Sweet Forgiveness (8 page)

I'm still rattled at 9:00 p.m., when I enter the small boutique hotel on Oak Street. I scurry to the registration desk, as if to hasten my departure. I'm ready to leave this city, and the memory of my deceitful interview, behind me. As soon as I get up to my room, I'll call Michael and tell him I'm coming home early, in time for our Saturday-night date.

The thought cheers me. I'd purposely booked the return flight for Sunday, back when I thought Michael and Abby were joining me for a weekend in Chicago. But as I was packing to leave, Michael called saying Abby was “a bit under the weather.” They had to cancel.

For a split second I thought about telling him to come anyway, alone, like he'd promised he'd do if I moved here. But Abby's sick—or at least claims to be. What kind of insensitive girlfriend expects a father to leave his sick daughter? I shake my head. And what kind of coldhearted monster doubts a sick child's motives?

I'm halfway across the marble lobby when I spot him. I stop in my tracks. He's sitting in an upholstered wingback chair scrolling his cell phone. He rises when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket and moving toward me in that lazy swagger of his. Time slows. His grin is crooked, just as I remember, and his hair is as shaggy as ever. But that southern charm I fell in love with is nearly palpable.

“Jack,” I say, feeling light-headed. “What are you doing here?”

“My mother told me you were in town.”

“Of course she did.” It breaks my heart that Dorothy is still clinging to the hope that somehow, some way, Jack and I will get back together.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” He jabs a thumb toward the elevator. “There's a bar here, right downstairs.” He says it as if the proximity makes up for the fact that I'd be sitting down with my ex, alone, in a strange city.

We settle into a horseshoe-shaped booth, and Jack orders two gin martinis. “One up, one on the rocks.”

I'm touched that he remembers. But I've changed since we were together. Martinis are no longer my drink of choice. These days I prefer something lighter, like a vodka tonic. But how would he know? We haven't shared drinks in over two years.

He talks about his job and his life in Chicago. “It's crazy cold,” he tells me, and offers his familiar deep chuckle. But his eyes hold a trace of sadness since we parted, something I still haven't gotten used to. When we were together—especially in the early days when everything was new and full of promise—his eyes held only mirth. I wonder if I'm solely responsible for taking away his joy.

The waitress sets our drinks on the table, then disappears. Jack smiles up at me and holds his glass aloft. “To old friends,” he says.

I study the man in front of me, the man I almost married. I take in his rosy cheeks and lopsided grin, his freckled arms and the fingernails he still bites to the quick. He's so real. And despite his infidelity, I like this man. I truly and genuinely like him. Some friends are like our favorite sweaters. Most days we opt for the T-shirts and blouses. But the sweater's always there, in the back of our closet, comfortable, familiar, and ready to keep us warm on those blustery days. Jack Rousseau is my sweater.

“To old friends,” I say, feeling the shadow of nostalgia creeping in. I push it away as quickly as it came. I've got Michael now.

“It's good to see you,” he says. “You look terrific, Hans. A little thin, but happy. You are happy, right? And you are eating?”

“Yes, to both,” I say, laughing.

“Good. Great. Obviously, Mr. Right-Wing makes you happy.”

I shake my head at his little jab. “You'd like him, Jack. He really cares about the people.” And me, I think. But it'd be cruel to tell him this. “I've moved on, and so should you.”

He twirls his toothpick of olives, and I can tell he's got something on his mind.
Please don't dredge up the past again!

“Your mother's doing well,” I say, trying to steer the conversation in another direction. “She's got a new obsession—the Forgiveness Stones.”

He laughs. “I know all about it. She sent me a pouch of stones the other day, and a three-page letter of apology. The sweetest woman on earth, and she's apologizing to me.”

I smile. “I'm beginning to regret ever introducing her to the stones. She's handing them out like those Dove chocolates she always kept next to her TV.”

He nods. “It's cool. I sent the second stone to my dad. Did you know that when he got remarried, back in 1990, I refused to go to the wedding?”

“You were protective of your mom. I'm sure he understood.”

“Yeah, but it hurt him. He and Sharon are really happy. I see that now. It actually felt good, writing that apology. I wish my mom could find it in her to forgive him.”

“Maybe he's never asked her to.”

Jack shrugs. “Maybe. And sounds like she's got a love interest now.”

“Love interest? Your mother?”

“Another resident. Mr. Sullivan.”

“You think she's interested in Patrick Sullivan again?”

“Yeah, I'm picking up that vibe. She never dated after she and my dad split. Maybe all this time she's been waiting for ol' man Sullivan. Maybe he's the one who really shook her tree.”

