The List (23 page)

Solstice

H
e saw it all in her eyes, the flash of love for him, the memory of where she was and what she’d written, the shame, then the shuttering as she put on the face she wore for the world. Flash, flash, flash, flash, gone, in the blink of her eyes. Four beats of his heart, slower than normal because he was an endurance runner. Two seconds, total. Four slow pulses, for her, because his heart would always and only beat for her.

But he knew, now. He had learned to read between Tilda’s straight lines and elegant angles. He knew what she’d left out.

In ink the same color as blood, he mentally drafted a new list.

Tilda’s Formative Experiences with Love and Belonging

1. Abandoned by father at birth
   
2. Left by mother at two
   
3. Reclaimed by mother at eight then left at boarding school
   
4. Seduced by a predator at seventeen and
   
5. Sent away by her mother for being seduced
   

Handle one fucked-up crisis at a time. Start with Andrew.

He was going kill Andrew.

The urge to shove a couple of changes of clothes into an overnight bag then get on the next flight to London, find Andrew at whatever library or archives he was currently living in, and beat him to a pulp spread through his brain like blood from a bullet wound. Fury bubbled inside him, hot and acidic, unfamiliar because he didn’t often get angry, but when he remembered how Andrew had sat across from him at dinner, smiling, inquisitive, wishing them both well, all the while knowing what he knew . . . The
presumption
, the sheer fucking
intimacy
of that gift. A reminder of everything they’d done together, everything Andrew thought she still pined for, remembered in her secret heart of hearts, that formative experience that tainted her entire life.

Focus on Tilda. He’d seen it before, in children uprooted again and again by circumstances beyond their control. With addicts for parents, in households characterized by violence and abuse, and without a caring or stable presence to ground them, they slowly lost touch with who they were and where they came from. Their stories. So they made them up, parents who loved them but couldn’t come claim them, a home life that matched the other kids’, a future that included a family.

Tilda’s story had been close enough to the truth to fool him. She told no lies, showed no visible wounds. She did what everyone else thought was difficult, and made it look easy in the process. She just left out great gaping swaths of what had happened to her, and he, who prided himself on seeing what everyone else missed, had swallowed the story whole. Even after the trip to England. She looked better than fine, burned brighter than a supernova, was taking names and making things happen
all over the goddamn world
, and he’d been fooled. A fool with charts and lists and spreadsheets, sure, but a fool to his very bones.

That didn’t change how he felt about her.

He’d deal with that later.

At seventeen the line between seduction and statutory rape was a very, very fine one, and currently vibrating like piano wire. She was technically old enough to consent, acted like she knew who she was and what she wanted, but his heart ached for that Tilda, adrift in the world, aching for connection, seeking it out wherever she could. To learn that the people who should have known better counted her need for basic human connection as cheap entertainment for the terminal boredom of a book tour . . .

He’d kill Andrew, do the time, and chalk it up as a good deed.

But there was nothing to be gained by going to London and beating the ever-loving fuck out of an academic whose worst wound was probably repetitive motion injuries, then getting arrested for assault, and everything to lose, starting with Tilda. He’d heard one thing loud and clear in that letter: Tilda thought who she was made people abandon her. If he took off for England to engage in an uncharacteristic chest-beating display of alpha male showboating, he’d prove that again. Tilda could take care of herself. If she thought about it for ten minutes, she could come up with a dozen different ways to extract her pound of flesh from Andrew.

But she didn’t waste time on revenge, or efforts to ingratiate herself with people who rejected her. She’d made herself absolutely unforgettable. Every time Andrew walked into an airport, opened a magazine, got a letter, he’d think of Tilda, and what he didn’t have.

She sat beside him, as pale as the moon, thin like blades were thin, gleaming and deadly. She looked exhausted, pale, insubstantial, soulless. She should sleep for hours, days, but her body clock was so dysfunctional he wondered if she’d ever sleep regularly again. Emotion writhed inside him like a basket of colorful, poisonous snakes: love, lust, fury, hatred, shame, white-hot heat of revenge, all induced by the woman he loved. He’d foolishly thought love was enough. It was time to face the reality that maybe it wasn’t.

Cases were ephemeral without motivation. “That’s why Colin set you off at the gallery opening. He sounds like Andrew.”

“It was the confidential, conspiratorial tone. Andrew used to talk to Mum about me the same way.” She cleared her throat. “Mum saw it as Andrew and her against me. He used to laugh about it behind her back,” she said.

