Page 52 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“Men. Always causing trouble,” Betty says over the phone after I tell her I’m still dealing with a broken heart.

It’s our second conversation today. I had a call from Nurse Mitchell yesterday morning saying that Betty had been asking for me incessantly—well, asking for Laura—and she wondered if I’d be up for a phone call.

Feeling desperately alone, I took her up on the request.

I can’t tell Betty about the texts I found on Ian’s phone and our altercation on the stairs of the Grand Geneva, where he tried to talk me into staying.

But I’d seen enough, and it felt almost worse than if I’d uncovered some long-standing salacious affair.

My husband was secretly working with Alex McNamara to get my parents’ house rehab on HFN.

Ian didn’t come here simply as part of Olivia’s Parent Trap plans; he came here to further his career—to exploit my family’s trauma to enhance his fame and increase his bank account.

“Screw you,” I shouted in his face on the landing of the main staircase overlooking the busy lobby.

Everyone’s heads snapped toward us like we were performing on an elevated stage.

Phones popped up in the crowd, and whispers passed through the mass, likely identifying the noteworthy couple having a very public spat.

At that, Ian let me go. After I explained the need for privacy, the manager let me hide in the front office until a car could be arranged to take me home.

Once he realized why I was so angry, Ian began sending me a barrage of texts.

His messages quickly turned into calls, but I haven’t answered a single one.

Over the past three days, I’ve avoided most human contact, except for Betty.

I’ve never had a mother to turn to during a breakup, and though this version of Betty is more like a friend than a mom, it’s a novel sensation.

“I thought I could trust him. I really did,” I say into the receiver, repeating myself, but Betty doesn’t notice, as if she’s experiencing the conversation for the first time.

“Yes. They’ll let you down, now, won’t they?

” Most of Betty’s responses are general and airy.

This time, I’m not digging for hints at her past. This conversation is just two women on the phone, simply enjoying the comfort of each other’s voices.

What a strange twist—my mother’s voice is comforting to me.

But where else could I turn? My business colleagues are all far too busy or too willing to side with HFN and Ian. Lacey would help me hide a body, for sure, but she’s a bit of a gossip and was far too eager to pass Cam my number when I told her about my separation during my first week here.

And Cam. I’ve muted his texts, which mostly relay what he’s found at the library or the city clerk’s office, but he’s also sent a few asking if he’s done something wrong.

I had to force myself not to answer. As much as I want to confide in him like I did after reconnecting at Thumbs, it wouldn’t be fair to vomit my marital issues onto a man I know has growing feelings for me.

Somehow, I know that if I lean on him now, when things are such a mess, Ian would see it as the ultimate betrayal.

And then there’s Olivia, working her butt off to fulfill some kind of magical movie moment with me and Ian.

The night of our fight she came home sometime around midnight and peeked into my room as I pretended to sleep.

She was gone by the time I got up in the morning, sending a little text telling me she was going to meet Ian for breakfast and inviting me to join.

I didn’t respond, burying myself in my covers, listening to self-help books on “finding my true self” and “learning to be alone.” I haven’t seen her since, though she still updates me on her plans.

Today, she’s headed to the library. When she returns, I need to figure out how to tell her my side of what’s going on with Ian.

She’s flying back to California in the morning.

I can’t believe how much of our time together I’ve wasted.

“Will you come visit me today?” Betty asks in her shaky voice, pulling my mind back to our conversation. “We could go to Ike’s.” She brings up the diner for the tenth time during our call. I wish I’d never mentioned the place, a detail from her past that she fiercely hangs on to.

I’ve stayed away from Shore Path, honoring my dad’s request. I need to warn him about Ian’s plans for the house, but he hasn’t answered his home or cell phone, so I’ll have to put on a stoic face and go to the house in person today.

My lawyers, agent, and manager all agree—the only hope for stopping this is my dad.

I don’t trust Ian alone with my dad and the house.

After those two-faced texts with Alex, I don’t trust Ian at all—period.

“I’m very busy today, but maybe tomorrow,” I tell Betty, unsure when I’ll be able to see her again and if she’ll even be happy to see me by then.

