Chapter 4 - The Unanswered Call
Maeve reached her commanding officer from a loading dock behind the hotel. Two cooks in white jackets stood nearby smoking under the awning. When she said, “Commander Hart speaking,” both quietly moved away.
Captain Aaron Bellamy didn't begin by asking who had started the argument.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Only in ways the Navy can't put on a medical report.”
He exhaled. “That's not funny.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Public affairs has seen it. You aren't accused of misconduct, and wearing dress whites to a wedding isn't some scandal. But don't post a rebuttal from your command account or answer questions as a Navy representative. If reporters call, direct them to public affairs. Are you still taking your scheduled leave?”
“I planned to fly back Wednesday.”
“Then fly back Wednesday. Don't let an internet clip make your decisions. And Maeve?”
“Sir?”
“You can be correct about the facts and still need to talk to your family.”
She looked toward the hotel doors. A waiter struggled to wheel a stacked cart over the threshold. The sound of plates knocking together seemed louder than the city traffic.
“That's the problem,” she said. “I haven't been especially good at that.”
The valet had asked if he should retrieve her car. Maeve had stared at him, unable to decide whether driving away would be an act of mercy or another disappearance. She handed him the ticket and asked him to hold it a few minutes. The young man, wearing a uniform with too-large sleeves, said he understood. He clearly didn't, but he didn't make her explain.
In the bathroom near the banquet room, she washed her hands although they were clean. A woman who had been seated beside Richard came in and paused at the sink. “He used to talk about you with pride,” she said. “Your father. Before.”
“Before what?”
The woman looked embarrassed. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”
Maeve watched her retreat. People always claimed they didn't want to be involved, then offered pieces of other people's stories as if they were party favors. She dried her hands and decided she wouldn't ask anyone else what Richard had said about her in the years she'd stayed away.
Back inside, the reception was limping along. Dinner had begun without the toast. The expensive salmon had formed a dull skin beneath the banquet lights. Noah was cutting portions of cake because the staff needed someone to make a decision. A bridesmaid offered to do it; he thanked her and said he needed something to do with his hands.
Lillian sat at table one, veil gone, staring at a plate she hadn't touched. She had changed out of her uncomfortable heels, one barefoot tucked beneath the chair. Maeve could see the red indentation around her ankle.
“I was going to go,” Maeve told her. “I wanted to tell you, not disappear.”
Lillian looked up. “Do you know what everybody is going to remember about my wedding?”
“Somebody posted the speech.”
“People have sent me the clip nineteen times. Aunt June says she doesn't know whether to congratulate me.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Please stop saying that like it finishes the sentence.”
Maeve sat beside her. For a moment they watched a little girl pull individual petals off a white rose while her father tried to distract her with a bread roll.
“When Mom died,” Lillian said, “I was twenty-two. I didn't know which of her medications needed refilling. Dad kept asking me. You sent texts with numbers for services I didn't know how to call.”
“I thought I was helping.”
“I know. You always thought you were helping from wherever you happened to be.”
Maeve accepted that without defense. Then she spoke too quickly. “And you thought staying in the room made you the only person who loved her.”
Lillian's face shut.
“That was unfair,” Maeve said immediately.
“Yes, it was.”
“I'm sorry.”
“You're doing it again.”
“I know.”
Across the table Richard made a point of speaking to a guest about golf. Maeve wondered how long he'd been listening. Her mother would have kicked both daughters beneath the table for fighting over a meal, then taken an unnecessary second helping to give everyone an excuse to stop talking.
Noah approached with a dessert plate. “Cake?”
“Not hungry,” Lillian said.
“It's our cake.”
“I know whose cake it is, Noah.”
He set the plate down. “I invited Tom because I thought someone from your mom's life would be good for you. I should've told you.”
“Would you have listened if I'd said no?”
“I don't know.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“I'd rather be truthful than reassuring right now.”
They looked at one another for a long time. Maeve stood, sensing the marriage deserved a conversation without her.
“Call me tomorrow if you want,” she told Lillian.
Her sister did not answer. But as Maeve turned away, Lillian said, “Wait.”
Maeve stopped.
“Did Mom call you on the day she died?”
The ballroom suddenly seemed too bright. Maeve could say she'd been unreachable and leave it there. No one could disprove it. For nine years she'd used that sentence with people who wanted an easy answer.
“She left a message,” she said.
“Did you hear it?”
“Not then.”
“When?”
“The next morning. After I knew she was gone.”
“What did it say?”
Maeve looked at the plate of wedding cake Noah had left. Its frosting was beginning to slide in the heat.
“She asked if I'd eaten anything. Then she said she hoped I wasn't wearing wet socks. She always worried about wet socks.”
Lillian's expression softened involuntarily. Then she asked the question Maeve had dreaded.
“Why didn't you call her back?”
Maeve rubbed a thumb across the seam of her sleeve. “I had the chance. Briefly. I didn't take it.”
She'd kept this piece of the story out of every argument, not because it proved she'd chosen work over her mother, but because she knew no one could make the choice prettier.
May you like
Lillian pushed back her chair so hard it struck the table leg. “Then you've been lying to me too.”
