Sweet Forgiveness (27 page)

“What impact does this have on your future relationship?”

Michael looks confident and sure, the way he always does. But I know him. I see the way his lips are set and his head is cocked. He's quickly yet carefully weighing the aftermath of his options before choosing his words.

“I place a high value on honesty. Obviously, there's been a breach of trust.”

My world goes black. “Bastard. You cowardly bastard.”

“Hannah Farr is a very good friend of mine. You've seen us together at fund-raisers and social functions and whatnot. But I'm learning the details of Hannah's past right along with everyone else.” He holds up a finger and speaks deliberately, each word distinct. “But let me be very clear. What she did or did not do in the past is something
she
needs to be held accountable for, not me.”

The cardboard box slips from my hip and crashes to the floor.

I
stagger from the building, my entire career stuffed into a cardboard box. The clouds overhead boil and churn. I round the corner of St. Philip Street and get slapped by a gust from the northeast. But I don't turn away. Instead, I stare it down, daring it, welcoming the momentary catch of breath. I'm reminded of people who cut themselves out of desperation, simply to feel alive. For the first time, I almost understand. Emptiness is worse than pain.

It's lunchtime, and New Orleans' polished professionals, along with the usual throngs of tourists, are dashing off to lunch under black umbrellas. They're meeting clients, networking, enjoying the city—things I did just yesterday.

The sky opens up as I head east, bullets of rain pelting the already burdensome box. What possessed me to take the streetcar today? I should have known I was going to be canned. I should have driven. I see a taxi careening toward me, but I can't lift my arm for fear of dropping this damn box. The cab races past me, sending a blast of mud onto my khaki coat. “Bastard!”

I think of Michael, the real bastard, and seethe. How could he have betrayed me like this? My arms ache. I quickly calculate the trek: twelve more blocks until I reach the streetcar stop, and another block once I get off—all the while lugging this damn box like a vagabond.

Across the street, just inside Louis Armstrong Park, I spy a metal waste bin. Before I have time to reconsider, I step from the curb, landing ankle-deep in a puddle. The box lurches, and I'm fumbling to recover it when a Mercedes rounds the corner, nearly swiping me. “Shit!” I hoist the drenched box on my hip and manage a gangly half trot across the street.

The park feels dreary and abandoned today, the same way I feel. Affixed to a wooden fence, just above the trash bin, I see a sign telling me it's illegal to dump personal items. Wouldn't an arrest be just the perfect capstone on my day? I balance the soggy box on the edge of the bin and fish through the contents. Drops of rain cascade from my hair and eyelashes. I brush them away with my shoulder, but new drops instantly reappear. My fingers weave past files and paperweights, framed awards and desk calendars, and finally land on something hard and smooth. Yes! I yank it from the box and remove the paper-towel wrapping. I stare down at the photo of Michael and me sailing on Lake Pontchartrain, smiling into the camera like the happy couple I thought we were. I hurl it into the cavernous metal tank, taking enormous pleasure from the sound of shattered glass when it hits bottom.

At last I find the photo I've been searching for, the one of my dad and me, taken at the Critics' Choice Awards, just months before he died. He'd flown all the way from L.A. to escort me. I study the picture, beads of water forming on the glass. Yes, his nose is ruddy and his eyes glassy. Yes, he'd had too much to drink and made a fool of himself. But he's my father. I love him—the strongest, most broken man I ever knew. And dysfunctional though it was, he loved me, his selfishly generous daughter.

My salty tears mingle with the rain. I tuck the photo into my purse and search out one last item from the box, my Caran d'Ache limited edition fountain pen, the one Michael surprised me with when my show took second place in the Louisiana Broadcast Awards. Back when everyone thought I was the dynamic young upstart.

I tuck the pen into my coat pocket and heave the remaining contents into the bin, along with the cardboard box. “Good riddance,” I say. The cover slams with a clang.

Lighter now, I continue down Rampart Street. Ahead of me, I see a teenage couple. The dark-haired boy holds a black umbrella over them with one hand and works the other into the back pocket of the girl's tight jeans. I wonder how he'll manage to get it out. It must hurt, stuck in that tiny square, the denim cutting into his pudgy fingers. Don't they realize how ridiculous they look, his big paw clutching her ass? But what do they care? They're young and they think they're in love. She doesn't know that in time, he'll betray her. She'll walk past a television monitor and hear him offer a disclaimer, as if she's nothing more than a faulty appliance.

