“That’s the thing. She’s not there.”
I stood up quickly but tried not to raise my voice. There were still at least fifteen people waiting to have their books signed. “This makes no sense. How do you know she’s not there? Where is she? Where’s Lily? Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“They did, but I think your ringer is off?” She said it like a question, when she was the one who’d instructed me to turn my ringer off so there would be no interruptions.
I crouched down, grabbed my purse from the floor, and fished out my cell phone. The screen was flooded with text messages and missed call notifications from Lily and her mother, Tina.
“How long have you known about this?” I glared at Gwen.
“I… don’t…” she stammered.
“How long?” My voice rose an octave, as a small crowd gathered around us.
“About half an hour.” Gwen took a step back. “I’m sorry. I thought I could figure it out. I was trying to find her. I mean, I’m sure she’s fine. And you were signing, so—”
“So, what? Sales are king, right? They’re more important than the fact that my only child has gone missing?” I snapped. “I’m leaving. Now.” I slung my bag over my shoulder.
She was standing directly in front of me. “But there are still—”
“Gwen. Get out of my way.” I spoke as calmly as I could, even though panic was dancing in my chest.
“Okay.” She moved to the side. “I just…”
Before she could finish what she was saying, I made a beeline for the car. Call it a mother’s instinct, but I knew I had to find Stevie before it was too late.
What I didn’t know then was that my fifteen-city tour was officially over.
3 BREE
PRESENT
I sat at my kitchen island nursing a cup of bitter coffee. I never drank coffee when I was married to Jeremy, but for the last four months—ever since the divorce—I’ve found that it’s the only real antidote to the effects of insomnia.
I took a sluggish drag of caffeine and admired the security of my surroundings. All seven thousand square feet of it belongs to me. I have signed papers that say so. The white marble countertops are mine. The open cupboards full of china and crystal are mine, too, and the set of copper pots dangling from a rack above my head is most certainly mine.
When I was growing up in a New York City apartment, I used to covet the graceful hollowness of a suburban home, picturing sunshine spilling into the uncluttered family room and flower boxes fixed to the oversized windows instead of bars over the windows and a fire escape view. And now I have it.
As strange as it may sound, it actually comforts me to know that there are two sets of measuring spoons in the drawer to the left of the stainless steel farmer’s sink, and that, next to the measuring spoons, there’s a device that will slice an apple into eight equal pieces. Not to mention the flat-screen TV that descends from the ceiling at the push of a button.
I walked over to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulled out the eggs and bacon, just as my sixteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, slouched down the stairs.
“Morning,” I called out while spreading three slices of bacon across a plate.
“Morning,” Chloe moaned.
“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.” I placed a pan on the burner, added a couple of thick chunks of butter, and cracked two eggs on top.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, you have to eat something before school.” I turned around. “Oh my God.”
“Oh my God, what?” Chloe rolled her eyes. She does that a lot lately.
“Oh my God, your outfit.”
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked defiantly, as she hoisted herself onto a stool at the island.
“Well, for one, the weatherman said it’s the coldest March day since 1982.”
“Weathermen are always wrong.”
“Okay.” She had a point. “Then how about the fact that your stomach is completely exposed and if you bend over everyone will see your tushie?”
“Gross.” Chloe scowled. “Can you not use that word?”
“Tushie?” I added cheese to the eggs, mixed them around with a wooden spoon, and put the bacon in the microwave for a minute and a half.
“Yes. It sounds ridiculous. I’m not two years old. You might as well ask me if I need to tinkle.”
“Okay. Well, tushie or not, you can’t go to school like that. Change into something more appropriate while I finish making breakfast.”
“Mom, come on. This is just like what all my friends wear.”
“Your old friends or your new friends?” I transferred the eggs onto a plate and stuck the pan and spoon in the sink.
Up until two months ago, Chloe was exemplary in her behavior. Jeremy and I had often marveled at just how perfect she was. Compassionate, smart, diligent, a strong athlete. We’d even given ourselves hearty pats on the back for the stellar parenting job we’d done, while bracing ourselves for what the terrible teens might bring. But, although Jeremy and I parted ways very amicably, I wonder if her personality lobotomy is a result of our divorce. We talked about it openly as a family and assured Chloe that she was our first priority, but a mother’s reflex is to blame herself first.
Still, I think there’s more to it than that. At sixteen, she’s a late bloomer, and her body has only recently caught up with her wholesome beauty. Seemingly overnight the boys at school noticed, and her phone has been ringing off the hook ever since. Chloe also got sucked into the “popular crowd,” a vile designation that only becomes absurd once you’re safely ensconced in adulthood, where cliques aren’t defined by how pretty you are or which shoes you own.
“What’s the difference?” she challenged.
“The difference is that I never saw you dress this way when you were best friends with Amanda. And there’s no way in hell that Maggie would let her leave the house looking like that.”
I chose not to use the word slut and silently applauded my restraint.
“Amanda’s a loser,” Chloe mumbled.
“We don’t talk like that.” If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, it’s a mean girl.
Amanda’s mother, Maggie, and I met on their first day of kindergarten. We hit it off instantly, certain that we were the only mothers who hadn’t packed organic, gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free snacks for our daughters. And also the only mothers who’d missed the memo about appearing photo-shoot-ready at the 8:15 a.m. drop-off.
“Amanda is like family,” I added.
“Whatever.”
“Whatever is right.” The microwave beeped, and I reached inside for the bacon. I plated it next to the eggs and slid it toward her. “Here, eat this.”
“Nasty.” She regarded it with disgust. “I told you I wasn’t hungry. And anyway, Lacey grabs me a green smoothie on her way to school. They’re really detoxifying. Her mom swears by them.”
“Is that so?” I’ll have to ask Maggie which one Lacey’s mother is.
“Yes, it is.” Eye roll number two. “I’ve gotta go. Cole will be here any minute.”