Follow Him Everywhere and Submarine Her – Part One
Maddie
Two weeks ago she had had the revelation that her mom and Helena belonged together, and since then, her revelation hadn't weakened, but her hope that she and Christina could bring their mothers together, for real this time, was starting to fade. While it may have seemed to someone else that not enough time had passed to be making that judgement, someone else probably didn't know that time wasn't as an important a measurement as the Myka Bering happiness meter. Her mom was really happy. Not Michelle-happy, happier. It wasn't that she and Gigi were constantly together, but her mom was wearing this new goofy smile now, a smile whose present-day version looked very much like the one she wore in the pictures of her and Helena when they were young and in love. Pre-revelation, that goofy smile would have provoked no more than a roll of her eyes, but now, now, she wanted to wave her hand in front of her mom's face in a pretend slap and yell "Snap out of it!" just like her Aunt Tracy did when her mom was, well, being her mom, determined to see the best in a situation that would send others running away screaming at the top of their lungs. Aunt Tracy said it was from a movie, but Maddie thought it was very Aunt Tracyish. Sometimes if someone were to ask her who she wanted to be when she was older, it was a toss-up between RBG and Aunt Tracy.
But Aunt Tracy, who always had her back, did not have her back on this. Maddie had tried, sneakily, she thought, to interject Helena into the conversation when her mother wasn't around. It was more difficult than she had expected because Aunt Tracy, in her last trimester, wanted, first, to nap and then, if she was expected to hold up her end of a conversation, talk about her baby. "Seemed kind of full of herself," Aunt Tracy said with a yawn and a loving caress of her rounded abdomen. From looking like a basketball not all that long ago, her expanding uterus now looked like a pendant water balloon, only giant. She was in a recliner that Uncle Kevin had bought for her and which had pride of place in the family room, the spot with the best vantage point to watch TV. Her feet up, she was sipping her iced tea through a straw (paper, not plastic) and eating microwave popcorn. Maddie was serving as her lady-in-waiting for a day while her mom and Gigi did . . . whatever girlfriends who hadn't seen each other during the school week did when the school kid was visiting her aunt.
"She's very confident." That was a way to make it seem a positive, right?
"Cocky," Aunt Tracy whipped back. "Hard to see what your mother saw in her. I think Myka's thanking her lucky stars that Helena went to Spain without her. I know you're friends with Helena's daughter, but Gigi's, like, wow." Aunt Tracy shook her head in astonishment. She sobered, saying with hushed emphasis, "And she's crazy about your mom. Myka's deserved that for so long." Her eyes grew big with guilt as she looked at Maddie. "Not that your dad didn't love her, but . . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"But they weren't well matched." Maddie tried to say it with the same resigned air as her grandmother.
"Plus she's gay. Made the reciprocity kind of difficult." She gave Maddie another long look, but this time her eyes were narrowed almost to slits. "Don't you like Gigi? I mean, it's fine if you don't," she quickly amended. "You're having to share your mom again."
"Gigi's great," Maddie hastened to reassure her, then silently scolded herself for sabotaging her own plan. The whole point was to get Aunt Tracy to support Team Helena and here she was cheering on Team Gigi. "Isn't it more romantic, though, her history with Helena? They were each other's first love, and now they've met again after almost 20 years."
Aunt Tracy made a sound between a snort, a cough, and a gurgle, and she frantically reached for her iced tea. After several pulls on the straw that resulted in the gargling sound when all that was left was ice – which always made Maddie's grandmother wince and declare, with a warning look, that people would think Maddie was a "bumpkin" if she kept doing it – Aunt Tracy handed the glass to her for a refill. "Helena might have been your mom's first love, but I'm pretty sure Helena's first love was Helena. Besides, you'll discover for yourself someday that there's a reason most first loves don't work out." She shuddered. "When I think that, in another life, I might be carrying Jeff Williams, Jr." She petted her stomach and said reassuringly to it, "But I spared us, Baby, I married your dad instead."
Maddie looked at her uncomprehendingly. Sure, it was possible that someday, when she was as old as her Aunt Tracy, she might snort in disbelief about J.P. Lattimer, but it was also possible that her grandfather Martino could worry about elephants being hunted for their ivory and the burning of the Amazon rainforest. Possible but she and her grandfather both would have better odds of being struck by an asteroid. She definitely wanted to be on the Tracy Bering end rather than the Myka Bering end of the spectrum, but sometimes being a romantic could be kind of romantic in a very nonsappy, nongoogly-eyed way.
"This is just between you and me . . . and Baby." Hand still rubbing her stomach reassuringly, Aunt Tracy gave Maddie the kind of direct look that adults usually reserved for each other. "I think this could be the one, Maddie Muffin, the way your mom looks at her and talks about her. I've never seen her like this before."
I have, Maddie protested silently, but she couldn't make herself say it out loud. In fact, all she said was, "If you want me to babysit your kid, you can never call me Maddie Muffin in front of Gigi."
"Deal."
It had looked only grimmer for Team Helena after that. By the time her mom drove her to the park where the Sprouts played their games on Saturday mornings, Maddie had made her worst discovery yet. Taking her bedroom trash to the big trash cart in their ramshackle garage, she lifted the lid only to zero in on a corner of an oversized mailing envelope. Afterward she couldn't explain why, except that maybe there had been shrieks of agony coming from the cart that only she and Remy could hear, and she set her little bag down to gingerly pull at the envelope corner. It had been very carefully placed among the other bags as if her mom still cared about what was in it. Maddie knew before she saw the first of the pictures what was in the envelope. A photo of Helena slipped out, and Helena's dark eyes stared up at her. She was hunched over drawn-up knees on the steps to a building. She looked – Maddie hunted for the right word – pensive, and she could imagine her mom reaching out to take Helena's hand after she took the picture and promising her that everything would work out. It was equally as easy to imagine Helena demanding sardonically, "How?," and her mom saying, with the goofy smile that, despite its goofiness, could cling to her face like wallpaper, "Because we love each other." If she didn't believe it was still true, Maddie wouldn't have taken the envelope from the trash because she had to hide it in her bedroom closet, and every time she opened the closet she got a whiff of garbage, a compound of spoiled milk, cleaning products, and ancient coffee grounds.
It was cold this morning, and Maddie wished she had worn a jacket over her Sprouts sweatshirt. Her mood was as flat and gray as the industrial carpet of clouds above them, and it wasn't improved by her mom's sudden announcement that Gigi would be dropping by during the game. "She wants to see the assistant coach at work."
"I'm not Pete's assistant coach, Mom."
"We'll keep our distance, and if you need me to, I can deny that I'm your mother if asked." Her mom was dressed up for a Saturday morning, wearing a non-nubbly cable-knit sweater over jeans. She had her hair up, too, in a tidy-looking twist. Usually her mom wore her hair unbound on the weekends, often with an old baseball cap jammed over it because she would be painting or peeling off old wallpaper later in the day, but if she had to, she would tie her hair back, sometimes with a shoe lace if nothing else was at hand.
