Sweet Forgiveness (17 page)

I
don't wait for the show to end. I don't wait for a commercial break. I rush to Dorothy, grab her hand, and lead her offstage. I hear Claudia's voice behind me, trying to control the chaos. She'll have to improvise the last ten minutes. Right now I don't give a damn about my show.

“It's okay,” I say to Dorothy. “You are going to be okay.” I usher her back to my dressing room and settle her on the sofa. “Sit here,” I say. “I'll be right back. I need to find Marilyn.”

I dash down the hall and reach the lobby just in time to see Marilyn pushing through the glass doors.

“Marilyn! Stop.”

She ignores me and heads straight toward a waiting taxi. I dash after her.

“I am so sorry about what happened,” I say, trotting behind her. “All of it. I didn't know.”

Marilyn turns to me when she reaches the cab. Her thin lashes are spiked with tears, but her eyes are narrowed and hold a ferocity I've never seen.

“How could you?”

I take a step back, her very words, her accusation, knocking me off-balance.

The driver opens the back door, and Marilyn steps into the cab. I look on as the taxi speeds away, then double over with shame. In so many ways, for so many instances, I wonder just that: How could I?

I'm in tears when I return to my dressing room. I close the door and find Dorothy sitting on the sofa staring at the wall, just as I'd left her. Surprisingly, she's not crying. I take a seat beside her and reach for her hand.

“Are you okay?” I say, rubbing her soft skin. “I shouldn't have let you do that on air. I knew it was risky. I allowed you—”

“Nonsense,” she says. Her voice is flat and calm. “It's called justice. I deserve Mari's wrath. And that drubbing from the crowd, and from all of our friends once word gets out? It's exactly what I need. Anything less would be unjust.”

“How can you say that? You are a good person, Dorothy. The best. What you did when you were a teenager wasn't cruel. Sure it was a mistake—a big mistake—but you had good intentions. Marilyn will come to realize that.”

She pats my hand, as if I were a naïve child. “Oh, sweetheart, don't you see? It's not the lie. It's never the lie. It's the cover-up that ruins us.”

I feel the blood rush past my temples. She's right. She's absolutely right. If anyone should know about the consequences of covering up the truth, it's me.

Dorothy seems strangely at ease when we arrive back at the Garden Home. I settle her into the sunroom with her audiobook.

“Shall I get your phone? You probably want to call Marilyn.”

She shakes her head. “Too soon.”

What a lesson in wisdom and patience. If it were me, I wouldn't be able to resist hounding Marilyn, begging her forgiveness. But Dorothy seems to know that her friend needs time to heal. Or, perhaps, it's Dorothy who needs time to heal from her own self-inflicted wounds. If only I'd stopped her.

Just as I'm leaving, Patrick Sullivan shows up at Dorothy's side.

“I watched the show,” he tells her.

Dorothy turns away. “Oh, Paddy. Now you know why I never searched you out, after you left me. I never felt worthy of you.”

He perches on the edge of her chair and takes her hands. “No one is born an audacious person. One becomes audacious.”

From where I stand, just outside the sunroom, I watch Mr. Sullivan lean over and kiss Dorothy's forehead. “You're an audacious lass, Dort. I love ya for it!”

She huffs. “How can you say that, knowing what I did? I never wanted you to see that part of me.”

“An apology doesn't erase our blunders. It's more like a strike-through. We always know the mistake is there, just beneath the black line. And if we search for it, we can still see it. But over time, our eyes begin to look past the error, and we only see the new message, clearer this time, and more thoughtfully penned.”

An hour later, I scurry up the sidewalk toward the WNO entrance and catch sight of Stuart staring down at me from his second-floor window, no doubt wondering where I've been. What did he expect, that I'd let Dorothy fend for herself, that I'd point her to the east and expect her to find her way home after what we'd put her through? I seethe.

But my anger is misguided. It's not Stuart's fault that I made a mess of things today. I am the one responsible for ruining Dorothy and Marilyn's lifelong friendship. I should have insisted we cancel the show. Why didn't I trust my gut? I always get into trouble when I ignore my instincts.

Or do I? Was I right to trust my instincts back in the summer of '93?

I push back all thoughts of my mother and barrel down the hall to my dressing room. I don't have the luxury of wallowing in what-ifs today. Tomorrow we host Fiona Knowles.

I sit in my makeup chair while Jade peels a strand of long black lashes from my left eye. She started using the lash extensions a month ago, when she noticed my natural lashes thinning. Just another reminder that I'm not who I pretend to be. I'm a laminate, not a hardwood.

Across from me, Claudia sits with a notebook and pen, taking notes as I explain the format for tomorrow's show.

“I'll give a teaser for the Forgiveness Stones episode,” I say, “then we'll go straight to break. When we come back, I'll introduce Fiona. You and I will sit facing her. That's when you'll take the lead with the interview. Sort of the opposite of what we did today.”

