A lovely lie, p.13
A Lovely Lie, page 13
“Hi, Hector.” I place the flowers on the desk. “Delivery for a guest. Zoey Wilson. These need to be delivered to the room as soon as possible. My boss is going to kill me if these don’t get there before six. It has to do with this whole surprise someone has planned for her. God, I think it’s a surprise engagement or birthday party or something big. They have to be waiting at her door when she gets back. If you can just bring these up and leave them at the foot of the door?”
I give him that face, the one I perfected as a teen, the one that puts men in a trance. The damsel in distress face, and most men want to be heroes even though I’ll be damned if someone thinks I need saving.
“Sure, no problem. I’ll get one of the porters right away,” Hector says.
“Great!” I’m so overenthusiastic, almost like I played a flower delivery person in a bit part once before, but no, I need better billing than that. “My truck is idling out front. Don’t want to get towed! Have a great night, Hector.”
I turn and go through the automatic doors, to the left by the smoking pole, take off the cap and unzip the hoodie. I’m wearing a lacy lime-green tank top underneath, something loud, something noticeable, something they’d never think the frumpy delivery girl just wore—frumpy was never a word used to describe me. I wait thirty seconds and come right back in behind a family who just got out of a cab. A mom, a dad, a skulking teenager, and a ten-year-old boy, face caked with ice cream. Requisite St. Petersburg paraphernalia on their loudly colored shirts from that Wings store this place has on every two blocks on the beach. I glance at Hector as he hands the flowers to someone, and the guy heads to the elevator.
I glide over, pick up my bag, and wait. When the door opens, I step in first and dig through my purse, making all sorts of oh shit noises. The guy uses his key card to access the guest rooms and presses the button for the third floor.
“Oh, thank God we’re going to the same one! I can’t find anything in here!” I exclaim, all too cheery again. I can act like a dumb blonde stereotype if I need to. I have professional training, for God’s sake.
When the doors open, he gestures for me to go out first. I cross my fingers and make a right as he makes a left down the hall. I duck into the corridor with the ice machine and the vending machine, and even fish out a couple of bucks to get a bottle of Diet Coke, praying to God that Zoey has a minibar. It should be stocked with little bottles of rum, which better be fucking full because if she’s drinking while pregnant, I’ll kill her, even if she’s not planning on keeping it.
I hear movement and the elevator bell ding, the doors opening, then closing, and the hum of it going back down in the distance. I exit the cubbyhole where I’m hiding and go down the opposite hall until I see the flowers.
I pound on her door three times. There’s a shadow on the bottom, and I hear her inside.
“Open the door, Zoey. I hear you moving around.”
She opens the door like we’re back in Brooklyn and I need to use the shower in the only full bath in our apartment. Nonchalant.
“Hi, Mom. What brings you to Florida?” she says.
I push my way in and slam the door behind me, then drop my bag and put the Diet Coke on the neighboring desk. “Jesus Christ, Zoey. I knew it. I knew you were here. Thank God I can still track your phone.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Great, Mom. I’m not a little kid.”
“Then stop acting like one. You think it’s fun for me to run all over the place looking for you?”
She scoffs. “I can’t believe you actually came here. Like, got on a plane and followed me here.”
“I can’t believe you actually came here, and you weren’t answering my calls. I told you a million times to leave this alone and that you weren’t going to find out anything. Pack your shit. I’m bringing you home. You have more pressing things going on in your own life than digging into my past.”
“Holy shit, Mom. This is my past too! I came here looking for my father! If you would’ve just told me who he is to begin with, none of this would’ve happened. I want to know why you’re lying to me.”
Zoey’s voice catches—she’s upset. Does she deserve to know? Probably. But she’s going to regret finding out for the rest of her life. I’ve been protecting her. Yes, I’ve also been protecting myself. I’ve been protecting a lot of people, even though I started it.
