Tell on You Page 4

  “And I thought you promised to find a decent job. My father says…

  “Fuck your father!” Jeremy exploded. She cringed and he took a calming breath. “Look, don’t change the subject. I asked you to help me understand your feelings about being pregnant. To explain to me how—overnight—your plans and goals completely changed. Don’t make this about your parents. It’s about us.”

  Melissa’s lip trembled. “You’re the one who changed the subject.” Her eyes welled. “Jeremy, I’m scared. What are we going to do?”

  Surprise, followed by a wave of guilt, swept over him. Unlike Melissa to show such vulnerability, especially in the midst of an argument. Maybe pregnancy affected her that way? The notion ramped up his guilt another notch. He stepped forward and reached for her, but she turned away. He felt like a heel. Maybe that was the whole idea. He chided himself for his cynicism.

  “Melissa, I’m sorry.” He massaged her shoulder, knots of tension there. His fault. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything will be okay.” He wished he believed that. “And it’s not that I don’t want the baby.” Just not now. “But can’t we talk about it? Be open with each other?” He turned her to face him.

  Her eyes brimmed. “Honestly, Jeremy?”

  “Yes!” Already he had doubts.

  “I’ve been so—confused about things,” she said. “Torn. And now, this pregnancy, coming out of the blue, it’s—I don’t know—it’s like some kind of sign, or something.”

  “A sign? When did you start believing in signs, Mel? I thought you were an atheist? Or at least a secular humanist.” He tried for a lighter note.

  She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, leaving raccoon smudges of mascara. “I don’t mean I’ve found religion. Just that—fate, or something—made the decision for me. Us.”

  “So now you’re a fatalist? What is this, a Russian novel?”

  Melissa laughed through her tears. “No. Oh, I don’t know, Jeremy! Suppose this is where we’re meant to be right now? Maybe Mom was right about grad school. You know?” She flung her arms around his neck. “Can’t you please, please be happy about the baby? And I’ll have faith in you. And we’ll work out all the other stuff.”

  He patted her back, drained. “Sure. But, please Mel, don’t go calling your father tonight. Okay?”

  Her head nodded against his chest. “Uh huh.”

  She’d end up calling him about the lawyer, sooner than later, Jeremy knew. Once again, Howard Milton would charge to their rescue. And yet again, he, Jeremy Barrett, Royal Fuckup, would roll over and let him. The Miltons always prevailed. None of them thought him important enough to call the shots, himself included. Compared to his own hard-working father, Jeremy felt like a slacker. Compared to Howard Milton—a joke. So he surrendered and stroked Melissa’s back, pushing aside the image of Nikki Jordan’s lovely face that stole, unbidden, into his mind.

  TEN

  “OWW!!” EIGHT-YEAR OLD Brandon Jordan screeched as his sister Nikki twisted his arm in an Indian burn. “Nikki, stop!”

  His cries brought Mom crashing into Nikki’s room. “Nikki, I won’t have you bullying your brother again. Let him go this instant.”

  “But I caught him in here messing with my stuff!” Nikki gave Brandon’s arm a final wrench before releasing him. Pouting, he scurried from her room.

  “I don’t care what he did. I told you, keep your hands to yourself.” Her mother turned away, judgment delivered.

  Probably in a hurry to get back to her vodka and reality TV. “At least when Dad was here, somebody stuck up for me,” Nikki called after her.

  Mom’s angry face reappeared. “Stuck up for you?” A bitter laugh. “Stuck it to you, and all of us, is more like it.”

  “Wasn’t me he left,” Nikki said.

  “Really? When’s the last time he even phoned you?” Her mother walked off with that parting shot.

  “Like you’d know, bitch.” Nikki said it under her breath, but not under enough.

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Mom stormed back into the room, got right up in Nikki’s face, breath boozy. “You’re grounded for the next three days, kiddo. Give me your car keys, right now.”

  “Maa!” Nikki protested. “How will I get to school?”

  Her mother held out her hand for the keys. “Get up an hour early and I’ll drop you on the way to work.”

  “No way!” Nikki fished the keys from her bag and dropped them into her mother’s open palm.

  “Then walk.” Her mom headed out of the room, turning back for one last jab. “Or call your father.”

  This time Nikki closed the bedroom door before cursing her out. Walking to school sucked, and tomorrow’s weather forecast called for cold. Call your father. Very funny. Dad lived in Austin now. But it gave her an idea.

  Nikki picked up her phone to make the call, rehearsing the pitch in her mind. I’m so lonely, Mr. B. I’m taking care of my brother again because my mom went out. And she forgot we were supposed to take my car in for a new battery. And I was wishing…I know I shouldn’t ask you…but if you met me and gave me a ride to school tomorrow, I’d get to see you. You wouldn’t have to take me right to school, just drop me nearby.

  She’d sell it to him. And after that, she’d see about getting even with her mother and brother. Maybe steal Brandon’s Game Boy batteries and hide them. And see how much distilled white vinegar she could add to Mom’s vodka bottle before the bitch actually noticed. Nobody, but nobody, got to score the winning point against Nikki Jordan.

  ELEVEN

  “MELISSA, DARLING!” BETH MILTON’S voice trilled through the telephone receiver.

  Melissa leaned back against the pillows and stifled a groan. The other side of the bed was empty. She looked at the clock on her night table. “Mom! It’s barely nine. What’s the matter?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  The way she said it conveyed disapproval of Jeremy, pity for Melissa, distaste for last night’s debacle at dinner—or maybe Melissa read too much into the comment. “I’m fine, Mom.” She burped. “Just nauseous.”