Jesus, and there were layers of animosity in that flat assessment, because Tilda’s mother was seventeen when she had Tilda, so thirty-four when her twenty-five-year-old research assistant started sleeping with her seventeen-year-old daughter. He could just see it, the teenage version of a toddler pulling on her mother’s dress,
Mum . . . Mum . . . Mum . . . Mum . . .
then knocking over the vase full of flowers or coloring on the wall. In a way, Tilda was still doing that, but this time with West Village Stationery and Quality Group, a global scream for her mother to look at her, see her, really acknowledge her. He gave her points, though, for being true to herself. She could have followed her mother into academia, surrendered her soul to the utmost, when every victory would have been hollow and every failure gritty with ash, and likely not gotten much more in return. Instead, she’d prove she was worth the attention she garnered.

“Why did she invite him to the dinner party?”

“Andrew is very well connected, and Mum’s too savvy to cut ties entirely when someone might prove useful in the future. They work in the same field.” Her voice trailed off. “I think they had a relationship for a brief time after I went to university. For all I know, they’re actually friends.”

“Did Nan know?”

“I doubt it. I didn’t tell her. That was the only time in my life I slacked off sending her letters. I can’t see Mum telling her, either. It’s too embarrassing.”

So the only person Tilda would trust to love her despite this didn’t know what she’d done. Fury flamed, turned on the only available outlet. “You said you lost your virginity to an older boy.”

“Twenty-five is older.”

“
Boy
, Tilda, means underage. Not a PhD candidate who’s working for your mother.”

She glared at him, her features sharp enough to cut, pale enough to freeze. The ledge trapped them in stillness, poised over space and yet completely constrained. And that, in a nutshell, was exactly what Tilda had learned about her sexuality: don’t try to connect it to anything or anyone else, because that connection would burn her. “Would it be easier for you to frame me as a victim in all of this? It would give you a target, an outlet for your anger, a reason for me to be the way that I am. A better reason. A more palatable reason. You would have an explanation and I would have something to get over, a problem to solve. But that’s not what happened. I loved it. It was inappropriate and hot and wrong and dirty and powerful.”

Maybe that was true, for another woman without Tilda’s disconnected, jarring childhood. Lots of people lost their virginity to adults who should know better, and went on about their lives with hardly a scar. Tilda had internalized the rejection. Only a blind man wouldn’t see the dynamic between Tilda and her mother. Only a blind man wouldn’t know what he was doing, what it meant to both of them. Andrew was many things, but not blind.

“He was an adult. He knew better. He should have said no.”

“Americans are so rigid about sex,” she started.

“That what he said?”

A rare blush tinted Tilda’s cheeks, caught out repeating the bourgeois patter of the entitled, overeducated predator. “I was seventeen, Daniel. Do not make the mistake of thinking I was less sexual at seventeen than I am now. The boy, with the garage, my first kiss, he was sixteen.”

His head whipped up. “You were twelve. You said you were twelve.”

“And tall for my age. Mature. I liked it.”

“Is that why you came to New York?” he asked, staring into the distance.

“Unbeknownst to Mum, I’d applied to NYU and been offered a full scholarship. I took it.”

Cut her ties, in other words. He couldn’t blame her, all she was doing was what she saw done, but the price she paid was a future with anyone. Walking away got you free, but at a price, and like any habit, it got easier every time you did it. Her whole family missed key points about what it means to be a family, in relationships, rituals and routines and connective tissue. Like going to funerals.

He started where he could. “Tilda. There is a difference between
I’ve made a mistake
and
I am a mistake
, or
I’ve done a bad thing
and
I am a bad thing
. There is a difference between guilt and shame. You are guilty of trying to get your mother’s attention in a wildly inappropriate way, but you do not need to carry around the burden of shame for the rest of your life.”

“All the self-help, I’m-ok-you’re-ok talk is such crap,” she said. “There is a reason why churches require penance. You’re Catholic. You know this.”

“No priest in the world would make you do penance for this.”

“No one raped me. No one held me down, assaulted me, hit me, or threatened me with a knife to my throat.”

No. They withheld attention until she was so deprived, so desperate for it she would do anything, even the most fucked-up, wrong thing possible to get it. His throat worked as he swallowed rocks of rage.

“We can go back to the way things were, casual encounters. This will die off eventually.”

“That’s what you want? Sex without love. You want what Andrew taught you? What your mother taught you you were worth?”

Her eyes were as opaque as rain. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Asking for a date was just a prettier way of asking to go to bed with me.”

“That’s the card I sent you. That’s not the first card I wrote.”

She stared at him.

“You still haven’t seen the first draft. Unless you’ve been in my box in the armoire.”

“Of course not. That’s an invasion of privacy.”

He laughed. He actually laughed, because he could not fucking believe the words coming out of her mouth. He scraped his palms over his head. “Look at the card, or ask me to show it to you, if we’re still at the point where good conduct matters.”