After that, it had been hard to keep her focus on the Sprouts and translating Pete's unvarying "Can you grab me that, Maddie?" for his clipboard or the whistle he had misplaced or his water bottle. She kept looking behind the Sprouts' sideline where the parents sat huddled in their lawn chairs or stood with their hands balled up in their hoodie pockets, waiting for Gigi to show up. The sole bright spot was when Cam Davis, almost by accident, kicked the Sprouts' only goal. A moment of indecision about which goal was the Sprouts' had faked out a Little Dynamo defender, and Cam, assisted by shouts of "The other way, Cam!," managed to guide the ball within kicking distance. Maddie had shouted herself hoarse for him to pass it to Beatriz Nunez, one of the Sprouts' more sure-footed players, but whether Cam had decided to seize the initiative for himself or because he was nonplussed by the towering Little Dynamo player headed toward him, he shielded his face with his hands and kicked the ball at the same time. It skittered across the grass, hitting a bump that launched it into the air, but not high enough to travel over the goalie's head. In fact, it thumped to the ground at the goalie's feet, but she was too surprised to react before it rolled past her. Cam's mom jumped out of her chair so fast that she sent it flying and then all of the Sprouts and virtually all of the Sprouts' parents were on the field, yelling and crushing him to them in hugs. Maddie remained on the sidelines, no less ecstatic at Cam's success than the others, but transfixed at the sight of her mom leaning into Gigi and gazing adoringly up at her. A lot of people were looking at Gigi, because even in faded jeans and an old sweatshirt, Gigi was still Gigi, but Gigi had eyes only for her mom. Maddie hadn't realized what that phrase meant until now. It meant being so into someone that a lawn chair hurtling by you didn't make you blink, that a goal made by possibly the worst Sprouts player in history was meaningless, that your more-than-likely-future-stepdaughter staring at you forlornly wasn't even a passing cloud on the horizon.
It meant that Team Gigi, unlike Team Jacob (even though Maddie wasn't as familiar with Team Jacob's weaknesses as she needed to be because her mom still wouldn't let her watch the movies), was invincible.
"Hello, Maddie."
Dr. Frederic. She kept saying "Call me Irene," but Maddie felt that she would always be "Dr. Frederic" to her. Just like Gigi in restain-the-wood-floors clothes was still Gigi, Dr. Frederic in a windbreaker and khakis was still Dr. Frederic. "Hi, Dr.—Irene."
"Marvelous day, isn't it?" Dr. Frederic was smiling as though the sun were out and the kids in their soccer shorts and jerseys weren't trying to rub their goosebumps away. "I got here just in time to see Cam's goal. Wonderful, truly wonderful. As is that." She tilted her head back in the direction of Gigi and her mom making googly eyes at each other, "Your mother is the happiest I've seen her in a very long time."
"Yeah, Cam was great." Maddie dutifully tried to infuse enthusiasm into her voice. Relieved to hear Pete's "Maddie, can you grab me that while you're over there?," she spotted the clipboard, which he had flung down in his excitement at the goal. "I've got to go, Irene." That didn't sound very polite in front of her mom's boss. She fumbled for something she heard her mom and grandmother say when they would run into someone they knew at the store and she would have to wait, bored out of her mind, for the conversation to end. "Good talking to you."
"Yes, it's been good talking to you too, Maddie." There was a hint of amusement in her response, but Dr. Frederic's smile was broad and warm.
Maddie fled but not before she scooped up the clipboard. Dr. Frederic was nice, but she would swear the woman could see right through her. After a tussle over the ball at the mid-field and several Little Dynamo and Sprouts players uniting in protest against the conditions by running to their respective sidelines for their jackets, the game was called at 1-0. The Sprouts' first true win – a forfeiture caused by a wildfire spread of pink eye among the Sparks had resulted in their only other victory – made for a cheerier post-game departure than usual, but Maddie felt no corresponding lift in her spirits. Her dad was supposed to come by and take her out for lunch and an afternoon of shopping. Actually, he was supposed to have come to the game, like Gigi, to watch in her action, but, unlike Gigi, who had made it in time, even if her real motivation was to cuddle with her mom, her dad had yet to appear. The big alumni event he was in town for this weekend didn't start until tonight, so he didn't have that as an excuse. He had probably just overslept - which wasn't one of Maddie's failings, but she knew lots of people who would slam the snooze button over and over again so she had learned to accept it - but when he did show up, he would be full of explanations about having to call so-and-so and ensure they were there at the event or having to talk to the event organizers to make sure the food and booze were what he had ordered. The explanations were worse than the failure to show up on time. She didn't care, but she had to listen to them anyway and then quiet the anxiety and guilt in his eyes by saying something stupid but comforting like "It's okay, Dad, you were really busy, but you're here now."
Her arm linked with Gigi's, her mom came over to her. She wasn't so googly-eyed, although she had pressed herself awfully close to Gigi's side, like they were about to run a three-legged race. She kept looking toward the street that paralleled the park and frowning. "Has your dad called you?"
Only then did Maddie think to look at her phone. Yup, there was a voicemail on it. She didn't need to listen to it. It would be from her dad. He would sound frustrated and distracted because he was trying to merge with traffic, Bluetooth a playlist to the rental car's computer, drink his coffee, and apologize to his daughter. It made her nervous to listen to the voicemails. She didn't need him to get killed apologizing for something she had already accounted for. "He's late," she said.
Her mom murmured to Gigi. "Why don't you go to that bakery we like and bring something back to the house? I'll wait here until Sam comes. He can drop me off." She disentangled herself enough from Gigi to pull out her key ring from her pocket and slip off the housekey. She handed it to Gigi with an especially goofy smile. "A temporary inconvenience."
Maddie wasn't sure whether her mom meant having to wait for her dad to show up or Gigi not having her own key to their house. She hadn't known until just now that her mom and Gigi had a "their" bakery. She and her mom didn't have a "their" bakery, they didn't have a "their" anything. It was all moving so fast between her mom and Gigi when it was all moving way too slow between her mom and Helena. It was like one of those story problems her mom and Aunt Tracy would groan over together. Train A leaves the station 30 minutes earlier than Train B but Train B arrives at the next stop ahead of Train A. Explain how that is possible. You didn't need to know algebra to work out the answer, you just needed to know that there was more than one set of tracks and that Train A had spectacularly derailed.
"You two go on," Dr. Frederic interjected smoothly, "Maddie and I haven't had a chance to catch up yet."
"Irene, you don't need to do that."
Maddie heard the note of relief in that protest. So did Dr. Frederic. "Go on. It's no bother. Maddie and I will have a nice chat while Leena is, ah, congratulating Coach Lattimer on a successful game."
There were still stragglers from the game slowly making their way to their cars, stopping to briefly gather and exclaim over the winning goal and compliment the performance of the other parents' Sprouts players. The way they would hover together only to drift apart and reform another cluster reminded Maddie of how bees and less charming but equally environmentally important bugs would hang out together mid-air, exchanging intelligence about the best flowers to scope out and the birds to watch out for. Leena and Cam were among the slowest because Pete was walking beside them, waving his arms and making sound effects, reenacting Cam's kick.
Maddie saw her mom grin. "We're too far away to feel the full effect of the magic."
"Thank God for that," Gigi murmured. She didn't hook her arm through Myka's, instead slinging her arm around Myka's waist. "Let's go while the offer's still good. Nice seeing you again, Irene. See you tomorrow, Maddie."
