Birdie cracks the seal on a new Grey Goose bottle and adds a splash of vodka to her coffee. She needs something stronger than Advil to cure this headache. Her husband is missing. Her daughter is pregnant. Her peaceful life is over. She’s entitled to drown her sorrows.
Mug in hand, she stands at the kitchen window. Heavy fog blankets the inlet, preventing the Coast Guard from continuing their search. How late did they stay out last night? She remembers little after hearing the report of a missing man on the local news at eleven.
Her phone rings on the kitchen island with a call from Toby. She snatches up the phone. “Did you find anything?”
“No. And we’re not going to. I’m sorry, Birdie, but we’re calling off the search. Based on my investigation, I have reason to believe Cary left town on his own volition.”
Birdie’s stomach clenches, and she thinks she might throw up. “What reason? What’re you talking about?”
“I just got off the phone with Jonathan Hart. He can explain better than me. He’ll be calling you momentarily.” Toby lets out an audible sigh. “I’m so sorry, Birdie. Let me know if I can help in any other way.”
“Wait—”
The line goes dead.
She stumbles to the nearest chair, sets her phone, screen-up, on the table, and waits for Cary’s law partner to call. Her nerves are frazzled. She can’t take more bad news. But she has a sick feeling Jonathan is about to tell her the worst yet.
Fifteen minutes later, the back door swings open, and Jonathan enters in a rush of frigid air. “This is serious business, Birdie. I figured I’d better tell you in person.” He pulls her to her feet and hugs her tight. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe Cary didn’t tell you. If I had known, I would’ve told you myself.”
Birdie pushes her old friend away. “Told me what, Jonathan? What on earth is going on?”
“Let’s sit down.” He moves a chair close to hers, and they sit with knees touching. “We forced Cary to resign from the firm a month ago, right after Thanksgiving. He was . . . um . . . mismanaging our funds.”
Birdie’s blue eyes narrow. “Mismanaging, as in embezzling?”
Jonathan gives his head a solemn nod.
“We’ve been friends forever, Jonathan. Couldn’t you have given him a second chance?”
Jonathan hangs his head. “That was the second chance. Since then, we’ve hired a forensic accountant who has uncovered even more theft. Amounts we can’t overlook. I spoke with Cary a few days ago. I warned him we will be pressing charges.”
Planting her elbows on the table, Birdie buries her face in her hands. “This keeps getting worse and worse.”
“And there’s still more. Cary has been spotted around town with another woman.”
Birdie peeks at him through her fingers. “Spotted by whom?”
“Me. And some guys at the office. And my wife.”
Birdie lowers her hands from her face. “Who is this woman?”
“No one seems to know.”
“Cary’s electronic devices are here,” Birdie says. “If he’s been corresponding with her via email or text messages, the police can identify the woman.”
“Cary’s too smart for that. If those devices have any incriminating evidence on them, he wouldn’t have left them behind. He undoubtedly purchased a new phone to communicate with her. This woman, whoever she is, helped him execute his disappearance. They deserve each other. And you deserve better.” Jonathan places his hand on Birdie’s forearm. “This may be hard for you to believe now, but I’ve known Cary all my life, and one day, you’ll understand how much better off you are without him.”
On her way to the kitchen, Hannah stops short at the sound of her uncle’s voice. Jonathan isn’t really her uncle. He’s her godfather. He’s also her father’s law partner and best childhood friend. Pressed against the wall outside the kitchen, she eavesdrops on his conversation with her mother. She can’t believe her ears. Her father stole money from his law firm, and they’re going to press charges. The other woman part comes as a shock, but not as much as it would’ve twenty-four hours ago.
Hannah hears chairs dragging across the floor, followed by murmured voices as her mother sees Jonathan out. The back door clicks shut, and when her mom storms past, Hannah steps in line behind her, following her through the family room to the small home office her parents share.
Sitting down at the desk, Birdie types on the keyboard as she accesses their online banking accounts. She touches her fingertip to the screen and scrutinizes the digital statements. “That bastard. I should never have allowed him to handle our household expenses. He cleaned out our accounts.”
“How much was in each?” Hannah asks, peering over her shoulder.
“I’m not concerned about the checking account. That balance fluctuates. But the last time I checked the money market and brokerage accounts,”—Birdie’s gaze lifts upward as though looking for the answer on the ceiling—“sometime around the beginning of December, we had fifty thousand in our money market and our brokerage account was worth a half-million dollars.”
Hannah’s jaw drops. “What? That’s an insane amount of money.”