I quicken my pace and follow the couple onto Canal Street. A homeless man sits on the wet concrete sidewalk in front of a vintage Walgreens pharmacy. A sheet of plastic covers his legs. He peers up at the duo in front of me and holds out a filthy Styrofoam cup. “Bless you,” he says, extending his cup.

“What the fuck?” the boy says as he passes. “Even my dog knows to come in out of the rain.”

The girl laughs and hits his arm. “You're so mean.”

“Bless you,” the man repeats as I pass, his dirty cup extended.

I give him a quick nod then turn my attention to the elegant Ritz-Carlton on the opposite side of the street. I'm nearly to the streetcar stop when I pause. I whirl around, bumping into a woman with dreadlocks.

“Excuse me,” I say.

I weave in and out of bodies, a trout desperate to get upstream. I move quickly and accidentally step on the back of someone's sneaker. She curses back at me, but I don't care. I need to reach that man. I'm a half block away when our eyes meet. I slow my pace.

His eyes widen as I near, as if he's afraid of me. Does he think I'm coming back to belittle him? Has cruelty become his normal encounter?

I come up beside him and squat down. His eyes are rheumy, and up close I see crumbs in his snarled beard. I pull the fountain pen from my coat pocket and drop it into his cup. “Take it to a pawnshop,” I tell him. “It's rose gold, eighteen-karat. Don't take less than three grand for it.”

I rise, not waiting for a response, and slip back into the anonymous stream of people.

I
t's after seven when the door buzzes. Though I've been rehearsing this moment all afternoon, my heart still pitches. I buzz Michael up and stand beside the open door, my arms akimbo. What can he possibly say to justify his actions? Nothing! I refuse to let him manipulate me. I will not allow him to bullshit his way through this humiliation.

I hear the elevator's
ding
and watch the doors slide open. Instead of Michael, Jade steps out, wearing a pair of yoga pants and pink hoodie.

“Hey!” I say, feeling a genuine smile light my face for the first time all day.

She gives me a hug. Her dark hair is heaped into a ponytail and not a stitch of makeup masks her smooth caramel skin. She's carrying a grocery bag from Langenstein's. “Marcus came over to the house to watch the baseball game with Devon. I thought you could use some company.” She raises the bag. “Sea-salt caramel ice cream.”

“I adore you,” I say, and pull her into my condo.

Before I have time to tell her I'm on my way out, the door buzzes again. “That's Michael,” I say, and buzz him up. “We're supposed to go to dinner.” I quickly tell her about the news spot.

“He's a rat fink. I realized it about eight months ago, when he stopped talking to you in future tense.”

“Really? Why didn't you tell me?”

“A girl's gotta find out those things for herself. Just like I have to make my own decisions about Marcus.”

I suck in a breath. She's right. I can't tell her what to do, regardless of how strongly I feel. I can only pray she'll make the right decision for her and Devon.

She puts the ice cream in the freezer. “I'll leave this for you.”

“Don't go,” I tell her. “Hang out here while I'm gone. Trust me, it's not going to be a late one.”

“You sure you don't mind? I was hoping to avoid seeing Officer A-hole tonight. He's been putting the full-court press on me.”

I smile. “I absolutely insist. Make yourself at home. The remote's on the coffee table and my laptop's in the bedroom.”

“Thanks. I'll hide out in the bedroom until you're gone. Good luck.”

She heads down the hall, closing the bedroom door behind her, and I reposition myself at my open door, just as before. This time, when the elevator opens, Michael steps out, still dressed in his gray suit and powder-blue tie. Damn. How does he manage to look so polished, even in today's tempest? I lift a hand to my hair, conscious that I'm two weeks overdue for a highlight. It feels limp and sticky, the unfortunate combination of my styling products and today's rain.

He catches sight of me and smiles, but I maintain my icy stare. I'm about to turn on my heels when another figure emerges from the elevator. What the hell? I look at Michael, my mouth agape, but he won't meet my eye. The coward's brought along his seventeen-year-old daughter as his shield.

“I thought we'd order in,” Michael says. “It's nasty out there.”

I clench my jaw and glare at him, but still he won't look at me.