It was too much seeing them walk off together, especially when her mom's arm kept sliding south of Gigi's waist. It was probably accidental, but still. Maddie turned uncertainly to Irene. It was one thing to chatter to her grandmother about things old people liked to talk about – how there was nothing good to watch on TV, how it was harder to do the things you did when you were young and didn't realize that your body would someday creak and groan like an old house – it was another to think of something someone as imposing as Dr. Frederic would find interesting. "So you know Gigi?" It nervously tumbled from her mouth.
Dr. Frederic exhaled a puff of air that might have been mistaken for a silent chuckle. "I've had some interesting . . . conversations . . . with her boss, Mayor Jenkins. He and I have differing views on how the city and the university can better work together." She fixed Maddie with a searching look. "Gigi's not a half-bad politician herself. She can make an option that you swore you would never accept sound so reasonable that you find yourself supporting it." Much to Maddie's relief, that look landed on the diminishing figures of Gigi and her mom. "She always seemed a little slick to me, to tell you the truth, but she does seem to be genuinely head over heels for Myka."
Maddie dutifully presented Dr. Frederic with an accommodating smile. "Gigi's great. We get along great."
Under that intent look once more, Maddie felt as if she might start burning, like a leaf under the magnified glare of the sun. "Mmm, hmm," Dr. Frederic said, her skepticism no less recognizable for being wordless, "you're as bad a liar as your mother, Maddie."
"Gigi is great," Maddie insisted. "She's got these crazy dance moves and we uploaded a video of them to TikTok. She has a mega-crush on Michelle Obama, and she would've taken Eleanor Roosevelt to her prom." Hastily clarifying, Maddie said, "If she had been alive, I mean, Eleanor Roosevelt. She died a long time ago." Her voice trailed off as the skepticism on Dr. Frederic's face hadn't budged. Loudly drawing in a breath, she gave cheerleading one more try. "Remy loves her, and Remy doesn't like strangers."
"I've met Remy, dear. She knows no strangers." Dr. Frederic placed her hand on one of Maddie's drooped shoulders. "You and I are overdue for a heart-to-heart. Let's walk over to my car because I can't feel my toes any longer. I'll turn on the heater, we'll push the seats back so we can get comfortable, and you can tell me the whole story."
And Maddie did. She hadn't meant to. She was going to explain away her lack of enthusiasm by reminding Dr. Frederic that she was a child of divorce and, having seen both parents make inexplicable choices in romantic partners, she was understandably wary. (Dr. Frederic obviously knew about Michelle, but she probably didn't know about Pamela, a former top amateur golfer her dad had dated for a frighteningly long year and who never let anyone forget she had once been ranked. "When am I going to get you on the links, Maddie? I was already in tournaments when I wasn't much older than you.") Then she was going to masterfully redirect the conversation, maybe to Mr. Dr. Frederic and how Dr. Frederic knew he was the one. It didn't happen like that. Suddenly she was talking and talking and talking. She started from summer camp, when she had met Christina, and she went straight through the gala (She had been waiting forever for an opportunity to use "gala") and her late night conversation with Helena afterward. Dr. Frederic didn't interrupt, and unlike her grandmother, she didn't say "uh, huh, mmm, yes" or fidget. Although she was reclining at a comfortable angle in the driver's seat, with her hands steepled over her belly, Dr. Frederic would occasionally slew an eye in her direction, as if to let Maddie know she wasn't asleep.
When Maddie finished, Dr. Frederic let the silence hang between them for a few moments. "The two of you have some serious obstacles. Helena is engaged to be married, and your mother throwing out her pictures of Helena, that's telling."
"Helena loves my mom. You should have seen her face when she said my mom is the most beautiful woman she's ever seen. She means it, Dr. Frederic. And as for my mom, she doesn't look at Gigi exactly the same way she looked at Helena in the pictures. It's not quite as gooey."
"What I saw today had a high goo factor, Maddie," Dr. Frederic said warningly.
Maddie would have felt more disappointed if the look in Dr. Frederic's eyes hadn't been at odds with the tone of her voice. There was a light in them that seemed to want to egg her on instead of discourage her. "Helena's not married yet, and my mom hasn't been dating Gigi for long. There's still time, and I can't believe it's a coincidence that 20 years later, they've met up again."
Dr. Frederic laughed. "It wasn't coincidence though, was it? You and Christina engineered it."
"Because we believe they should be together," Maddie said soberly.
Dr. Frederic found something of interest outside. Her next words weren't what Maddie was expecting, however. "That looks like Sam." She pointed to a man in a jacket too lightweight for the weather scanning the park. She honked the horn, and Maddie waved, hoping her dad would take notice. He peered at them, then swung his head away and continued toward the soccer pitch.
"I better go get him," she said, opening the car door. Dr. Frederic smiled the way adults did when they thought they heard you say more than you did. She knew what Dr. Frederic was thinking, there was a history of Bering women saying they had to go rescue Sam Martino, but she didn't mind. He had his own way of being a good dad. "Thanks for listening."
"You've given me a lot to think about, Maddie." Her voice dropped and Maddie could barely make out what she said, but she wasn't sure she was supposed to. "Myka . . . Leena. Love may be like a dandelion, but sometimes it needs a helpful puff of air."
Myka
Myka surveyed her new Falcons sweatshirt. The dropping off of the "prairie" part of the name was consistent with the falcon in the design, which, in wingspan alone, was closer to an eagle than an actual prairie falcon. Considering that the university was about 600 miles east of the prairie falcon's native habitat, she shouldn't nitpick about accuracy. She had hoped to find a moderately priced sweatshirt, but she ended up paying $80 for this one, with the university mascot transformed into a Jurassic Park raptor. The Macallan had set her back another $80. The game didn't start for an hour and a half, and she was already $160 in the red. Despite Nate's self-presentation as a small town boy made good, he enjoyed the hallmarks of his status, and while she would have gotten by with a much worn – and therefore treasured – Falcons sweatshirt had she one that wasn't covered in paint streaks, bringing to the gathering a $25 bottle of Jack Daniel's would have marked her interloper status even more emphatically. On the other hand, an $80 Macallan was nothing to a man who could pay ten times as much for a bottle and consider it small change. She couldn't run with this pack, and she was no Gigi, who didn't have to run with the pack because she could turn them into puppies with one smoldering look.
At least she hadn't had to wangle a ticket to watch the game from a nosebleed seat in the Canvasbacks' stadium (which was hosting this year's Battle) and hope that Nate remembered to let her into his luxury box at halftime. The fact that that wasn't how he would be enjoying the game hadn't struck her as it should have. Nate Robinson was no Warren Bering, who had listened to every Battle on the radio because Saturdays were a business day at the bookstore, just like every other day of the week. He had kept the radio on a counter behind the cash register, the announcer's voice a low buzz indistinguishable from the buzz of the fluorescent lights above. Yet when she had mentioned it to Gigi as they entered a home that was, for the next 24 to 36 hours while Maddie was with her dad, an adult pleasure palace and not a battered Victorian undergoing a renovation more loving than efficient, Gigi had shaken her head at Myka's innocence.
