My eyes pop out of my head.
“Yeah, he’s always taking phone calls in the hallway, or he walks the dog for two hours in the evening now instead of his usual ten minutes around the block.”
“Do you know who it is?” I manage to say, even as my throat catches and I have a horrifying feeling that I know the answer.
She shrugs. “Some loser, I’m sure. Who’d want him? C’mon. Let’s go destroy Livingston Prep.”
At the game, my mom sits two rows in front of Amanda’s dad. She glances back at him several times, even smiles, even laughs a few times.
I broil inside. I am a ball of fire, ripped from the sun, as I shoot down the field, because no matter what I do, no matter how I try, no matter what I decide, my mother finds a way to unravel it.
We slaughter Livingston Prep. I score three goals, Amanda scores two, and I grab my mom’s arm the second I leave the field. I pull her away. “Stay away from Amanda’s dad,” I hiss.
Her hand flies to her heart. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I saw you making eyes at him the whole game.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I roll my eyes like I’m a champion eye roller. “Don’t act like you have no idea,” I hiss, and I am half-shocked, half-psyched that I finally have the gall to talk to my mom like this. “Just stay away from him.”
“There is nothing going on with Daniel,” she says, and I give her a sharp, knowing look. I point a finger at her. “You know his name.”
“Of course I know his name. I was talking to him because he is the father of my daughter’s best friend. Now, enough, Kennedy. Enough. Let’s head home and have a nice Friday dinner. Do you want pasta primavera or shall we go out? Let’s go out, why don’t we?”
I shake my head, then wave a hand dismissively. “I have plans.”
“Kennedy,” my mom calls out, and her voice quivers. I feel a sick sort of righteousness at the sound. She’s scared. She wants me. She needs me. But I’m not going to budge, not on this count.
“Can’t, Mom. Why don’t you see if Warren is free?”
I shower, catch a cab back to Grand Central Station, and somehow manage to race down the track, fly through the doors, and slide into a seat next to Lane on the 6:20 train.
“We won,” I say breathlessly.
“Of course you won. You rock.”
“You should come to our next game.”
“I should. That is true.”
We ride in silence for a bit, but as we pull into Scarsdale, I suddenly have cold feet about leaving love letters outside the clothing boutique owned by the former Mrs. Pierre LaGrande. She’s divorced from him now, the man my mom took to the movies with me back in junior high. I run my fingers across the letter I wrote as we walk down the street. I’ve written her name already, sealed the envelope, and placed a stamp on it. Lane, too, has his love letters ready, complete with words from Woodrow Wilson to Edith Bolling Galt, who became his wife and also the first lady of the United States.
But now that the downtown, with its quaint shops and cute cafés draws into view, something seems wrong about reminding Mrs. LaGrande. I stop walking and place a hand on Lane’s arm.
“Maybe I should just buy something from her store.”
He gives me a curious look and waits for me to say more.
“I mean, they’re already divorced. Maybe the letter is a moot point. Caroline said amends aren’t supposed to cause further harm. What if this lady is already past it? I could just support her business instead, right?”
“Then let’s go shopping,” he says playfully, as he holds the door open to the boutique. It screams rich old lady chic, so immediately I model a crazily expensive hat, giving Lane a perfect pout.
“Gorgeous, gorgeous,” he says, like a high-fashion photographer. “Now try this, darling.”
He hands me a fancy scarf next and I wrap that around my neck. “Perfect, but give me just a little more panache.”
I make a simmering look with my eyes, then he hands me a chunky gold bracelet that you have to be over seventy and belong to a country club to wear. “Oh, it’s just so you, lovey.”
Pretty soon, I’m doubled over and so is Lane, and it’s then that a stylish fiftyish woman asks me if I need help. I straighten up and wipe the smile off my face because she must be Mrs. LaGrande. Her black hair is twisted into a clip and she wears cat’s-eye glasses. I’m immediately jolted back in time, remembering the day at the movies, when her husband bought me popcorn and told me to enjoy the show, and then my mom claimed a headache and said she’d pick me up when it ended. They spent the two hours in a hotel room. But if anyone asked, she told me to say she enjoyed the movie with me.
The memories assault me, as terrible questions flood my brain: What was Mrs. LaGrande doing that afternoon when I was instructed to lie? What was my father doing?
I try to open my mouth, but no words come. My voice is lost, stolen into silence by the images raining down on me. I’m a fish trying to breathe air, and I’m choking.
Lane steps in, reaches for her hand like a character from a Jane Austen novel, bends down to his knee, and recites Woodrow Wilson’s words. “You have the greatest soul, the noblest nature, the sweetest, most loving heart I have ever known, and my love, my reverence, my admiration for you, have increased in one evening as I should have thought only a lifetime of intimate, loving association could have increased them … ,” he recites. Then he rises, reaches for an oversize umbrella from a nearby display, and says, “That, and we’ll take this umbrella.”