Silence. He let it stretch, until it became clear she wasn’t going to answer him. They’d taught her, however inadvertently, to be ashamed of her need for love, and to doubt the motivations and tenacity of anyone who needed her in return. They’d taught her that the only thing she deserved was sex, not love. They’d taught her everyone belonged on her list except her.

“Why me, Tilda?”

She stared off into the distance toward the east, where the sun would rise. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. I thought that perhaps that meant I wouldn’t hurt you. I was wrong.”

“I need time to process this,” he said, then swung his legs back over the ledge. “Just . . . give me some time.”

“Daniel.”

He turned back to face her.

“I’m on the eight a.m. flight to London. If you’re going to leave, would you please be gone when I get back?”

He couldn’t help himself. He flinched, then just shook his head, turned, and left her sitting where it all began.

Solstice +1

T
ilda leaned back against the seat of the cab and wrapped her arms around her stomach. So that was it. She’d told him, and even though she said
if you’re going to leave me
, she knew he would. No impulse decisions, no boiling emotions, just calm practicalities and a foolproof strategy for dealing with his emotions. He would go for a run, and when he came back, he would understand, and when he understood, he would leave.

Which was what she’d wanted. Like pulling off a plaster, or resetting a dislocated joint, she’d wanted this done. In theory the pain would lessen quickly. But right now the pain lanced through her, sharp and irregular, taking her breath away with each unpredictable pulse as she hurried up the steps and through the front door of her town house to claim her bag, then turn right back around and get back in the cab, and head for Kennedy Airport.

A little stack of Daniel’s business cards sat on the table by the front door. Sorrow stabbed her when she saw them and realized that very likely when she got home they wouldn’t be there. Her brain shied away from the image, taking refuge in a fast-moving bike messenger matching pace with her cab. Details. She would note them and write them down, a unique part of New York to describe for Nan. A deep tan, blade shades, a helmet that had seen better days, tattoos on his upper arms and forearms, messenger bag slung across his back. Drafting descriptive phrases was enough to get her through the TSA’s pre-check line, into the terminal and to the gate where her flight to London was waiting for her. She settled into her seat, closed her eyes, and let the blessedly cool, humming interior of the plane envelope her.

—

She slept most of the way to London, landing in the summer’s evening, reaching for her phone as soon as the plane’s wheels touched down on the tarmac. She powered the phone on, and finished off the contents of her water bottle while she waited for it to boot. As soon as her phone connected with the network, it started to buzz frantically, downloading texts and emails and phone calls and voice mails all missed while she was in the air.

She checked her texts first, and found nothing of importance other than a text from Colin with the name, address, and phone number of the restaurant where she was to meet him and the leadership team from Quality. While she waited for the stewardess to open the cabin door, she checked her missed calls, scanning the list from bottom to top. Pauline, Penny, Pauline, Pauline, Mum, Pauline, Colin, Penny, Mum, a supplier, two friends, Pauline.

Pauline was the home health aide taking care of Nan. She’d never called before. Her mother rarely called, and certainly not after seeing Tilda the week prior. Her stomach cramped hard around nothing, as she missed all of the airline’s in-flight meals. With trembling fingers she scrolled to Pauline’s number and tapped call.

“’Lo?”

“Pauline, it’s Tilda.”

“Tilda. Oh, love. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was quick. I promise, it was quick.”

The man seated next to her got to his feet and started rummaging through the overhead bin for his carry-on items. Tilda startled when the plane jerked and shuddered as the Jetway connected with it. Beneath her, the cargo bay door flopped open so they could begin unloading the luggage. “What happened?” Tilda managed.

“Didn’t your mum call you? She didn’t suffer, I’m sure of it.” With that, Tilda’s mind snapped free of its mooring. Words like
blood clot
and
ambulance
and
never seen anything like it
free-fell through her consciousness, into her stomach, which threatened to vomit back up the water. “By then, it was too late,” Pauline finished. “I called you and when you didn’t answer I called your mother. I thought she’d call you.”

“She tried,” Tilda managed.

Her seatmate gestured for Tilda to precede him off the plane. She yanked her bag from the overhead bin and stumbled down the aisle. “I just landed at Heathrow. I’m here on business.”

“Well, your mum’s arranged the funeral. You know how she is. Efficient,” Pauline said, and hung up.

Tilda stood in the middle of the gate area, people milling around her, organizing their bags and coats and children, and stared at her phone. Then she called her mother next. “Tilda. Where have you been?”

“Nan’s
dead
?”

“I left you a voice mail, darling. Did you not listen to it?”

“What happened?” Tilda asked, her voice trembling.

“A pulmonary embolism, which was a complication following the surgery on her ankle.”

