The One That Got Away (34 page)

I sighed and rolled my eyes, then noticed that her hands were clenched in tight balls. She was so tense, and shaking, she could barely tie the robe.

“Can I help you?” I asked as she struggled with the fuzzy fabric. She might have hated me, wanted me locked up, but looking at her—so flustered and overwrought—I couldn’t help but feel for her.

Why couldn’t she just enjoy what was happening? Her son had done it. He had won.

“Don’t touch me,” she barked, jumping back as I reached out to her. “You… you… almost ruined it all.”

“But I didn’t,” I told her. “Alex is a congressman. Aren’t you happy?”

She looked up at me, and for just an instant, and for the first time, I saw confusion in her eyes. Vulnerability, even. I saw the young woman she used to be, one full of soft white hopes and red-hot exuberance. The person who existed before all her dreams—and her honest affections—hardened into glass.

I realized the answer to my own question. She wasn’t happy. She could never be happy. She was holding on to this family so tightly,
she was past emotion. And after today, and all the added stress I had caused, she was this close to shattering.

I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her like a small child. Tell her there was still a chance for her, if she would just take her hands off the wheel. If she would just let herself, and the people around her, coast for a little while. But before I could, she was gone.

“Do you need anything else, miss?” I had forgotten the maid was still in the bathroom. I looked up and told her, “No, thank you,” then turned toward the mirror. The woman slipped out quietly, leaving me alone. I washed my hands and patted them on the thick white hand towel. I looked at my engagement ring, one that might have even been Mirabelle’s, and felt its heaviness more than ever.

Mirabelle had planned for this moment her entire life. But what she didn’t know, what she probably wouldn’t realize until later, was that Alex’s win—the thing she so desperately wanted, the thing she thought would tie him to her and her money forever—might also be his escape. Our escape. Living in Washington, DC, would put 150 miles between us and Bloemveld. Between us and her toxic, smothering kind of love.

But then I looked up to check myself one final time and shuddered. In the mirror, I realized Mirabelle might always be close, closer than I would have liked.

In her suit, and with my razor-sharp bob and heavy jewelry, I looked just like her.

A plainclothes security guard escorted us down a dark hallway, through a service area, and into a blanket-lined freight elevator that would take us—Alex holding Gloria, me holding Sam—to the celebration below. The guard listened to chatter on his earpiece and the
kids giggled with excitement while Alex and I rode in silence, still overwhelmed by what had just happened. My husband had become the next congressman representing the second district of Philadelphia, a post that could be traced all the way back to 1791.

“Wow,” said Alex, breaking the silence. “We did it.”

“Congratulations,” I told him. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

We were speaking again. Perhaps now was the time to clear the air. I decided to go first.

“Alex. I’m sorry again about yesterday. I promised Frank from now on I’d be careful. Check with you guys whenever I do anything that might be taken the wrong way.”

I waited for him to tell me he was still mad, I was officially forgiven, or somewhere in between—
anything
—but instead he waved his hand in the air and said, “Forget it.”

That was all I would get. It wasn’t like I expected a big proclamation, but this wasn’t a small thing; I’d nearly ruined the campaign. I wished he could give me more, and if not in words, then in actions: a real kiss or a real hug. I swore then and there I would never take those three little words—“I forgive you”—for granted again. I would offer them whenever I got the chance.

The elevator stopped on a mid-level floor to reveal an older couple holding hands and about to step on. The security guard demanded they wait for the next car and the doors slid shut on their confused faces. I changed the subject. “Maybe this weekend, we can all get away for a few days, just the four of us,” I suggested. “Before things get crazy again.”

He lifted his brows and tilted his head as if considering it, but didn’t respond. He turned his attention to Gloria, tickling her until she squealed. Once she quieted, he turned back to me. “Abbey…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking that maybe it would be good for you to go back to work. Not full-time, but…”

“You sure?”

“I am. For starters, I know a freshmen congressman who could really use some help. With appointments and events, that kind of thing.”

It wasn’t really what I had in mind—I was a publicist, not an administrative assistant—but it was a start. “Will you put in a good word for me, then?”

“My highest recommendation.” He winked at me and I understood that he had put today’s events behind him and was ready to move on. We both exhaled heavily.

The
baloop
of his phone indicated a new text. He looked down and his brow furrowed. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“Ariel Morganstern texted me. Says the
Inquirer
just posted a story linking him to East Falls. For the new headquarters.”