In the mirror's reflection, Jade shoots me a look of warning.

“Are you sure?” Claudia asks. “I can just sit quietly and offer tidbits here and there.”

“Now, that sounds like a plan,” Jade says, dipping her finger into a jar of cream. She's still convinced Claudia is after my job. But I don't believe it. Ever since we had our heart-to-heart last week, Claudia's been sweeter than a pecan pie. She's perfectly willing to let me be the lead interviewer in the Forgiveness Stones episode, but truth is, I'm relieved I don't have to talk about the stones. Especially when I'm a recipient who has yet to complete her circle.

“No,” I say, locking eyes with Jade in the mirror. “You're the one who knows Fiona. This will be your interview.”

“Knock, knock,” Stuart says, stepping into the room. He's carrying a clipboard. “Great show, Farr. The ladies knocked it out of the park.”

I look at him, sure he's being sarcastic. I'm stunned when I realize he's serious. “Stuart, the show was a disaster. A lifelong friendship is in ruins.”

He shrugs. “Not according to what matters. Kelsey says we're showing an uptick on social media. Tweets, mostly, and a couple hundred new Facebook likes.” He hands me the clipboard. “I need some signatures here.”

I yank the clipboard from his clutches. This man has no conscience. He doesn't give a damn about Dorothy or Marilyn or even me.

He pats his breast pocket. “Damn. Got a pen?”

“Top drawer,” I tell him, and point to my desk. “The Caran d'Ache, please.”

“You and your damn pen.” He rifles through my desk. “Can't you just use a roller-ball?” He tosses a tube of ChapStick on the desktop. “Where is it, Farr?”

Thankfully, Claudia goes to help him. I close my eyes while Jade peels off the second lash. “Believe me, I'd never spend so much on a pen,” I tell Stuart. “Michael surprised me with it when we took second place in the—”

“Ho-ly shit!”

I open my eyes. From the mirror's reflection, I see Claudia and Stuart stooped before my open desk drawer. In Claudia's hand, I spy the velvet pouch. The Forgiveness Stones.

“Oh, fuck,” I say, and clap a hand over my mouth.

“Jesus, Farr, you've got the stones!”

I leap from my chair, but Stuart's already snatched the little pouch from Claudia.

“And just in time for tomorrow's show!” he says, holding it aloft.

“Give me that, Stuart.”

“What'd you do, Farr? What's the shameful secret you're afraid of exposing? Because anything short of murder will make for another spectacular episode.”

“I didn't do a thing. Which is why I haven't continued the circle. I have nothing to atone for.” As I say the words, I feel my face flush. I wouldn't dream of telling him my secret. And even if I wanted to, Michael has forbidden it.

“Get over yourself, Farr. Spill the beans.”

“Just forget about it. They're not my stones.”

“You cheated on Michael?”

“No! God, no!”

“You're the one who keyed Priscille's Beemer.”

I shoot him a look. “Right.”

“It's a family secret, isn't it?”

I open my mouth to protest, but the words won't come.

His eyes are victorious. “Bingo!”

I yank the pouch from his hands. “Look, I had a falling-out with my mother years ago. It's ugly and messy and I refuse to talk about it.”

“Michael know about it?”

“Of course he does,” I say, appalled at his nerve. “I won't do this, Stuart. I will not sacrifice my privacy for ratings. My past is not open for public consumption. End. Of. Story.”

He snags the pouch from me. “We'll see about that.”

I
nearly run to catch up with Stuart, pleading with him to give me the pouch. He ignores me and barges into Priscille's office.

She sits behind her walnut desk, simultaneously talking on the phone and typing an e-mail. My head feels light. Oh, damn. I'm going to pass out, right here in my boss's office.

“You're never going to believe this,” Stuart says, waving the pouch in front of Priscille.

“I'm sorry, Thomas. Can I call you back?” She hangs up the phone and snaps at Stuart. “What is it?”

“Hannah received the stones. She's got some family drama or whatnot with her mother. Could the timing be more perfect?”

Priscille's face softens into a smile. “You don't say.”

“This is it, the up-close-and-personal moment we've been hoping for!”

“Stop,” I say. “You're not listening to me. I don't want to talk about this on air. It's private. Didn't you see what just happened to my friends?”

He ignores me. “This will be huge for our ratings. You've said it yourself, Priscille, one of Hannah's biggest flaws is that she doesn't let people in.”

My mouth drops. Did she really say that? Sure, I'm a little reserved, but nobody would say I am distant.

“You're distant, Hannah,” Priscille says. “Face it. You're a locked box, a bud that won't blossom.”

“Clamped tighter than the knees of a nun,” Stuart says.

