I Take You Read online

  I find Maria and arrange to have copies of Pete’s employment records sent to the firm. I call my paralegal and tell her to send them along to the plaintiffs when they arrive. Pulling out of the parking lot, I spot my mom’s truck going by. I honk, but she doesn’t notice. I decide to follow her. Maybe we can grab a late lunch. She winds her way into Old Town and pulls up in front of a house covered with scaffolding and plastic sheeting. One of her signs is stuck in the yard: ANOTHER BANG-UP JOB BY WILDER CONSTRUCTION! So embarrassing. I used to steal them all the time when I was in middle school, on principle.

  She hops out of her truck and disappears around the side of the house. I park and watch her. Mom’s looking much more put-together than usual. Her t-shirt and shorts look clean. Her hair is combed and tied back neatly. Maybe she’s meeting a client.

  I try calling Will before I get out of the car. No answer. I try Philip again just to make sure Lyle conveyed the seriousness of the situation, but he’s still tied up. I skim my work e-mail. My phone pings. It’s Ana, texting me a selfie from a dressing room somewhere. She’s modeling a goofy-looking, multicolored peasant get-up. She writes:

  —ok?

  I write back:

  —youll be a huge hit at the harvest festival

  —bitch!!!

  I finally walk up to the house and follow a little brick path along the side. It winds between some overgrown bushes and leads to a weather-beaten kitchen door. I glance through the foggy glass.

  Rusty old appliances, tools and boxes of building materials are scattered around the room. I see my mother, too.

  But she ain’t working.

  Instead, she’s lying on a pile of moving blankets, moaning and clutching the very attractive buttocks of the man who is stretched on top of her, screwing her vigorously.

  I jump away. Then I look again. I know that sounds kind of sick, but it’s not like I can see her or anything! I’m watching her friend. He’s in really good shape. Nice ass, as I mentioned. Great back, too. Backs. They’re underrated. You don’t think about them until you see a really nice one and then it’s like …

  Wow, he has lots of energy.

  I know, I know—this should appall me. But it makes me happy.

  For her, I mean.

  I should stop watching.

  Should I, though? Let’s face it. Men? They’re not that hot. Not allaround, like women are. Men have random hairs and bad fashion instincts. Odd smells. They never exfoliate. Either they try way too hard, or they don’t try at all. Of course, some are lovely, and most have a few good qualities, but sometimes you have to look hard for them. Like in those Where’s Waldo? books. Or the cocktail menus of trendy Brooklyn restaurants, where it’s all locally sourced moonshine and heritage groats and fermented parsnip shavings, and you really have to study the damn thing to find something drinkable.

  My point: when you come across a handsome man, such as the one banging away at my mother right now, it’s hard not to stare. You feel special. Honored. It’s probably how bird-watchers feel when they’ve been sitting in a treehouse all day, with their binoculars and their water-resistant pants, and they finally catch a glimpse of a rare three-toed grackle or whatever. There’s that same sense of wonder and delight.

  Except they don’t want to fuck the grackle.

  Or maybe they do. Maybe that’s the point of bird-watching. I don’t know.

  They are really going at it.

  I’m going to stop watching now.

  You know what, though? I’m happy that Mom has found someone. I tend to think of her as this sad old nun. She was so heartbroken when Dad left her. So bereft. She eventually recovered, but she never dated while I was growing up. She threw all her energy into two things: her business, and me. In her more maudlin moments, she would say that my father was the only man for her.

  Oh.

  Oh, no.

  People sometimes refer to a man as “devastatingly handsome.” It’s an apt phrase. A truly gorgeous man can buckle your knees. Kill you a little inside. Because there he is, proof that perfection has existed out in the world, all this time, but it’s not for the likes of you. All you can do is gaze, lingeringly, dream a little, and thank the gods for this little foretaste of heaven.

  That becomes a little complicated, though, if you also happen to call that man—

  “Dad!” I shout, pounding my fist on the window.

