Maisie still doesn’t know, and I can’t imagine telling her. Besides, Mary knows the pain of romantic heartbreak—something I’ve never experienced because I’ve never allowed myself to go deep enough for that to happen.
“Besides,” Mary says, “we did know him.” She pauses, looking into my eyes. Hers are wet with tears, and I suddenly realize I’m crying too, for the first time in I don’t know how long. “People are complicated, Molly. I should have heard you out that day. I owed it to you as your big sister, but my heart was broken too, and I’m…I’m not as strong as you are.”
I almost laugh, because I’ve never thought of myself as strong. Mary was always the strong one, the one who had it together, but it’s clear she means it.
“I let you down, and even if you forgive me someday, I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself. I couldn’t handle the truth, but I didn’t forget what you told me. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, especially since Glenn left. The thing is…Dad’s the man you remember too. He didn’t have some sinister plot. He was just flawed…weak. He was a good man in so many ways, and God knows he was charming and funny, and I guess I wanted to remember him like that. To hold onto only the good things. Like the way he always made us strawberry waffles on Sundays, and when we had family picnics in the yard and he serenaded Mom. But it’s wrong to remember someone the way you want to remember them.” She smiles slightly, a sad smile. “It’s like cheating.”
I manage a slight smile at her very appropriate choice of words. But the things she’s saying…they don’t glance off my skin but rather sink in deep. I want to believe she’s right, because here’s the thing: I still love him. I’ll always love my father, but it’s a love that feels poisoned. A love that sickens me. Ever since that day when I followed the clues and found him kissing another woman, I’ve wondered if I ever knew him at all. If all those memories from my childhood were filtered through pink glasses. If he’d kissed my mother and then bent over his phone to text his lover before asking Maisie to pass the peas.
There’s the rub—I’ll never know.
I’ll. Never. Know.
I can’t ask him why he did it, or how long it went on. I could find the woman, I suppose, but what if she says Dad loved her? What if she says he planned to leave Mom for her? It would be a one-sided story that might or might not be true, but it would break me all the same.
In a way, this is what drew me to Beyond the Sheets, because Constance encouraged me to go after men who cheated, lied, and called me a slut and a tease in the same breath. In the beginning it felt good to call them out, to expose them to the world in a way no one had revealed my father’s wrongs, because his secret was always with me, festering in my soul, and because if the man I’d trusted and loved the most had been a secret sour, borrowing Mrs. Dahl’s terminology, weren’t they all? I didn’t want to find a man who was worth keeping around, because it was the sweet ones, the caring ones, the ones who seemed steadfast who hurt you the most.
Now Mary’s looking at me with deep, all-seeing eyes, and for the first time I feel like she understands me. That she sees me as a fellow adult.
“The thing is, Molly,” she says softly, “if you only go looking for flaws, they’re all you’ll find. We’re more than that. And just because Dad was weak and Glenn is…”
“Spineless? Boring? Addicted to missionary sex? A pen pusher? A pencil dick?” I supply.
She pretends to find this amusing, which is yet more proof of how messed up she feels.
“Just because he’s all of those things”—I restrain the impulse to whoop at my correct guess about his unwillingness to experiment in the bedroom and thin dick—“doesn’t mean every man is. There are good men, Molly, and one day, God willing, my boy is going to become one of them. I’d hate to see you go through life not trusting anyone because of Dad…because of me.”
I want to object, to tell her I’ve seen plenty of evidence to support my running theory that all men have secrets, that they should be approached with caution, but an image of Cal floats into my head. Cal’s the kind of man who frightens me most, but he emboldens me too, and maybe it’s time to face those fears.
Maybe it’s time to issue myself a challenge.
I can at least try.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe you’re right.”
Chapter Twenty
Cal
Life is one long barter. Don’t give anything away for free.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
I’m at the kitchen table, working on the design for a built-in hutch for my flip house when my phone vibrates with a text. My heart skips a beat when I see Molly’s name on the screen.
Hey, quick question. Know any plumbers who won’t charge a fortune to make a house call over the weekend?
My heart leaps into my throat, and I tell myself to chill the hell out as I pick up my phone and send: All the plumbers I know make house calls.
Bubbles appear on the screen, then disappear for a couple of seconds before popping back up and giving way to her next text.
I always suspected you were a smart-ass deep down.
I laugh at that, because no one’s ever accused me of that before. Molly brings it out of me, and I’m surprised by how much I like it.
What’s the plumbing emergency? While I’d love nothing more than to rush over and fix her problem, whatever it is, some situations are outside my scope of expertise.
A garbage disposal issue.
A slow smile spreads across my face. This is definitely in my wheelhouse, and I’d be lying if I denied wanting to meet the infamous Mary.
Lucky for you, I know a guy who can cut you a deal.
Her response pops up on my screen in seconds.
Since I’m unemployed, I was hoping to work out some kind of barter.
My mind goes to dangerous places, all of them involving Molly in some state of undress, which is probably exactly what she intended.
I’ll be right there.
Dad is watching a rerun of Jeopardy!, and Ruby, who doesn’t believe lapdogs come in only one size, is draped across him, one leg splayed over the arm of his recliner.
“Molly just texted and said she’s having some sort of issue with her garbage disposal,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant even though my palms are sweaty and my heart is racing at the thought of seeing her. “I’m gonna run over and help.”
Dad’s gaze remains on the TV. “Sounds good.”
I’ve started to pack up my papers and pencils when Dad says, “If you’re home before ten, I’ll be very disappointed in you.”
I laugh. “It’s not even six.”
“Exactly.”
Rolling my eyes, I stand. “Her sister is here visiting from Charlotte. I’ll fix her disposal and come home.” For some reason, I add, “Molly and her sister don’t always see eye to eye.”
The truth is, I’ve been thinking about her all day, resisting the urge to text. Molly was worried about the judgment she’d face from her sister, and I’ve spent the better part of the day wanting to tell her that she’s strong and smart and capable, and more than qualified to figure out what comes next in her life. If her sister doesn’t see that, it’s just because she’s looking at things through her own clouded lens. But that would be overstepping. I sense that Molly spooks easily, and if I were a betting man, I’d lay a hundred-dollar bet that telling her that would be going too far.