My face turned hot and the elevator walls seemed to close in, but I forced myself to sound nonchalant. “Really?”

“This isn’t good. Brindle is going to be pissed.”

“Well, it’s not your fault.”

“But
someone
tipped off the press. Who?”

“People talk. Things get out. That’s just the way it is.” I barely breathed, waiting for his response. But he said nothing, thinking, the static from the security guard’s earpiece and Sam’s strenuous thumb sucking the only sounds.

Alex looked over at me, at first suspicious but then somewhat bemused. “Is it?”

Watching his expression, I knew I could have confessed. But I was tired of explaining myself to this man. I returned his gaze with a blank stare and then asked, “What?” as if I had no idea what
he was alluding to. As if inside I wasn’t doing a little happy dance, knowing I’d done something good for East Falls.

Alex opened his mouth to speak again but stopped himself. He was tired too. He shrugged, then pressed off his phone and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Whatever else was on that phone—whatever other fallout he would have to deal with—could wait until tomorrow.

The elevator doors opened and the roar that erupted from the supporters lining the hallway drowned out any further conversation. We began to walk, and soon the article on East Falls was forgotten in the
beat-beat-beat
of the professional sound system and the cheers and clapping of a party in full swing.

As we followed a few steps behind two rent-a-cops on the red-and-gold-carpeted hallway, people turned one by one to see us and then began to cheer, clap, and chant our name. The guards tried to maintain control, but soon we were engulfed by ecstatic supporters and well-wishers. Alex shook hands, waved, and gave a few hugs. A teenage boy threw confetti; a middle-aged lady in a “Van Holt for Congress” T-shirt started to cry; and two inebriated college girls giggled and hugged each other in excitement as Alex passed by. Flashes from iPhones blinked all around us. Sam tucked his head into my neck.

When we entered the ballroom, filled to capacity with people, tables, balloons, and servers, cheers rippled through the room. There must have been a thousand people there, all taking selfies, enjoying the free liquor and soft pretzels, and dancing to a five-piece band butchering a Van Morrison song. Disco lights swirled, and the entire room seemed to pulse to the music. It felt like a frat party, except for all the sports coats and stiletto heels. Everyone here was a supporter of the campaign, and from the looks of it, most supported with their checkbooks, not canvassing door to door.

We shook hands on the way to the stage and braced ourselves as animated faces came in close for hugs and kisses. I recognized some people from the week’s events, and some from that first Bloemveld cocktail party. Even Betsy and Ellen were there, both having seemingly forgotten the incident at lunch. Alex was only two minutes into being a congressman and already I was feeling the power.

Beside the stage, while Alex conferred one last time with Frank, Mindy rushed up to me, panting with excitement. She enveloped me in a hug, then planted a bloodred stain on Sam’s blond wisps.

“
Loved
your speech today,” she told me. “I’m happy to know I’m not the only hot mess in town.” She gave a loud laugh/snort, then put her hands to her face as if to say,
See what I mean?

“You’re not a mess,” I told her. “You’re great.”

“Thanks. But you wouldn’t have said that if you saw me earlier. The boys were out of control today. I almost didn’t think I’d make it tonight. I still haven’t solved my nanny problem.”

“Your nanny problem?”

“Mine moved back to Sweden, remember?”

“That’s right!” I said, more excitedly than the situation called for.

She looked at me funny, so I quickly explained: Alex and I had recently let May go. It was time to try life without a full-time nanny for a while. Any chance that
she
might be interested in hiring her?

She looked at me wide-eyed and excited. “Yes! I would love that!”

I explained the one caveat: May was much in demand, with several women already fighting over her… If Mindy wanted her, she would have to make a really nice offer. Maybe even throw in a shorter workweek, say, only thirty hours, and never on nights or weekends, just to edge out the competition.

My friend’s face turned grave with understanding—and determination. She thanked me profusely and then ran off, pushing her way through the crowd. I knew she was looking for her husband, eager
to tell him the good news: They had a lead on a new nanny. And not just any nanny—
the van Holts’ former nanny
.

I did it to help May, but also us. I knew that since Mindy’s children went to the same school as Gloria, my kids could at least see their beloved May from time to time. And the van Holts would never have to know. I smiled at my own cunning, then moved quickly to stand beside Alex, who was waiting for his big moment.