  They fly apart. Oh, God—total nudity! I quickly retreat to the front yard.

  My father is a devastatingly, painfully, ridiculously handsome man. He’s pushing fifty, but he’s got it all going on. A full head of wavy black hair, barely starting to grey. An athletic body. An unlined face with a pair of amazing green eyes. He would have been a great movie star, because he’s charismatic as hell. He’s also got this patrician, British thing going on that’s pretty irresistible. If you’re into that sort of thing.

  Which, you know. Some people are.

  Basically, Henry’s like a minor deity, one of those cupbearers who were always bringing the gods of Olympus their coffee and snacks, and always causing fights.

  I look just like him.

  Ha ha! Nope.

  I look like Mom. We’re all right, but compared to Dad we’re total trolls.

  I hear the kitchen door bang. Here he comes, pulling on his shirt. “Little one!” he cries, opening his arms. “Let me have a look at you!”

  I back away, hands up. “No touching, okay, Henry? I can’t handle it right now.”

  I watched them for way too long. I should probably order up a marathon session with Dr. Boog.

  “Darling,” Dad says, all wounded. “Come inside. Let’s talk.”

  I follow him reluctantly into the kitchen and take a seat on a folding chair. He pours some champagne into a Dixie cup and hands it to me.

  “Where did this come from?”

  “I brought it with me from the hotel,” he says. “They make the most brilliant insulated bags nowadays. Shaped like wine bottles!”

  I raise my cup. “To progress.”

  “Cheers.” He taps his paper cup against mine. We drink.

  My mother slips in from another room, eyes on the ground. They sit across from me on a couple of packing crates.

  I take another sip and set my cup on the floor. “Well, children,” I say, clapping my hands on my knees. “This is a surprise!”

  “Oh, honey,” Mom says. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I’m so embarrassed!”

  Dad turns to her, genuinely surprised. “What on earth for?”

  “Can we back up for a second?” I say. “You two haven’t seen each other for years, as far as I know—although I’m beginning to wonder if I know as much as I think I know. Anyway, you don’t get along. You’ve never gotten along. How did this even happen?”

  “Things have been a bit frosty these past few years,” Dad agrees. “I suppose the change was really thanks to you. A few months ago, your mother called me to talk about your engagement. We had this lovely conversation, didn’t we, Kat?” He brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “We talked about the wedding, our time together here in Key West, and you, of course.” He turns his smile on me now. I feel my face getting hot. I quickly finish off my champagne.

  “It was wonderful to catch up,” Mom says. “After that, we started calling each other fairly regularly. Normal, parents-of-the-bride-type things.”

  “And then,” Dad says eagerly, “we both happened to be in front of our computers one day, and your mother taught me how to use Skype. Do you know about Skype?”

  “Skype?” I say. “Gosh, what’s that?”

  “It’s only the most ingenious—”

  Mom puts a hand on his leg. “She knows what Skype is, Henry.”

  “Then you know how magical it is!” He slips an arm around her waist. “To be able to see her again—it was incredible!” Mom rests her head on his shoulder. “We exchanged a few more e-mails and texts,” Dad continues. “We did some more Skypes. Ultimately, we decided that I
should come down early to see if something might happen.” He smiles broadly. “And something definitely happened.”

  Mom buries her face in her hands.

  “Nice, Dad. How long have you been here?”

  “Two days.” He lifts the bottle. “Shall I top you off?”

  I hold out my cup. “So when you called me on Sunday …”

  “I was trying to reach your mother,” he admits.

  “Mystery solved.” I sip my drink. “How about this weather?”

  “Magnificent,” he says. “But then, it always is.”

  “February is sometimes iffy. When we were picking a date, we thought—”

  “You really aren’t bothered by this?” Mom asks.

  “Of course not,” I say. “Who am I to judge?”

  And really, I’m happy to see her so happy. She’s radiant.

