NOW
Frances had gone to Pike Place Market to buy fresh prawns and handmade pasta. She’d picked up two bottles of Pinot Grigio and a decadent chocolate mousse cake for dessert. As she set the table with her wedding china, she worried that she was creating too festive a mood. Her dinner with Kate was a somber occasion. Robert’s father had died. Charles and Daisy had lost their grandfather. But when Kate arrived with two bottles of sparkling wine in hand, Frances realized her worries were for naught.
They fed the boys first (pasta in a simple tomato sauce), and let them abscond to Marcus’s room. Jason was working late, so the two women sat down to their meal alone. As Kate oohed and aahed over the pasta dish, Frances was glad she’d made the effort. Her friend seemed comforted and consoled. In fact, Kate didn’t seem at all upset about her father-in-law’s demise. Other than the phone perched next to her plate, it could have been a completely normal evening.
“I know it’s rude,” Kate said, referencing the device beside her, “but I don’t want to miss Robert if he calls. He might need to talk.”
Frances had expected her to mention Daisy. The fourteen-year-old was not in attendance. “Where’s Daisy tonight?” she asked, casually.
“With friends,” Kate said, sipping her white wine.
“What are they doing?”
“Who knows.” Kate shrugged. “These prawns are perfect. I always overcook them.”
Frances smiled her thanks, but her friend’s indifference toward her daughter’s whereabouts concerned her. Kate seemed to have ultimate confidence that Daisy could take care of herself. Frances did not. That morning, in Kate’s living room, the girl had revealed her insecurities and self-doubt to a virtual stranger. She was not the strong, competent kid her mother thought she was. Frances knew, more than most, how vulnerable a troubled teen was, how easily she could be hurt, manipulated, led astray. But how could Frances burden Kate with this knowledge now? She would wait until Robert was home, until they’d dealt with their grief.
Kate’s phone on the table vibrated to signal a text. She picked it up and looked at the screen for a moment.
“It’s Robert,” she muttered, chewing her pasta. “They’re having the wake now.”
“It must be hard for him, going through this without you.”
“It’s better this way.” Kate put the phone down and picked up her fork. “Robert’s sister and his mom can’t stand me.”
“Why?” Frances was slightly incredulous as she bit into a prawn. How could Robert’s family not accept his pretty, sweet, funny wife?
“They thought I was too young for him. They didn’t trust my motives.” Kate twirled fettuccine onto her fork. “Robert was a big fancy lawyer when we met. I was beneath him.”
“But surely they can see how happy you’ve made him? And the beautiful family you’ve created together?”
“People don’t see what they don’t want to.” Kate reached for the bottle of wine, refilled Frances’s glass. “What’s Jason’s family like?”
“Jason’s dad passed before I met him. His mother is positively regal.”
Kate giggled as she topped up her own glass.
“She is!” Frances elaborated. “Conchita speaks Spanish and English and French. She owns an art gallery in Denver. And she looks like Sophia Loren. She’s always intimidated me, but we get along fine.” She sipped the cold wine. “I’m more comfortable with Jason’s sister. She has four kids, so her life is utter chaos. We relate to each other.”
“Families . . .” Kate rolled her eyes as she nibbled a prawn. “I’m an only child. Dad’s gone. Mom lives in a trailer park in Portland with her fur babies. We’ve had our issues but we get along okay. What about your family?”
Frances chewed a mouthful of pasta, her mind flitting to the letter that had arrived a couple of weeks ago. She had waited until she was alone in the house—Jason at work, Marcus at school—to read her mother’s missive. It began casually, with family news: A cousin had had a baby; her older sister had been promoted at work; Dad joined a chess club. But then, as always, the tone shifted.
We miss you, Frances. We miss our grandson. We want to be a part of your life. Please let us back in.
But her mother didn’t mean it. It was parental obligation that kept her reaching out to her estranged daughter. Why would her mom and dad want to be reminded of the devastation Frances had caused? The pain and the hurt and the shame she had brought into their lives? Frances wanted to cut them loose, absolve them of their responsibilities, allow them to heal and move on. But every few months, a letter arrived. And every few months, Frances burned it over the sink and washed the ashes down the drain.
Sometimes, Frances could go days without thinking about what she had done. She would focus on her son and her husband and the life they had built in Bellevue. And then something would remind her—a teenage girl, usually, a tragic news story, or one of her mom’s letters. Frances would be forever haunted by her actions, and she deserved to be. Her family did not. They were better off without her.
She swallowed. “We’re not close.”
“How come?” Kate asked, her eyes seeking Frances’s.
Frances met her friend’s gaze, and again, they shared that moment of recognition. Kate got her. Frances could open up to her and share her dark secret without judgment. If anyone would listen and try to understand what she had done, it was Kate. But it was a fleeting consideration. Even Kate could not forgive the terrible act Frances had committed. And she couldn’t risk blowing their friendship apart. Marcus needed Charles. Her son was happier and calmer, his meltdowns decreased by half, at least. Forrester Academy deserved some credit, as did the child psychologist he saw regularly, but she knew it was the boys’ camaraderie that had had the biggest impact. Even the teacher, Ms. Patterson, admitted it.
And Frances had grown to need Kate. The friendship had made Frances more confident, less anxious, and slimmer. She couldn’t attribute her weight loss directly to Kate, but she was down eleven pounds. Eleven! She had more energy, more motivation, more vigor. Her house was cleaner than it had been in years. Her slim, stylish, organized friend was an inspiration. She couldn’t lose her.
“Typical rebellious-teenager stuff,” Frances fibbed, setting her fork on her plate. “I put my parents through the wringer.”
“I was a bad girl, too,” Kate said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Tell me the worst thing you did.”
God, if she only knew . . .
There was a rumble on the stairs, then, announcing the boys’ arrival. Marcus barreled into the kitchen, trailed by Charles. Frances’s son’s cheeks were rosy, his eyes bright. Both boys looked happy, content, carefree.
“Is there dessert?” Marcus asked.
Frances jumped to her feet, grateful for the interruption. “Chocolate mousse cake, coming right up.”