Philip’s Lexus was already there when I pulled into the wet parking lot at Baker’s Square—and it was only one twenty. The old feeling of being “a day late and a dollar short” no matter what I did got my defenses up, but Philip smiled a greeting when I slid into the booth. “Looks like we’re both early. I just got here.”
Okay, Gabby, back off, start over, cool your jets.
We ordered quickly—a chicken fajita for Philip and Asian chicken salad for me—then faced each other across the Formica-topped table with hot cups of coffee. Two creams each. Had Philip and I always doctored our coffee the same way? I looked him over, puzzled. Something was different about Philip today. His hair? It’d grown back almost an inch, the same dark brown like fresh-roasted coffee, and nearly covered the long scar in his scalp, but I’d already noticed that two days ago when he was moving stuff into my basement. Something else—
“Your arm!” I pointed, eyes wide. “You got the cast off!”
Philip grinned and moved his right arm this way and that. “Yep. This morning. I think maybe this is what Pinocchio felt like turning from a puppet into a real boy—except my arm still feels kind of wooden. Might need some physical therapy.”
“I’m glad. You’re starting to look like a real person again.” Ouch. What a stupid thing to say.
But Philip just nodded. “I’m starting to feel like a real person again—but not just because of getting the cast off.” He leaned forward, arms on the table, his brow suddenly wrinkled in serious concentration. “Gabby, you said I needed to come up with a plan, to stop flailing about like some rag doll caught in the washing machine.”
I allowed a grin. “Well, at least the part about coming up with a plan.”
“But you were right.” He sat back against the padded booth, drew in a deep breath, and blew it out again. “I’ve decided to take Henry Fenchel up on his offer. To buy me out of the company, I mean.”
I nearly spilled my coffee. “You’re serious?” Of all the plans I’d imagined, I never thought Philip would consider giving up the company he’d started.
“Dead serious. In fact, that’s where I went after my doctor’s appointment today. Told Henry if he’d withdraw his lawsuit, he could buy me out, take my name off the door, the whole kaboodle. It’ll take several days to draw up the papers, but then it’ll be a done deal.”
“But . . . when . . . why . . . how did you . . . ?” I hardly knew what to ask.
“Okay, to be honest, I had some help thinking things through,” he admitted. “You know I’m staying at the Baxters’ a few days until I can find an apartment. Had some time to talk to Denny this weekend—yesterday, as a matter of fact. He and, uh, our mutual friend, Harry Bentley.” Philip shrugged. “Figured he’d earned a right to mess with my business after saving my skin that Sunday when Fagan caught me in the alley.”
I said nothing, not trusting myself to speak.
“Anyway, they asked me what I thought my options were. Have to admit most of my options sounded rather far-fetched, but I did mention Fenchel had offered to drop his lawsuit if I let him buy out my half of the business—along with half a dozen reasons why I wouldn’t even consider it. But Baxter asked me to imagine what would happen if I pursued each of my various options—even the buyout. So, okay, I thought, I’ll play along. But as I imagined the implications of accepting Henry’s offer, I realized it made a lot of sense! With the buyout, even after paying back the money I owed the company—with interest—I’d have enough to pay off Fagan, which would take care of both major debts. Done. Fagan’s lawsuit goes away. No more threats. I’d have a nest egg to rent an apartment and pay my bills until . . .” He spread out his hands. “. . . well, until I figure out what I’m going to do next, I guess.”
Our food arrived, and we were busy for the next several minutes getting fresh coffee, extra butter for the hot bread that came with the salad, water refills. Then came that awkward moment. Dig in? Bless the food? Silent prayer? But Philip arched an eyebrow at me. “Do you, uh, want to say a table grace or something?”
Surprised, I nodded. What was going on here? Was Philip buttering me up or something, being so agreeable? But I bowed my head and kept it simple. “Father, thank You for Your goodness to us today. Thanks for the food and for Philip’s amazing news. Amen.”
“Nice,” he murmured before taking a dripping bite of his fat fajita.
We ate in silence for several minutes, then I cleared my throat. “Have to admit I never expected you to let Henry buy you out, Philip. But it sounds like a good plan. Makes a lot of sense, clears away a lot of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Lets you start over. I just . . . just want to say I’m sorry it turned out this way. You had a dream, it was a good dream, and you’re good at what you do. I wish it had worked out for you.”
Philip seemed to have trouble swallowing. But he murmured, “Thanks, Gabby. That means a lot.”
I leaned forward and searched his face. “But I do have a few questions. The money you took down to the casino last week— where did it come from? Was it a loan from your parents? A gift? And what are you going to do with it once Henry buys you out?”
Philip sighed and took a sip of his water. “So you know about that. I—”
“Don’t know. Just a guess.”
“Oh. Well, good guess.” His mouth twisted slightly. “My mother gave it to me as a bridge. Wasn’t a loan. Don’t know where she got it—savings, cashed in some stocks, whatever. But I shouldn’t have taken it. I’m pretty sure she did it behind my father’s back. And I’m tired of that game, Gabby. I don’t want her money. But until I get an actual check from Fenchel, I guess I’ll need to use it to line up an apartment and buy a plane ticket, but then I’m going to pay it back. All of it.”
It took a moment for what he said to sink in. “Did you say a plane ticket?”
