Page 70 of Good Days Bad Days
“Come back. There’s champagne and”—I stammer—“and you promised to dance with me.”
The corners of her mouth lift into a half-hearted smile that drops immediately like she’s remembered something tragic. “I don’t think so, Greg. You go. Have fun.”
“Do you ... do you need a ride?” I’m not in any condition to drive, but the least I can do is get her a cab.
“Ha, no,” she laughs grimly. “I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own ride ...” she says, clearly referring to Betty’s panicked call nine months ago.
The unspoken part of the sentence hangs between us as Hollinger starts his acceptance speech by quoting the dictionary. “Webster’s dictionary defines a leader as ...”
Normally, I’d roll my eyes and make a few snarky comments to Martha, but she’s not listening to his victory address, her cheeks glistening with tears. I consider striding across the room, taking her inmy arms, drying her face, and kissing her passionately like I should have that September night at my apartment.
But instead, she drags the back of her hand across her face, drying her own tears, and I stay fixed in place.
“See you Monday” is all I can think of to say.
She steps out of her moonbeam spotlight and exits without another word, and I let her leave. There’s heartache in her echoing footsteps but also relief. As wonderful as she is, I don’t know how to love Martha. She doesn’t deserve a half love story like that.
I slip back through the partition where Hollinger is still speaking. Betty is back at the table, and I observe her as he speaks. She’s watching him with the same plastic smile she wears onThe Classy Homemaker. The rest of the room looks impatient, ready for the Best Station announcements for the bigger markets and then to celebrate or console themselves at the after-party.
Hollinger finally starts to wrap up.
“And though I’m thankful to God for this blessing,” Hollinger says, taking on the pious persona EBN requires of him, “there’s one gift from on high that’s more valuable than money or earthly accolades.” As he pontificates, I snake through the aisles. “Thank you to the one woman who knows how to make every day like heaven on earth.” He holds his award out toward us at table seven.
As the meaning of his words starts to sink in, he leaves no question. Don Hollinger, a man I do not like, much less respect, a man I’d rather see behind bars before seeing him awarded with anything, especially the hand of a good woman, says her name. “My fiancée—Betty Wilkens. I love you!”
The crowd cheers, and the room swirls around me. Betty blushes handsomely. I notice a gold-banded diamond ring has appeared on her finger like some kind of magic trick. When the awards officially close and the folding wall opens with a thunderous crunch, the crowd slowly migrates to the ballroom. But I am stuck to my chair.
My date is gone, and the woman I love is engaged to the wrong man. My head spins with alcohol and outrage, and I’m sure of one thing—someone needs to call out that asshole Hollinger. My hand gathers into a tight fist. And I think it should be me.
Chapter 27
Charlie
Present Day
“Dad!” I call out, entering the house without knocking, clutching my phone, the screen still open to an image Cam sent me.
The inspector’s truck was gone when I pulled up to the house and so was Ian’s car. I paused to check my email in the driveway and read through an update from the inspector and a recap of the meeting from Ian. A handful of items need to be addressed before the next cleaning phase begins, and Ian’s message promised me he was on it.
Then, Cam’s text came through. A picture of a marriage certificate from 1971 with my mother’s name on it. 1971, not 1976. I was already determined to have a word with my dad, and with this additional piece of information, I’m even more resolute.
“Dad! Where are you?” I shout, listening for a response. Papers rattle in the corner, likely rodents, and I follow the now familiar goat path to my parents’ room. His car is parked outside. He’s either trapped beneath a collapsed tower of belongings or he’s hiding from me.
The back and side yard, only viewable through narrow slats of exposed window, show no signs of life. I’d easily hear anyone upstairsthrough the old floor and creaking support beams. He’s not there. When I break into the bedroom, the Tiffany-style lamp over my parents’ bed is on, and I can finally see the impact of our weeks of work.
Though we’ve only made it through about three of the six feet of stacked items lining the perimeter of the wall, the room now seems vast compared to when I first entered it. The newest layer is made up primarily of scrapbooks. I’ve started to look through the articles and handwritten letters pasted onto pages with recipes, book suggestions, and crafting instructions, like a Pinterest page in physical form. Now I know what they were for—my mom’s show and her book. Why didn’t he just tell me?
“Hello, Lottie,” my dad says from behind the bookshelves to the right of the doorway. The house phone is plugged in there, and I can tell by the stony look on his face when he emerges from the cavern he’s had a call from Shore Path and he’s not happy about it.
“There you are.” I reflect his expression.
“Whose blood is that?” He points at the stained shirt I forgot was still around my waist.
“Mom’s.” No reason to lie. “She’s fine. There was a little misunderstanding.”
“I heard,” he says, his posture slumped, thumbs threaded through his belt loops. “Lottie, I appreciate your help but ...” An exquisite pain expands in my chest realizing what’s about to happen. Rejection. Again. He doesn’t want me. Again. He’s picking her over me—again.
“You better not be mad atme,” I say defensively before he can finish disowning me—again. “When will you see that I’m not the problem, Dad?”