  “There you are, Kat.” Dad pats her knee. “I told you she wouldn’t mind.”

  “Do Jane and Ana know?” I ask.

  Mom hangs her head again. Dad shakes his.

  “I’m keeping out of it,” I say. “I don’t have a dog in this fight. Actually, all my dogs are in this fight. Comes to the same thing, I guess. Where’s Trina?”

  “She’s in Vilnius,” Dad says. “Her mother is rather ill.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  He frowns. “Cancer, I’m afraid.”

  “Cancer,” I say. “Her mother is ‘rather ill’ with cancer.”

  “I know it seems awful,” Mom says quickly, “but you have to understand—”

  “Hey!” I cry. “Déjà vu! Dad—remember when I was sixteen, and you caught me and Charlie Hurst in the pool house in Montauk?”

  “You were fifteen,” Dad replies. “And yes, I remember.”

  We shoot the breeze awhile longer. It’s really nice. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out together like this. Dad opens another bottle of champagne. Eventually he walks me back to my car.

  “So, what does this mean?” I ask him. “Are you getting back together?”

  Dad frowns. “It’s difficult to say. We’re taking it step by step. I’m very fond of your mother, of course, but there are so many other factors to consider …”

  He drapes an arm around my shoulder as he continues to talk. I close my eyes. He smells so good.

  “But listen to me!” he cries. “Banging on about myself while this week is supposed to be about you. I’ve been neglecting you, darling, and I’m sorry. Are they still trying to talk you out of it? Shall I intervene?”

  “Honestly, Daddy? You’re probably not the most persuasive advocate for holy matrimony right now.”

  He actually looks hurt.

  “Anyway, it’s under control,” I add. “There are only four more days until the wedding.”

  Four more days?

  Oh, God.

  He squeezes my arm affectionately. “Whatever you think best. But when am I going to meet this Will character?”

  “Tonight’s his bachelor party. Should I see if he can meet us for a drink beforehand?”

  He grimaces. “Tonight’s no good for me.”

  “How about dinner tomorrow?”

  “No … I’m afraid tomorrow doesn’t work either.”

  I stop walking and turn to face him. “You’re in Key West, Dad. What could you possibly have going on?”

  He scuffs a bare foot in the grass, looking abashed. “Oh, this and that. Seeing old friends. Catching up on paperwork.”

  Paperwork? Whatever—it’s not worth interrogating him. “You’ll meet Will on Thursday, at any rate. That’s the night the families are getting together for dinner.”

  He’s stopped listening. He glances back over his shoulder at the house. “Right,” he says. “Well. I suppose I should … get back in there. If you don’t mind?”

  “Sure, Dad.” I give him a big hug. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, little one.” He gives me a jaunty wave and sprints back into the house.

  12

  I drive back to the hotel. What a strange day. I sit out on the balcony and watch the sunset. I text Freddy:

  —hiya

  —holla

  —will @ bachelor party

  —bastard!

  —right?

  —we’ll show him

  For my second bachelorette party, we gather all the newly arrived guests and stake out space at the pool. Lights flicker in the palm trees. A jazz trio is playing at the bar. I settle into a lounge chair between Freddy and Nicole. Miraculously, Nicole’s phone is nowhere to be seen. We chat about work, about the wedding. She actually seems to be enjoying herself.

  A gorgeous guy walks past us. Freddy puts a hand over her heart. “Unbearable,” I agree.

  Nicole rolls her eyes.

  “What,” I laugh. “I can’t look now?”

  “Since when have you ever just looked?” Nicole is smiling, but there’s an unmistakable edge to her voice.

  “Lighten up,” Freddy tells her. “We’re having fun.”

  She shrugs. “If you say so. I think it’s kind of sad.”

  I should have known her good mood wouldn’t last. It’s a shame. Nicole and I were so close in law school. She was always on the prickly side, but she was also cool and funny and wickedly smart. Lately she’s turned all dour and judgmental. I think the breakup with her boyfriend made her bitter.