“What’s . . . a what?”

“A blood clot formed deep in her leg, broke free, and traveled to her lungs. She died. Apparently it’s a possible complication from prolonged immobilization. One can’t always trust these home health aides.”

“Pauline would have made sure Nan followed the doctor’s protocols,” Tilda said. She had. She’d been there for Nan, while Tilda had been everywhere and nowhere at all. “It’s not her fault.”

Silence on the other end of the line, then Tilda said, “When?”

“The funeral is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Can you be here in time?”

That’s not what she meant. She meant
When did Nan die?
But her mother missed the connection, and Tilda couldn’t go back and reclaim it. “I’m already here. I’ve come to London to close the deal with Quality.”

“That’s a stroke of good luck.”

Tilda barked out a laugh, then covered her eyes with her hand. “What if I hadn’t been able to make it? Would you have buried her without me?”

“Tilda, darling, it’s just a funeral.”

“Mum, it’s not just a funeral. It’s when we—” she said, and even as she spoke the words, knew herself to be a hypocrite of the worst sort. She’d treated Daniel’s funerals with no more care than her mother was treating Nan’s. She swallowed but her voice still came out, heavy with an emotion her mother would deplore. “Celebrate her life. Say good-bye. Be there for each other.”

“There’s no point in discussing this, darling, because you’re here and can attend the funeral. I’ve emailed you the arrangements. Based on that tedious noise in the background, I presume you’re at Heathrow. Can you make your own way to Cornwall? I need to finish a book review before I go there myself, otherwise, I would offer to pick you up and drive you there.”

Tilda’s breath left her in a rush. “I’ll be fine, Mum,” she said.

Her mother hung up. Slowly, Tilda drew the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen. The call time flashed, then faded away. She knew she should feel something, that her mother’s behavior was inappropriate, but right now she couldn’t feel anything other than bereft shock. Nan was dead. That fact, as unfathomable as it was, kept hitting her, little stinging darts to her chest, her gut, the nape of her neck. She looked around the terminal, filled with people coming and going, alone, in pairs, or as families.

Daniel. She should call Daniel. He would want to know. She tapped on his contact information and called his mobile, but the call went straight to voice mail. She left a message, not even sure what she was saying as she spoke, but trusting him to get the necessary information.

She caught a glimpse of a woman in the mirror, tall and slim, with tired black curls, and a stricken expression on her face. After a moment Tilda realized the woman in the mirror was her, and her soul had finally caught up with her. Moving slowly, feeling the ache of sheer exhaustion in her joints, she started walking to the bus stop that would take her to the station to catch the train to Cornwall.

—

Daniel braced his hip on the corner of his desk and plucked his phone from the stack of paperwork threatening to tip off the other side. “We need proof. In writing is best. Audio if you can’t get it in writing. Ideally we want both.”

Ryan Malone, top Wall Street trader turned whistleblower braced his head in his hands, scrubbed at his scalp with his fingers, then sat back and blew out his breath. “I don’t know. If I push too hard, they’re going to figure out what I’m up to. They never talked about it to me, you know?”

“So we’ll develop a strategy,” Daniel said. Tilda had called. He tapped the voice mail playback button and waited for her voice to come out of the ether. “I saw you in the
Post
with what’s-her-name, the new face of Ralph Lauren.”

Ryan shrugged and flashed him a grin that was starting to look ragged around the edges. “It’s the best cover I could come up with. Watch the wolf of Wall Street tear it up over here,” he said, making magician moves with his hands, “and ignore all the questions he’s asking over there. Girls like her are a dime a dozen at the kind of party I go to,” he said. “Want me to hook you up?”

Tilda’s voice, oddly shaken, slid into Daniel’s ear. Daniel felt a pain so deep and hollow it took his breath away. He was married to a singular woman he loved and needed as much as he needed air, so no, he didn’t want an introduction to the kind of girl who came a dime a dozen. Receiver pressed to his ear, he waggled his ring finger at Ryan, then reached for a pen and paper to take a message.

1. Nan died
   
2. Pulmonary embolism
   
3. Funeral tomorrow
   

“You okay?” Ryan asked.

He sat there with the phone to his ear while the cheery automated voice ran through his options.
Press one to replay. Press two to forward. Press three to delete. Press four to return to the main menu.

He replayed the message, and this time he heard the quiver in her voice, the careful, slow way she spoke, as if repeating what she couldn’t believe.

Nan was dead. This was going to tear Tilda apart.

“My wife’s grandmother just died,” he said.

“God,” Ryan said, his face immediately serious. “I’m sorry.”

Daniel took a deep breath and forced his attention back to the man sitting in front of him, the man who held the keys to the case of his career. “I have to go. Right now.”