"That's because he's found a higher use for it. Every home game he gives it to a college student in financial need, lets them invite family and friends, and provides a catered spread. He told Larry that he had gotten the idea after reading about a public relations firm that had recommended something similar to their client. He's never around to use the box, anyway, and it makes him look good." Gigi opened the bakery bag and gave to Myka a large jelly donut. She reached for a knife in the silverware drawer to cut a small cake donut in half. Myka licked a glob of jelly off her finger and watched as Gigi took a dainty nibble of her donut half. So this was her girlfriend's idea of carb-loading. "The client was in the middle of a nasty divorce, and one of the things he and his wife were fighting over were their luxury boxes. Here were two people worth hundreds of millions of dollars publicly squabbling over who got the theater-seating at midfield. It reminded people why the rich and powerful didn't deserve to be rich and powerful, and the bad press was beginning to affect the client's business. The firm suggested that the client and his wife show their generosity by giving fans who couldn't afford to attend the games the opportunity to watch them from their luxury boxes."
Myka's derisive huff was smothered by a kiss that was no less rocking for tasting of cinnamon sugar, but once she (partially) recovered, she said, with some loss to the integrity of her derision, "That's exactly the kind of gesture that seems more altruistic than it is, while something truly charitable would have been –"
Gigi kissed her again, laughing gently. "Exactly, and the public relations firm knew it. They made sure puff pieces were written about how wonderful the client and his wife were, about how the lucky fans who got to use the boxes were so appreciative, and the negative attention disappeared. Or found a new object, I'm not sure which, and it doesn't matter, because was it was a clever tactic . . . thought up by a very clever woman."
"Oh," Myka groaned, "don't tell me –"
"Yes, little did Nate know that the woman he was admiring was his future fiancée."
"I suppose they were fated to be together," Myka said, trying to keep the unwelcome pang of disappointment she felt from entering her voice. The young Helena had lacked discipline, ambition, focus, commitment, everything the young Myka had once thought was necessary in the person she would fall in love with, but the young Helena also would never have dreamed that she would become a PR specialist for corporations – and corporate executives – gone off the rails.
"Fate . . .or a certain someone who figured Helena could help Nate out when he went through his own rough patch. Letting people use his luxury boxes wasn't going to cut it." Gigi gave her a narrowed-eye look that failed to chase away the uncertainty entering her face. "Larry can give me all the job titles he wants, but I'm a spin doctor for him, Myka. I don't smooth his rough edges, I put foam guards on them, that's all."
"It's not the same thing, Gigi. Larry's got . . . Larry's got a lot of flaws, but his policies don't. His hands may be in pockets that aren't always his own, but his heart's in the right place, most of the time, for a politician." Myka wasn't able to stop herself from adding the qualifiers.
Gigi winced. "Remind me not to go to you for ringing endorsements."
Myka's smile was no less rueful. "A week from today I'll be trying to huckster the university to Nate and his friends as a profit-generating machine. Our agricultural, engineering, biochemistry, and computer science programs, everything, up for sale. We provide the innovation and creativity, and their names get to appear on the patents. People in glass houses . . . ."
"Are about to get an eyeful if we don't get up to your bedroom." Gigi grabbed her hand and led Myka toward the stairs. "Enough serious talk. Enough talking, period."
That was then and, as arms locked themselves around Myka's waist and pulled her backward, she happily, smugly realized that now hadn't significantly changed. Another weekend when they had the house to themselves and she wouldn't have to wonder whether it was worse for Maddie to think that she and Gigi were having sex but not know or know they were having sex but powerless to unhear it. "You don't have to join the Lost Boys for another hour," Gigi murmured, kissing Myka in the crook of her neck. "That means we have 60 minutes to make some memories that'll keep you awake through a meaningless interdivisional football game."
Myka turned around, being careful not to break the embrace. "Hardly meaningless. It's the Battle of the Birds."
"Between two teams that haven't been to a conference playoff in 30 years."
"I'm not there for the game. I'm there to sell my soul, remember? Make that the university's soul."
"It's amazingly easy after you do it a few times. Come back to bed, and I'll tell you how it's done." Gigi nuzzled Myka's ear.
"I thought you had a working lunch with Larry today."
"Do you know how many weekends I've cut short and Saturdays I've sacrificed for him over the years? He can open a can of soup if I'm late this one Saturday."
Not 60 minutes, closer to 45, because she had a shower to take before she left and five minutes of fussing about her ungovernable hair, but it was still amazing how many tips Gigi gave her – and not one of them could she use to convince Nate that the university was deserving of his largesse. That is, she couldn't use them in a public space or without Helena threatening to kill her. Myka pushed herself out of bed, again, feeling as if she had guzzled the Macallan. She staggered to the shower, Gigi's mischievous laughter following her. Not that she wasn't thankful for the privacy and the shamelessness it permitted but thank God Maddie didn't have a sleepover every Friday night. Twelve hours of Gigi and various horizontal surfaces taxed Myka's stamina to its limits. Abandon was an old-fashioned word, one more common in Jeannie Bering's Regency romances than in real life, Elizabeth abandoned herself to Lord Kittredge's fiery caresses, but it captured how Myka felt when Gigi was near. It had been a very long time since she had wanted to burrow into bed with a lover and let things take care of themselves for a lifetime or two, not since . . . . Myka shook her head with a child's intensity as she turned on the shower. No, no comparisons, this relationship had to stand – or totter as she was doing now – on its own two feet. Gigi deserved no less. Mmmm, and lovely feet they were, pampered with regular pedicures and expertly applied polish and displaying a delicate and ticklish arch to the instep that, when Myka traced it with her fingers, made Gigi giggle and, eventually, beg for mercy. Myka turned the shower handle well into "C" territory. Artic blast. Raptors. Wolf packs. Battle of the Birds. She, like the Prairie Falcons, needed to bring her best game and not daydream about how she would rather spend the afternoon.
There was a travel mug of coffee on the kitchen table for her, and her bottle of Macallan in its gift box had been accessorized with a big red bow. Gigi, in jeans and a button-down shirt with its tails out, was sipping coffee and leafing through the newspaper that Myka, a bookseller's daughter, insisted on getting in its original paper form. Picking up her mug, Myka took in the domestic tableau, a sex goddess in jeans drowsily reading the newspaper, Remy, a worshipper from the moment she had met Gigi, stretched out on the floor next to her. Gigi was probably on the lookout for potential trouble spots for Larry, either in this home stretch of his mayoral term or his run for governor, whenever he made it more official than an open secret. It didn't matter if Gigi was already on the job because when she wasn't, when those rain-colored eyes turned a molten silver . . . Myka gripped her mug tighter, feeling her head unwind in one long spiral, as if she were being peeled like an apple. I could get used to seeing her in my kitchen every morning, she thought. She didn't slam the thought in a trunk and sit on the lid. She nicely folded it in a drawer to take out later.
The bureau that held that cashmere sweater image of her future disappeared into a dark, cobwebbed corner of the attic when Myka turned into the long driveway of Nate Robinson's – and Helena's – home. The gates at the border of the property had swung open for her before she had finished announcing herself. She might have flattered herself into thinking that someone in the Robinson household was looking forward to her arrival, but she suspected that Nate barely remembered she was coming. There were probably many people in and out of the Robinson house on a weekend, friends, employees, caterers, decorators. Wedding planners. She drove up to the house faster than she should have, and she wrenched the Subaru in a tight curve seeking a space between the Cadillac Escalades, Land Rovers, and a vintage Jaguar convertible. Nate's fellow Canvasbacks had done well for themselves, not as well as Nate but well, and she wondered if they were the same college buddies he had had when he was in college. Then she spied an older Suburban with a ding in the side and duct tape over a dent above the bumper. A true old friend. There was space next to the Suburban, and she parked there.