But at least she’s here, in the hotel room. She’s not out investigating. There are no journals or papers scattered about the room. She’s tan. She’s probably been giving herself a little vacation and trying to give me a heart attack in the process just to fuck with me.
“You didn’t even find anything, did you?” I ask. “I told you there was nothing to see.”
Zoey smiles, that wicked smile she uses when she’s about to say something that would’ve gotten her punished in high school. “Oh, don’t you worry. I talked to plenty of people.”
I gulp. She obviously didn’t talk to the right ones. If someone told her something other than what I told the cops, they’d have put a warrant out for my arrest, and I never would’ve been able to leave New York state.
So, I play her game and shrug. “Like who?”
“Like Vince Russo.”
Shit. I know my face goes white at his name, and I try my best to fake it. I’m an actress, after all. By now, she knows he was the high school boyfriend. Jesus, she talked to him? He’s still here. My throat is dry, and I eye the Diet Coke I put on the desk when I walked in. I can’t grab for it. She’ll know that I’m reacting to his name, and I can’t let her know.
I shrug again. No biggie. “My ex-boyfriend from high school. That’s nice. How is he?”
“He’s not my father, I know that much.”
No, no he’s not; no matter how much I wish the opposite were true. I screwed it all up. “So, he’s good, then?”
Her eyes narrow and she laughs. “Why don’t you go find out?”
“Fine. I will. Where is he?”
Zoey turns to the desk, opens the Diet Coke, and swallows half the can.
“All that high-fructose corn syrup isn’t good for the baby,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. You’ve mentioned that before, and I told you it doesn’t matter. This is diet, though.” She takes the pen from its holder and writes something on a piece of paper, then folds it and hands it to me. “Go ahead. Go over and talk to Vince. He’s single, so no one will mind. And not for nothing, Mom, he’s super hot. You should see where that goes. First love, and all.” She tosses me a stack of keys. “You can even take my rental. It’s the tiny bright-blue, ugly-looking thing in the second row of the visitor’s lot. Has a rental tag.”
Typical for someone her age, she lies. She’s lied about the stupidest things, sent me on wild goose chases when she was supposedly at this friend or that friend’s house after school. Like I had time for her bullshit in between running lines. Didn’t she know I needed to be in a zone to perfect my timing? I couldn’t be blamed for wondering whether it was her fault I got canned from AMC when I missed my cues toward the end. She was already ten or eleven by then—old enough to realize that Mommy needed to do what Mommy needed to do, and she needed to be more independent.
Still . . . the chance to see Vince? This could be catastrophic for him, and for me. “How do I know this is really his house?”
She smirks. “It’s a townhouse. There’s a van in the driveway. It says Parker & Russo Pools. You should leave now; I know for a fact he’s there.”
INTERVIEW THE DAY AFTER THE SENIOR PICNIC
Detective Logan: How well do you know Chris Parker?
Pepper: He’s Vince’s best friend.
Detective Logan: And?
Pepper: And? What am I supposed to say? Oh, yeah. He’s Chloe’s boyfriend.
Detective Logan: So, you’ve all hung out for a long time. Four years for you and Vince, huh?
Pepper: On and off. I told you Detective Long One, I’m single.
Detective Logan: Logan. And Chloe was a close friend?
Pepper: Right. Logan. And yes, Chloe was a close friend.
Detective Logan: You don’t seem too broken up by her death.
Pepper: I’m an actress. I’m acting okay with it. Do you really want me sitting here crying?
Detective Logan: Why didn’t you go to Chris’s party again?
Pepper: Tired.
Detective Logan: That’s all? Head cheerleader, and you didn’t go to the biggest party of the year?
Pepper: I didn’t know it was a requirement for my final grades.
Detective Logan: Any other reason you would’ve stayed away?
Pepper: What are you asking?
Detective Logan: You tell me.
