Mom’s seventy-second birthday arrived beneath a clear September sky, the kind of day she would normally spend cutting dead blossoms from the garden and complaining that birthdays were an invention designed to sell greeting cards. This year she had been awake before eight. When I arrived after lunch, Sinatra was playing from the little speaker in her bedroom, and she was standing before the mirror in the red dress Richard liked, trying to decide between two necklaces.
“You’re wearing Dad’s pearls,” I said.
Her fingers paused near the jewelry box.
“I thought maybe not tonight.”
I understood.
The pearls belonged to one life.
The red dress belonged to another.
“Silver chain,” I suggested.
She held it against her throat. “Too young?”
“Jewelry doesn’t have an age requirement.”
“You say that because you’re forty-six.”
“I say it because you’re currently trying to make turning seventy-two sound ancient while planning a birthday dinner with your fifty-two-year-old boyfriend.”
She gave me a look.
“The age difference doesn’t bother me.”
“I know.”
“It bothers other people.”
“Not me.”
“Chloe calls him Grandpa Richard.”
“She does that to annoy you.”
“It works.”
I stepped closer and fastened the silver necklace for her.
In the mirror, Mom’s eyes met mine.
“Do you think I’m ridiculous?”
“For what?”
“This.”
She gestured vaguely at the dress, lipstick, perfume, and everything else the room contained without saying.
“No.”
“For being excited?”
“No.”
“For letting myself get attached to somebody I may not know as well as I thought?”
That question was different.
I rested my hands on her shoulders.
“I think wanting to be loved is one of the least ridiculous things about anybody.”
She looked down.
“Your father knew everything about me.”
“Not everything.”
“He knew enough.”
“He also had thirty-eight years to learn.”
A faint smile touched her mouth.
“He still loaded the dishwasher wrong.”
“Deliberately.”
“I always suspected that.”
“You should have prosecuted.”
She laughed.
For a moment, Richard’s secrets disappeared.
Downstairs, Chloe was decorating the dining room with enough paper streamers to suggest a much younger birthday. She had taped a crooked gold banner above the window and arranged seventy-two candles in two jars because Mom had threatened bodily harm if we attempted to put them all on one cake.
When Mom came down, Chloe whistled.
“Okay, Grandma.”
“Stop.”
“You look amazing.”
“I look nervous.”
“You look like somebody’s about to regret leaving before dessert.”
I turned sharply.
“Chloe.”
“What?”
She widened her eyes.
“I meant because the pie is going to be good.”
Mom stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
“Your mother had that same mouth at fifteen.”
“Genetics.”
“I survived her. I’ll survive you.”
At five-thirty I began setting out dinner.
Mom had prepared most of it herself despite our protests: roast chicken with rosemary, green beans with almonds, potatoes crisped in the oven. On the counter sat the chocolate pie she had made that morning.
Richard’s favorite.
She had mentioned that detail three times.
At 5:58, I noticed Mom checking the window.
At 5:59, a car turned into the driveway.
Her whole face changed.
That was the part no suspicion could erase.
Richard entered carrying twelve red roses, a small wrapped box, and the leather tote.
Of course.
The sight of it tightened something in my stomach.
He kissed Mom.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“You’re early.”
“By two minutes.”
“Show-off.”
He handed her the flowers.
Chloe took the tote from him before I could stop her.
“I’ll put this somewhere safe.”
Richard’s hand closed around the strap.
“I’ve got it.”
The movement was instinctive.
Firm.
For a second, they both held the bag.
Chloe looked at him.
Richard looked at her.
Then he smiled and gently pulled it back.
“Work stuff. Boring.”
“Wouldn’t want to damage any international secrets.”
His smile flickered.
I stepped between them.
“Chloe, glasses.”
“Right.”
She walked toward the kitchen.
Richard placed the tote beside his chair rather than in the hallway.
I noticed that too.
Dinner began beautifully.
Richard gave Mom a silver bracelet engraved with tiny leaves. Nothing expensive enough to feel performative, but carefully chosen. Mom ran her thumb over the engraving several times before letting him fasten it around her wrist.
“You remembered.”
“Of course.”
I asked what that meant.
Mom lifted her arm.
“The first day we met, he asked what plant I’d keep if I could only grow one for the rest of my life.”
“What did you say?”
“Basil.”
Richard shook his head. “She said tomatoes.”
“I changed my answer.”
“You are rewriting history.”
“Birthdays come with privileges.”
Chloe grinned.
For the next hour, even I relaxed.
Richard told a story about confusing a zucchini with a cucumber during his first month at the gardening club and somehow turning the mistake into a twenty-minute argument with a retired biology teacher. Mom laughed so hard she made the little snorting sound she despised.
Richard adored it.
“You snorted.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Avery?”
“You snorted.”
“Traitor.”
Chloe raised her water glass. “Best birthday ever.”
I looked around the table and wished we could stop time at 7:05.
At 7:12, Richard grew quieter.
At 7:17, he checked his watch.
Mom saw.
Her smile faltered.
He noticed that she had noticed.
For the first time in six months, nobody pretended otherwise.
At 7:20, Mom stood.
“Well.”
She carried the empty plates toward the kitchen.
“Dessert.”
Richard glanced at the clock.
I saw his throat move when he swallowed.
Mom returned holding the chocolate pie.
She had decorated the top with delicate curls of dark chocolate and a ring of strawberries around the edge. Seventy-two candles would have been absurd, so Chloe had placed two number candles in the center.
Seven.
Two.
Mom set it on the table.
“I made your favorite.”
Richard stared at the pie.
Something passed over his face so quickly I nearly missed it.
Tenderness.
Then guilt.
The combination disturbed me.
“Grace.”
“What?”
