Thorns of Truth (42 page)

A tear slid like a warm caress down one cheek as she closed her eyes, and offered her mouth up to Eric. And in that instant, there was no past or present, no pain—remembered, or imagined—no wishful thinking, even. There was only this: Eric’s lips against hers, his gentle breath, his scent filling her like the ocean’s on a summer day at the beach. His kiss lifted her, and carried her, for the span of several heartbeats, to a place where memory had no meaning, and even angels dared to rush in.

Then Eric was pulling back, giving her a look that was a mixture of longing and sadness. Outside, pigeons muttered in the eaves, and in the garden, the rising moon had made a black-and-white photo of the stone birdbath and ivy-shrouded walls. His voice soft with regret, he said, “You’re everything I imagined you’d be. Strong. Beautiful. Passionate. Except one thing: that woman in my mind’s eye, she was willing to meet me halfway. Rose, I love you more than you can even begin to imagine … but I’d be a fool to settle for less.”

Watching him head for the door, Rose felt as if she were being torn in two: wanting to run after him, and fearing it would be a mistake, that if she could just hang on a few minutes longer she’d be okay. Even after hearing the distant click of the front door, she had to fight the urge to race outside, see if she might still catch him. Instead, she stood as rigid as if bolted into place. She couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe. The only part of her that didn’t feel dead was her heart—her poor, glued-together Humpty Dumpty heart, which, despite all her precautions, was somehow breaking all over again.

October

My home was hiding a secret in the depths of its heart.…

The Little Prince

Chapter 15

M
ANDY FELT AS IF
she were hanging on by her fingernails, as if the slightest movement, even a shift in the wind, would send her sailing over the edge.

It was the first Monday in October—a month since her showdown with Rose over what Mandy had come to think of as “The Anderson Incident”—a lapse of judgment, sure, but one that had been blown out of proportion by holier-than-thou Hayden Lockwood, no doubt angling for a promotion. She was nonetheless acutely aware of the razor-thin margin between her plush corner office at her father’s firm, and being out on the street. As she sat facing the bench in Room 452 of the courthouse on Centre Street, struggling to keep her mind on this morning’s proceedings—the third and final day (please, God) in the seemingly endless divorce hearing of
Epstein
v.
Epstein
—her nervous system buzzed like an overloaded circuit about to blow.

It had been weeks since her last “slip.” Six hundred and sixty-eight hours, to be precise. And she needed a drink. Badly. She’d been a good girl, staying on top of this case, poring over bank statements and actuarial tables until late last night in preparation for today’s session. Didn’t she deserve a reward? Just one little drink? A glass of wine to take the edge off? How could it hurt?

But what if it doesn’t stop at one glass?
A small, quiet voice asserted itself.
What then?
In her mind, she was seeing the firm resolve in Rose’s face, hearing her warn that another incident like the one with the Andersons and Mandy would be out the door, no ifs, ands, or buts.

Now, like wavery images glimpsed through the bottom of a glass, the ugly episode that had sparked it all swam into view. Her clearest memory was of negotiating the corridor to her office, doorknob by doorknob, pausing to steady herself when the yawing floor threatened to throw her off balance. Head throbbing, mouth dry, the sweat that had gathered in her armpits reeking of the bourbon she’d put away the night before. Incredibly, it seemed she’d forgotten her eleven o’clock with Rob and Gillian Anderson. By the time she’d remembered, it must have been close to that, but even with her quick shower, and race to the office, she’d arrived almost an hour late.

Then, blessedly, the door with her name engraved in shiny brass. But something was wrong. Hayden, darting out of the tiny office next to hers, seemed distressed, not his usual cool, collected self. He’d tried to stop her, but Mandy had shoved past him. Angry. Shouting.
What the fuck is going on?
Then there had been Gillian Anderson, gaping at her, horrified. Gillian’s Philadelphia Main Line face a shocked white circle against cool gray wallpaper chosen for its soothing effect. And, standing by the window, arms crossed, fleshy face furrowed with outrage, Gillian’s estranged husband—accompanied by his attorney, Al Gottlieb, whose ferrety eyes had glittered with delight at this unexpected coup.

