Good Riddance(59)

I reached her in her car, in traffic, on her Bluetooth. She told me that she and Doug had talked to their friend, the famous attorney. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be a slam dunk.

“Which means what?”

“The intellectual property part. The slander or libel part. The invasion of privacy. Not much to go on.”

“Did you tell him the producer made up stories and had actors pretending to be”—I almost said, “Peter Armstrong,” but caught myself—“students and friends of Mom’s and Dad’s without a warning label saying, ‘The following story is bullshit. I totally made it up.’”

Then, gravely, Holly asked, “Did she?”

“Did she what?”

“Make it all up.”

“Yes! You know she did. She has no scruples!”

“Having no scruples isn’t actionable.”

“I didn’t have a year of law school like you did. I guess I thought ethics might count when it comes to ruining a dead woman’s reputation.”

Whatever show tune she’d been playing stopped. “Maybe there’s more to Mom’s story than you realize.”

“Like what?”

“It’s not my place to tell you.”

Another power play. Holly had the goods and I never would. So I took the plunge, trying to sound world-weary and in the loop. “Are you talking about Mom’s affair?”

There was a most satisfying gasp at the other end. “You knew? When did you find out?”

“I’ve always known. I sensed it. Call it intuition. I didn’t need anyone to spell it out for me.” Only the perpetrator himself, shocking me to the core at the Knights of Columbus Hall.

“You couldn’t always have known! I only found out the night before my wedding.”

Wait. What?

“Mom told me. Well, not in so many words. She came to my room and sat on the edge of the bed. You know what a goody-goody she was. I thought it was going to be the honeymoon talk. So I said, ‘Ma. C’mon. You think Doug and I have never done it?’ She looked puzzled, so I said, ‘This isn’t about what to expect on my wedding night?’ She actually laughed. And it was like—I don’t know how to describe it—like there was this sophisticated woman sitting on my bed laughing at how clueless I was. About her.”

“Go on,” I whispered.

“This was after the rehearsal dinner, so she’d had a few drinks. She said, ‘Don’t make the same mistakes I made.’ I said, ‘What mistakes?’ She said, ‘There are temptations around every corner. It’s not worth the immediate gratification.’”

“Mom actually said ‘immediate gratification’?”

“Maybe not, but something like that—maybe ‘not worth the thrill.’ Plus, she was in her party clothes, looking flashier than usual. Do you remember that dress? It was a navy blue taffeta or something that rustled—”

“Holly! What else did she say?”

“That Dad was a wonderful man.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he didn’t cheat on her. Or that she loved him even if she fooled around.”

“Or that she was sorry?”

“To me, it meant, ‘Your father isn’t capable of such a thing, but I am.’ Quite a thing to lay on your daughter the night before her wedding!”

“Did you ask her why she was telling you this?”

“No! I was so mad! I was getting married in, like, twenty hours. I needed my beauty sleep, and I get socked with that.”

And now I was the one being socked with new examples of my mother’s bad judgment, bad timing, unnecessary unburdening, and infidelity. “Did you ever ask her why?”

“Why she cheated or why she was confessing?”

“Both.”

“I tried the next morning, just the two of us in the breakfast nook. I said, ‘The stuff you told me last night—about temptation, about staying faithful to Doug—what were you really saying?’ She just cocked her head like she didn’t know what I was talking about. I said, ‘Don’t give me that look. You more or less told me you cheated on Dad. I need to know if your lover is going to be at my wedding.’ She said, ‘No, of course not.’”

And now Holly’s voice was all chummy. “But I have a theory.” She stopped there.

“Can I hear it?”

“You ready?”

I was, on one hand, entirely ready because I knew the answer, yet not ready because my sister would be guessing Peter Armstrong, so obvious from the podcast, and I’d have to confirm, deny, or plead ignorant.

But what I heard was “Lyman Roundtree.”

I repeated the name, laughing.

“Hear me out: the North American Scrabble Championship in Springfield? They drove there together.”

“So? They were colleagues.” Lyman Roundtree was a guidance counselor at Pickering High notable for the odd reason that he wore only brown suits, shoes, and ties, and had a very amateurish toupee. “What led you to that conclusion?”

“A letter I inherited.”

“Mom specifically left you a letter from Lyman Roundtree?”

“In a way. It was with her stuff—”

“What stuff?”