All We Ever Wanted(33)

He shook his head. “No way. This guy’s not going to talk….Think about it this way….When you slide someone a fifty to get a table at a restaurant, do they make an announcement? No. They don’t. Because it’s shady on both sides.”

“So you do admit you’re being shady?”

He shrugged. “You want me to admit that? Sure. I’ll admit that. It was a little shady. But I did it for a good cause. I did it for Finch. And it worked.”

“How do you know it worked?” I said.

“Because he took the money, Nina….And before that, he was giving me an immigration lecture on how Brazilians aren’t Hispanic. And that his daughter is an American. Yada yada…He had an attitude. But then I handed him that cash and suddenly he was all cool, calm, and collected. So you tell me, Nina. Did it work?”

When I didn’t reply, he answered his own question. “Yes. It did. And you can sit there and be self-righteous all you want, but deep down, you have to agree that it was worth it.”

   I stared back at him, my thoughts scattered and racing. A very small, guilty part of me was relieved that Lyla’s father had been complicit. Besides, what choice did I have? I couldn’t make him give us the money back.

“Well, putting that aside, I really think it’s high time that Finch apologizes to Lyla. Face-to-face,” I said as the waitress poured our glass of wine.

I paused as Kirk tasted it and okayed it, then resumed when she left. “And I would also like for the three of us to sit down again and talk a bit more in depth…about everything. He’s been avoiding me for two days…for longer than that, really….And I can’t tell if he’s sorry or pouting,” I said, getting a little bit choked up. “I can’t tell what’s in his heart right now.”

“He’s sorry, Nina. And you know he has a good heart….We’ll get through this, I promise.”

I started to say that I thought I knew Finch’s heart—but Julie was right, the sweet kid I once knew could never have done this to a girl. To anyone. It just didn’t make sense.

But there was something so reassuring and strong about the way Kirk was looking at me that I just couldn’t bring myself to argue with him. Instead, at least for the moment, I put my faith in my husband, believing that he was right. That the three of us would get through this, somehow.



* * *



—

THAT NIGHT, I tried to talk to Finch. Kirk and I both did. But he insisted that he had to study for a test. Could we talk tomorrow? We relented, and then Kirk went to bed early, declaring himself exhausted. I tried to do the same, but I found myself lying in bed next to him, wide awake and more anxious than ever.

Around midnight, I got up and went to my office and pulled the Windsor directory from a desk drawer. I flipped to the end of the alphabet and found the entry for Lyla and Thomas Volpe. No mother was listed, unlike most divorced families with dual entries, and the only explanation I could think of was that she had died. I hoped not recently; then again, I would have wanted Lyla to have had as many years with her mother as possible. Feeling increasingly melancholy, I scanned down to read their address. They lived on Avondale Drive, a street that didn’t sound familiar, though I knew the 37206 zip code was in East Nashville, over the Cumberland River. I opened my laptop and typed it into Google Maps, seeing a street view of the small bungalow located in Lockeland Springs. From what I could tell of the blurry photo, the house sat up high on a narrow lot, stairs leading from the street to the front door. There was one small tree in the yard and a few bushes planted along the house. After studying the picture from every angle, I typed the address into Zillow. I saw that Thomas Volpe had purchased the home in 2004 for $179,000. I felt a stab of sheepishness approaching shame, thinking of our own house, its price tag just under $4 million. From there, I pulled up our online AmEx statement, cringing at what we’d spent over the last billing cycle. It was amazing how quickly things added up, a few hundred dollars at a time. This particular month, I was the most culpable of the three of us, but I did spot Finch’s thousand-dollar charge at the Apple Store, a $200 charge at Imogene + Willie, and $150 at Pinewood Social, the night before Beau’s party. I seemed to recall a conversation about him “needing” a new phone but couldn’t remember if he’d asked me for permission or simply informed me of the purchase after the fact. I felt certain that he hadn’t mentioned any shopping or dining otherwise. Not that we had any real rules around his spending.

   In fact, money was something Kirk and I seldom discussed with our son. Five years ago, when the financial picture had changed, the analysis of what to spend became pretty simple in our family. The question wasn’t “did we need it” or “could we afford it,” but simply “did we want it.” If the answer was yes, we typically got it. The result was that Finch didn’t dwell on money—or think about it at all, really—and had no clue about budgeting or anything normal people, let alone those in actual need, went through. I told myself to stop going off on this mental tangent. What did money or material things have to do with any of this, anyway? Nothing. Character has nothing to do with finances.

And yet, I had the feeling Julie might say otherwise, especially if she knew about Kirk’s bribe—which now seemed increasingly significant. What if Thomas actually needed the money? Did that change the analysis at all? Did it make Kirk’s attempt to buy him off better or worse? I wasn’t sure, so decided to look for more evidence, biting my lip, logging on to Facebook, and typing in “Thomas Volpe.” Three of them came up, but none was local. I tried a more general Google search and once again found nothing that seemed to fit. I then searched for Lyla, finding her on Facebook and Instagram, though both accounts were private. All I could see were her profile pictures, two different shots from the same summer day. It was clearly the same girl from Finch’s photograph, but in these pictures she looked so happy, standing on a dock in a ruffled, off-the-shoulder top and white shorts. She was a pretty girl with a slender figure and beautiful long hair. I thought about her mother again, wondering not only when, but how she had died. Then, looking back at the directory at Thomas Volpe’s email address, I couldn’t stand it another second. I took a deep breath and began typing.