Mandy had struggled gamely to regain the ground that had been lost—apologizing profusely, even tossing off a little joke about having tied one on at a party the night before—but it was no use. From the disgusted expressions of the crew gathered in her office, Mandy had comprehended—yes, even in the bleary midst of her eighty-proof hangover—that her cover had been blown. No one believed, not for an instant, that there had been a party last night. Unless it was a party for one.

Oh, the humiliation! As soon as the Andersons had left—taking about a thousand billable hours with them—Mandy had fled for the elevator. Home. The image blinked on in her head like a green traffic light, spurring her on, blotting out every other thought. She had to get home, where she’d be safe. Where she could fix what was wrong.

That time, a fifth hadn’t been enough. She’d needed a whole quart of bourbon to dull her panic.

Sylvie’s passing, as sad as it had been, had bought Mandy some time. But a few days after the funeral, Rose had called Mandy into her office and really given it to her. Another stunt like that and she’d be out the door, Rose had threatened. No second chance this time.

Since Rose’s ultimatum, she’d been dry as a chalkboard. No more benders. She’d made up her mind. She’d have to be
really
good this time. But, oh, what she wouldn’t give for just a hair—a single hair—of the dog that
hadn’t
bitten her.

Are you willing to take that risk?

No … better keep a low profile for now. Then, when enough time had gone by, when everyone at the office had stopped acting as if she were some freak science project gone haywire, when she’d proved she was every bit as much in control as they, she’d be able to treat herself to an occasional glass of wine—and no one would even notice.

Mandy, pushing the Anderson debacle to the back of her mind, forced herself to tune back in to the nasal squawking of Mr. Epstein’s attorney. Janet Braithwaite—thirtyish, brunette, reasonably attractive, though at least forty pounds overweight, had a voice like fingernails on a chalkboard, and, as usual, didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about. After a minute, Mandy rose from her chair.

“Your Honor, may I remind the court that my client, Mrs. Epstein, was an active participant in her husband’s business
before
they were married,” she interjected. “Therefore, we believe she’s entitled to a share of the premarital profits, as outlined.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her client sniffling into a balled-up handkerchief. Missy Epstein was using her allergies to advantage, subtly reminding everyone in the courtroom who the victim was here.
Nice going,
Mandy thought. Missy—with her thin lips and close-set eyes that looked squinty and shrewish even when she was sincere—needed all the help she could get.

Janet jumped to her feet. “She was his
secretary,
Your Honor!”

Janet was wearing a fitted burgundy suit, but no matter how expensive the cut, she always appeared to be spilling out of her clothes.

“Your point, Ms. Braithwaite?” Judge Kornfeld, trim and white-haired, whose strong, beaked profile made Mandy think of the eagle on a silver dollar, peered down from the bench.

Janet frowned, and abruptly dropped back into her chair, tapping her pencil against the notepad in front of her in a way that reminded Mandy of a bird pecking for insects. Clearing her throat, she began in a voice amplified by false bravado, “My point? My point is that, as a salaried employee, she was … Mrs. Epstein was adequately, um, compensated at the time. In any event, whatever she may have contributed, it doesn’t appear to have had a lasting impact. Your Honor, as you can see from the figures in front of you, Mr. Epstein’s hardware chain has shown a steady loss over the last eight years.”

“Is that so?” Kornfeld pursed his mouth as he examined the document he was holding up to his nose, on which a pair of spindly half-glasses were propped. “Well, for some reason I’m not
seeing
those figures, Ms. Braithwaite. They seem to be missing from this proposal of yours.”

Janet raked a hand through her hair, inadvertently rearranging its sculpted waves into a welter of crazed squiggles. “There should be a separate report … from the accountant. I’m absolutely
certain
I included it. Perhaps it was misplaced …” Her eyes darted about the gallery, as if half-expecting the bailiff, or one of the handful of witnesses, to produce the missing addendum. When it became clear that no one was coming to her rescue, she requested meekly, “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

Watching Janet jiggle her way to the front of the courtroom, Mandy felt mildly triumphant. For a change,
she
wasn’t the one in the hot seat, being whispered about behind cupped hands. Nobody was eyeing her with contempt for having failed her client in some ghastly way.

