The Husband Hour Page 3

  “Now researchers are looking at the brains of deceased former players,” Tramm said. “One of the first to be studied was one of our guys, Larry Zeidel. He was a Flyer. Nickname was Rock. A great guy—everyone loved him. Then he retires and suffers from debilitating headaches. Starts having a bad temper, gets violent, makes crazy financial decisions. Impulsive decisions. His entire life fell apart.”

  His entire life fell apart.

  After more than four years, Matt finally had his film.

  Craig, however, seemed less sure.

  “So the film is no longer about a war hero?”

  “It’s bigger than a story about just one war hero. It’s told through that one hero to question a system that fails these athletes, just like it fails our wounded warriors. We live in a society that hails these guys as heroes, then does nothing to help them when they need it.”

  If Matt had known all those years ago what he knew now, maybe he could have saved his brother. Maybe, if this film got made, others would have the chance to save their own brothers, or sons, or daughters.

  Craig sighed. He glanced up at the storyboard, then around the room.

  “I know you had doubts about this film,” Matt said. “Maybe it wasn’t saying anything big enough. But I hope this new angle changes that.”

  “Where can we talk privately?”

  “Let me check the conference room.”

  Mercifully, it was empty. Matt closed the door while Craig paced in the tight space.

  “My doubts aren’t just about the film, Matt. You really blew things up with that project you walked away from four years ago.”

  Matt crossed his arms, nodding. “I know. That was…unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate? You cost Andrew Dobson a lot of money.”

  Matt should never have agreed to do the documentary about the rock star. It had been producer Andrew Dobson’s idea; Matt had been between projects and he agreed. And then Rory Kincaid was killed, and Matt was reminded of why he’d gotten into the business in the first place. After a few months of trying to finish the musician project, he realized his heart wasn’t in it. He had to follow his passion, his instincts. “You can find another director to get it to the finish line,” he’d told his producer.

  Bridge officially burned.

  “I also made Andrew Dobson a lot of money,” Matt said. “I got Andrew an Academy Award nomination for the last film we did together!”

  Craig nodded, rubbing his jaw. “Okay, this is the situation: You have a theory. It’s an interesting one. But there’s no smoking gun.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “What does his widow have to say about all of this? His mother?”

  “His mother died last year, before I was onto this. And the widow is completely off the grid.”

  His failure to locate Lauren Adelman Kincaid was the greatest frustration of his career. The amount of time and money he’d spent trying to track her down had almost sunk the project. The woman had no social-media footprint, no driver’s license, and no real estate rental or purchase records. Her old friends either wouldn’t talk to him or swore they were no longer in touch with her. Her former brother-in-law threatened him with a lawsuit. And her family in Philadelphia refused to speak with him. Well, her sister agreed to a meeting, then backed out at the last minute and never responded to his follow-up calls or e-mails. He’d hired a private investigator. He’d considered illegally obtaining her tax filings, but he hit a wall without her Social Security number.

  Craig walked back to Matt’s desk, stared pensively at the storyboard on the wall. After a long silence, he said, “Without interviews with the widow, someone to corroborate what you’re saying, this film is too speculative. I’m sorry, Matt. I can’t invest in it. But I wish you luck.”

  Chapter Five

  Lauren locked the door to the café behind her and felt the heat of the midday sun on her back. For as long as she’d known Nora, her boss had been mumbling about starting a dinner service, but so far it hadn’t happened. Every day, Nora’s Café closed at three and didn’t open until seven the following morning. Lauren hoped the dinner shift would actually materialize this summer. She relished the idea of working a double—or even a triple. To clock in at six in the morning and not leave until eleven or so at night? She wouldn’t have a moment to think. Just the way she liked it.

  She adjusted the belt pack around her waist, making sure her tips were zipped up, then bent down to tie the laces on her Sauconys for the run back to the house.

  “Lauren Kincaid!” A man’s voice.

  Lauren stood up so quickly she felt dizzy. You’re not eating enough. You’re too skinny.