Myka felt part guest, part Avon lady when she rang the doorbell. She did have something to sell, so the feeling wasn't completely out of place. Her mother had had a part-time job selling Avon when she and Tracy were children. Their father had just acquired the bookstore, and the outlay of capital – and the Berings hadn't had much to begin with – prompted their mother to take a second job, no, a third job because, in addition to her daytime job as an office assistant, she had a morning, evening, and weekend job of running a household and looking after two children. Myka could remember her on the phone trying to wheedle women into buying an extra lipstick because the more her mother could sell the bigger the commission she made. When Jeannie started buying from her surplus of cosmetics because she felt guilty that she wasn't a better saleswoman, that was the beginning of the end of her career as an Avon lady. Myka pushed the thought aside; she didn't need to be recalling her family's lack of business acumen or persuasiveness right now. If she were going to channel somebody, she should be channeling her ex-husband, whose love of a good party only enhanced his ability to talk alumni into financially supporting their alma mater. She eyed the bottle of Macallan. If she completely channeled Sam, however, she would have to call an Uber to take her home.
The door opened. "Myka!" Christina stood back to let her in. Her voice dropped. "You're here to watch the game with Nate and his friends." Her voice dropped even lower. "They're boring."
"I'm looking at it as homework." As Christina motioned for her to come along, she said, "Tell me what you've been working on."
"I've been drawing the dog that Mom's going to get me."
"Helena's buying you a dog?" Myka asked incredulously.
"That's my price for the wedding," Christina said coolly, sounding and looking very much like her mother.
Myka stifled a smile. "You must be going for a purebred show dog."
Christina wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, no. A dog like Remy."
Myka almost burst out laughing. Large, overfriendly, eager to bestow sloppy kisses, break in new shoes by thoroughly chewing them, and turn laps into pillows. Helena would hate that dog. "So, you've already seen the dog you're getting?"
"No. Mom said I can't get the dog until after the honeymoon, but I can see Leonardo already." Christina tapped her head. "I'm drawing him so I can bring the picture with me when we go to the shelters. When I see him, it'll be like that." She snapped her fingers. "When it's meant to be, it's like's that." She snapped her fingers again.
Myka wasn't sure whether the implicit rebuke was directed at her or Helena. "Do I have time to say hello to your mom?" They were headed toward the stairway that would take them to the lower level, Christina in front of her, leaning forward like the lead dog in the sled harness. Myka stopped glancing around for Helena and picked up her pace
"She had to run out for something. For the sandwiches Nate wants." As if the sarcastic edge to her words weren't enough, Christina shook her head dismissively.
It was fruitless trying to imagine Helena as a comparison shopper. Even when she had far less money than she did now, Helena had never been hesitant to buy what she wanted, damn the price. So she would have to skip a meal or eat ramen for an extra day, it was worth it for the beer or the specialty biscuits or a pint of Rocky Road, which her girlfriend loved. Myka would eat it, had to, sometimes, for a meal, because other than ice cream, Helena would have little besides ramen and peanut butter in her tiny apartment kitchen, but extravagance didn't sit well with her; it troubled the Bering stomach. At the head of the stairs, Christina abruptly stopped, and Myka nearly collided with her, caught somewhere between that kitchen with its fourth-hand appliances and this my-home-is-my-castle that Nate Robinson, Corn King, had made fact.
"You're on your own," Christina said flatly, as hoots of male laughter floated up the stairs.
Castle dungeon or River Styx? "You can go no farther," Myka said softly.
"What?" Christina stared up at her.
"Never mind. I think I can make it the rest of the way."
After one, long dubious look, Christina left her, and Myka unconsciously squared her shoulders before going down the steps. Much easier in tennis shoes than heels. She was surprised to see heads and sweatshirted figures come into view before she reached the end. She had assumed Nate and his friends would be in the theater, but they were here, in the main sitting room, the sofas and chairs no longer in their usual places. The enormous TV set into the wall at one end of the room hadn't been there when she had last been here, and Nate, rising from a recliner to greet her, gestured at it with boyish pride. "The theater can be a little cave-like. Much nicer viewing experience, don't you think?"
His friends murmured their assent. A few waved at Myka, and others gave her smiles as reflective as sun on glass and as meaningless, clearly wondering how she had been invited. "I promise I'm not scouting for the Falcons." She held out the Macallan to Nate. "I'm here to watch a good game and to tout the virtues of the University."
He took the gift box and pointed at the screen. "Their virtue is not their football program, that's for sure."
She knew the Canvasback players couldn't be three times larger than the Falcons players. They were all three times larger on that manifest destiny of a TV screen, but the Canvasbacks looked bigger, and in the five minutes since the game had started, the Canvasbacks were already up by 10 points. Nate opened the box and viewed the Macallan appreciatively. "This will be our victory mead." He held the bottle up for the clapping and whistles of his friends. His wry, sideways look at her was trying to appraise how much she would willingly endure the teasing, but Myka had learned at the feet of one of the best, and the benign impassivity with she regarded him and his friends would have made Irene proud. Relenting, he made introductions quickly and efficiently, with the understated competence of a businessman who was confident that his successes never ceased speaking for themselves. She recognized a number of the names from her Internet searches over the past week on notable State University alums, not to mention Canvasback donors. It hadn't been quite as rewarding as searching on "corporate sharks" and "businesses most harmful to the environment," which had been just two of the search terms she had used for studying up on the guests at his charity gala, but it was coming in useful now. She didn't hesitate to interrupt his roll call with an acknowledgment of this Canvasback fan's residential construction business and that Canvasback fan's recreational vehicle dealerships.
Nate gave her another sideways look, but one that was more hooded and more inquiring. "Myka and I were talking at the gala about developing closer relationships with the University." He held up his hands in mock surrender at the mock boos greeting that announcement. "Our hearts are with State, but we're businessmen first, fans second, and it's undeniable that the University offers certain advantages. It's no secret that, with the necessary belt-tightening we've had to do as a state, our colleges and universities are under some stress. Maybe it's made them more practical about how they prepare their students for joining the workforce, and if we can help them out, it only helps us in the end, right?"
No disagreement about "belt-tightening," because that had been happening for the past several years, but she took exception to the "we've had to do" since executives like Nate rarely felt the pinch. The minor increase in state income tax passed at the last legislative section was nothing to the cuts in higher education funding, education funding, period, not to mention the tax credits lavished upon the bigger businesses to keep them from relocating to other areas of the country. No disagreement about the state's colleges and universities being under stress, either, although she wouldn't use the word "practical" to describe the reduction in programs and faculty that, yes, had indeed changed how the University prepared its students for their future after graduation. What really irritated her the most, however, was his refashioning of their 15-second conversation at the party, when he had looked to Helena to remind him of why he should know this woman with Gigi, into a discussion about mutually beneficial opportunities between business and higher education. An invented discussion, moreover, that had resulted in her spending $160 in order that she wouldn't look completely out of place at the Battle of the Birds gathering he was hosting, and even then, the reason for that outlay was owed only to the intervention of his fiancée, who had had to all but embarrass him into inviting her. Myka summoned up countless instances of Irene smiling and smiling at President Kosan as he took credit for everything that she had achieved. Keep smiling, she counseled herself, keep smiling.
