Good Girls Lie(97)

Everything.

I had to come. I had to have her make this right.

But before I handle Alexandria, I need to deal with that bitch who’s been hurting my sister.



73

THE EXIT

Ford hasn’t been back in the Westhaven family house for a few months. Her mother’s omnipresence is clear and literal, she’s left dishes in the sink and newspapers on the table. Happily, Jude has retreated from the scene. Ford received a breezy text from her earlier:

Heading north to DC today for an emergency alumni meeting, sorry to miss you. I’ll be back this weekend for the Odds and Evens celebrations, assuming I’m still welcome. Be in touch if you decide you need my help sooner.
Like that will happen. Jude’s help is why she’s in this mess with the school, and with Rumi.

Fretting about Jude will accomplish nothing. Ford needs a plan. But she wants Rumi’s input first.

She cleans up after her mother, clearing away the mess in the kitchen, tidying and stacking and wiping, until everything looks show house ready, then hits the wine cellar. She needs a drink, and with Rumi coming, all she wants is a few moments alone with him to figure out what’s happening. Perhaps a nice bottle of wine and some food will soften his stance.

He’s been as much friend as lover these past few years. And she needs a friend right now.

She finds a good bottle of Bordeaux and leaves it to breathe on the counter. At 9:00 p.m. sharp, the doorbell rings. She hurries to the door, already annoyed. Why couldn’t he come to the back door? He has the keys, he comes here to raid the library. What’s he trying to do, advertise?

Come now, Ford. He simply wants to be treated like a man, instead of a perpetually disgraced welfare employee.

She forces a smile on her face and swings it open.

He’s carrying a bottle of Jack and wearing her favorite green waffle shirt under a down vest, the one that shows off his glorious physique. Subtle.

She steps aside. “Come in.”

He hands her the whiskey and enters. He seems bigger in this setting than in her cottage. Taller than when she saw him last. Thicker through the shoulders. Is that even possible? Or is she imagining things?

She closes the door behind him and locks it. Waits a beat—sometimes he turns with a wicked grin and jumps her immediately, but he makes no overtures, no moves at all, just stands there, broad-shouldered and grim-faced, so she gestures to the kitchen.

“I opened some wine.”

“I don’t want wine.” He looks to be in a dark mood. He’s not scowling, but he isn’t being friendly, either.

She glances at the bottle—he’s brought it to drink, not as a gift. Okay. She’ll let him play this game. But she’ll have to keep an eye on him. She can’t let him get drunk, she needs him to help her plan things out. But a little lubricant might help.

“Bourbon instead?”

“Sure.”

At least he’s speaking.

“Let’s sit in the kitchen. I’ll make you an old-fashioned.”

He catches her hand. His voice is gruff. “Ford. We can’t keep pretending everything is okay. I only came to tell you this—whatever this is—is over.”

She straightens, gently pulls her hand from his grip. “I understand. I’m not thrilled with your decision, though if that’s truly what you want, I will respect your wishes. But, Rumi, we need to have a very serious conversation, about much more than just us. Let me make you a drink, and I’ll get right to it.”

He looks confused but doesn’t resist anymore.

She mixes the old-fashioned too quickly, slopping the bitters into the glass, not getting the sugar totally mixed in, but she’s angry and nervous. She needs him on her side. She needs him to cooperate.

She needs him.

Don’t you dare, Ford. He’s made a decision and you must let him go.

Finally, she hands him the drink, wipes off the counter, and sits at the table. He takes the chair across from her. She puts the phone facedown on the wood. It’s been charging since she arrived and now has plenty of juice.

“I wanted to talk to you because someone sent me some rather incriminating photos—of us and of you. I am trying to decide how to handle things.”

He sits stiffly like his back is hurt. “May I see them?”

“Of course.”

God, they sound so stilted, so careful of each other. She imagines this is how a conversation about an impending divorce must happen, the gentle parlay as two lives break apart and begin their dissection.

He swipes through, face impassive.

And just like a wronged wife, she can’t help herself, she throws the first aspersion. “Were you sleeping with Camille Shannon?”

He hands her the phone. “Yes. Not recently, though. I saw her a few times over the summer. But she ditched me for another guy.”

“I see. Were you aware that she was pregnant when she died?”

“I was. At least, I knew she had been.” The facade breaks. “It wasn’t mine. She came to me when the pills didn’t work. She had an appointment at a clinic in Charlottesville that she needed a ride to. I told her I’d take her. She threw herself off the bell tower that night. I don’t know why. She was pretty determined to end the pregnancy and get on with term.”

“Were you the father?”

He shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t.”