  He looked vaguely familiar, but it took her a few seconds to place him. Had they gone to school together?

  “Neil Hanes,” he said. “From Green Valley?”

  An old acquaintance from her parents’ country club. She must have been in college the last time she’d seen him. The summers were like that; half of her hometown descended on the island.

  “Oh, hi. Sorry, it’s just been a long time.”

  “It really has! Probably since that party for your dad’s fiftieth.”

  She nodded, her mind flooding with images of the live band, her cocktail dress, and the way Rory had looked in his suit. It’s like a wedding, he’d said. Someday we’ll dance like this and you’ll be my wife.

  Neil said something but she’d completely tuned out.

  “I’m sorry?” she said.

  “Oh, I was just saying that I see your parents sometimes in Philly. They mentioned that you live here now.”

  She nodded, hoping he wouldn’t bring up Rory, wouldn’t say he was sorry, wouldn’t say he’d heard…

  “Are you writing these days?” he said.

  “Writing?”

  “Journalism. The last time we spoke, you were really into it.”

  Vague recollections of a long-ago conversation. “Oh. Right. No, not anymore.” She hated talking about herself. Deflect, deflect. “Weren’t you into journalism too?”

  He nodded. “I love reporting. But no money in it. Screenwriting—that’s where it’s at.”

  She smiled politely. “Well, nice to see you. I should get going.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. But, listen, I’m here for the summer. We should hang out some time.”

  “I don’t hang out,” she said.

  She knew it sounded harsh, bitchy, cold. But it was better to just be up-front about it. She didn’t date, would never date. And she didn’t need a new friend. It would take all of her energy just to tolerate her family.

  They say a mother is only as happy as her most unhappy child.

  That explained why Beth hadn’t felt any real joy in years. Both of her daughters were miserable.

  “I left messages for Lauren and Stephanie asking what they wanted for dinner, and neither of them have gotten back to me,” she said to her husband as she poured Worcestershire sauce into a bowl to start her marinade.

  “Hon, they’re grown women. Why don’t you and I go out to eat and they can fend for themselves?”

  Was he serious?

  She set the bottle down. “The point of being here is to spend time together as a family.”

  “Well, maybe Lauren and Stephanie don’t share your enthusiasm for that. You’re pushing too hard about living here for the summer.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I want one last summer here before we have to sell the house. Is that so much to ask?”

  He sighed.

  She unwrapped the flank steak.

  “This isn’t just for me, Howard. Ethan should be surrounded by family. He just lost the only father figure he ever had.”

  “That schmuck wasn’t a father.”

  “You know what I mean. And Lauren has been out here alone long enough.”

  “I certainly agree with that,” Howard said, looking out at the beach. “Have you told her about selling the house?”

  “I haven’t found the right
time.”

  “What’s the right time? It’s your house, Beth.”

  “And the house in Philly was our house, and you just lost that! So don’t lecture me.”

  They’d lived in the old stone house in the suburbs of Philadelphia since before Stephanie was born. Beth had been sure they would live there for the rest of their lives, that her grandchildren would run around the same yard that the girls had grown up playing in.

  She still shuddered thinking about the day, only weeks ago, that he’d confessed. I took out a second mortgage… Last-ditch attempt to save the business…

  The business.

  Howard ran Adelman’s Apparel, a store his grandfather had started as a hat shop in 1932. Saul Adelman had the foresight to lease a space in the shadow of the famous Wanamaker’s department store, a retail behemoth that attracted visitors from all over the country. But while throngs of people went to Wanamaker’s to see the world’s largest fully functional pipe organ or the twenty-five-hundred-pound bronze eagle in the Grand Court, many seemed to prefer a more intimate experience for shopping. That’s where Adelman’s came in, with Howard’s mother, Deborah, acting as a personal shopper long before there was any concept of such a thing. From the 1950s through the 1970s, it was unthinkable for a well-to-do young woman in Philadelphia to go anywhere other than Adelman’s for her trousseau.

