I stare, unable to believe what I'm hearing. My Clay said this? "I . . . know that he was going to take a job with his father this summer," I say, though it's hard to speak around the knot in my throat. "But I thought . . ."
"Oh, he said he'd marry you, but he made it quite clear that if you went to college, it would be over."
What the hell? Does Clay really want me sitting around twiddling my thumbs, waiting to have his babies? I did want to go to college but wanted to discuss where with Clay first, hoping it could be someplace near where he'd be. How could Clay make me choose? Crap, it was even worse than that-he chose for me!
When my father nudges the envelope toward me again, I pick it up. I feel numb. I don't even recall applying to Stanford, so one of his assistants must have done this. Not surprising, given that my dad has a crew to run everything in his life. He doesn't like to be alone. I gaze down at the letter, the words blurring before my eyes.
Everything feels like it's dying. All the things I'd hoped for, all the joyful dreams I'd made-they'd all involved Clay. Surely . . . surely I have more ambition than that? More than just being some guy's wife?
Or is that all that I truly want? I'm so confused. I don't know what to think anymore. "He's never said . . ."
"My darling, why would he? I learned this the hard way in Hollywood-the more options you give someone, the less likely they are to take the one that you want them to take. The best way to get someone to do what you want is to give them as few options as possible. You never offer your leading man four scripts. You offer him the one you want him to take and go from there."
"This isn't Hollywood, Dad," I say bitterly.
"That's where you're wrong. Everything in this world is run like Hollywood. It's a game of who you know and what face you wear."
I bite back my retort and clutch the Stanford letter desperately in my hand. Is he right? Is this what Clay wanted? To trap me into a marriage so I'd stay at home and have kids and just . . . hang around and cook him dinners? Yesterday, I wouldn't have even minded if he'd said that! But to give me no other options, like I can't make my own mind up? That hurts me deeply. "I need some time to think, Dad."
"Of course. Take all the time you need, and then when you're ready, we'll talk Stanford." As I stand, he turns his chair a little and holds a hand out to me. That's what Dad does-he doesn't hug-he just takes my hand and squeezes it. I know my Dad loves me in his weird, eccentric way, but right now I really, really need a hug.
Clay would hug me.
The thought hurts so much that I break into a sob.
"Now, now," my father says in a soothing voice. "Trust your daddy to know what's good for you."
I nod through my tears. Dad may want us all to dance to his weird little tune, but I know he'd want what's best for me. I give him a teary-eyed smile, and then when I can't hold it in any longer, I rush up to my room, tears blurring my vision. I can't bear it. It hurts too much. I curl up on my bed and bawl my eyes out, and I don't even get up when Jenny, the maid, slips in and places my phone on my desk. What do I need a phone for anymore? Clay's the only person I ever want to talk to. He's my only friend and my boyfriend-everyone else in this stupid town hates me.
And now it seems that Clay-my sweet, loving, handsome Clay-thinks I should just stay home and be his little woman.
Maybe . . . maybe I should go to Stanford.
I cry until someone comes and knocks on my door an hour later. "Miss Natalie?" It's Jenny, the maid. "There's someone at the front door for you."
"Tell them to go away," I call out, sniffing.
"I told him you were unavailable but he says he won't leave." Her muffled voice is worried. "Should I call the police?"
I fling myself off the bed, suddenly furious. I know exactly who's waiting at the door, and how dare he think he can come over here and just try to smooth things over after dropping that bomb in a conversation with my father? Stay home with him? What about what I want? Did he never stop and think that maybe he should ask me how I feel? I storm past a bewildered Jenny and down the stairs, heading for the carved double doors that lead to our covered front porch.
When I fling them open, sure enough, Clay Price is standing there.
His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he's wearing an oversized dress shirt that's now wrinkled, and his hair-always a bit wild and unkempt-flies about his head. "We need to talk," he says in a flat voice. His face is blank. That's the thing with Clay Price. He never shows you what he's really thinking.