25
PEPPER
I rip the paper with Vince’s address out of Zoey’s hands and take the keys and leave. Stomping down the hallway, my blood pressure is through the roof. Zoey thinks she can come down here and talk to Vince about me? What did she say to him? I’d drag her ass with me to admit to the lies she’s probably told, but honestly, I’d rather see him alone. It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, although I’ve never admitted it to anyone. I have a lifetime of regret about what I did to him back then. I see that regret more times than not when I look in the mirror. When I think of the past, of who I was back then. The horrible things I did.
I close my eyes and deep breathe like I’m preparing for an emotional scene, which I kind of am. I walk calmly into the elevator. Method acting—I’m playing the stress-free mom who just found her daughter, and everything is going to be all right. Zoey should rest anyway, while I try to come to terms with the fact that I’ll be a grandma at forty if she changes her mind and decides to keep the baby.
I, for one, know that you can change your mind on a dime.
I find her car in the lot immediately—all I had to do was look for something that a kid who makes $250 a week at a boutique secondhand clothing store could afford. Plus, she said it was bright blue and ugly, so it’s hard to miss. It’s shockingly blue. I’m almost embarrassed getting into it, but then I remember this is the western coast of Florida, where people don’t care much about status. This isn’t Miami. It’s definitely not New York.
This is my old life. Back for an hour, and I already miss it a little. The way people look at you and smile and say how are you doing? and mean it. The January weather, the ability to wear flip-flops everywhere instead of designer heels. Most of mine at home are knockoffs and even less comfortable.
I miss lots of things. Lots of people. But I still shouldn’t be here.
I put the address into my phone because of course the car doesn’t have GPS, and I see the route it wants to take. I know the area and knew some kids who lived in this neighborhood when I was younger. It’s been over two decades, so I’m sure it’s been updated. I hate to think of Vince, who always did anything for me, living in a run-down complex.
Zoey said he was single, and I wonder if he ever married or if he’s just divorced. With or without kids? Admittedly, I never looked him up. I couldn’t let it derail my budding career. Where I was going with my acting, Florida was not the place for me. Instead, I’d built this fantasy about him and what our lives would’ve been like if I didn’t do what I did. If I didn’t cheat on him. What was I thinking? I wonder what he looks like—if he lost his athletic build, or if he kept up with the workouts. He’s probably bald and has a potbelly. Even though Zoey said he was super hot, I convince myself he’s aged poorly, like so many other ex-athletes. I can’t believe I’m about to see Vince Russo, who was my first everything. I treated him unfairly. He didn’t deserve that.
He didn’t deserve what came after, either.
What if there’s a spark? I can’t stay here, in Florida. Too many bad memories, even if it’s only one major one. It will always outweigh the good. He’d have to come to New York.
Look at me getting ahead of myself.
I turn down the street and drive slowly until I see the van in the driveway. Parker & Russo Pools. I internally cringe thinking about Vince being partners with Chris Parker, but I dismiss that immediately. Even though they were best friends back then, Parker is a common name, and I’d bet my last dollar that Chris took off and never looked back after his girlfriend was killed. He certainly had reason to, just like I did.
Getting out of the car, I smooth myself down and prop up my boobs. Just in case. My stomach warbles heading up the driveway. Man, I can’t wait to see his face when he sees me after all this time. I ring the doorbell and hear I’ll get it. So, there’s more than one person here. Footsteps approach and the door opens. A teenage boy is there, and oh my God, he looks exactly like Vince. I tingle and try to hide my shudder of shock. I guess Vince is divorced. It’s probably his weekend with the kids.
“Hi,” I say and clear my throat. “I’m actually looking for your father? Vince Russo?”
His eyebrows knot. “O-kay . . .” He drags it out, then calls over his shoulder. “Dad, it’s for you?” He says it like a question, like it’s so unusual that someone would be at the door asking for him.
“Huh? For me? Here?”
It’s undeniably Vince’s voice, one I still recognize after all this time. All the I love yous, the promises, the sex and grunting, the begging to have me back. All the complying.