  But the world changed. Retail changed. Wanamaker’s closed its doors after a hundred and twenty years. The trend toward casual dressing edged Adelman’s out of its comfort zone, and eventually it became impossible for the store to compete with the national chains.

  Beth had known it was bad. She just hadn’t known how bad until they’d lost their home.

  Now Adelman’s was closed, left half filled with merchandise Howard had failed to unload while he pumped money into the store, trying to hold on long enough to find a buyer. He was stuck with five more years on a twenty-year commercial lease.

  Still, regardless of the circumstances, Beth could not stomach the idea of selling the Green Gable. Looking around the kitchen, she could envision her mother at the counter, unwrapping fresh cinnamon buns, still warm from Casel’s grocery. Beth closed her eyes.

  “My parents intended for the girls to have this house someday.”

  Howard sighed.

  “You’ve indulged the girls too much the past few years. Now you and I need to dig ourselves out of this hole, and Lauren and Stephanie need to move on with their lives.”

  Was he right? Beth had known it would take time for Lauren to recover from the loss of her husband. It had taken all of them time to get over losing Rory. But it was becoming increasingly clear that her daughter was frozen.

  And she was scared nothing would ever change that.

  Chapter Six

  Ethan asked to sit next to Lauren at dinner. She hadn’t seen the kid since last summer, and yet he loved her. She wished she could still see the world through the forgiving eyes of a six-year-old.

  “I saved you this seat,” she said, smiling at him.

  Ethan was quiet but achingly cute, with big brown eyes and the same high forehead and good cheekbones Lauren had inherited from her father. He looked more like Lauren than Stephanie, and Lauren wondered if her sister realized this, if he reminded her of when they had been young and best friends.

  “I like this long chair,” Ethan said, looking up at Lauren.

  “Me too. It’s kind of kooky. Like your great-grandmother,” she said. The wall banquette was upholstered in an outrageously bold chinoiserie pattern her grandmother once had identified as Chiang Mai Dragon. The walls were cerulean blue, the modern table white marble. Her grandmother had tried as hard as she could to do a simple beach house, but with some rooms she’d caved to her truest design impulses. The living room was all distressed wood and white linen, framed starfish, and several vintage suitcases stacked next to a towering bookshelf. But if you turned a corner, you’d find a velvet-upholstered modern wingback chair under a large-scale abstract painting. Lauren’s grandmother had a fondness for monogrammed trays and chinoiserie vases, and her collections of zebras—Lalique zebras, porcelain zebras, hand-carved wood zebras—were scattered everywhere.

  “I don’t think that’s a nice thing to say,” said her mother. “And Ethan, hon, it’s called a banquette.”

  The salt and pepper shakers were little bluebirds. Ethan reached for one.

  Her mother’s marinated flank steak was set out on an American flag–pattern serving tray, a nod to the holiday weekend. Lauren appreciated the attempt to make things festive, but since her husband’s death, she’d found the sight of the flag funereal.

  “This room is pretty crazy,” Stephanie declared, opening a bottle of wine. She seemed overdressed for dinner at home in her skintight jeans perfectly flared around her ankles and her strappy, high-heeled sandals. Lauren hadn’t changed out of her running clothes.

  “I don’t think you need to drink tonight,” Beth said. Stephanie poured a glass anyway.

  “Listen to your mother,” Howard said.

  She ignored him too.

  Ethan played with one of the bluebirds, tilting it so it spilled salt onto the table.

  Stephanie went to the kitchen and returned with a plate of Bagel Bites. They actually looked pretty appealing. As if reading his aunt’s mind, Ethan smiled at Lauren, his big brown eyes wide and adoring, and handed her one of the crusty little circles.

  “Aw, thanks, hon. Looks so good, but that’s yours.” She tousled his hair.

  “Lauren, a friend of your father’s—you remember Simon Hanes—is opening a restaurant in the Borgata this summer. Seafood. Very fancy,” said her mother.

