Sweet Forgiveness (5 page)

“There's something we need to discuss, Michael.”

Michael has mixed us each a Sazerac cocktail, and we sit on opposite sides of my white sofa. The flickering fireplace casts an amber glow over the room, and I wonder if the peaceful ambiance feels as false to Michael as it does to me.

He swirls his glass and shakes his head. “She's just a girl, Hannah. Put yourself in her shoes. It's hard for her to share her father with another woman. Please try to understand that.”

I scowl. Wasn't I the one who suggested he see Abby alone tonight? I'd bring it to his attention, but I don't want to get sidetracked.

“This isn't about Abby,” I say. “It's about us. I e-mailed my proposal to WCHI. I told James Peters I was interested in the position.”

I watch his face, hoping to see a quiver of dread, a dash of disappointment. Instead, he comes to life. “Hey, that's great.” He drapes his arm across the back of the sofa and squeezes my shoulder. “You have my complete support on this.”

My stomach knots, and I fiddle with my necklace. “You see, that's just the thing. I don't want your support. I'd be moving nine hundred miles away, Michael. I want you to . . .”

I summon Dorothy's words,
I learned a long time ago to ask for what I want.

I turn to him. “I want you to ask me to stay.”

M
ichael sets his glass on the coffee table and moves to my end of the sofa. “Stay,” he says. He grips my forearms and his blue eyes bore into mine. “Please. Don't leave.”

He takes me into his arms and kisses me, long and deep and promising. When he pulls away, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Sweetheart, I just thought you owed it to yourself to interview, regardless. It'd give you a bargaining chip when you're negotiating your next contract with WNO.”

I nod. Of course, he's right. Especially now that Claudia Campbell is on the scene.

He cups my face in his hands. “I love you so much, Hannah.”

I smile. “I love you, too.”

“And leaving New Orleans doesn't mean you'd leave me.” He leans back. “You know, Abby's old enough now to stay alone. Hell, she's busy most weekends, anyway. I could come see you once, maybe even twice a month.”

“You could?” It's hard to imagine an entire weekend alone with Michael, where we'd fall asleep in each other's arms and wake the next morning with the whole day splayed before us . . . and then another day.

Michael's right. If I moved to Chicago, we might actually have more time together.

“And I could come back here to visit on the opposite weekends,” I say, my enthusiasm growing.

“Exactly. Let's say you take the job for a year. You'll gain some national exposure. You'd be extremely competitive for a job in DC.”

“DC?” I shake my head. “But don't you see? I want us to be together someday.”

He grins. “I'll let you in on a little secret. I've been thinking about a run for the Senate. It's a little premature to talk about it, since Senator Hanses hasn't announced whether she's seeking reelection . . .”

I smile. Michael
is
thinking of the future. In a couple of years, he may be in Washington. And he's making sure my path leads me there, too.

Sunday night, when the weekend is over and I'm in my bed staring at the ceiling, I wonder why it is that I still feel empty. For once, I've asked Michael for what I wanted. And he gave me the right answer. So why do I feel lonelier than ever?

The answer comes to me at 1:57
a.m
. I've asked the wrong question. I know that Michael wants me with him. And that's good. But the real question is: Does he ever intend to make me his wife?

Jade and I are power-walking in Audubon Park Monday afternoon. “So Marcus says to me, ‘Please, baby, just one more chance. It'll never happen again, I swear.'”

I unclench my jaw and try to keep my tone neutral. “I thought he was seeing someone.”

“Not anymore. He claims she was a sorry substitute for me.”

“What'd you say?”

“I said, ‘Oh, hell, no. I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to stop after one broken jaw.'”

I laugh and slap her a high five. “Good for you! You stay strong.”

She slows her stride. “So why do I feel so damn guilty? Marcus was—is—a great father. Devon adores him.”

“Look, nothing's preventing him from having a relationship with his son. He should be grateful you never told Devon, or pressed charges. If you had, he'd be out of Devon's life and off the force.”

“I know. But Devon doesn't understand. He thinks I'm being mean to his daddy. It's like I'm being tag-teamed with Devon's pissy attitude and Marcus's begging. He keeps reminding me of the fifteen good years we had. That I'd been riding his ass for not getting the brakes on the car fixed. He'd been in the middle of a tough case, working nights and weekends. He was sleep-deprived and . . .”

I tune her out. I've heard Marcus's tale of woe at least thirty times, and I can't bear to hear it again. With the full support of her parents, she left Marcus last October, the very day he backhanded her, and filed for divorce the following week. Thank God she hasn't wavered. So far.

“I liked him, too, I really did. But what he did is inexcusable. You are not to blame, Jade. No man is allowed to hit a woman. Ever. End of story.”

“I know. I know you're right. I just . . . please don't hate me for this, Hannabelle, but I miss him sometimes.”

“If only we could copy and paste the good parts.” I link arms with her. “I confess, I miss the good times with Jack sometimes, too. But I would never be able to trust him again. It's the same with you and Marcus.”