“It’s a lot of money. It’s your father’s life savings.” Birdie pounds the desk with her fist. “Damn him!”
Hannah summons the courage to ask, “Will we have to sell the house?”
“I don’t know, honey. We’ve owned this house for twenty years. We no longer have a mortgage. But I have no idea how much utilities and maintenance expenses run. Your father handled all that.”
Hannah sits on the edge of the desk. “I don’t understand, Mom. Why was Dad managing the firm’s finances in the first place?”
Birdie falls back in her chair. “Your father graduated from college with a degree in accounting. He got his CPA license before deciding to go to law school. By managing the firm’s accounts, Cary saved them the expense of hiring an outside accountant.”
“I never knew Dad was a CPA.” Despite being furious with her missing father, she experiences a sense of longing for him. So many things she meant to ask him but never did. Will she ever get the chance to talk to him again?
“He was very good with numbers, which is why I let him handle our finances.”
“This is a nightmare, Mom. Why would Dad do this to us?”
Birdie exits out of the internet browser and spins around in her chair. “According to you, he left because of me. At least that’s what you said yesterday. What did you mean by that?”
Hannah toys with a strand of her long mahogany hair. “Whatever I said yesterday was wrong. He left because of another woman.”
Birdie stands to face her. “But you didn’t know about the other woman yesterday when you said it. Admit it. You blame me for his disappearance. You think I drove him into the arms of another woman.”
“You’re his wife. Kids aren’t usually the ones who destroy their parents’ marriages.” Hannah turns her back on her mother. “I’m hungry. I’m going to fix breakfast.”
Birdie watches her daughter leave the room. She already knows why Cary turned away from her. But she desperately needs validation—the words spoken aloud from her daughter’s lips. She chokes back a sob as the enormity of her new circumstances overcomes her. Cary stole money from his firm, cleaned out their bank accounts, and ran off with another woman. Not to mention her unmarried daughter is having a baby and doesn’t even know who the father is. Birdie might handle one of these problems, but the combination is too much to bear. She’s furious. And heartbroken. And dejected. Tears flood her eyes and stream down her cheeks. She needs a drink, but she left the vodka in the kitchen.
She finds Hannah at the stove, forking bacon out of a frying pan onto a paper towel.
Glancing over her shoulder at Birdie, Hannah asks, “What do you want on your omelet?”
“I’m not really hungry. But thanks.”
“Neither of us ate anything yesterday, Mom. You have to keep up your strength.”
Keep up my strength for what? she thinks. Life as I know it is over. But admitting that will not get Hannah off her back. “You’re right. I’ll have some cheddar cheese, please.”
While Hannah is busy at the stove, Birdie pours two fingers of vodka in a juice glass and fills it the rest of the way with orange juice.
“I saw that, Mom,” Hannah says.
Birdie returns the juice to the refrigerator and slams the door. “And I thought parents were the only ones who have eyes in the backs of their heads. Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re a parent-in-training.”
Hannah slides an omelet out of the pan, adds two slices of bacon, and shoves the plate at Birdie. “Considering the circumstances, drinking before breakfast would be understandable. But this isn’t new for you, is it? Do you drink every morning before breakfast?”
“No. I don’t drink every morning. I drink most mornings.”
Hannah turns her back on Birdie, pouring scrambled eggs into the pan for her omelet.
Birdie takes the plate to the table and waits for Hannah to join her before taking a bite. When the eggs hit her stomach like a wrecking ball, she throws up a little in her mouth and drowns the taste of bile with the rest of her screwdriver.
Hannah eyes her empty glass. “You do a good job of hiding it, but it’s obvious you have a drinking problem. I learned about people like you in my freshman psychology class. You’re a functioning alcoholic. I begged Dad to stage an intervention. But he either refused to accept or preferred to ignore your problem.”
“Because it isn’t serious. I can quit today.” Birdie snaps her fingers for effect.
Hannah stuffs a forkful of eggs into her mouth. “Then why don’t you?”
“Fine. I will.” Birdie takes the bottle to the sink and pours the vodka down the drain.
“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Hannah says under her breath.
Birdie just opened the bottle, and a lot of precious liquid goes to waste. Fortunately, she has other bottles hidden in the cabinet in the laundry room and under the sink in the downstairs powder room. But from now on, thanks to Cary, she must be more frugal.