  So that was why Neil Hanes was in town.

  “Oh, well, that’s nice,” Lauren said, reaching for a piece of corn on the cob.

  “Tell her, Beth,” her father prompted.

  Her mother cleared her throat. “We were thinking, maybe once things got off the ground, you’d like to work there instead of that little place you’re at now?”

  Lauren shook her head. She knew her parents meant well, but their pushing and prodding was getting more invasive. They just didn’t get it. Four years into her life on the island, at least her old friends had taken the hint and left her alone. At first, after Rory died, they offered to come to town for weekends or just to meet her for dinner. They sent invitations to weddings and birthday parties. For a while, she felt obligated to concoct some reasonable excuse to decline. And then, she did not.

  “Why would I want to work at the Borgata?” Lauren said.

  “Well, you’d be more in the swing of things. Less isolated. It might be fun. Even in the winter, you’d have steady business.” Lauren could hear the subtext: And you might meet someone.

  “Thanks, but I’m happy where I am,” she said evenly. She couldn’t get angry with her mother. After all, her mother never got impatient with her. Beth, on top of the long hours she had always put in at Adelman’s, helped run Lauren’s foundation. It was so much work, more than Lauren had imagined when she began with the simple idea of raising money to donate to various causes in Rory’s memory. Her favorite organization was Warrior Camp, a place for soldiers to heal from the trauma of combat. And yet, as passionate as she felt about this work, when she was invited to fund-raisers or meetings, she would not leave the island.

  Her mother glanced at her father: Well, I tried.

  Silence fell over the table. The only sound was Ethan crunching on the mini–pizza bagels. Things were always awkward when the whole family was together, but it felt especially weighted tonight, and Lauren remembered what Stephanie had said about her mother seeming upset about something—although she had put it a little more crudely, as Stephanie tended to do. She watched her mother, looking for a clue that something was wrong, and decided it was probably just Stephanie’s divorce setting her mother on edge. Of course her parents had to be upset about it, though they couldn’t have been any more surprised by it than Lauren was. After Stephanie h
ad gotten pregnant by “some rando,” as she put it, and decided to keep the baby, there was probably little that could surprise them.

  “Speaking of Simon Hanes,” her mother said suddenly, “his son Neil is here for the summer. I’m sure you two met at some point. Very good-looking young man.”

  “I literally just ran into him a few hours ago,” Lauren said.

  “You didn’t! What a coincidence!” her mother said, way too delighted.

  “You should spend some time with him. Very ambitious young man. He’s a screenwriter now,” her father added. “Moved to LA after graduating from Penn.”

  “Yeah, no, thanks,” Lauren said.

  “I’ll spend some time with him,” said Stephanie.

  “You’re not even divorced yet!” their father said.

  “Oh, as if that’s the issue. I could be totally single, never married, and you’d still only think of setting him up with Lauren.”

  Lauren glanced uneasily at Ethan. “Hon, can you get me a bottle of water from the fridge?” she asked, and he dutifully scooted away. She turned to Stephanie. “Why do you have to make everything about you?”

  “Like you don’t? Your whole Jackie Kennedy routine is getting old.”

  “Really? You’re criticizing my life?”

  In that moment, it was hard to believe they had once been close. But they had. Lauren, dark-haired, dark-eyed, quiet and watchful; Stephanie, blond and blue-eyed, outgoing and a chatterbox. A year apart, their mother called them “the twins.”

  Whatever shortcomings Lauren had, she knew her sister would fill the gap. And vice versa. When Stephanie was flailing in ninth-grade math—tripped up by quadratic functions in algebra—Lauren, a year younger, tutored her. Stephanie might have been the blonde, but Lauren was the golden child—well behaved, smart, caring.

  Stephanie had set the course of their school years when, struggling academically, she’d fought her parents when they tried to switch her from public middle school to private school. Why didn’t she want to go to private school? “Because it sucks,” she told Lauren. And so when Lauren finished elementary school, she too chose public school.