She turns to me. “How was your date with Michael? Did you tell him to get his ass in gear and buy you a diamond?”

I give her the rundown of our conversation Saturday night. “So, if I were to move to Chicago, we'd actually spend more alone time together, not less.”

She looks skeptical. “Really? He'd leave his precious city every month? You wouldn't have to deal with Crabby?”

I can't help but smile at Jade's nickname for Abby. “That's what he says. Of course, now I really want this job.”

“No! You can't leave,” she says. “I won't let you.”

The very reaction I'd hoped to hear from Michael.

“Don't worry. I'm sure they've got a huge pool of more qualified candidates. But I did send a pretty sweet proposal, if I do say so myself.” I tell her about the Forgiveness Stones craze and the proposal to host Fiona and my estranged mother.

“Wait—your mother? You told me you lost her.”

I close my eyes and cringe. Did I really tell her that? “Not literally. Figuratively. We had a huge falling-out years ago.”

“I never knew that.”

“I'm sorry. I don't like to talk about it. It's complicated.”

“Well, I'm impressed, Hannabelle. You've made peace, and you're actually hosting your mother on television.”

“Oh, hell no!”

“I should have known,” she says, and shakes her head. “Boundaries.”

“That's right,” I say, ignoring the sarcasm in her voice. “It's just a proposal. I made it up. My mother and I haven't actually made peace.”

“Gotcha. So tell me more about these Forgiveness Stones. They're kind of like a
get-out-of-jail-free
card?” Jade asks. “You confess some deep shameful secret, give the person a rock, and call it good?”

“I know. Pretty hokey, right?”

She shrugs. “I don't know. It's actually pretty brilliant. I can see why the idea has legs. Who doesn't need to be forgiven?”

“Right, Jade. Your biggest sin is probably the time you accidentally stole the sample cream at the Clinique counter.”

I turn to her, smiling. But her face is clouded. “Hey, I'm kidding. I'm just saying, you're about the most straightforward, honest person I know.”

She bends over and grabs her knees. “Hannabelle, you have no idea.”

I move over to the grass, letting a runner pass by. “What is it?”

“For over twenty-five years I've had this huge lie trailing me like a block of stinky cheese. Ever since my dad's diagnosis it's been eating at me.”

She straightens and stares off into the distance, as if she's trying to escape from the memory. What is it with these stones? Instead of granting peace, they're causing grief.

“It was my sixteenth birthday. My parents threw me a party. I think Daddy was more excited than any of us. He wanted it to be perfect. He decided to spiff up the basement rec room before the party. Paint, new furniture, the works. When I told him I wanted white carpet, he didn't bat an eye.” She looks over at me and smiles. “Can you imagine? White carpet in a basement?

“About fifteen girls spent the night. Oh, and were we boy-crazy! So when a half dozen guys came knocking at the downstairs patio door bearing cherry vodka and some god-awful red wine, of course we let them in.

“I was terrified. I'd be grounded for life if my parents happened to come back downstairs, and skinned alive if they ever found out we were drinking. But they'd already checked in for the night. They were upstairs watching
48 Hours
. They trusted me.

“By midnight, my friend Erica Williams was as buzzed as a bee. She got sick. All over. So long, white carpet.”

“Oh no,” I say. “What did you do?”

“I tried my best to scrub it out, but the stain wouldn't budge. The next morning, Daddy came downstairs and saw it. I told him the truth: Erica had gotten sick. ‘Was she drinking?' he asked. I looked him straight in the eyes. ‘No, Daddy.'”

Her voice quakes, and I sling an arm around her shoulder. “Jade, that's nothing. Forget about it. You were just a kid.”

“For years, he's come back to that tale, Hannah. Even on my thirtieth birthday he asked, ‘Jade, was Erica drinking the night of your sixteenth birthday party?' And as always, I answered, ‘No, Daddy.'”

“Maybe it's time to tell him, then. Give him a Forgiveness Stone. Because I'm pretty sure the lie is hurting you far more than the truth will hurt him.”

She shakes her head. “It's too late. The cancer's spread to his bones now. The truth would kill him.”

Jade and I are finishing our last lap when Dorothy calls, sounding more chipper than she has in months. “Could you drop by this afternoon, dear?”

It's unusual for Dorothy to request a visit. More often than not she tells me it's silly for me to come by so often.

“I'm happy to,” I say. “Everything okay?”

“Splendid. And bring a half dozen of those little pouches, could you, please? I think they sell them at Michaels.”

Oh, great. The Forgiveness Stones again. “Dorothy, you didn't accept my stone. You're off the hook. You don't have to continue that silly Circle of Forgiveness.”

“A half dozen,” she insists, “for starters.”

I should have known. Dorothy loves to partake in chain letters and e-mail pass-alongs. She's certainly not going to miss the chance to join a popular new fad like the Forgiveness Stones. She's been tagged and, regardless of whether or not she felt justified in receiving them, she will continue the Circle of Forgiveness, and then some.

“Okay, but the instructions say to send one letter of apology, not a half dozen.”