Thirteen days passed before I learned the truth.
I went to the agency the following day and found the perfect young actress for the commercial I envisioned; that commercial would film later in September, once a chunk of the editing on the first two had been completed. I rehearsed with Taglieri and we shot the commercial outside the courthouse the following day, and completed the voice-over for the second commercial. We filmed the second commercial, and the following week, I made the presentations to the two plastic surgeons. I left one of those meetings thinking I had a chance to land my second client, and went to work on a more detailed proposal.
As my first step, I immersed myself in the doctor's website and studied the direct mailings he'd done in the past. They'd been designed by his office manager and they were all over the board when it came to the themes we'd discussed-safety, professionalism, improved self-image, and limited recovery time-and I had no doubt I could design a more cohesive campaign. After that, I reviewed a dozen websites for plastic surgeons around the country and touched base with my tech guy, getting a rough estimate of the costs.
From there, I got started, and I spent two full days putting my ideas into the kind of presentation that I thought was necessary for his business.
The hours I wasn't working were devoted to London and taking care of the house. And the laundry. And the yard. And the hamsters. I brought London to and from school, piano, and dance-Vivian took her to art class on Saturday-and we rode our bikes on six separate days. By that point, London had grown confident enough on the final ride to let go of the handlebars for a couple of seconds on a flat and straight stretch of roadway.
We celebrated with lemonade on the back porch while we again looked for bald eagles.
As for Vivian, she returned on Friday evening, and spent most of the weekend with London. She was polite to me, but seemed intent to keep the two of us at a distance. I went to visit my parents on my own, and when she left on Monday morning, she brought along with her two more bulging suitcases. By then, the only things left in her closet were the clothes she seldom wore. She told me that she would be using one of the corporate apartments, but by then, I'd expected her to say exactly that.
She was gone all week. She FaceTimed with London every night at six and occasionally she tried to prod me into conversation. I couldn't do it. She got angry with me about it on Tuesday and Thursday, and hung up on me when I still wouldn't rise to the bait.
She came home on Friday afternoon at the start of Labor Day weekend, catching me slightly off-guard. Actually, part of me was shocked to see her at all, even though I didn't want to admit that to myself. London was thrilled. Vivian picked her up from school and took her to dance, then eventually got London ready for bed. She told me when it was my turn to go up, and I read four stories, staying upstairs longer than I had to, because I was afraid to face Vivian alone.
But she said nothing that frightened me. Though date night was off the table-even I wasn't in the mood-Vivian was strangely pleasant, making small talk, but I wasn't in the mood for that either.
Saturday and Sunday were quiet days. Vivian spent nearly all her time with London-just the two of them-while I worked out, cleaned the house, reviewed the footage for the commercials and made some notes, and visited my parents. I avoided Vivian because by then, I was afraid of what she was going to tell me.
On Monday, Labor Day, Marge and Liz had a barbecue at their place. Vivian, London, and I spent most of the afternoon there. I didn't want to go home because I knew what would happen once we did.
I ended up being right. After I read to London and shut off the lights, Vivian was sitting at the dining room table. "We should talk," she began. Her words are mostly a jumble to me even now but I caught the major points. It just happened, she said; she hadn't mean for it to happen. She'd fallen in love with Walter. She was moving to Atlanta. We could talk next week, but she was traveling to Florida and Washington, D.C., and besides, I probably needed time to sort through what she'd told me. She didn't see the point in arguing about it; it had nothing to do with me; things just happen. She was leaving tonight, too. She'd told London that she would be working out of town again, but hadn't told London yet that she was leaving me. It was easier that way, for now, but we'd talk about London when emotions weren't so fraught. And, she added, she wouldn't be staying the night.
The private jet, she said, was waiting.
CHAPTER 14
Shock
When I was in college, my friends and I used to go out on the weekends, which typically began Thursday around three and concluded upon waking late on Sunday morning. One of the guys I hung out with most-a guy named Danny Jackson-shared the same major and we ended up in many of the same classes. Given NC State's sizable student population, it seemed to me that the class-scheduling gods must have decided that we needed to see more of each other.
Danny was as easygoing a guy as I ever met. Born and raised in Mobile, Alabama, he had a very pretty older sister who was dating the punter for the Auburn Tigers, and he never said a bad word about his parents. He seemed to imply they were pretty cool as far as parents went and they must have passed that on to him, because I felt the same way about him. Whatever I wanted to do-grab a burger at two in the morning, or swing by a frat party or watch a ball game at the local sports bar-Danny was always up for it. Whenever we met up, we'd find ourselves picking up our conversation in the same spot we'd left it, even if it had been weeks since we'd seen each other. He drank PBR-he swore it was the best beer in the world, as evidenced by the blue ribbon-and while he would often drink enough to acquire a buzz, he had an automatic slow-down switch in his head that pretty much prevented him from ever becoming drunk. Which was quite a contrast with the rest of the college population-for them, getting smashed seemed the entire point of drinking.
One Saturday night, Danny and I were out with a few other guys at one of the more crowded college bars. With finals looming, most of us were a bit anxious, which of course we tried to downplay. Instead, we drank as we usually did-a bit past buzzed-all except Danny, whose slow-down switch had flipped to the "on" position.
He got the call a little past eleven; I have no idea how he even heard the ring over the noise in the bar. But he did, and after glancing at the screen, he got up from the table and went outside. We thought nothing about it. Why would we? Nor did we consider it amiss when he walked past our table after coming back inside and made a beeline for the bar.
I watched him wedge himself between some people, vying for the bartender's attention. It took a few minutes before he received his drink, but when he turned, I saw that he'd ordered a cocktail-a very tall glass of something golden brown. He wandered off toward another area of the bar, as if he'd forgotten us entirely.
Of everyone there, I was probably his closest friend, so I followed him. By then, he was leaning against the wall near the restroom. As I approached, he took a huge swallow from his glass, finishing nearly a third of its contents.
"What do you have there?" I asked.
"Bourbon."
"Wow. That's a pretty big glass."
"I told them to fill it," he said.
"Did I miss the contest where Pabst got second place, not first?"
It wasn't particularly funny and I don't know why I said it, other than that the way he was acting was making me nervous.
"It's what my dad drinks," he said.
For the first time, I noticed his shell-shocked expression. Not the effect of alcohol. Something else.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He took another long drink. By then, the glass was half empty. It had to be at least four, maybe five shots. Danny was going to be drunk, maybe very drunk, in a very short while.
"No," he said. "I'm not okay."
"What happened? Who called?"
"My mom," he said. "It was my mom who called." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She just told me my dad died."
"Your dad?"
"He was in a car accident. She found out just a few minutes ago. Someone from Highway Patrol came by the house."
"That's … awful," I said, truly at a loss for words. "Is-is there anything I can do? Can I bring you to your place?"
"She's getting me a ticket to fly home tomorrow. I don't know what I'm going to do about finals, though. Will they let me retake them next week?"
"I don't know, but that's the last thing you should be thinking about right now. Is your mom okay?"
It took him a long time to answer. Instead, he seemed to be staring into the distance.
"No," he said. He gulped at his drink, finishing it. "She's not. I need to sit down."