She returns to the table, but she doesn’t touch her food. She watches her daughter gobble down every morsel of her breakfast, as though she’s been deprived of food for a month. Pregnancy. The thought has no sooner entered Birdie’s mind when Hannah leaps to her feet and makes a dash for the bathroom. When she emerges ten minutes later, the color has drained from her face and beads of sweat dot her forehead. What is wrong with Birdie that she feels no compassion for her daughter?
“I was sick every single day during my pregnancy with you. Even so, a baby is much easier to care for in the womb. You have other options besides abortion, adoption being one of them.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Hannah walks her plate to the sink, rinses it, and stores it in the dishwasher.
“That’s the thing, though. You don’t take care of a child when it’s convenient for you. Being a parent is a full-time job.” The smell of bacon and eggs sends another wave of nausea crashing over Birdie, and she pushes the plate away. “Have you thought about how you’re going to support yourself and a baby? You can’t count on me to help, now that your father has run off with all of our money. I paid your tuition for the spring in full, but I’m not sure I can even afford the rent on your apartment.”
“Don’t sweat it. I can figure out a way to pay my rent.” Hannah returns the eggs, milk, and cheese to the refrigerator and slams the door shut. “I’m twelve hours shy of earning a degree in cyber security. I’m not worried about finding a job after graduation.”
Birdie takes her frustration and anger out on her paper napkin, shredding it into pieces on the table. “Being a parent is hard enough when you have a spouse to support you. And you’re so young. You’ve worked so hard in school. You need to enjoy young adulthood. You’ll never get these years back.”
Crossing the room, Hannah pauses in the doorway, but she doesn’t look back at Birdie. “I don’t want or need your advice, Mom. You and I have never been close. Dad has always been my go-to parent. You can’t suddenly take his place now that he’s gone.”
Upstairs in her room, Hannah neatly folds her clothes into her suitcase. Thinking ahead, she includes the loose-fitting dresses and oversized tunics she bought after she gained ten pounds her freshman year from drinking beer and eating late-night pizza. As she places her new DSLR camera and telephoto lens, both Christmas gifts from her dad, into her camera bag, she can’t help but wonder if he purchased the photography equipment with money stolen from his law firm. The camera is a source of income for her. She can’t . . . she won’t give it back now.
Gathering her toiletries from the hall bathroom, she tosses her cosmetic bag into her suitcase and zips it closed. Hannah’s phone rings on the bed, and she glances down at the screen. She longs to talk to her best friend, to tell Liza about the baby and her dad. Liza is patient and understanding and nonjudgmental. But she’s also perfect, beautiful and smart. Liza would never have forgotten to take her birth control pills. She would never be stupid enough to get pregnant. Liza has been calling and texting throughout the break, but Hannah’s been blowing her off. And she lets the call go to voice mail now.
Hannah takes a last look around her childhood bedroom, at the Taylor Swift poster on the wall, the dollhouse under the window, the lacrosse stick and tennis racket in the corner. She no longer has use for any of these items. She was never an athlete, and the little girl who once played with dolls and idolized female pop singers is now on the verge of becoming an adult.
Slinging her backpack and camera bag over her shoulder, she wheels her suitcase out of the room and down the stairs where she finds her mother still sitting at the kitchen table.
Birdie’s face melts when she sees her suitcase. “Where’re you going?”
“Back to school.”
Birdie rises from the table and walks toward her. “But classes don’t start for another week.”
“I’ll use the time to get settled and ready for the semester. My roommates aren’t back yet, and I really need to be alone right now.”
Birdie grabs her arm. “Please, don’t go,” she says in a desperate tone. “I need you here with me. We can work through this together.”
“There’s nothing to work through, Mom. Dad is gone. Our home is broken.”
When Hannah moves toward the front door, Birdie tightens her grip on her arm. “Will you at least seek counseling about the pregnancy?”
Hannah glares at her mother. “If you’ll seek counseling for your drinking problem.”
Birdie lets go of her arm.
“I thought so.” Grabbing her suitcase handle, Hannah hurries out the front door, leaving it open behind her. Her chest feels heavy, and she finds it difficult to breathe. She wants her mother to follow her, to beg her to stay. She slows her pace and takes her time stowing her bags in the back of her red Jeep Wrangler, another gift from her dad. But Birdie remains in the house.
Hannah starts the engine and heads off down the driveway. With one last glance in the rearview mirror, she sees her mother standing in the doorway, waving goodbye. What will become of Birdie? What will become of Hannah? If only they could travel back in time a week. What she would give to relive Christmas Day. Their family wasn’t perfect. All families have their problems. But at least they were a family. Now they are three people going their separate ways.