“Shook her tree?” I laugh and flip his arm with the back of my hand. “You're such a romantic!”

“What?” he says, laugh lines spreading across his cheekbones. “I shook your tree.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Rousseau.” I roll my eyes, but it feels nice to be joking with him.

“I'm just saying, my mom deserves a little romance, and maybe this Sullivan dude can deliver.” He levels his eyes at me. “You know how I feel. You never give up on the people you love.”

The accusation hits its mark. I look away, feeling his gaze burning through me.

“I should probably get going,” I say, and push aside my drink.

He seizes my hand. “No. I wanted . . . I—I needed to talk to you.”

I feel the warmth of his hand where it rests on mine, and watch as softness overtakes his gaze. My heart speeds. Jesus, I need to keep this light.

“Your mom tells me the restaurant consulting business is going well. Have you found Tony's Place yet?” Jack's ambition was to travel the world in search of the perfect restaurant—a dimly lit Tony Soprano–type place with killer martinis and red leather booths. He used to tease that when he found it, he'd buy it and call it Tony's Place.

He holds tight to my hand and doesn't crack a smile.

“I'm getting married, Hannah.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

I see the muscle in his jaw clench. He nods his head ever so slightly.

I pull my hand from his and rub my arms, feeling suddenly cold. My favorite sweater is unraveling.

“Congratulations,” I say, but my tongue feels thick. I lift my martini. My hand trembles and the liquid sloshes over the edge of the glass. I set it down with two hands and grab a napkin, busying myself while I try to find my voice, and my bearings.

“Hey, I wanted you to know. It's not like I didn't give you a million and six chances to change your mind.” He sighs. “God, that sounded awful. Holly is great. You'd love her.” He smiles. “And what really matters is that I love her.”

I can't breathe.
Holly. Love her.

“Your mom,” I ask, my voice shaky, “did she know?”

“She knew I was dating Holly, but she didn't realize it was so serious. We agreed I should be the one to tell you. She's pregnant. Holly that is, not my mother.”

He offers his lopsided grin, and without warning, I burst into tears.

“Oh, God,” I say, shifting away and swiping my eyes. “I'm so sorry. This is great news. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

He hands me his napkin, and I blot my eyes. “A baby. That's wonderful.”

But it's not wonderful. I've made a huge mistake.

“I wish things could have been different for us, Hans. You were just so . . . so certain. So black-and-white. So judgmental.”

I cut him a look. “Judgmental? You were sleeping with your intern.”

He lifts a finger. “One time, which I will forever regret. But the truth is, I was never the one for you, Hannah.”

He's being kind, letting me save face. I love him more than ever.

“Of course you weren't,” I say. My smile competes with the downward tug at the corners of my mouth. “These tears are just to make you feel good.” My laughter gets tangled in a sob. I cover my face. “How do you know you weren't the one? How can you be so damn sure?”

He rubs my arm. “Because you never would have let me go. Like I say, we don't give up on the people we love.”

I stare back at him, wondering whether he's right, or whether I have a character flaw, some innate inability to forgive, or maybe even to love. I think of my mother and the hard stance I've taken with her.

“You're like a steel rod, Hans. You refused to bend, even an inch. Most of the time it probably serves you well.”

I fumble for my purse. “I have to go.”

“Wait.” He pulls some bills from his wallet and tosses them on the table. I hear him behind me, trotting to keep pace with me. I rush past the elevator doors, too rattled to share the tiny space with this soon-to-be-married man. I throw open the utility door and run up the cement stairs.

I hear his footsteps charging after me. Halfway up the staircase he grabs hold of my elbow.

“Hannah, stop.” He spins me around. His eyes become tender. “He's out there, Hans, your fire, the man who'll melt your steel. But it's not me. It never was.”

I
wait forty minutes before calling Michael. I'm too raw, and my voice still sounds thick. I don't want him to misconstrue my emotions. My tears over Jack take nothing away from my feelings for him.

Luckily, he's groggy when I call and doesn't pick up on my mood.

“How's Abby feeling?” I ask.

“Great.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I wonder again if she was ever sick at all. Jack's right. I really am judgmental.

I give Michael a quick snapshot of my day at WCHI.

“I'm one of three final candidates. They seemed to like me, but I won't know anything for a few weeks. You know how slowly these things move.”

“Congratulations. Sounds like you sealed the deal.” He yawns, and I imagine him checking his bedside clock. “Anything else to report?”

I feel like an officer reading the minutes at one of his city council meetings. “No, that's about the gist of it.”

I don't tell him about Jack. There's nothing to tell. But on impulse, I shoot him a question.

“Am I hard, Michael? Too judgmental?”

“Hmm?”

