Maisie comes home sunburnt, while Jack has a glorious tan he can thank his French ancestry for. The second they arrive, the dogs run to the door as if Maisie and Jack were made of salmon and chicken livers. They’d do backflips, I think, if they were capable.
“I swear I didn’t neglect them,” I say the third time Chaco runs around in a circle, then collapses from sheer exhaustion.
“I know that,” Maisie says, but she eyes me with concern, as if she fears I might have neglected myself. Which, to be fair, I did.
“Did you find your sea legs, Jack?” I ask, and get a groan in response.
“I’m never going back on open water,” he says. “Scratch that. I’m never even going to the pool again. I’ve had enough sea for two lifetimes.”
“Just watch. That baby is going to be a swim champ.”
I have pizza waiting for them, because I’m just that accomplished at ordering food, and we talk a little more over dinner, discussing the trip and the baby. Discussing Mary, who, overachiever that she is, already has remote interviews lined up for next week.
“Do you think she means it?” Maisie asks, excited. “Do you think she’s really going to come?”
“I do,” I say. “Or at least she’ll come visit soon. Because I have her diamond ring, and I’m pretty sure it’s worth at least ten grand.”
That leads to plenty more questions, but I settle for saying a friend helped me get the rings out and leave it at that. For now. I’ll tell Maisie about Cal. But there’s something else I need to tell her first.
After dinner, I ask for a private word with Maisie, and although Jack looks concerned, he doesn’t stand in our way. He’s becoming more protective as her due date gets closer, and rightly so. In the brother-in-law Olympics, he’d win a gold medal, although to be fair, his only competition is Glenn, who literally abandoned his family.
Maisie heads out to the porch, and I pour myself a generous glass of wine and her a splash before joining her.
Then, sitting out there, where I sat with Cal just two weeks prior, I say the words I thought I’d never say.
“Maisie, there’s something I need to tell you about Dad.”
Because secrets destroy us. And I’m done letting them destroy me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cal
It’s easy to write the members of the Bad Luck Club off as quacks or cultists, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The people in the club genuinely wish to heal themselves and each other and—through their relationships with one another—they are.
—Molly O’Shea, “The Long Con,” Rogue Word
“Will you just apologize already?” Willow moans as we wait for Wendy and her husband to show up for the final walk-through of their house. We’re over a week behind schedule after a pipe burst in the basement, and all of us are eager to wrap this up, although admittedly for different reasons. The moving van is already parked out front, waiting to move the Jenkins’s belongings back in.
I give her a speculative glance. “I hadn’t realized I’d offended you. I’m sorry.”
“Not to me, you idiot. To Molly.”
My heart seems to pause a beat, and I stare at her, agape. What does she know? But that thought is eclipsed by another: she’s right, and I don’t know how to fix things. If I was turning a bowl and the wood cracked, I’d know how to repair it or, failing that, how to make the break look intentional. But this…
A simple apology won’t cut it.
But I can’t bring myself to say that to Willow, so instead I say, “How do you know I should be the one apologizing?”
“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’ve worked together for a year and a half now, and I know the many sides of you, Cal. I know pissed off at the plumber you. I know Ruby’s sick and I’m worried you. Right now, you’re a combination of the two, which means you’re pissed, but you also know you need to apologize.”
My eyes narrowed. “You’ve been talking to Tina.”
“So? Maybe I have.” The worried look in her eyes is so genuine I’m taken aback. “This was the first time I’ve ever seen you so excited over something. You can’t just let it go, Cal. You can’t let her go.”
“It’s not as easy as they make it look in the movies, Willow.” I’ve spent several sleepless nights thinking about this very thing.
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be that hard either.”
Thankfully, Wendy walks through the front door (hopefully, the first and last time I’ll ever say that), ending the conversation. Her husband is with her, but the kids are not, so I have their undivided attention as we do a very thorough walk-through that lasts over an hour. Auntie Willow doesn’t have to babysit, and she trails after me, burning her unwavering gaze into me as we go through the motions.
The Jenkinses are both pleased and sign the letter of completion Willow provides. We shake their hands, and as Willow and I walk out the front door, the movers are already opening the back of the truck.
Willow looks perplexed. “How did they know…?”
Lifting my brow, I nod to the front window where Wendy is waving her arms, motioning wildly for the men to come in.
“Guess she really is desperate to get out of her mother-in-law’s basement,” Willow mutters.
We head toward our cars, parked in front of each other on the street, but Willow stops next to my truck. “Think about what I said, okay? When you find something wonderful, don’t squander it.”
The pain in her eyes rattles me. It’s like she knows this lesson from personal experience, but before I can ask her about it, she’s off to her car and pulling away.
I glance at the time and grimace. I’m supposed to meet Harry for dinner at a Mexican place downtown, but I don’t have time to shower and change. Thankfully, I’ve only been managing job sites and not really doing manual labor today, so I head straight to the restaurant. I’ll have to meet him wearing my work polo, but I doubt Harry will mind.
Harry’s already seated at a four-top table with a drink in hand when I arrive. There’s a half-empty pitcher of frozen margaritas in the center of the table and an empty goblet in front of what is presumably my seat. How long has he been here, and why is he getting drunk?
When I pull out the chair across from him, he hastily puts the glass down, sloshing some of his beverage over the side.
Harry’s nervous. Or plastered. Possibly both.
He was the one who texted, asking me to meet. He didn’t say why, but I suspect it has something to do with his imminent graduation. I’m proud of him. He deserves every bit of this. Still, it’s a big change, and he hates change. I understand why he’s anxious.
Or maybe this is about Molly’s article, which will be published tomorrow.
Am I prepared for that?
A week ago, I wasn’t. Now? Maybe.
Harry’s the one who’s a nervous wreck, it seems, but before I can offer any reassurances, he says, “You’re making a mistake.”
Startled, I stare at him in confusion. “What?”