His friends weren't discernibly more enthusiastic about her presence after the introductions than before, but one of them said, "Yeah, we can talk about it at halftime." It wasn't much, but she would cling to it, though she suspected, by the age and appearance of his Canvasbacks sweatshirt, that he was the friend with the Suburban.
She sat in a chair between Nate and a friend who territorially occupied a loveseat and watched the Falcons give up an additional 24 points before halftime. He wore a camouflage hoodie with CANVASBACKS split in half by the zipper. She wasn't entirely sure about what the hoodie was meant to represent, that the wearer supported wildlife, including real canvasbacks, that he hunted canvasbacks, both, neither, or that he was, simply, a very manly fan. About two minutes before halftime, Nate's friends looked to him, and he said, pointing at the ceiling, "I'm sure it's ready." Instinctively his eyes traveled to Myka, and as she continued to look at him, benignly, impassively, Nate reddened and said, "I'll go check."
Then about eight pairs of eyes trained themselves on her. Smile. You're doing this for the University. "I was intending to say hi to Helena. I can go up and check."
She found her way to the kitchen, expecting to see the Robinsons' housekeeper or personal chef or whoever it was stirring a pot of chili, shaking chips into a bowl, arranging the sandwiches. Helena might have run an errand to help things along, but even Carol Brady had Alice to rely on in the kitchen. She heard voices, more accurately, she heard singing, and she, who frustrated her daughter no end by being unable to tell the difference between songs by Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez, Ariana Grande, and a half-dozen others instantly recognized the singer. It was a tuneful voice, lively and light, all the more surprising if you had heard her only a few hours before roaring at a missed goal during a pirated offering of a Premier League soccer match. Helena's wasn't the only voice; another voice thinner and higher-pitched but equally on key joined her in the chorus:
We are family
I got all my sisters with me
We are family
Get up everybody and sing
Myka stood just inside the kitchen and watched Helena and Christina dance in front of an island that was the size, if not the shape, of the Game of Thrones' Painted Table. The footwork and the shimmying were almost synchronous, and the hip bumps were well executed. Christina saw her and waved, while Helena danced over to the commercial-sized refrigerator. As she searched the shelves, her butt swayed to the beat of the song that Christina kept in perpetual chorus. When she backed out, holding a large platter of cold cuts, Myka crossed the floor to help her, but Helena danced away.
"Even you can't resist the Pointer Sisters."
"Sister Sledge," Myka automatically corrected.
Helen grinned, executing a spin with the platter that had Myka's heart lurching in fear for the platter. "Is there a subject whose minutiae you're not an expert on? Books, 1970s disco, Walton College history . . . ."
"It's not minutiae to Sister Sledge, and it was a big hit."
"The year you were born." Helena's grin grew wider. "If you're going to help me, you have to show us your moves."
"I blinded a whole campus with my moves." Myka tilted her head toward Christina. "Besides, she's too young to see them, they'll stunt her growth."
"Her growth is doomed to be stunted. Her father is a very short man." Christina's indignant "He is not!" went unanswered. Helena commanded, "Moves first, assistance second."
"You're going to drop that thing."
"I will if I don't see the Bering Bounce."
Myka sighed and jumped up and down. "There."
"Not even close." Helena began to lift the platter as if she meant to hold it over her head.
"How much humiliation am I supposed to endure for one day?" Myka cried in mock exasperation. "It's bad enough to see the Falcons overrun. Now I have to dance, too?"
"'Dancing' is not the word to describe what you do to music." But Helena lowered the platter and walked with no extra swaying or stutter steps to the island. The amusement in her face remained, but it dimmed. "Did Nate send you up here like a good little woman to find out if lunch is ready?"
"Are you playing the happy housewife, or is it for real?"
Helena didn't answer. "Christina, will you bring the bread over, please?"
Christina began lugging over loaves of marble rye, pumpernickel, wheat and white sandwich bread. After arming herself with a cutting board and a bread knife, Helena withdrew from a bakery bag a loaf of Italian peasant-style bread and began slicing it. "Are you going to put me to work or are you going to make fun of my dancing?" Myka demanded.
Helena motioned with her knife at the refrigerator. "If you could get the condiments out, I'd appreciate it. And as for your dancing, well, I can't speak for the others on campus, but it made me see the light."
It was a joke, yes, but true, too, and Myka could make only a weak comeback with "Funny." She concentrated on grabbing as many jars and containers out of the refrigerator as she could. Mayonnaise, mustard, horseradish, hot sauce, sliced tomatoes, pepperoncini, sliced onions, pickles. Myka lined them up on the island and struggled not to look disapprovingly on the cold cuts platter. Salami, baloney, ham, roast beef, corned beef, summer sausage, liverwurst. She was looking at a deli spread circa 1975 and felt her arteries hardening just by looking. Was there anything remotely healthy? After she and Lauren had broken up (although could you really be dating someone who was already engaged?), she had decided to go in for a full cleanse and become a vegetarian. It had lasted for about six months. It might have lasted longer had she been an inventive cook or any kind of cook, but at a breakfast meeting she had had to attend with Irene, she had surrendered to a couple of strips of bacon. Her backsliding might have remained an occasional thing, but she had been put on a project with Sam Martino, and between his obvious but not entirely unwelcome attempts to charm her and his unflagging enthusiasm for diversions of all kinds, including happy hours with 2 for 1 drinks and mini bites half-price, her collapse was complete.
Helena easily read her expression. "There's some deli turkey breast I forgot to bring out." Myka returned to the refrigerator to get it and noticed that the date stamp of the price sticker on the wrapper was today's date. The turkey breast must have been only one of the items that Helena had gone out for; to think it was the sole reason Helena had gone out, to ensure that there was something other than tomatoes and sliced cheese that her ex-lover and old friend, or was that her old lover and ex-friend, could put on a sandwich, was ridiculous. Wordlessly she brought it to the island, and as wordlessly Helena took the turkey breast and placed it on the platter with the other meat.
Myka went back to the top of the stairs to the lower level and called to the men that lunch was ready. She followed them into the kitchen, the men grabbing paper plates and lining around the island, while Christina and her mother stood back, waiting to be asked to get something, ketchup or more cheese. Not to join them around the island and make sandwiches for themselves but to go get –
"Helena, honey, do we have any more mayo?" Nate asked, squinting at the bottom of the jar.
Helena went to a cupboard and took out a new jar. She brought it back to the island, meeting Myka's gaze above the men's bent heads and rolling her eyes.
Myka made a turkey and swiss sandwich and joined a group of Nate's friends, who had opened one of the sliders in the kitchen that opened onto the terrace. They had placed their plates and beers on the stone wall and were admiring the fall foliage on the trees that marked the far end of the groomed and manicured part of the property. They fell silent when she joined them, and she joked, "Don't worry. The air of defeat isn't blowing your way."
