“What happened last night?” Mom asked once they’d taken their seats. “Where were you?” If displeasure were visible, it would’ve been shooting from her in orange spikes.
Genevieve repeated the story she’d given Sam, about how tired she’d been behind the wheel. This time, she said she’d stopped for the night at a B&B in the town of Chatsworth. She explained that she’d stretched out to rest her eyes for a second, then accidentally slept clean through till morning.
“We tried calling and texting,” Mom said. “Natasha tried calling and texting.”
“I saw that this morning when I woke up. I had my phone on Do Not Disturb. Every once in a while I put it on that setting and then forget to take it off.”
“Genevieve.” Mom’s lips thinned. “We called the police. They were out searching for your crumpled car.”
She winced. “I truly did not mean to cause you worry. I absolutely should’ve called you before I lay down.”
Mom’s elegant face softened a degree, and Genevieve wondered, When did I become such an expert liar? The vine of shame unfurled even farther.
After today, no more pills.
Genevieve doctored her coffee, then took a long sip. She filled her plate, ate, and made the appropriate murmurs of pleasure because this situation required her to go through the motions.
“You were mysterious about your reason for coming to visit,” Mom said. “I worried that your disappearance might have had something to do with that.”
“I came for a few different reasons. One, I’ve blocked off the next several months to complete my study, and I really needed a change of scenery. Two, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Natasha, and the kids.”
“Far too long,” Caroline agreed.
“Three, I wanted to discuss this with you.” She unzipped the outer pocket of her purse and produced an envelope. “I received this letter two weeks ago.” She passed it over.
Mom extracted the single sheet of white printer paper, then pulled on fashionable reading glasses. Her bright, almond-shaped hazel eyes were rimmed in thick eyelashes.
Her spine stiffened as she read. Wordlessly, she handed the letter to Dad.
“‘I know what your parents did,’” he read aloud, frowning. “‘And after all we’ve suffered, it’s hard to watch you bask in your fame and money. Your parents aren’t going to get away with it.’”
“Who sent this?” Mom asked.
“I have no idea. It’s unsigned and the return address listed doesn’t exist.”
Mom flipped the envelope over to study the return address.
“What’s the writer talking about?” Genevieve asked. “What does he or she mean when they say they know what you did?”
Mom met her eyes. “They can’t mean anything by it, because we haven’t done anything.”
“Nothing?”
“No, of course not,” Mom said. “Nothing.”
“The letter writer made it all up?” Genevieve asked.
“Yes,” Mom answered.
“But why would someone do that?”
Mom rotated her coffee cup. “Now that you’re as well-known and prominent as you are, you get all kinds of mail, don’t you? The good, the bad, and the ugly?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d say this one belongs in either the bad or the ugly category. I suppose they sent it to worry you or throw you off your game.”
Genevieve looked to her father. “Dad?”
“Maybe this is their idea of humor,” he suggested. “They could view this as a prank.”
“It’s just that I don’t ever get letters about you two. This is a first.”
“You receive mail via your publisher, right?” Dad crumbled bacon on top of his eggs, as if he’d forgotten that’s not how he ate his eggs and bacon. He always took bites of eggs, then bites of bacon, then bites of eggs.
“Right.”
“And do they screen the letters for you?” he asked.
“Yes.” She received so much correspondence that she hadn’t been able to keep up with it personally in years. “The publicity team typically passes along the funniest, most heartwarming, and most encouraging of the letters. They file the critical and complaining letters.”
“Then why didn’t they simply file this one?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s unusual. It’s not garden-variety praise or criticism. It’s creepy and vaguely threatening.” When Genevieve had first read it, while standing inside her publisher’s suite of offices, a stone of foreboding had lodged in her chest.
“It’s fiction,” Mom said firmly.
“Are you sure?” Genevieve asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “Judson? Is there anything you think we should do? In response to the letter?”
Her father was famous for his reasonable disposition and cool head. In every circle he was a part of, and certainly within the circle of this family, the members looked to him for advice.
“No,” Dad said. “I don’t think we should do anything in response to this other than ignore it.”
It takes one skilled faker to recognize another, and Genevieve’s instincts were telling her that the letter had the thrust of truth behind it. The stone of foreboding doubled in size.
As soon as Dad finished his meal, he carried his plate and glass to the sink. “I wish I could stay longer, but duty calls.” He gave Mom a kiss, then squeezed Genevieve’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home, honey girl.” His nickname for Natasha was cupcake. Hers, honey girl. “I’ll see you later today.”
“Bye, Dad.”
He let himself out the back door, and Mom rose to refill their coffee mugs.
Genevieve watched her dad’s silver BMW back down the driveway. Growing up in the Woodward house, when female tempers had flared, offenses had been nursed, or tears had been shed, Dad had retreated to his home office to read about Mercer University football, watch replays of football games, or listen to sports talk shows about the southern football conference.
As a boy, he’d hated playing the sports that his own father had encouraged him to try. But from his seat within the ranks of the band, he’d discovered that he loved watching the sport of football. His voracious brain reveled in the numbers, stats, and strategy of the game.
“Isn’t this a moment to treasure?” Mom scooted her chair next to Genevieve’s and clasped her hand. “The two of us having a beautiful breakfast together?” She smiled with heavy sentimentality. Moisture gathered in her eyes.
“A moment to treasure,” Genevieve said.
“God is good.”
“Very.”
“Last night was so scary, not knowing where you were. Terrifying. I cried all night.”
“Why don’t you head to bed? I can run errands for you today.”
“Not just yet. I want the two of us to have a long talk first.” Mom patted her hand.
By “long talk,” she meant a long, long, long, long talk dotted with laughter, tears, worry, and probing questions. Psychoanalysis. Reflection.
Mentally, Genevieve prepared herself the way she’d prepare herself for a yearlong voyage.