Onstage, Alex gave the cheesy campaign-speak a rest, instead giving a funny, self-deprecating speech made twice as long by bouts of laughing and clapping from the crowd. When it was over, he grabbed my hand and lifted our arms together over our heads, and I heard the crowd cheer harder than ever. And when he leaned over and kissed me, they went crazy. The noise and flashes and exuberance were amazing.

And yet, despite the win, despite the adulation, despite how gorgeous Alex looked with his loosened tie, weary eyes, and five-o’clock shadow, I felt detached from the scene, as if I was watching us all from afar, looking down at myself from the giant crystal chandelier. Alex leaned over and whispered that he loved me, his voice warm and sincere. It was the forgiveness I wanted, but, strangely, I struggled to feel relief. I struggled to feel anything.

Alex put his arm around me and I looked up and imitated his wide smile. Even though we had won and I had ended up being a small contributor to our success; even though May would have a better job than the one she had with me; and even though I was no longer afraid of Mirabelle or any of her threats; I smiled back with my lips and cheeks and eyes, but not my heart.

Deep down, my heart was somewhere else.

A
lone at last.

Oscar had taken the kids and Aubyn back to our apartment immediately after the speech; a triumphant Mirabelle, a stumbling Collier, and the noiseless Luis were in a cab back to Bloemveld; Calvin, Sunita, and the rest of the twentysomethings were making the rounds of after-parties; and Alex and a gleeful Frank were fielding television interviews in a lobby corner. I found myself in the silent suite, with only a few lost coats and
Action News at Eleven
to keep me company.

I kicked off my shoes, opened a Heineken, and commandeered a platter of leftover desserts. I deserved a treat. I had worked hard for this win too.

Sam was right,
I thought as I bit into a gooey éclair.
These
are
worth fighting for.
I was about to devour a second when a knock at the door froze me mid-bite. I kept quiet, hoping whomever it was would go away, so I could resume drowning my sorrows in pastry cream. But whomever it was knocked again:
rat-a-tat-tat-tat
. I sighed and got up to answer the door, my stockinged feet slick on the thick carpet.

“Yes?” I called, putting my eye to the peephole and finding four
inches of cleavage, distorted to Dolly Parton–like proportions in the curve of the fish-eye lens.

Roberta. In the van Holt world.

I swung open the door, dropping my beer in surprise. I saw her smile at me, then look down and frown at the puddle fizzing at our feet.

“Shit!” she said as she looked around for a napkin, before pulling out a
People
magazine from her bag and blotting the carpet with it. As she patted, then gave up with a short sigh, I drank her in.

She looked the same as always: overly tan, overly blond, and in clothes that even Barbie might reconsider: a purple faux-Juicy sweatshirt unzipped to reveal a low-cut silver studded tank top, stretchy white jeans, and fuzzy black boots. Her nails were long and bloodred, her lips pursed and glossy.

Normally, she reminded me of a past-her-prime ski bunny or an airport cocktail waitress. But tonight she looked like an angel.

I reached over and touched her face, just to make sure she was real.

It was her “tiger spirit” that told her to come.

As luck would have it, Roberta had caught yesterday’s CNN interview via the shipboard satellite TV and immediately sensing something was “off” about me, she got herself helicoptered to the closest Greek island (Mykonos), where she was able to book a puddle jumper to Rome and then a red-eye flight home to Philly.

“I just can’t believe it’s you,” I told her once the initial shock had worn off. “I’ve missed you.”

“Wow, now I
know
something is wrong,” she deadpanned.

“What? I’m fine.”

She gave me the same look she always gave me when she knew I was lying. I turned back toward the couch and my éclairs, and she followed.

“Abigail, tell me what’s going on. I didn’t fly seven thousand miles for you to act like everything is okay.”

I stared at her for a second, honestly not knowing where to begin. I bought some time by opening another beer and taking a sip.

“I swear, Mom. Nothing’s wrong.”

“I haven’t seen you drink a beer in ten years. Out with it.”

I considered telling her the truth. The whole truth. This was not my life. This was just an elaborate joke or delusion or an incredibly lifelike dream. And part of me felt that if anyone could believe in alternate realities, it was Roberta. But I also worried she would do what any other good mother would do: listen attentively and nod, and then, when I wasn’t looking, call 911 and have me hauled off to a psych ward.

“Let’s just say I’m confused,” I told her.

“Confused about what? Prince Valiant won. I thought you’d be ecstatic.”

