled dogs on ice.

By the time we were upright, dripping and disgusting, Gloria had run down between us, her hot pink jacket stark against the green grass and darkening sky.

Oblivious to what had just happened, or not caring, she asked again about the horse.

Neither Aubyn nor I spoke as we tried to sneak back into the house unnoticed. Our clothes and hair were peppered with mud and grass, our faces flushed with anger and exertion. We tiptoed across the black-and-white tile and almost made it to the stairs. But Gloria ran ahead of us into the library and announced, “Mommy and Auntie Aubyn had a fight!”