It made it almost worthwhile—her abstinence, which felt as endless and punishing as a trek across the Sahara. Days of scarcely being able to answer the phone without screaming into it, wanting to slap clients silly when they bitched about having to divide up their Fiestaware collection, or their time-share in the Poconos. Evenings at home, so jittery she could hardly sit still, but not daring to go for a walk even, for fear of where it might take her. Nights of lying awake in bed, dry-mouthed with panic, wondering if it would
ever
end. Would she ever feel normal again? Would there ever be a time she could honestly say, when offered a drink, “No thanks, I don’t feel like it?”

But she’d kept her word. That
proved
she wasn’t an alcoholic. Borderline maybe, but not full-blown. Or she wouldn’t have been able to quit just like that. This was the longest she’d ever gone.

The week of her last binge was more or less a blur. Her memory was of a boozy twilight that seemed to wrap endlessly around itself, as if she were on a transcontinental flight where each time zone melted into the next. Though, judging by the looks she’d been getting around the office, she must have been more out of it than she’d imagined. Why else would Hayden have gone behind Mandy’s back to give Rose the lowdown on her?

And look at Robert. He’d cooled off, too. Not because of anything embarrassing she’d done, thank heaven. But how many times can you blow off a guy like Robert? After the string of excuses she’d given him, he’d stopped asking when they could get together, and now even his friendly calls “just to see how she was doing” had tapered off, too.

Mandy pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her blazer and dabbed furtively at her sweaty brow. She felt like a rusty bucket leaking in a dozen places—never knowing when she might burst into tears, either. It seemed as if everything had begun to go south with Sylvie’s dying—which was odd, because she hadn’t been all that close to the woman. It was partly the shock of discovering Sylvie had been Rose’s biological mother. Which Rose had known, and kept secret, for years. But mostly it was Rose herself. Her stepmother—to whom Mandy had always felt close, and who, as a child, she had practically
worshipped
—was like a different person. Harder. As if the experience had toughened her resolve in some way. Mandy had no doubt Rose
would
follow through on her threat to bring the hammer down if she caught Mandy drinking again.

So Mandy had
had
to be good. She simply had no other choice. And now here she was, not only sober … but vindicated, in her own eyes at least. As shitty as she felt, it was good to know she was capable of exercising such control. And maybe, in time, it would get easier. Maybe one day she’d be able to get through a whole day without even
thinking
about taking a drink.

Meanwhile, knock on wood, she still had her job, and business was good. Divorce, Mandy thought, was always a bull market.

Judge Kornfeld jolted her from her reverie by growling sternly. “Ms. Braithwaite, we don’t have all day. Can you produce this missing—or is it
mythical
—report or not?”

A flurry of titters caused the color to rise in Janet’s cheeks. “I—I don’t know how it could have happened,” she stammered as she thumbed frantically through the papers she’d retrieved from the bench. “It must have slipped out somehow.” She lifted a stricken face to the judge. “I’ll have it delivered to your chambers no later than this afternoon.”

Mandy was relieved when the morning’s proceedings thumped to a close with a rap from Kornfeld’s gavel—he was granting a continuance until tomorrow. She politely refused Missy Epstein’s offer to buy her lunch, electing instead to pick up a sandwich at a nearby deli on her way back to the office. Restaurants weren’t safe these days, she’d found; the temptation to order a drink was simply too great. Besides, she was meeting Drew at his place around six, and would have to work straight through in order to have her desk cleared by then. Last night, when he’d called, her brother had sounded really stressed out. He’d said he needed to talk to her—it was important. She didn’t want to keep him waiting.

Mandy was nibbling at her chicken-salad sandwich, while jotting her notes on the third draft of a separation agreement, when the intercom beeped. Her secretary announced she had Mrs. Griffin on line two, Mrs.
Bernice
Griffin. And judging from Lori’s tone, it was clear that Mandy’s mother—in less than a minute, and from the relatively safe distance of Boca Raton, had already managed to offend her in some way.
God, I do not need this right now.
Mandy lifted the receiver carefully, as if it were a snake that might strike.