  “What’s sad about appreciating a good-looking man?” I ask.

  “What’s sad is that you only act this way when you’ve been drinking,” she replies.

  “Not true,” Freddy informs her. “I’ve seen Lily check out guys when she’s completely sober. Like while driving. Or at the doctor. Or at funerals.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Don’t want people to ogle? Don’t have an open casket.”

  “I’m serious,” Nicole says over our laughter. “It makes you seem like one of those women who goes out and gets hammered so that she can shed her inhibitions.”

  Does this person know me at all? “Alcohol lowers my standards, not my inhibitions,” I say. “Big difference.”

  Freddy and I clink glasses. But Nicole won’t let it go. “I’m concerned about you, Lily.”

  “That’s very touching,” Freddy says tartly. “But there are a couple of flaws in your argument.”

  “I’m not making an argument,” Nicole says. “I’m only suggesting—”

  Freddy interrupts her. “Of course you’re making an argument. Why deny it? Lily drinks, and Lily screws around. You conclude that Lily screws around because she drinks. Isn’t it equally possible that Lily drinks because she screws around? Or, what’s far more likely, that the two have nothing to do with each other?”

  “Possible, sure,” Nicole says. “But most women aren’t like that.”

  “Oh, okay,” Freddy says. “So we’re not actually talking about Lily, then. We’re talking about ‘most women,’ and what ‘most women’ do. Interesting.”

  Nicole turns to me. “Am I so off base here?”

  “Yes.”

  “The random hookups? The meaningless sex? Do you really enjoy it?”

  “Yes.”

  Nicole shakes her head. “I don’t buy it.”

  At which point I finally lose patience. “Why, because I’m a woman? And women aren’t like that? They don’t really enjoy sex? They don’t lust?”

  “No, but—

  “I’m faking it, huh? It’s all a big trap to catch a man and have his babies? Good to know, Nicole. Thanks. I love it when women explain other women to themselves. And when they top it off with a hefty dollop of condescension? That really warms my heart.”

  Nicole gets up and walks away. I set my empty glass down on the table. Freddy’s watching me.

  “Too harsh?”

  Freddy shrugs. “When the scars heal, she’ll probably appreciate the extra asshole. What’s got you so worked up?”

  “Long day. Weird day. For example, I caught my mom and dad doing it on the floor of
an abandoned house this afternoon.”

  “Katherine? And Henry?” she cries. “Together?”

  “Yes, yes and a big old yes.” She begs for the gory details. I oblige. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. My parents, together again. My father, cheating on his fifth wife with his first. The implications for my own marital future are … not great.

  Freddy leans back in her chair contentedly. “Your father is a beautiful man. I would have watched, too. Hell, I would have joined in.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “But he’s not your father.”

  “This would make an amazing country song! I caught my momma and my poppa on the kitchen flo’,” she belts out, “but they sho ain’t married to each other no mo’!”

  “I think you’re missing the point, Freddy.”

  “Hold that thought. I have to pee.” She disappears.

  I get up and wander around. The party is in full bloom. I greet old friends and meet some of Will’s relatives and school buddies. It’s a lot of fun, but I’m still troubled. I head for the bar. Before I can get there, my friend Diane comes screaming up and practically tackles me to the ground. I’m so happy to see her! We met as teenagers at the hospital. Now she’s a psychiatrist herself, which is perfect because she’s totally insane.

  “I need some advice,” I tell her.

  “Don’t do it,” she says.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Whatever you were thinking about doing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because whatever it was, it wasn’t your first impulse,” Diane explains. “If it had been, you wouldn’t be asking for advice—you would have just done it. And if it wasn’t your first impulse, it’s not in your nature to do it. So you shouldn’t do it.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what we’re talking about,” I say.

  “Good,” Diane says. “Go with that.”

  Freddy has joined us. “So what if it was Lily’s first impulse? She can change.”