One of the men, Gil, gamely chuckled. "Felton's just too good for your defense today. His passes have been like lasers."
"We tried to recruit him, you know. He wasn't considered a top prospect by the bigger programs, but he grew up in the city, and he's a great all-round athlete."
"But he recognized State had a better program than the U," another of Nate's friends, Joe, smirked at her.
"It does, but it's not the program you're thinking of," Myka said mildly. "Lawrence wants to work for NOAA, and the U doesn't have a meteorology department." She looked at each of the men in turn. "I think we all want to keep our best and brightest here. I think we all want our state to remain a magnet for people looking for prosperous communities, good jobs, and good schools. Then help keep us competitive. Help the U support you." The men shifted their feet and cast longing looks alternately at the trees in beguiling scarlet and gold and at the kitchen and the beguiling escape it promised. "Jeff, you own Tyndall Development. How many of your buyers are looking for homes that are designed to be more energy efficient or that incorporate renewable energy? Our engineering and architectural programs have built award-winning model homes that deliver on what your clients are looking for. In return, you can give our inventors the business expertise, and capital, that could turn model homes into real homes, entire neighborhoods." She was tempted to add a pleading "Just think about it," but decided the wiser course of action was to stuff her mouth with a bite of her sandwich. Sam would have eased Nate's friends into listening to a pitch with jokes and well-timed flattery, Gigi might have said the same things she did, but Gigi would have sounded less like a teacher exhorting her students and more like she was having an intimate conversation with each man alone, under the stars.
Jeff swished a swig of his beer in what might been a moment of consideration or possibly an attempt to loosen a shred of meat caught between his teeth. Myka chose to be optimistic and assume the former. Conversation uneasily turned back to the game and promising NFL line-ups on Sunday, although Gil tentatively sidled away from the others and approached her, holding his empty plate and empty beer bottle. He was going to ask her to take them in for him, Myka thought, and she savagely bit off more of her sandwich. "My daughter goes to the U," he volunteered. "I tried to talk her into going to State, but she said the U has a better cybersecurity program. That's what she wants to do." He shifted from foot to foot. "I sell licensed apparel. My company may have produced that sweatshirt you're wearing." He said it with pride but looked over his shoulder at the other men with a self-deprecating smile. "I make a good living, but I'm nowhere near to being in the same bracket as Nate, or even Jeff. I don't know what I can offer the U that it would want, but I think Madison, my daughter, would like it if I did something."
"You own the Big Leagues stores in town." He nodded, surprised. "And, from what I've read, you're expanding into bordering states."
"They've got college and pro fans, too. We're competitively priced, and our products are quality made." He seemed to realize he was slipping into a marketing spiel and exhaled an abashed sigh. "I should offer kids at the U part-time jobs behind the counter?" He said disbelievingly.
"Internships. Not at the stores, at your headquarters. Show them how the business works, how you contract with the companies," she pulled at the cuff of her sweatshirt, "that make the apparel, how you obtain the licenses from the pro teams and what you can and can't do with the names and insignia. Offer to give a presentation to our business classes on marketing, to our first-year law students on trademarks from a business perspective. There are lots of things you can do to help make us stronger. It doesn't have to be a million-dollar scholarship or an endowed chair."
"I'll give it some thought, and if I can come up with a workable idea, I'll give you a call."
It might be a brush-off, but sincerity was lurking in Gil's slightly bloodshot blue eyes, Myka was sure of it. "I'm easy to find. Just enter 'Myka Bering' in the U's online directory."
"Almost time for the third quarter to start." He joined the men trailing into the kitchen. Some looked back at her and told her to not to miss the U's last gasp. Others didn't look back at all. Most had taken their plates and drinks with them, but there were paper plates left behind on the wall, and she instinctively gathered them up and brought them into the kitchen with her.
Nate was leaning against the island, eating potato chips from a small pile cupped in his palm and talking with Helena, who was sitting on a high-backed chair at the island. She was fingering the stem of a wine glass. A half-eaten sandwich was on a plate that looked as if it had been impatiently pushed away. Christina was sitting beside her, scowling at a pudding cup whose sides she was scraping with a spoon. " . . . A week cruising around Greece and Crete, a few days on Santorini, then back via Thailand, Vietnam, Jakarta. Gives me a chance to check in some on of my projects." He gazed indulgently at Helena. "It's only partly a working honeymoon."
She shrugged and refilled her glass from a wine bottle conveniently close at hand. "I was thinking something more child-friendly, so we could have Christina and Addie join us for part of it." Christina was, not so subtly, sticking her tongue out at her pudding cup.
"We can go as a family to France and Italy later in the summer." Nate raised his voice to draw Christina's attention. "How does the Louvre strike you? And what's that church in Venice you want to see?"
"St. Mark's," Christina said sullenly.
"There you go," he said to Helena. "Christina gets to see world-famous art, and Addie can bankrupt me with her shopping." This time he offered Helena an indulgent chuckle. "You and her both." He acknowledged Myka's presence with a casual hi and a "Broker any deals with the guys while you were out there?"
Myka had been hunting for a wastebasket since she had entered the room, trying not to listen to the desultory honeymoon planning. "One or two possibly." Christina slipped off her chair and opened a door that showed a closet big enough to hold the trash and recyclables of several large families. Myka spotted a small cart for compostables and tossed the paper plates in it. She had been intending to slink back down to the lower level and watch the rest of the game in despairing silence, but she recognized that this was an opportunity to try her best at forging a deal with Nate and the recognition was hardened into resolve by her irritation at the family moment she had interrupted. She didn't know why she was irritated, maybe it was the talk of a weeks-long honeymoon in places she would probably never have the money to visit followed by a weeks-long family vacation in places she also would probably never have the money to visit. Maybe she was irritated that a man who had the opportunity to spend time alone with the woman he loved wanted to parcel it out so he could spend time working. This was Helena, she had spent hours, days alone with this woman, and resented that she couldn't spend more, and here was Nate Robinson who wasn't just intimating but telling her that he didn't want to spend too much time together. Did he not know romance? Love? The experience of being seized by a feeling that didn't need sapphire-blue ocean or palm trees or sunset to make it "more" beautiful or memorable? Why wasn't Helena demanding that she was worth all of his time? Why was she staring at the wine in her glass as if she were contemplating how it might feel to bathe in it? Why wasn't she standing up and looking into Nate's eyes and telling him, "Those Jacobean playwrights your paper is on? They're still going to be dead 30 minutes from now. Believe me, they can wait. We've got a snowman to build in front of the administrative building." Helena had even sacrificed a roach clip for it, gluing the clip between a "thumb" branch and an "index" finger branch of the snowman's sturdy stick arm.
"You're my white whale, Nate," she said, quietly shutting the door closed. "You've funded scholarships for the agricultural departments of a dozen universities, but not the U. You've entered into joint ventures with dozens more, but not one with the U." She kept her voice soft and her smile relaxed. "You remember Plains & Grains, Inc. It was started by graduates of the U at the turn of the 20th century, and it was an innovator in food science. Practically every ready-to-eat dinner and ready-to-bake mix on the shelves owes its existence to PGI. Your grandfather sold his corn to PGI, and your father worked in its factories. You bought its parent company ten years ago, just a shadow of what it once was, but you have old PGI marketing posters and advertisements on your walls downstairs. Same bright minds at the U to invest in, create a new PGI with them." A PGI that protected the environment rather than despoiled it, and a PGI that would be more attentive to the health consequences of the chemical processes that it developed to make "ready-to-eat" so ready to eat.