“I want to go out tonight,” I say, feeling my heart bat against my chest. “Unless, of course, you don't want to be seen with me.”

He flashes me a nervous smile, then turns to Abby, as if making sure I'm aware of her presence.

I narrow my eyes at him and stand aside as Abby skulks toward my condo, staring into her cell phone as she types. She passes through the door in front of me without a hello.

“Hey, Abby,” I say. What I'd like to say is,
Put your damn phone down, say hello, and then excuse yourself to the lobby for the next two hours so I can thoroughly lambaste your father
.

“Hey,” she mumbles, passing through the foyer into my kitchen. She finally looks up from her phone when she spots the loaf of apple-crunch bread I'd made earlier. I watch her eyes light up for a split second before she catches herself admiring something I may have created. She returns to her text.

“Want a slice?” I ask, purposely ignoring Michael, who's perusing my wine rack for a bottle of red, as if tonight's just an ordinary date. “It's still warm.”

She studies the loaf, then shrugs. “Why not?”

She says it as if she's doing me a favor, and I'm tempted to tell her never mind, that I don't give a whit whether she wants my bread, or my friendship. But that's simply not true. And I'm pretty sure she knows it.

I turn to the cabinet in search of my butter dish. Behind me, I hear a drawer open. By the time I land the butter and return to the island, Abby has carved a slice of bread using a dull butter knife. Damn! My oblong work of art is now torn and frayed. Abby watches me, and I swear she's hoping for a reaction.

“Butter?” I ask with false cheeriness, holding the dish in front of her. She sinks her knife smack-dab in the center of the butter stick. She spreads it on her bread, chews, and swallows, without so much as a thank-you or fuck-you.

I work to steady my breathing.
She's just a kid
, I repeat to myself.

I twist open a bottle of Voss and hand it to her, along with her favorite curlicue straw. Michael opens an Australian Shiraz. For a split second, I think of RJ and what I'd give to be sharing a bottle of wine with him tonight. Or would he, too, be horrified by my confession?

We three move to the living room. Outside, a blue-black shadow has captured the sky, and rain pelts my windowpane.

Rather than joining Michael on the sofa, I settle into a club chair, crossing my arms over my chest. Abby sits on the rug, her back against the coffee table. She twists around and plunks her water bottle on my mahogany coffee table, avoiding the coaster that's in plain sight. After swiping her buttery hands across my carpet, she grabs the remote and flicks through the channels, finally settling on a reality show about a houseful of models.

I stare blankly at the television screen, my anger mounting with each passing minute. I need to vent. I need to explain to Michael how hurt I am by his response to the reporter, how betrayed I feel. Finally, I can stand it no longer. I swivel my chair so that I'm facing him.

“How could you?” I ask, working to keep my voice steady and low.

He nods toward the back of Abby's head, as if to remind me that we're not alone here. Does he actually think I'd forgotten? My blood pressure soars and I refuse to turn away.

“Why?” I insist.

He shakes his head and whispers, “I was cornered.”

“Bullshit,” I say aloud. Abby spins around. I glare at her until she turns back to the TV, too angry to care if I'm being a bitch.

Michael slaps his thighs. “You girls ready to get some dinner? I'm starving.”

“No,” I say, at the same time Abby says yes.

Michael scowls at me, hesitates a moment, then says, “All right, then, Abs, let's roll.”

I watch, stunned, as the two of them rise and move in unison toward the foyer. They're leaving. No. He can't go. He owes me an explanation, dammit!

“Why didn't you defend me, Michael?” I say, trailing him through the kitchen.

He reaches the island and wheels around, the first hint of hostility flickering in his eyes. “We'll talk about this later, Hannah.”

His parental tone infuriates me. From over his shoulder, I catch sight of Abby. The message in her smug smile reads,
You lose
. Oh, hell no. This fight is just warming up, girlie.

“No,” I say to Michael. “We'll talk about this now. I need answers. I need to know why you threw me under the bus, why you pretended not to know about my past, why you acted like I was nothing more than a friend.”

“Um, maybe because that's what you are,” Abby mumbles under her breath.

I whip around, adrenaline surging through my veins. Before I have time to open my mouth, Michael turns to her. “Sweetie, go down to the lobby, would you, please? I'll catch you in a minute.”

A minute? He's giving me sixty-effing-seconds to vent? Damn him.

