Unmissing(41)

“I like to think so, yes.” I dab my lips, leaving a tinge of scarlet lipstick on the napkin. “She once told me that she loved us in an obligatory way, that she was doing the best she could. Having children was fulfilling a marital expectation. Her generation was like that, I think. It’s just what you did back then. Anyway, she sent us away to boarding school the first chance she got. And I spent a lot of years hating her for it—wishing she could be a quote-unquote normal mother. Only now, I realize there’s no such thing. Only people trying their best at an impossible job.”

I pause to take a bite, hoping my words sink in. Opening up to people isn’t a forte of mine, but if this means securing the safety of my family, I’ll do it.

My mother took her own life the day after my eighteenth birthday—sleeping pills and a steady stream of carbon monoxide courtesy of her champagne-gold Aston Martin. I realized then that it didn’t matter how strong a person was, how resistant they were to criticism and judgment—life could still wear a person down if they weren’t in their own driver’s seat. At least she died in hers.

My mother had a beautiful life—but it was never one that she had an ounce of control over.

My father had full command over that ship, which is why I’ve purposely built our marital relationship on equal grounds. There’s a fine line between loving someone and submitting to them. It requires balance, intention, and action. I like to think I’ve mastered it thus far. God forbid my efforts go to waste.

“What about your mother—is she still around?” I ask, not wanting to dominate the conversation too obviously.

“She died when I was in high school.” There’s no emotion in Lydia’s voice, not even a hint of a wince on her plain face.

“I’m so sorry.” I stretch a hand over her desk but she withdraws, reaching for her water. “It’s nice to have things in common with someone, but not these types of things.”

“She was weak,” Lydia says with zero emotion in her voice. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

I don’t ask the details—it isn’t polite to pry. Besides, her lunch break is ending soon, and I need to wrap this up and leave on a powerful note.

“Luca had a terrible childhood; you know that, right?” I focus on my husband next, building sympathy for him as well. “His parents were just awful to him. He hasn’t spoken to them in years. I’ve only met them once. He won’t let them anywhere near Elsie. He’s so protective of her.”

“Yes, he’d told me all about them when we were married,” Lydia says. Her stare floats to the side, as if she’s reminiscing.

“Can you imagine how awful it must’ve been for him?” I ask. “To be the only child of a narcissist and an alcoholic?”

She nods, exhaling. “Thank goodness he isn’t anything like them.”

“I know, right? He’s worked so hard to overcome some of his issues. To break the cycle.”

“I see that.” Her thin lips work into a sliver of a smile. “Though I imagine neither of us knows the half of what he went through.”

“Can we ever truly know everything about everyone?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t think we can.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


LYDIA

“Oh, my goodness, angel. You don’t have to keep doing this for me.” Delphine palms her cheeks when I arrive home Wednesday night with a takeout bag—third night in a row. Every afternoon, I tell the chef to prepare a to-go entrée for me. Only it’s never for me. After everything this woman has done for me, a few fancy meals courtesy of sea bats is the least I can give her in return. “I’ve never eaten so well in my life.”

She slicks her hands together, and I set the table. The food is more than enough for the both of us and then some. My stomach can only handle so much richness, and Delphine isn’t the type to overindulge. I won’t do this indefinitely, but it’s a little something-something for now.

“So how’s it going so far?” she asks as we dig into our respective piles of fettucine alfredo with Pacific geoduck clams—whatever those are. “Staff keeping you on your toes?”

“It’s mostly office work—ordering supplies, taking inventory, double-checking scheduling,” I lie. And it pains me to lie. But I can’t tell her the truth, that I sit in the office with the door closed all day, browsing the internet or doing printed-off crossword puzzles to pass the time.

Luca refuses to give me actual work to do, though I can’t figure out why. Any time I ask if I can be of service, he mutters something about taking a phone call or letting me know and disappears. He’s clearly avoiding me, trying to busy himself enough to forget I’m back.

Unfortunately for him, I’m not going anywhere.

Not for a while.

“Boring stuff.” I twirl a small mountain of pasta on my fork. “I was going to ask you . . . how much should I pay you for rent now?”

She rests her fork against her plate and sits back, as if the thought had yet to cross her mind. But I’m not going to live here scot-free and take advantage of her.

“I can still do laundry and those kinds of things if you want,” I add. “Would just have to be after hours.”