He nodded. “As soon as I wrap up this buyout with Fenchel, I’m going back to Petersburg to consult with my father. I talked to him on the phone last night . . . had to eat crow, listen to a lot of ‘I told you so,’ as you can imagine. But I told him I’m selling out, going to make a fresh start. And he’s agreed to meet with me and help me think through what I’m going to do next. Map out a new business plan, so to speak.” Philip’s wry expression seemed to have become a permanent fixture. “I think that was going to be your next question: ‘What are you going to do for a job?’ Right?”
I nodded and looked down at my half-eaten salad. I pushed it away, suddenly not hungry anymore. I could hardly wrap my mind around the things Philip was saying—selling out his interest in the commercial development company he’d started, paying his mother back for the money she’d given him, actually going back to Virginia to face his father . . .
On one hand, I felt a huge relief. He’d come up with a real plan for untangling the mess he’d gotten himself into.
But . . . not a word about us.
“The boys will miss you,” I murmured, avoiding his eyes. “How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know. A week, maybe two. I need to get away, put some distance between myself and too-easy access to the Horseshoe. Bentley made me promise I’d check into a GA group the same day I arrive. I’m guessing he’ll be checking on me.”
I nodded, still not able to face him. “Okay. Just keep us posted, I guess. Me and the boys.”
Digging into my purse, I brought out a couple of fives to cover my salad and coffee and started to slide out of the booth with my jacket, but felt Philip’s hand reach out and grab my arm. “Gabby, wait. There’s something else I need to talk to you about. It’s important. Please?”
I stopped, his hand holding me back. After two long seconds I slid back into the booth, set down my jacket and purse, and finally looked up without saying anything.
“This isn’t the place, but”—he tipped his chin toward the foggy windows of the restaurant—“it’s not exactly a great day to walk and talk outside. So I, uh, wrote you a letter.” Philip reached inside his sport coat and drew out a long envelope. “This is actually what I wanted to talk to you about, but I realized you wouldn’t be able to hear it until I’d made some practical plans to deal with, well, the whole gambling debt mess. I’m sorry to say the consequences of that have overshadowed everything else that’s important. Like our marriage. You and me. Our family. The boys.” He slid the envelope toward me. “Will you read it before you go?”
I looked at the envelope for several long moments before putting out a tentative finger and drawing it toward me. But I didn’t pick it up. Probably a divorce notice. Or a legal separation. What else would he put in an envelope? I shook my head, my heart thumping, loose curls sticking to my damp forehead. “I . . . I’ll take it with me and read it later.” I picked it up and stuffed it into my purse, once again gathering my things.
Philip reached out his hand again. “Gabby, please. Read it now, because there are some things I need to say after you read it.” He glanced around. “We’re pretty much alone now.”
Breathe, Gabby, breathe. Reluctantly I took the envelope out of my purse, lifted the flap, and slid out the single sheet of folded paper.
“More coffee?” The waitress stood over us with a full pot. She must have sensed the unfinished conversation hanging in the air. “Don’t worry, take your time.”
I licked my dry lips. “Yes, coffee, please.” I waited until my cup was full, opened two more of the individual creamers and poured them in, then took a long sip of the hot liquid before unfolding the sheet of paper.
Dear Gabby,
I hardly know how to begin, there’s so much I need to say. But the first thing is . . . I’m sorry. Sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. Sorry for kicking you out of the house. Sorry for everything. I thought I had good reasons, thought you needed a wake-up call—but I’m just now beginning to see that it was all about me. What I wanted. What I thought I needed. We were going in different directions and needed help to get our marriage back on track. But I took matters into my own hands.
I was wrong.
The paper in my hand shook, and my other hand gripped the edge of the table with white-knuckled fingers. I took a deep breath to steady myself and kept reading.
I don’t know if you can forgive me. I’ve hurt you deeply, I know that. I hope you can—but even then I don’t know what that would mean. You’ve picked yourself up, you’ve moved on, you’ve made a new life for yourself. I don’t know if there’s any room in your new life for “us.”
If not, I have no one to blame but myself.
Where do we go from here? I don’t know. I’m only now getting a grip on how I got into such a mess—thanks to the shakedown I got yesterday from two unlikely “brothers.” Still hard to admit I’m a gambling “addict.” Hard to admit I ruined my own dream of making it big here in Chicago. Harder still to admit I’m the reason our marriage failed.
But it’s all true. I know I need help—just not sure where to get it.
There’s a lot more I need to say. Want to say. But the one thing I desperately want you to know is . . . I’m sorry.
The letter was just signed “Philip.”
Tears stung my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I hastily brushed them away and used a napkin to blow my nose, staring at the letter. Oh, how I’d wanted Philip to admit he was wrong! To say he was sorry for all the pain he’d caused in my life! To beg for my forgiveness!
But now that he had—in writing, no less, in black and white, in his own handwriting, with his own signature—I had no idea what to feel. Or say.
“Gabby?”
I could hear the question in his voice. But he’d had time to think about what he wanted to say. I needed time too.
Refolding the letter, I slid it back into the envelope, put it in my purse, and took a deep breath to steady my ragged breathing. “I . . . can’t respond right now, Philip. I’m sorry.”
Gathering my things, I slid out of the booth and started to leave. Then I hesitated—and for the first time since he’d given me the letter, I lifted my eyes and met his troubled gaze. Then I walked out of the restaurant.