The moment Abby slams the door behind her, Michael's in my face. “Don't you ever talk to me like that in front of my daughter!”

I clench my teeth, wanting nothing more than to launch into a riff about his disrespectful, mean-spirited, bitch of a daughter, but I can't let him take me off-message. I pretend to be unfazed by his uncharacteristic burst of anger.

“Answer my question, Michael,” I say, fighting to stay calm despite the hammering of my heart. “I walk past a television this morning and hear you telling the entire city that I'm your friend, that I need to be held accountable. Not one attempt to calm the fires? No, if anything, you fanned the flames!”

He runs a hand over his face and lets out a sigh. “This is tricky business. If I'm going to run for Senate—”

“Screw the Senate. I'm your girlfriend, dammit. Do you know how humiliating that was, hearing you call me a
decent person
?
Your
good friend
?”

He lifts his shoulders. “It's not personal, darling.”

“Well, it should be! You could have saved me, Michael. You have that power. Why didn't you use it?”

He fiddles with the button on his cuff. “It wasn't just my decision. Bill Patton had some strong opinions.”

My head snaps backward. “What? You asked your campaign manager how to respond?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, and reaches out to touch my arm. I jerk away.

“Don't touch me!”

“Listen to me, Hannah. Bill called an hour after the show aired. He knew we had to get in front of this.” He grabs me by the arms and stares into my face. “I told you not to dredge up the past, didn't I? I knew you'd catch hell for it. And now you're blaming me for not protecting you.”

I look away. It's true. He's right. He warned me, and I didn't listen. As he predicted, my actions put both our careers at risk. I blow out a stream of air, and with it, the last vestiges of my anger.

“What am I supposed to do now? I have no job. Everyone in this city hates me.”

He loosens his grip and rubs my arms. “But elsewhere, you're a hot commodity. You'll be flooded with opportunities, mark my word. Lie low. In six months, a year, this city will have forgotten all about this fiasco. And so will I.”

My heart begins to unclench. He's looking out for me. “Come here, babe,” he whispers, and opens his arms.

I wait a good five seconds before stepping into them. I know I shouldn't give in so easily. But I just want to feel loved. My head falls against his chest.

“Aw, sweetheart. You'll be fine.” He kneads the back of my neck. “You'll be better than fine. You're going to land on your feet, I'm sure of it. And just think, you won't have Stuart to contend with.” He leans back and stares into my face, a sexy smile skimming his lips. “Or your nemesis, Claudia
Can't-tell
Campbell.”

I tamp down a smile and step back. I cannot allow him to manipulate me. “I've lost my health insurance. The COBRA they offered costs a fortune.”

“It's only for the short term. Better suck it up and pay it.”

“With what? I'm unemployed. I have no paycheck.” We both know that's not entirely true. Since my dad's death, I have plenty of money. Luckily, Michael has enough tact not to mention that now.

He nods, thoughtful. “Consider it done. I know it's not much, but I'll pay for your insurance.” He cups my face and kisses my forehead. “It's the one thing I can do for you.”

My heart stutters. No. It's not
the
one
thing. There is something else he could do. Something bigger and much more significant. A voice inside my head screams to me,
Now! Say it now!

I step back and force myself to look directly into his blue eyes. “You could marry me, Michael. Then I could be on your insurance.”

His hands fall to his side and he laughs, a jerky, nervous chuckle. “Well, I suppose that's true. And if I were one who acted impulsively, I might just accept your proposal.” He taps his index finger on the tip of my nose. “Lucky for you, I don't make decisions under duress.”

“Duress? We've been together almost two years! Remember last summer, when we were in Santa Barbara? You told me it was just a matter of time. You promised me one day I'd be your wife.” I feel tears threaten and I blink them away. I refuse to become emotional. I must plow forward, before I lose my nerve. “When, Michael? When are you going to keep that promise?”

The air between us becomes thick. He chews the side of his cheek, staring at the tile floor. He sucks in a breath. Just when I think he's about to speak, I hear the door push open.

“C'mon, Dad. Let's go.”

Shit! Abby's timing couldn't be worse. Michael's face floods with relief as she enters the kitchen. He smiles at his daughter-slash-savior and smooths her blond hair. “Sure thing, sweets.”

All the affection drains from his face when he turns to me. “I'll call you later,” he says, and strides to the door.