RICHARD: Like, a week?
PENNY: More like six to eight weeks. Now get over here, get your glasses, sing everyone’s praises, and give me Ash!!! Ya feel me, boss man?
RICHARD: Yes, ma’am. On my way. Thanks.
He looked up. Between television and the world wide web, the video was jettisoning to viral status in record time. He hadn’t yet figured out exactly what to do, but knew he had to do something. Fast.
He slipped on his glasses and tapped the rim.
Two rings, and Margot picked up, audio only. Fair enough.
“Well, it’s about time, Richard. What the hell happened?”
“It’s too long to get into now,” he said, dismissing her. “I need your help.”
“Then start talking, because you’re not getting a lifeline without a detailed account of exactly what went on. And we both know between the two of us, I’m the patient one. So, are we talking now, or are you calling me back after you’ve thought it through?”
“Fine.” He fire-hosed her with all the harrowing events, while Margot continued to interrupt his rushed delivery with her high-class speed bumps of ugh, oh dear, and for the love of God.
“And that’s it. I dropped her off and woke up to all this.”
He ran his hand over his stubble and raced to a mirror. For the first time in his life, he completely cursed the machismo pushing from his pores.
“Where will she go?” he asked as he set up for a quick shave.
Margot silently contemplated the question. “Well, she’d already have been to the principal’s office. So, I’m not sure.”
“Don’t you have a way to check where she is? Like find her phone?”
“What am I, a psychic? I don’t know what sort of circles you run in, but mine are abundant with privacy freaks. And if I knew, and if I weren’t back in London, I’d probably beat you to her. This little trust exercise we have going is on thin ice, Richard.”
He changed his tone. “I’m sorry. Please, just let me fix this. Okay, so she’s probably already seen Everett. Where would she go next?”
“Again, how the hell would I—” Margot stopped short, leaving only silence on the line.
“Margot?” His glasses, equipped with a uniquely crafted form of heads-up display, still projected Margot Connected in the upper part of his vision. He could just make out her breathing.
“Oh God. I think I know where she is. But . . .” Margot’s voice lowered to a somber level. “You showing up there might be taking things a bit too far.”
He took in the gravity of her tone. This whole situation seemed to take everything too far. What would another step or two be? “I know you don’t want to trust me, but right now, you have to. Tell me. Where is she?”
The longer Margot took to answer, the more Richard second-guessed his own plan. If he hadn’t started this insane scheme, none of this would be all over the news. Just how much further would he go to get what he wanted?
Margot’s hesitation subsided, and she said, “I think she’s visiting her mother.”
Ten
A good cry wasn’t a welcome occurrence for Jaclyn, but every now and again, the emotional indulgence was allowed.
But I’m not making a habit of it, she promised herself.
Today, her once-a-year dive into her real and raw feelings might have started with a trickle but quickly built to weeping. Then bawling. Then the ugliest of ugly crying.
But here, all was forgiven.
Here, she could run the tear well dry, and nobody would blink, or balk, or think less of her. Even she would refrain from any harsh self-criticism. She could let it all out in the safety of the truest no-judgment zone.
Seated on the lush grass, Jaclyn stared off, watching the sunbeams peek through the leaves from the huge tree nearby, engaging in a delicate dance across the lawn. Most people preferred standing when they visited here, but not Jaclyn. Instead, she always sat her sad self down, propped up against one side of the massive granite headstone. Only then could she lose herself and imagine her mother’s welcoming warmth and tender touch.
Here, she released her pent-up emotions and leaned her weary head against the cold substitute for her mother’s shoulder. It was a means to an end, make-believing her mother back, sharing her thoughts aloud, and unloading all her worries and fears. She could snag snippets of a sweeter time, recapturing moments with the amazing woman who had always managed to make everything better.
After babbling out loud for a good long hour or so, Jaclyn was left with one last thing to lament. She gripped a tired and tattered piece of tissue in her hand. The parts that weren’t shredded were marked with moisture and mascara. Waterproof, my ass.
Jaclyn huffed as she dug into her bag, fishing frantically for anything to sop up her still trailing tears and whatever else was leaking. Dismayed, she came up empty. The closest thing to a tissue in her purse was a tampon. Not that kind of emergency.
Wishing she’d worn a scarf, she then contemplated her sleeve. Capped. Too short. But stretchy.
Desperate times . . .
Just before she could perform a full nose wipe on her shoulder, a handkerchief dropped before her face, dangling from a kindly mourner passing by. She took it shyly without looking up at her savior, grateful she didn’t have to ruin an expensive designer dress.
“Thank you,” she mumbled from behind the light nose blowing. She dabbed at her eyes before looking up at the Good Samaritan.
“You’re welcome, Jaclyn.”
Richard’s blue eyes were solemn and sad but didn’t look at her at all. Instead, his gaze focused next to her, scanning the chiseled engravings on her mother’s headstone, before he slid three yellow roses into the built-in vase.
With a handful of roses left, he stepped over to the grave to the left, her aunt Lorraine, and left three more there. Then he circled back to the grave on the other side of her mother, her grandmother Adeline, and left the remainder. Finally, his doleful eyes met her dumbfounded expression.
“How did you know where I was?” she asked with a sniffle.
Richard pocketed his hands. “I had it on good authority you’d be here.”
Her disappointed gaze dropped to the grass. Damn reporters never rest.
“I won’t encroach on your privacy any longer,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” When she made a feeble attempt to hand him back his handkerchief, he waved her off. “It’s yours.”
Clearly, his generosity was for more reasons than chivalry. Her weak smile returned, but fled when he began to walk away.
“Wait,” she said, and he turned back. “Help me up?”
Richard stretched out a hand, and she took it, letting his strong grasp effortlessly lift her to her feet. She dusted herself off and touched the headstone.
“Talk soon, Mom,” she whispered.
He hadn’t offered his arm, but she took it anyway. Without a word, she wrapped her hands around his bicep, and they headed out. Something about strolling and holding him seemed strangely natural. She couldn’t help locking her hands around his arm, pleasantly finding well-defined muscles hidden beneath his clothes.