He turns the corner, and our eyes meet. Yes, it’s definitely him. Vince Russo. My first love. And it all comes back—the love, washing over me like a hurricane. At first, I’m not sure he recognizes me, and I half smile and give a little wave, but his hand goes over his mouth. Then he falls to his knees, crying.
Damn, I meant more to him than I thought. Why would that be his first reaction?
“Dad, are you okay?” the kid asks.
Vince is still on the ground, and I don’t know what to do. I’m about to invite myself in and help when—
“Mom, come here, quick!” the kid screams.
Oh my God. Mom? So, Vince is married? Or is this a weekend kid exchange? I mean, it’s after four on a Sunday. It could be. Or did Zoey lie to me, again, just to get me into this impossible situation? More likely.
Mom comes from around the same corner and sees Vince on the floor. She immediately runs to him and asks the kid what happened. Vince looks at me again, his teary eyes saying something I can’t figure out. His hand is still over his mouth, and I see the wedding band.
His eyes are saying regret. I see it because it’s the same thing I see in my own eyes half the time. Then he points, and Mom lifts her head to look at me and I get a clear view of his wife and—
It’s Scarlett Kane.
No fucking way.
INTERVIEW THE DAY AFTER THE SENIOR PICNIC
Detective Logan: Tell me again how you got home.
Pepper: My best friend drove me. Scarlett Kane.
Detective Logan: Right. And you were walking for a while?
Pepper: No. I never said that.
Detective Logan: You weren’t on Three Bridges Road?
Pepper: No.
Detective Logan: That’s weird. Scarlett said you were there together.
Pepper: Oh, was that the name of the road we were on? I get confused. Yes, we were there, then.
Detective Logan: It’s the road that leads to the park where the accident happened. I assumed you’d remember.
Pepper: Well, Detective, you know what people say about assuming.
Detective Logan: Tell me how you got there. Under what circumstances.
Pepper: Scarlett’s car wouldn’t start.
Detective Logan: Really? Then how did she drive you home?
Pepper: No, wait. That’s wrong. She was too drunk, so she didn’t try to start the car. My mistake. We were going up the road to see if we could find a ride.
Detective Logan: How did you end up back at the fair to get her car?
Pepper: We walked back. No one was on the road to help us. So we left.
Detective Logan: Is that all?
Pepper: Wait. One car passed us, but they just beeped the horn and yelled out the window, probably on their way to the party. Some guys from the team. I saw Jordan Kessler, I think John Nelson, and Kurt Hyatt was probably driving. I know his car. You can ask them.
Detective Logan: That sounds incredibly familiar. Almost rehearsed.
26
SCARLETT
Senior Picnic
June 1999
“You shouldn’t be smoking and drinking in your condition, Pepper,” I say disapprovingly. “You know that, right?”
Pepper tosses her cigarette out the window and sips her vodka, whipping her long, dark hair over one shoulder before tying it into a side braid so her pink streaks poke through.
“Does this look okay?” she asks, ignoring the question.
She already told me she was taking care of it—getting an abortion as soon as she gets to New York. “I want the pink streaks to show. I want to be a unicorn.” She points to the clock on the dashboard. “Ugh. We’re late.”
It’s June, usually a rainy month on the western Florida bay, but the blurred lines of heat radiate off the pavement as I speed Pepper’s chariot to the annual fair. It’s her last time to be seen for how fabulous she is before she leaves me, and the other peasants of Florida, to win her Oscar.
Swerving right, I park at the far end of the lot where most people are gathered, and everyone is hiding their vodka in Poland Spring bottles and mixed drinks in Snapple bottles. It’s the usual group—the football team, the cheerleaders, and those they deign to allow near them.
Pepper looks at me between chugs of her own water bottle. I try not to tsk tsk her—but there’s still a baby in there. “Ugh, I see Chloe. What a loser,” she says.
Loser? She’s one of our better friends, but Pepper’s been fickle lately, about everyone. For the better part of six months, if I think hard about it. I take a long swig of the vodka, letting the slow burn descend to my belly. “Come on. Stop.”