My back goes up. "I don't think there's anything to say," I tell him icily.
"So it's true, then? You're gonna go off to Stanford?"
He sounds pissed. Good, I'm pissed, too. I'm hurt and angry that he'd think my opinion matters so little that he could decide my future for me. "I just might," I say lightly. "What, you think I should stay here and marry you?"
The moment I say it, it feels like a mistake. The knot in my throat increases, and I can see him visibly flinch as the words come out. And I'm surprised, because it seems like for the first time, Clay looks vulnerable.
"No," he says softly. "I guess not." He puts a pair of fingers to his forehead and gives me a mock salute. "Have a nice life. I'm heading to West Texas with my pop."
"Bye," I tell him in a flat tone. "I'm going to Stanford." And I turn around and slam the door behind me.
The moment I do, I burst into tears again.
Hours later, I'm all cried out. I realize we've both been acting childish and I want to talk to him. Maybe we can work things out. Maybe I can make him see that my education is important, and what I want is just as important as what he wants. Maybe we can still get married and I can go to college part-time while we make a home together. Sniffling, I pick up my phone to text him even though it's late.
All I know is that I love him and I don't want this to be the end between us.
Before I can hit the "Send" button, there's an urgent knock at my bedroom door. "Natalie?" It's not Jenny, but my stepmom, Johanna. "Natalie, open up! It's your father! There's something wrong with him!"
My father? Oh no. He's old, but he's still so vibrant that it doesn't seem like he'll ever age like normal people. This can't be happening. I rush to the door to find Johanna's teary face. "What is it?" I blurt out, racing past her toward their bedroom.
"I think he's having a heart attack!" she wails in my ear.
Texting Clay is completely forgotten.
Chapter Three
Present
Natalie
I know it's going to be a bad day when I wake up to find my dad standing over my bed.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and glance at the alarm clock. Five in the morning. "Dad?"
"Where's the cat?" he asks. "I heard it meowing."
Biting back my sigh, I get out of bed and put on my slippers. "There's no cat, Dad."
"Of course there's a cat, Jenny. I gave it to you for Christmas. Remember? You said you wanted a cat and I paid one of Frankie's friends to bring you one."
"Right," I say, since it's better than arguing with Dad. I'm not Jenny, first of all-that's the maid we had who retired over six years ago. And I'm betting "Frankie" was Frank Sinatra. At any rate, there's never been a cat in all of my twenty-five years. "I'll go find it. You go back to bed, okay?"
My father continues to argue with "Jenny" about the cat as I take him gently by the arm and lead him back to his room. Even though he protests, I help him back into his bed and tuck the covers around him like he's a child. This is a typical "bad" morning for us, though lately they've been becoming more the norm. He holds my hand, mumbling about the cat for a bit longer until he falls back asleep, and then I'm able to tiptoe away . . .
Right into a warm puddle on the floor.
Oh no. Because that's how I wanted to start the day-stepping in pee.
But my father can't help it. He's eighty-seven now and his Hollywood looks have gone. His shoulders are hunched, part of his face is still slack after his stroke, and his dementia has been worse every year. It's a long fall for someone as proud as Chap Weston, so I do my best to make things easy for him. Not that he knows who I am most of the time. He's lost in memories, and I can't hold it against him if he can't hold his bladder. So I get towels and clean it up, then wash my feet before getting dressed and heading downstairs to start the day. I'm not going to let this morning's episode with my father depress me, even though it's obvious he's getting worse.
One crisis at a time.
I make myself a cup of coffee in a Chap Weston souvenir mug, choke down a cold Pop-Tart, and gaze at one of the posters on the wall as I eat breakfast. This one's from one of my dad's biggest hits in 1952-a musical about sailors in a submarine. His handsome, strong form is in the center of the photo, with a cute girl clinging to his arm. No wonder my dad likes to live in the past.