“That looks incredible.”
“Then tonight you’re finally going to eat some.”
It was playful.
Almost.
Richard looked at his watch.
7:26.
The room seemed to narrow around that small movement.
Mom saw the time.
So did Chloe.
I had the strange thought that all of us were waiting for a verdict.
Richard pushed his chair back.
“Grace, I’m so sorry.”
Mom did not move.
“No.”
The word was quiet.
Richard stopped.
She looked at him across the untouched pie.
“Not tonight.”
“Sweetheart—”
“It’s my birthday.”
“I know.”
“You leave every Sunday.”
“I know.”
“You have never stayed for dessert.”
“I know.”
“So stay.”
Richard closed his eyes for half a second.
“I can’t.”
Mom’s fingers tightened around the pie server.
“Ten minutes.”
“Grace.”
“Ten.”
He looked tortured.
Whatever urgency lived beyond our dining room had already taken hold of him.
“I’m sorry.”
Mom stared at him.
“Is someone sick?”
Richard’s expression changed.
It was tiny.
But all three of us saw it.
She continued.
“Is somebody in trouble?”
He said nothing.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have another woman?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Then what happens at seven-thirty every Sunday that matters more than being here with me for ten minutes on my birthday?”
Richard looked down.
I could hear the refrigerator humming from the kitchen.
Finally he said, “I can’t explain it tonight.”
Mom gave a short, incredulous laugh.
“Of course you can.”
“Grace, please.”
“You mean you won’t.”
He picked up the leather tote.
That movement broke something.
Mom looked at the bag, then at him.
“Does it have something to do with that?”
Richard’s fingers tightened around the handles.
I held my breath.
He looked at Mom with an expression so nakedly miserable that for one moment I stopped being angry.
“Yes.”
The answer stunned all of us.
Mom’s face changed.
“What’s in it?”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t tell me?”
“Not like this.”
“How, then?”
He glanced at the clock.
7:28.
“I have to go.”
Chloe made a sound of disbelief.
I rose.
“Richard.”
He turned toward me.
“Whatever this is, you need to understand what you’re doing.”
“I do.”
“I don’t think you do.”
His eyes moved back to Mom.
“I’m sorry.”
She said nothing.
He stepped toward her and tried to kiss her cheek.
Mom leaned away.
Richard froze.
The rejection seemed to hurt him more than anything we had said.
“I’ll call you.”
Mom stared at the pie.
“Don’t call tonight.”
“Grace—”
“Go wherever you have to go.”
Her voice was steady now.
Richard lingered.
Then he left.
The front door closed at 7:30.
Nobody spoke.
Outside, his car started.
Mom sat.
She picked up her fork.
Then put it down.
“Happy birthday to me.”
“Mom.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Her eyes filled before she finished the sentence.
She looked furious about it.
Chloe stood abruptly.
I thought she was going to hug her grandmother.
Instead she went to the window.
Richard’s headlights reached the corner.
Turned south.
Chloe watched until they disappeared.
Then she grabbed her sweatshirt from the back of a chair.
“I need to go out.”
I turned.
“What?”
“I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just outside.”
“At night?”
“Yes.”
“Chloe.”
Mom looked up too.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
My daughter was already moving toward the door.
I saw the expression on her face and understood.
“No.”
She reached for the knob.
I caught her arm.
“You promised.”
“I promised not to ruin Grandma’s birthday.”
“This qualifies.”
She looked at Mom.
Mom wiped beneath one eye and stared determinedly at the pie.
Chloe’s jaw tightened.
“He already ruined it.”
“Chloe, you are not following Richard.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“Exactly.”
That answer made no sense until I heard a vehicle outside.
A small hatchback stopped at the curb.
I recognized it.
“Is that Cindy?”
Chloe pulled free.
Cindy was the nineteen-year-old sister of Chloe’s best friend.
Old enough to drive.
Young enough to consider almost any terrible idea an adventure.
“You arranged this?”
“Just in case.”
“Chloe!”
She opened the door.
“I love you.”
“That is not a defense.”
“I’ll be safe.”
“You are fifteen!”
“I know.”
“Get back inside.”
She hesitated.
Then looked past me toward her grandmother.
Mom had lowered her face into her hands.
Something hardened in Chloe’s expression.
“I’m sorry.”
She ran.
By the time I reached the porch, she was climbing into Cindy’s car.
“Chloe!”
The hatchback pulled away.
I stood under the porch light, furious and afraid.
Mom appeared behind me.
“What happened?”
“She followed him.”
Mom went very still.
“What?”
“Cindy is driving.”
“You told her to?”
“No!”
“Avery—”
“I explicitly told her not to!”
Mom pressed one hand against her forehead.
“This is insane.”
“I know.”
“We should call her.”
“I am.”
Chloe’s phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
I sent three messages.
ANSWER ME.
COME HOME.
NOW.
Nothing.
Mom stared at the street.
For the first time that night, Richard was no longer the person I was most angry with.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
By thirty, anger had become fear.
At thirty-seven minutes, my phone finally buzzed.
One message.
From Chloe.
MOM I FOUND WHERE HE GOES.
I called immediately.
No answer.
Then another message appeared.
DON’T CALL YET.
A third followed several seconds later.
YOU WERE WRONG ABOUT HIM.
I stared at the words.
Mom stood beside me.
“What does she mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Then the front door of the house rattled.
Someone was running up the steps.
Click Here to continue read next: PART4: Chloe Returned Crying With Richard’s Leather Tote, but What We Found Inside Was Nothing Like the Betrayal We Had Expected
Every Sunday Richard Vanished at Exactly Seven-Thirty, and My Mother Was the Only Person Willing to Pretend It Meant Nothing
Part 3 of 12
