The Last Invitation (41)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Jessa




Jessa held her second cup of tea in front of her like a precious crystal. She downed the first as soon as she took a seat in Retta and Earl’s impressive dining room. From the built-ins to the chandelier, the room screamed elegance and sophistication, in contrast to Jessa’s dirty jeans and fraying T-shirt.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Retta stepped inside. Every woman Jessa knew came home from work, sloughed off the dress clothes, and found something old and soft to slip into. Comfy clothes. If Retta owned those, she hid them. Today’s outfit consisted of a sleek black pantsuit and green silk blouse. Perfect hair, with just the right number of thin bracelets and a brooch on her lapel.

“You’re here.” Relaxed or not, Jessa enjoyed a rush of relief. She stood up as if the queen had entered the room.

“I live here,” Retta said in an amused voice.

“Yes, of course.” Even with the degree and the career, Jessa’s self-assurance shrank in Retta’s presence. She fell back into the role of overeager mentee, desperate for advice and acceptance. “Over the last few days, everything—”

“Jessa.” Retta held up a hand. “There’s no rush. Sit down and drink your tea.”

Right. Calm and dignity. She could pretend to possess those. “Earl let me in.”

“I’m aware,” Retta said as she sat at the end of the table, off to Jessa’s left.

“He knows . . .” Jessa struggled to find the composure she needed to get through the next few minutes. The string of shaky days dumped her in a dark place that she dug and clawed at but couldn’t climb out of. “I mean, of course you talk, so . . .”

Retta poured a cup of tea and sat back in her chair. “Knows about what?”

“About the group.” Was she allowed to mention the group? Jessa had no idea what the rules were or if it was okay to bring the topic up again. “What you do . . .” This conversation could not go worse. “I don’t really even understand what I’m talking about.”

Retta smiled. “Jessa, please calm down.”

“I can’t.” The energy revving up inside her had her shifting in the antique chair. Jessa tried to hold in the pulsing ball of exasperation, anger, and terror, but it spilled out. “Tim told me to leave the condo. I’ve lost my job. I might be disbarred. I have nowhere to go, no extra money, and now I might not be able to earn any.” She gulped in a deep breath and kept going. “Reporters are snooping around my past, and . . . We all have stuff we don’t want people to know, right?”

“Well. That’s quite a day.”

“Too much.” Jessa reached her breaking point then went soaring past it. “I can’t—”

“Jessa.” Retta set her cup down on the table. “Tell me you want help.”

“I don’t . . .”

“Say the words.”

Is this a test? Jessa dropped into the chair. “I want help.”

“There.”

Uh . . . “There?”

“Do you understand that accepting help means accepting the ties that come with the assistance?” Retta asked. “It’s about holding up your end of the bargain. Responsibility.”

Jessa wanted to scream, Yes, to all of it . . . no matter what it was. “Please just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything, but I can’t deal in riddles right now.”

“First, you’re not special.” Retta stopped there, as if to let the harsh reality of her words seep in. “You’re experiencing the same thing that many people without power, money, or resources in the legal system deal with every single day.”

“Justice shouldn’t depend on not having a rich person attack you.”

“You’re on the defensive. People will lie and hurt you. Belittle and disregard you.” Retta didn’t sugarcoat. If anything, she ramped up the tension by shoveling on the painful truth. “You’ve lost control of the conversation, to the extent you were invited in the conversation in the first place.”

That defensiveness she mentioned kicked up and demanded Jessa’s attention. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You don’t need to lie.” Retta picked a piece of lint only she could see off her pants. “Perfection is not the price of admission to the group. Your drive comes from being imperfect, and that drive is what the group needs.”

Jessa repeated those words in her head, letting them soothe her frazzled nerves. She couldn’t claim anything close to perfection. “But . . . I . . .”

“You do need to own your mess. And, let’s be honest, that is not one of your strengths.” Retta shot Jessa a look that dared her to disagree. When she wisely didn’t, Retta continued. “First, Tim is the wrong man for you. He sucks up all the air in your relationship. He wants someone to support him, not a partner.”

“True.”

“I’m not judging him. That’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the only member of a household in the spotlight, but it’s not what you need. Accept that, because, while your heart feels dented, it will heal.”

Tim’s face popped into Jessa’s mind. That smile. The assured way he moved through the world. She’d been attracted to all of it. All the characteristics she wished she possessed. “I thought he was the one.”