Chapter 7: Saturday at Patrice's
Diane arrived twelve minutes late with a lemon cake in a white box and a light cardigan over her shoulders.
She came through Patrice's front door smiling, kissing cheeks, saying the drive was lovely and the hydrangeas in the front yard were absolutely beautiful.
She set the cake on the kitchen counter and turned around.
Roberta was standing in the doorway to the living room.
Diane went still.
It lasted only a second.
Then the smile came back, slightly different now.
Adjusted.
"Roberta." Her voice was warm.
Practiced.
"My goodness.
How long has it been?"
"Thirty-two years," Roberta said.
"Give or take."
"You look wonderful."
"Thank you, Diane."
Nobody moved toward the cake.
Nobody suggested sitting down.
Diane looked around the room — at Patrice, at Marcus, at me, at Roberta — and something behind her eyes shifted.
Recalculated.
"This feels very organized," she said lightly.
"Sit down, Mom," Marcus said.
She sat.
She set her purse on her lap and folded her hands over it.
Patrice put a folder on the coffee table.
Cream-colored.
Thick.
"What's that?" Diane asked.
"My invoices," Patrice said.
"All of them.
Three years' worth."
Diane looked at the folder.
Then at Patrice.
"I kept records too.
There's nothing wrong with—"
"Four thousand dollars, Mom." Patrice's voice didn't rise.
"From your daughter.
While she had two children under four and her husband was traveling every week.
Four thousand dollars."
"I gave you my time.
My time has value."
"You offered," Marcus said.
"You asked to help.
You called Patrice the same way you called us.
Every week.
Begging to be involved."
"I was involved.
Deeply involved.
And I was never once thanked properly."
"You were thanked," Patrice said.
"Constantly.
And then you handed me an envelope."
Diane's chin lifted slightly.
"I don't see why old arrangements need to be—"
"Roberta." Marcus turned.
"Do you want to say something?"
Roberta reached into her bag.
She set a piece of paper on the table next to Patrice's folder.
Old paper, slightly yellowed.
Handwritten.
Diane looked at it.
Her face didn't change.
But her hands tightened on her purse.
"Six hundred and forty dollars," Roberta said.
"1993.
I was borrowing money from friends to keep the lights on.
You knew that.
You sat at my kitchen table every week.
You knew exactly what I had and what I didn't have."
"I was there for eight months—"
"You offered to be there.
I didn't ask you." Roberta's voice was steady.
"I was grateful.
I told you I was grateful.
And then you sat me down and put that paper in front of me."
"I had my own expenses—"
"You were living in the house your husband owned outright.
Your children were grown.
You had a pension." Roberta looked at her without blinking.
"You did it because you could.
Because I had nowhere else to turn."
The room was quiet.
Diane looked at Marcus.
"Are you going to let them speak to me this way?"
"Yes," Marcus said.
Her lips pressed together.
"I want to know something," I said.
Everyone looked at me.
"The logo.
The initials in the oval.
When did you design that?"
A pause.
"I had it made up some years ago."
"After Roberta, or before Patrice?"
She didn't answer.
"Because that's not something you make for personal record-keeping," I said.
"That's something you make because you intend to keep sending them.
To keep it official.
To make it harder to argue with."
"I don't think I need to explain my—"
"Diane." I leaned forward.
"My daughter is six years old.
She went to your lake house because you asked us.
Because you asked us for four months.
She brought her inhaler and her rabbit and she called me to tell me about a heron." My voice stayed even.
"And you typed up an invoice with a logo."
The room held.
Diane looked down at her purse.
When she looked up, her expression had shifted again.
Softer now.
The version she used when she wanted to be forgiven.
"I never meant for anyone to feel hurt," she said.
"I just wanted things to be fair."
"Fair," Roberta said.
The word sat in the air between them.
Patrice opened the folder.
She took out the top invoice and set it on the table facing Diane.
"We're not here to argue about the past," Patrice said.
"We're here because it happened to Ellie.
And we want it to stop."
"I haven't done anything illegal—"
"No," Marcus said.
"You haven't.
But we're done pretending it's normal.
And we're done staying quiet about it."
Diane looked at him.
Something moved in her expression.
The calculation again.
May you like
"What does that mean, exactly?" she said.
"What are you planning to do?"