I shoot him a dirty look, but Priscille doesn't seem to notice. She comes around to the other side of her desk and paces, tapping a pen in the palm of her hand. “Remember when Oprah walked out onstage with a wagon full of fat? When Katie Couric had a colonoscopy live, on air? Open-book celebrities attract people. Why? Because they're courageous, they're vulnerable.” She stops and turns to me. “And vulnerability, my dear, is that magic ingredient that separates those we like from those we love.”

Stuart nods. “Exactly right. Talk about your mother and your falling-out, whatever the hell it was. Tell your viewers how hurt you were. Shed a few tears. Let them know how freeing it felt when you finally forgave her.”

But I haven't forgiven her. In fact, I'm no longer sure she needs forgiving. And I'm not going to dig up the past to find out, for my New Orleans audience, or WCHI, or any other station. Michael's right. My family secret will remain buried. Dorothy's revelation made that clearer than ever.

Priscille grabs a pad of paper. “They'll want to know what you did with the other stone. Do you have a good story?”

I feel like a piñata being poked, one that will soon come tumbling down. All my insides will spill from me. And instead of sweet treats, the world will see the rancid ugliness I've been hiding.

I put my hands to my head. “Please! I can't do this!” I look from Stuart to Priscille. “I won't do this. I
am
a private person. You're right. And there's no way I will air my laundry in front of thousands of viewers. It's not my style. And even if it was, I'm dating the mayor, people.”

Stuart is three minutes into a riff about all the reasons I need to buck up and take one for the team when Priscille finally places a hand on his arm. “Let it go, Stuart. We can't force Hannah to be someone she's not.” Her voice becomes soft and unsettlingly calm. She returns to her seat behind the desk and taps on her computer screen, signaling that the meeting is over.

I want to explain myself, tell her I am willing to do anything,
anything
, but talk about my past. But of course, she wouldn't understand unless I told her why.

Stuart tosses me the pouch of stones. As I turn to leave, Priscille delivers her knockout punch. “Claudia's cohosting tomorrow, right?”

I slam the dressing room door. “It was a threat!” I say. I step over to the sink, where Jade stands, rinsing out her makeup brushes. “Priscille and Stuart don't give a damn about my privacy. It's all about ratings.”

Jade tips her head toward the back of the room, reminding me that we're not alone. I turn to see Claudia, still sitting on the sofa in the back corner, waiting to finish our discussion of tomorrow's show. Right now I'm so furious I don't care if she hears my rant.

“They say I'm distant. Can you believe that?”

Jade turns off the faucet and grabs a towel. “Hannabelle, when's the last time you answered a personal question from a viewer? Or let anyone besides me see you without makeup?”

My hand goes to my cheek. “Yeah? So I like to look presentable. What's wrong with that?”

“Makeup is your shield. For a public person, you're pretty damn private. Just sayin'.” She pats my shoulder and reaches for her purse. “I'm off to lunch. Want anything?”

Yes! A fried oyster po'boy and a praline pecan pie
. “No, thanks.”

“Stay in trouble,” she says, and closes the door behind her.

I grab two fistfuls of hair and groan. “What am I going to do? I need this job.” I flinch when I feel someone touch my arm. Claudia.

“Oh, hi.” I straighten and tuck my hair behind my ears.

“I'm so sorry, Hannah,” she says. “I don't know what to say. I feel like this is my entire fault for suggesting we host Fiona in the first place. I'm so stupid! When I pulled the pouch from your desk drawer, it didn't even register. I had no idea it held the stones.”

I study her face, her pink cheeks and her blue eyes, wide and innocent. Beneath a thick layer of foundation, I spy a tiny scar on her chin. Did she have a childhood accident? Fall off a bike, maybe, or out of a tree? She touches it with her polished fingertips, and I look away, embarrassed that I'd been staring.

“It's gross, I know. Damage from my headgear. My orthodontist had me wear this wire-and-elastic contraption around my face. After a month, he discovered it was too tight. By then the damage was done. Permanently. My mother was livid. That's when she stopped entering me in pageants.” She gives a tight little laugh. “Actually, it was a relief.”

So Claudia was a child beauty pageant contestant—her mother's dream, not hers. “It's hardly noticeable,” I say. “You're gorgeous.”

But still her fingers hover over the scar. My heart swells with affection. Despite her perfectly ironed hair and flawless spray tan, Claudia seems real now. Someone with scars and insecurities. Someone I can relate to. Is this what Priscille was talking about when she spoke of vulnerability?

I take her arm and lead her to the sofa. “None of this is your fault, Claudia. It's these stupid stones. Maybe Jade's right.” I blow out a stream of air. “I'm scared. I can't talk about the stones. Because if people knew the real me, they'd be horrified.” I hurl the pouch into the metal wastebasket, and it lands with a thud. “Fiona's damn stones are supposed to help us embrace our ugliness. Instead, I'm more concealed than ever.”