“I know. I should be. It’s… complicated.”

She started to respond but stopped. Instead, she reached over and put her hand on my shoulder.

“I don’t care about complications,” she said. “I care about you. Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I stammered. “I’m just confused. And tired. So tired.”

“Well, you don’t have to do anything this minute,” she said. “The election’s over. You can take a few hours off from being Mrs. Alexander van Holt. For the next little while, why don’t you just be my daughter?”

“Gladly,” I said. And for the first time in a very long time, I curled up under her arm and put my head on her shoulder.

And I cried.

Roberta held me in her arms, rocking me and shushing me like I was a heartsick teen. She smelled of coconut lotion and hairspray with just a hint of something medicinal. The skin of her neck felt soft and loose, the only part of her like a traditional grandmother, though she would have been horrified if she knew I thought that.

When my sobbing had quieted, she looked straight ahead, lost in thought, and began to speak:

“When your father and I got married, I thought I had it all—a nice husband with a good job, a cute little house, and a beautiful baby girl,” she said. “I baked tuna casseroles and sewed curtains and washed and dried and ironed. Trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect neighbor. I even went to church on Sunday!”

She sighed to herself and continued. “I did everything I was supposed to do… and still my husband left me.”

I sat up in surprise. “Dad left
you
?”

“I know I’ve always made it sound like I was the one who did the leaving. That I happily left the rat bastard behind. But it’s not true.” She took a breath, and I could see the effort it took for her to admit the truth. “Your father left me a note written on the back of an unpaid oil bill. He said he had fallen in love with a woman named April Dawn and he was moving to Florida with her. Can you imagine? He left me for a woman named after dish soap.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had a million and one questions but kept quiet, letting her finish.

“For weeks, I refused to believe it,” she continued. “Big-time denial. When I finally realized he wasn’t coming back, I was devastated. And then really depressed. I couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn’t take care of you. My mother had to come up from Virginia and live with us.”

Roberta depressed? I couldn’t imagine it. She was always so capable, so positive. I’d never even seen her cry.

“Life went on—as it does—but I was holding on by a thread. Then, a few months later, you started to talk. And talk and talk and talk. And scream and laugh and run around the house bellowing like you owned the place. I swear, you were the loudest kid ever. And the funny thing is, you didn’t care a hoot about casseroles or clean sheets or any of that shit. All you wanted to do was wear tutus and sing songs and eat as many marshmallows as humanly possible.

“One day I woke up from a nap to hear you playing outside with the hose. You thought it was funny to spray Grandmom Gloria and she was getting really pissed off. Every time she went to grab it from you, you would dash out of reach and then hit her again. Finally she caught you and was about to spank you, when you let out the loudest, most primal scream I’ve ever heard. It’s a wonder no one called the cops. I got up out of bed and went to the window, and I’ll never forget what I saw.” She closed her eyes, as if the scene was replaying in her head. “You were standing in the sunlight in your underwear. Water dripping off your golden curls. And you had your arms out like this”—she demonstrated—“and this look of sheer defiance on your face. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. At two years old, you looked so powerful. So incredibly fearless. Scared the shit out of Grandmom.”

She laughed at the memory.

“And that was the moment I decided to get out of bed. I went outside, picked you up, and told your grandmother we wouldn’t need her anymore. It was as if everything suddenly became clear to me. I was done being perfect. From then on, I was going to be just like that little girl with the hose. I was going to do what I wanted and the world would have to deal with it.”

She sighed, and after a moment said quietly, “I know people make fun of the way I dress and the younger men and the sports car
and the bikinis. But I don’t care. I really don’t. The way I figure it, I earned it.”

She let the words linger for a moment before shifting toward me. Her hands moved up and grasped my tear-stained face, turning it toward her so she could hold my eyes with hers.

“I know you say you’re confused. That everything is complicated. Maybe you even feel as hopeless as I did when your dad left,” she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. “But, my darling, maybe your rock bottom isn’t made of rock. Maybe it’s soft. Hell, maybe it’s made of marshmallows. Why don’t you push your way through and see what’s on the other side?”

After my mother left to go sleep off the jet lag, I went outside onto the suite’s wide balcony and admired the view of city hall, its round clock face glowing yellow beneath a navy sky. After the stuffy suite and crowded ballroom, it felt good to breathe in the cool night air.