"You've done your research." It didn't sound as admiring coming from him as Myka had hoped.
"She always comes prepared," Helena said, and Myka did hear the admiration in it. Helena hadn't always liked her diligence, her studiousness, and she would ridicule it at times, but she had respected it, too.
Nate pursed his lips. "If the University can come up with a proposal that's profitable, that benefits my organization, I'll be willing to listen." He squeezed Helena's shoulder. "Let's get back to the game," he said to Myka.
He didn't wait for her to follow. As if she had been waiting for him be out of earshot of the kitchen, Helena said, "He means what he says. He's tough, but he's fair-minded, and if it's a good proposal –"
"Helena, you don't need to run interference for me," Myka said, sharper than she had intended. "He's been" she drew in a breath, "you've both been generous in inviting me to pitch the University to your friends, and I appreciate the opportunity." Knowing it was the wrong thing to say, she recklessly went ahead and said it. "I'm not the wide-eyed innocent, Helena, I never was. I didn't need worldly-wise you to navigate the Slough of Despond for me then, and I don't need your protection now either."
Helena flushed, but she said evenly, "You're right, and I'm sorry if I overstepped." She turned to Christina who had been watching the both of them with dismay. "Why don't we start putting things away, love?"
Myka didn't stomp back down to the lower level, but she walked very quickly and decisively. The third quarter wasn't half over, and the Falcons had managed to score a touchdown but trailed by over 40 points. She stayed until the beginning of the fourth quarter, drinking a tonic water she had poured herself from the bar. Nate offered to walk her out, but she waved it away, saying she wanted to talk to Helena before she left. "She may be in her office. It's upstairs, take a left at the head of the stairs," he provided by way of directions, adding helpfully, "Holler if you get lost." She tried to make eye contact with each of his friends as she said her good-byes but only Gil didn't immediately turn his attention back to the game. She wouldn't dwell on that because it would only make her want to rip her $80 sweatshirt to shreds when she got home, and that wouldn't be thrifty or wise, particularly if it had a Big Leagues tag at the back of the neck. It would give her a pretext to send a follow-up note to Gil.
She didn't want to talk to Helena, but she needed to apologize. She had overreacted to what Helena had said about Nate, and Myka Bering didn't overreact, she didn't lash out. She was nice, damnit, she always tried to be, anyway. Her guide to the underworld wasn't waiting for her in the foyer, and she had to run up the stairs without a helpful repetition that Helena's office was to the left. Myka was sure she would have found Helena's office eventually, but she was grateful for the fact that Helena had left the door partially open.
Like most other rooms in the house, it was museum-capacity large, and Helena had placed her desk in front of two equally large windows. The desktop was a glass oval balanced on a black metal pedestal, and Myka figured it weighed as much or more than an old-fashioned CEO desk made from mahogany. Helena was peering at an oversized monitor and jotting notes in a well-used notebook that looked like it might have once belonged among Christina's school supplies. Myka doubted the handwriting had changed much, strangely elegant for a woman who usually had to borrow a pen from the student sitting next to her, having lost her own dashing, late as always, to class (that is, when she deigned to attend).
Myka had never met anyone whose smile could be so gentle and mocking both. "They weren't going to feed you to the celebratory bonfire, were they?"
"How do you know the Falcons aren't turning it around?"
"You're here . . . and because Nate said at lunch that they didn't have the game in them to turn things around." She looked down at her notes. "He's good at sniffing out weakness, my Corn King."
"I was an ass, I'm sorry," Myka said bluntly.
"Those used to be my words," Helena laughed. It turned rueful. "They still are, frequently."
"If you want to put in a good word for me or the University with Nate, don't hesitate. We can use all the help we can get."
Helena leaned back in the chair. "He has a blind spot about the University. I don't know why. Maybe he applied, and they turned him down. But he does have a sentimental streak, hard though it might be to believe, and PGI was a nice touch." Her smile turned wicked. "I hope you've not been too proud to, ah, profit by Gigi's vast experience . . . dealing with the state's movers and shakers, that is." At Myka's deliberately blank smile, Helena laughed again. "I'm about to overstep again, so I'll stop."
"I'll see you later."
"The Halloween party," Helena reminded her. "Our place is big enough that we can have hayrides, although I don't know where Nate's getting the bales. Maddie should invite her friend-Sophie, is it?- too. This is Christina's big party of the year, even bigger than her birthday party, so she'll be the social butterfly." She frowned, puzzled. "I never thought I would say Christina and 'social,' let alone 'social butterfly' in the same sentence, but I do, quite often."
"She's very much her own person, but she can remind me of you." As Helena's eyebrow arched in suspicion, Myka explained, "The two of you can work a room."
"I'm not sure that it's a compliment, but it doesn't sound like an insult." Helena looked down at her notes again. "Sometimes, oddly enough, she reminds of you. Especially when she's drawing, she can be so intent, so focused. Not anything she's gotten from me."
They had talked about having children, just as they had talked about finding a house together, the kind of planning you did when you were in love, deeply in love, for the first time, part speculative experiment, part a testing out of what, someday, you would end up saying to a different lover. Myka would always make sure she exploded into laughter first because Helena could retreat so easily when they talked about the future. She wondered if Helena remembered those conversations, which grew wilder and more artificially uproarious the longer they went on. Yet another thing that it was wiser not to mention.
Myka took the drive back to the gates more cautiously, her mind busy with how the rest of the day was supposed to unfold. She would pick up Maddie from her mother's, Jeannie having graciously offered to get her granddaughter once the sleepover at Sophie Levinson's house ended. Maddie would be full of stories about how strange and fascinating both Sophie's mother was, and she would probably jealously snark about the new friend Sophie had invited to the sleepover, Julia Cho. Maddie was used to being the center of Sophie's orbit and wasn't responding well to being displaced. Myka thought she might try to casually suggest that Maddie should invite Julia to Christina's Halloween party as well. Myka also reminded herself that she should just let Maddie burble – and vent. There was nothing that had to be fixed or resolved, not today. Including what could be construed as her disappointing attempt to matchmake between the University and Nate Robinson and his friends. Just because it hadn't felt like she had scored points with them, her game plan as ineffective as the Falcons', didn't mean she should treat it as a loss. Sometimes encounters like these bore fruit later. She needed to be patient and positive. She wasn't a coach with a game plan, she was a gardener. That was the metaphor she needed to keep in mind.
Gigi would come over with dinner, or maybe they would try to make dinner all three of them. She and Gigi would sneak kisses when Maddie wasn't looking, and sometimes when she was. They would stream a movie or not or play a game or not. And Gigi would leave or not. Probably not. Because Myka wasn't afraid to think about the future and Gigi as potentially inextricable parts, and maybe it was time to start taking next steps, to have Gigi stay over occasionally when Maddie was home, too. Myka slapped her hand affirmatively on the steering wheel, wishing that when she was imagining telling Gigi not to go home tonight, to stay, that Helena's face hadn't been the face she saw.