Claudia touches her scar again, and I wonder if she realizes I'm talking figuratively, not literally. “If forgiveness were easy,” she says, “we'd all be sleeping like babies.”

“Yeah, well, even if I wanted to seek forgiveness, I've been forbidden. My story is so appalling that my boyfriend is afraid it would ruin me—and him.”

“That's cold,” Claudia says. “Believe me, I get it. I really do. I did something really shitty to my best friend. To this day, I've never told anyone, including her. So don't feel bad. I couldn't tell my secrets on air, either.”

I study her. “Thanks. Really. Sometimes I feel like I'm the most evil person alive, that nobody else has ever made such a horrid mistake.”

“Nope,” Claudia says. “I'm right there with you, my friend.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, as if the memory is still painful. “It was three years ago. Lacey—that's my best friend—was about to get married. Four of us girls took a final singles trip to Mexico.

“The first day we were there, Lacey met this guy at the pool, Henry from Delaware. That's what we called him—Henry from Delaware. He was adorable, he really was. To make a long story short, she fell for him.”

“But she was already engaged.”

“That's right.” Claudia adjusts herself on the sofa so that she's facing me. “I thought it was one of those vacay-dates, you know, when you're away and everyone you meet is suddenly über-exciting. We were in Cancún for four days, and she and Henry spent two of them together. I was so angry. Lacey was finally getting married, like she'd always wanted. Mark, her fiancé, was a solid guy, and he adored her. And there she was, about to risk it all with this Henry from Delaware—some guy she barely knew.

“I like to think I was protecting Lacey, but who knows? Maybe I was jealous. The night before we were leaving, Lacey told me she was having second thoughts about Mark.”

She leans in. “Hannah, I'm telling you, Lacey was the poster child for making bad decisions. I had to help her.”

She pauses then, as if mustering the courage to finish her story. I hold my breath, hoping she will.

“It was a hot night, and we were crammed into this crowded bar called Yesterdays. Lacey and our other two friends were out on the dance floor. It was just Henry from Delaware and me, standing alone at the bar.

“He was charming. I could see why Lacey was tempted. He started asking me all kinds of questions about Lacey. He was really into her, I could tell. And of course I knew she liked him, too, so much that she was about to throw her life overboard for him. This was a disaster. I could not let her screw it up with Mark. I had to do something to stop this train wreck, right?”

“You did,” I say, wondering if she can hear that my phrase is one part statement, two parts question.

“So I told him the truth. I told him all about her engagement, something Lacey made us swear we wouldn't tell. I told him what a great guy Mark was, how Lacey adored him, how they'd invited over four hundred guests to the wedding. I even pulled out my phone and showed him pictures of Lacey trying on wedding dresses.

“He was devastated, I could see it. I'd probably said enough, but just to be sure, I went one step further. I lied and told him that Lacey had come to Mexico with a mission. She'd bet us that she could make someone fall in love with her one last time. He was just an ego boost for her, a conquest, that's all.”

I cover my mouth.

“I know, right? Henry's face . . . I'll never forget it. It was the purest look of heartbreak I'd ever seen.”

“So what happened?”

“He wanted to confront Lacey, but I talked him out of it. She'd only deny it, I said. The best revenge was to walk away, without giving her a reason.”

“And he did?”

“Yup. He plopped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and left.”

“They never said good-bye?”

“Nope. We were out of the country, so nobody was using cell phones. When she finally came off the dance floor, I told her I'd seen Henry chatting it up with some girl at the bar. She was crushed.

“I honestly thought I'd done the right thing. Sure, Lacey was bummed, but she'd get over it in a day or two. She had Mark, right? I assured her—and myself—that it was all for the best. I was saving her.

“But she cried all the way home. I think she really loved this guy.”

“So what did you do?”

“By then it was too late. Even if I wanted to, I had no way of contacting Henry. So I kept it a secret. I've never told a single person until now, with you.” Her eyes are heavy, but she smiles at me. I squeeze her arm, my heart breaking for her.

“Did she marry Mark?”

“She did. It lasted sixteen months. To this day, I swear she pines for Henry.”

Poor Claudia. What a burden. I pull her into a hug. “Hey, your intentions were pure. We all make mistakes.”

She covers her face with her hands and shakes her head. “Not like mine. Not mistakes that ruin lives.”

It's not the lie. It's never the lie. It's the cover-up that ruins us.
I sit upright. “So find him, this Henry! I'll help you.” I leap from the sofa and head to my desk. “We're journalists, after all. We'll do a search for twentysomething Henrys in Delaware.” I grab a notepad and a pen. “We'll post about it on Facebook and Instagram. You've got pictures, right? We'll find him, and Lacey and Henry from Delaware will live happily ever . . .”