I thought about what Roberta had told me. All these years, I had never known she suffered so much after my father left. She always made her divorce seem so unimportant, a minor plot point in the glamorous and exciting movie that was her life. It made me feel embarrassed, and selfish.

I put my hand on the thick concrete parapet and looked down at Chestnut Street. From where I stood, fourteen floors up, the streets below looked peaceful and dreamlike. Occasionally, a few cars moved past or a young reveler pierced the hum with a shout. But mostly, the city was beautiful and silent and anonymous.

Behind me, the slam of a door made me jump. It was Alex returning. I stepped inside the suite and slid the balcony door shut.

“How did the interviews go?”

“Fine,” he said, as he filled half a glass with gin and dropped in
an ice cube. I realized then, watching him take a sip and grimace, I’d never seen him drink alcohol before.

“Just fine?” I asked.

He nodded, took another sip, then looked past me toward the balcony. “Is it raining again?”

“No, it’s just cold.”

He dropped his iPhone on the table and stripped off his tie, slipped off his jacket.

“Guess the morning rain didn’t keep voters away after all,” I continued. “Frank said it was a record turnout.”

“Looks like it,” he said. “They came out. In droves. And now I’m their man.”

“You don’t sound all that excited.”

“It’s just a lot to take in, a lot of changes coming for us.”

“But just think of all the good you can do—”

He cut me off quickly: “I know, I know. It’s a great achievement. A tremendous responsibility. An honor for the van Holts… blah, blah, blah.”

I smarted at his tone. And stared at him. It was not the face of someone who had just won an election. I walked over and sat beside him, picking up his free hand.

“Alex?” I asked, my eyes looking into his. “Do you even
want
to be a congressman?”

He looked surprised and—for a fleeting moment—something else: afraid. As if I had uncovered something he was trying very hard to keep buried. Suddenly, so much of the past week made sense. The passive-aggressive arguments, the freezing up on national television, even the strange obsessive-compulsive behavior about clean shirts. He was running for Congress because he
had
to, not because he wanted to. Deep down, there was nothing he wanted less. And his unhappiness, and suppressed defiance, bubbled up at the most inopportune of times.

Still, he kept to the script. “Of course I do,” he said testily—and unconvincingly. “What did you think… I was just in it for the free stationery?” He gave a halfhearted laugh.

It wasn’t the first time I had seen him charm his way out of an uncomfortable emotion. And though I had known him only a week, I suspected it was a lifelong instinct for avoiding painful truths. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Alexander van Holt. Newly elected congressman from the second district of Pennsylvania. Trapped in a life—and a family—he couldn’t escape.

An imposter, just like me.

“Well, it is really nice stationery,” I said, taking his lead. “I hear it’s embossed.” I pretended to swoon.

He laughed, grabbed my hand, and kissed it. We were partners in this charade.

“We’d better get home,” I said. “It’s late.” I walked over to get my purse.

“Not so fast,” he said, not letting my hand go. “I was thinking we could stay here tonight. Seems a shame to let this big suite go to waste.”

“But what about the kids?”

“They’re at home with Aubyn. She can handle them until morning.”

“Oh, Alex. I don’t know…”

“I do,” he said, turning my face to his and kissing me.

I tried to respond, but my lips barely moved.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

He kissed me again. He tasted of gin, and his stubble was rough against my lips and throat. I closed my eyes and tried to give myself over to him, waiting for my burners to ignite. But nothing. I kissed him harder, hoping to kick-start the flame.

“Room service,” called a voice from outside.

“I almost forgot!” exclaimed Alex, with a boyish grin. There was the old Alex, the one I’d met by the elevator all those years ago.

He jogged to the door, letting in a white-coated waiter pushing a cart topped with a champagne bucket and crystal flutes. Alex tipped him a twenty and pushed the cart in a little farther.

“How about a little champagne, Mrs. van Holt?” He looked proud of his romantic surprise, as men always are. He popped the cork and filled two flutes, the bubbles reaching the top but not flowing over. He handed me one as he raised his in a toast.

“To the future,” he said, clinking his glass with mine.

“The future,” I repeated. I took a small sip, then noticed a silver dome on the cart. I looked up at him, confused. He grinned again—a little boy with a secret—and said, “For you.”

I put my hand on the cold silver handle and lifted the dome, expecting fresh strawberries or caviar or, God willing, another plate of éclairs, but instead saw a red leather box sitting in the middle of the tray.