“Because I can change. I can become softer, more forgiving. I can open up more, share more. I really can.”

“No. Absolutely not. You're perfect.”

The king-sized hotel bed feels cramped. Thoughts of Jack and his future wife, of Michael and Abby, steal my sleep. I roll onto my side, trying to block out the interview and my fictitious claim of having made peace with my mother.

At the first hint of dawn, I exchange my PJs for my walking tights.

I stroll down Chicago's Lakefront Trail with my hands in my pockets, pondering my future. What if I actually get the job offer? Could I live here, alone in this city? I wouldn't have a single friend, not even Jack now.

I see a couple walking toward me, a pretty woman with auburn hair and a man in a Burberry coat. An adorable toddler sits balanced on his shoulders. What I wouldn't give to trade places with them.

My mind travels to my mother. It seems like the universe is conspiring against me. First Dorothy urges me to make peace. Then it's this damn proposal that's making me feel like I have an assignment. And last night, Jack's comment about not giving up on those we love. Is it possible I've judged my mother too harshly? The thought is out of my head before I have time to censor it.

My mind trips over itself, faster and more frenetic. I see glimpses of my mother's smile, finally genuine, when she looked at Bob. I see her standing at the picture window in our living room, waiting for his truck to arrive each morning during the remodel, and then dashing out to the driveway to meet him with a cup of coffee. I hear her laughter coming from the patio, where they'd sit sipping iced tea after Bob's long day of work. I watch her lean in, as if every word he spoke were poetry.

She loved the man. For whatever flaws she had, for whatever shortcomings of being a mother or a friend, my mother loved Bob with her entire heart and soul.

I realize now that my cloak of anger is actually a patchwork, and one of the emotions woven into the fabric is fear. How terrifying it was to witness my mother's love for someone else. Because in my young mind, her love for Bob meant she'd have less love for me.

I stop at a concrete landing and gaze out at the vast expanse of cold gray water separating me from my mother. The wind slaps my face, and my nose runs. Somewhere beyond the enormous cavity of Lake Michigan, in the suburbs of Detroit, my mother lives and breathes.

I crouch down, holding my head in my hands. What if she really has been trying to contact me? Could I possibly forgive her?

Jack's accusations come back to me.
Steel rod.
Black-and-white. Judgmental
. I pull myself up, struck with a desire so intense my head swims.

I turn back in the direction I'd come, and then I break into a run.

I'm nearly manic when I reach my hotel room. I throw open my laptop, and within five minutes I've located her address and phone number. She's listed as Suzanne Davidson. Has she kept her maiden name all these years, hoping I might one day try to find her? She's no longer in Bloomfield Hills. She lives in Harbour Cove. A shiver goes through me. Dorchester Lane? I punch the address into Google Maps and time freezes. They're living in Bob's old cabin, the place where I spent my fourteenth summer. The hairs on my arms rise. The place my father swore I'd never set foot in again.

With shaking hands, I punch the numbers into the hotel's cream-colored phone rather than my cell. She'll never know it's me. I slide into the chair behind the desk. My heart thunders as I listen to the phone ring once . . . twice . . .

I think of all the phone conversations we had after I left, during the three years leading up to my sixteenth birthday. I remember her endless barrage of questions and my snappy one-word answers. I accused her of being nosy for wanting to hear all about my life in Atlanta. I'd be damned if I'd let her in. If she wanted to be part of my life, then she'd better get her ass home where she belonged.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hello.”

I suck in a breath and clap a hand over my mouth.

“Hello?” she repeats. “Anybody there?”

She speaks softly, revealing just a hint of her Pennsylvania roots. I'm desperate to hear more of the voice I haven't heard in sixteen years.

“Hello,” I say, my voice weak.

She waits for me to continue, then finally speaks. “I'm sorry. Who is this?”

My heart shatters. She doesn't recognize her own daughter. But why would she? I wasn't expecting her to . . . or was I?

But for some completely irrational reason, it hurts.
I'm your daughter
, I want to scream.
The one you left behind.
I put my fingers to my lips and swallow hard.

“Wrong number,” I say, and hang up the phone

I bury my head on the desk. Softly at first, my sadness grows. That was my mother. The only person I ever truly loved.

I leap from the desk chair and rummage through my purse for my cell phone. This time I punch in Dorothy's number.

“Are you busy?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“Never too busy for my girl. What's on your mind, dear?”

“Do you think he—my dad—was telling you the truth about the letters—or a letter—from my mom? Did you believe him, Dorothy?”

I grip the phone, waiting for her response, knowing so much rests on this one answer.

“Sweetheart,” she says softly, “it was one of the few times I did believe him.”