“Oh, that’s too bad. I have a new dress for my date. I’d like to look for some shoes and make a day of it.”

I smile, thinking of the time I did her makeup as we listened to the Beatles and talked about her days in front of the camera for The Classy Homemaker. Though they aren’t the childhood memories most people cherish of their mother, I’m filling in a few blanks in my emotional canvas.

“That sounds like a lot of fun. What kind of shoes are you looking for?” I ask, letting the conversation drift away from the heavier topics of love and betrayal.

“I don’t know.” She pauses, making mmm sounds as she thinks. “Black ones with a buckle?”

“That sounds very pretty,” I say, knowing Betty loves pretty things.

“And a dress for the baby. Pink to match my skirt.”

The baby? I sit up straight. Me? She’s talking about me as though I’m still an infant.

“Your baby?”

“Yes, of course, my baby. She’s very little and pretty. I think she’s sleeping right now.” Her anxiety seems to be slightly triggered at the realization that her baby isn’t by her side.

“I’m sure she is. She’s sound asleep in her crib.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, she is. She needs a bottle when she wakes up. I’ll go find one .

. .” And the phone line cuts off as Betty leaves on an impossible errand from her past. I put the phone on the counter and whisper “Goodbye, Mom” before taking three long breaths and two short ones like one of the therapy podcasts suggests.

Looking down at the frumpy, stained shirt I’ve been living in for the last two days, I sigh.

Well, I can’t go anywhere looking like this.

Showered, shaved, brushed, and makeuped, with some carbs and coffee in my stomach, I make the walk over to Lake Shore Drive.

Olivia still hasn’t returned with the car.

The weather is unpredictable, as warm as summer some days and flurries littering the air on others, but this morning is cool and sunny.

The rebirth of all things green and colorful makes the walk a rejuvenating one.

I will not cry today. I will not cry today, I chant internally with each footfall, then switch to You are a badass bitch. Don’t let anyone walk all over you. First, I check Time and Again for my dad but only find Natty, his shop manager, who says she’s been flying solo all week.

At the last minute, I decide to take the shore path to the back of the house instead of the longer route around Lake Shore Drive. The unpaved parts of the path are muddy, and I arrive at the side yard with ruined shoes but in half the time it would’ve taken to go around.

Blue tarps are pinned down throughout the yard like a plastic patchwork quilt, with tall open-air tents perched over each one.

Some tents are already filled with boxes and piles of clothes, shoes, books, and papers.

The sorting process is starting to feel so futile, and there are times I wish we could trash it all.

But Dino continues to remind me that the entire procedure is essential for a positive outcome, and so does the social worker assigned to my parents’ case.

So we keep putting all of my parents’ belongings—their treasures and their shame—on their front and back lawn to be gawked at.

At least the boat tours aren’t up and running yet.

Hopefully, we can get a privacy screen installed before the summer season hits.

As I step onto my parents’ property, I see Dino on the back deck, calling out orders to the crew below.

I approach genially, but as I climb the slope of the backyard, the rest of the deck comes into view.

I see a camera operator, camera loaded on his shoulder, boom mic hovering in the background.

Among the crowd I notice two more cameras directed toward him.

Jordan Kelp, the producer of Squeaky Clean, stands to the side, holding a clipboard and wearing a World Window baseball cap pulled down to his eyebrows in what I’ve always believed is an effort to hide his bald head.

A terrible realization hits me when I see who is standing on the other side of Dino. It’s my father.

“What the hell?” I growl, blind rage flaming inside, burning away my mantras and making me run the rest of the way, waving my arms.

“Cut! Cut! Turn that off.” I say, pointing to the camera operators, who I recognize now as Mike and Wendy, crew members from Second Chance Renovation. In fact, everyone is here from our show. I also notice the host of Squeaky Clean comforting my father.

I sprint up the back steps, causing one of the more delicate slats to splinter. Out of breath, I lunge in front of Dino to block the shot.

“You turn those cameras off. I told Alex and Karen we are not signing off on this.” I point a shaking finger at Jordan, my breathing unsteady with rage. He looks annoyed but not totally surprised at my outburst.