  “Oh, sweetheart! What’s the matter? Are you having morning sickness?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Melissa, saltines! They’re the best thing for that. Do you have some in the apartment? I’ll stop at the supermarket and bring over a box.”

  Like having a well-meaning locomotive charging through her bedroom. “Mom, I’ll be fine. I’ll have some dry toast. It’ll pass.”

  “Sweetheart, I had my friend Joyce Robbins scan the local real estate listings. You know how she stays on top of the best areas.” Melissa’s father might be the real estate professional, but her mother plied the field vicariously, looming over the housing transactions of friends and acquaintances like a carrion bird. “Joyce emailed me half a dozen wonderful possibilities,” her mom went on. “We should get out and look at them right away before they’re snatched up. How about I pick you up in an hour?”

  “Mom, I can’t. I have an obstetrician appointment at lunch time.” Mentioning the word “lunch” made Melissa’s stomach lurch. “Besides, I want to talk with Jeremy before I go looking at any houses.”

  “Melissa, he’s going to have to grow up.”

  No, she hadn’t imagined the disapproval. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means—” Beth’s tone carried more than a hint of frost. “That if Jeremy doesn’t have the ambition it takes to provide properly for you and the baby, then he’s hardly in a position to object when—”

  “You have no right to say he isn’t ambitious!” Melissa protested, as if she hadn’t thought the same thing countless times. “Jeremy’s a brilliant teacher. He’s doing something that matters.” At least, until they suspended him. “Why can’t you and Dad respect that?”

  “Is he doing any writing these days?”

  “I—” Her mother’s question caught her off guard. “I’m not sure. I think so.”

  “Has h
e published one thing since you’ve been married?”

  “Mom, it’s not that easy to publish poetry these days.”

  “And god forbid he should work on something with commercial potential.”

  Why did she always have to play the referee between her husband and parents? “Mom, I don’t want to talk about this now. I have to get ready for my appointment.”

  “Why don’t I drive you there?” her mom asked. “Then we could go look at the houses.”

  Melissa groaned. “Mom, I told you—”

  “All right. But I don’t understand why your husband should think there’s anything wrong with parents helping a young couple buy a house. I would think that—”

  “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you after my appointment.” Melissa hung up and groaned again. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she took a couple of deep breaths, letting the oxygen settle her stomach before sitting up and lowering her feet to the floor. Better. She’d make some toast, then shower and get ready for her obstetrician appointment. She reached for the robe she’d left on the floor beside the bed.

  “Jeremy?” she called out, heading for the kitchenette. No answer, but on the small table she found a note. Went to work out. Love, J. Okay, exercise was good. If he’d do some writing, look for another job during the suspension, even better. Maybe she’d broach that later.

  Melissa heated water and scrounged through the cabinet for a tea bag. Last one in the box. She’d try to remember to get more—ginger tea, perhaps. Good for nausea. She made a mental note to stop at the convenience store for tea and saltines. Melissa wasn’t the type to make shopping lists. While the water heated, she slid two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster.

  Jeremy would become more excited about this baby. Ages, she thought, since they’d been truly enthusiastic about something, or looked forward to an event. Their relationship was like a wind-up toy that started at a gay, frenetic pace and gradually, almost imperceptibly, slowed.

  They’d been so happy at first. Melissa smiled at a warm memory of the summer in the south of France, where they’d met. She and her two best friends had been doing Cannes in style, enjoying a week at the Ritz-Carlton, bankrolled by their parents—a last fling before Lori’s upcoming wedding. Sun and wine had flowed in abundance. The three of them—carefree women in their mid-twenties, two still romantically uncommitted—had worked on their tans and shopped the boutiques by day, and combed the clubs by night. Idyllic. At least until Lori dropped the bombshell about Melissa’s father.

  The toaster popped and Melissa removed the browned slices. She banished the memory, as she’d done so often over the years. Better to recall meeting Jeremy later that week.

  Everything about their romance so implausible. Absurd that Jeremy, fresh out of grad school and broke, should have been anywhere near the Ritz. But that summer, a small inheritance from his grandmother had allowed him a trip to Antibes. Jeremy’s buddy Rick had managed to scratch up the airfare, too. They’d taken a jitney to Cannes for the day, treating themselves to the Ritz-Carlton’s sumptuous brunch on the beach.

  Rick, a hunky jock, more typically Melissa’s kind of guy. Jeremy, slight of build and still pale enough that his sandy brown hair had looked darker than his skin. Cute, though. Melissa had come off a couple of relationships with bad boys, which elevated Jeremy’s stock. She’d been primed to appreciate a gentle, clever schoolteacher who wrote poetry and nimbly worked his way around her defenses. Jeremy’s bashful smile—half sexy, half little boy—stole her heart.

  Their banter over brunch that first day had been playful, yet free of barbs. Their first kiss under the warm moonlight that night had surprised her with its heat. Melissa saw Jeremy every blissful day for the rest of that week. What were the odds of two New Jersey-ites from neighboring Union and Essex counties meeting and falling in love on the French Riviera? Clearly meant to be.

  And so rich girl had married poor boy.

  Melissa chewed and swallowed a mouthful of toast, waiting to see how it sat. When her stomach offered no protest, she went to the refrigerator for a jar of raspberry jelly. She’d endure morning sickness and more if this pregnancy rekindled the love they’d found on that golden beach. Rational or not, she wanted this new hope, clung to it. It scared her less and promised more than the prospect of grad school.

  She’d stopped taking her birth control pills to make it happen.

  The doorbell rang downstairs and Melissa frowned. Had her mother come over anyway? She pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Jeremy Barrett,” said an unfamiliar voice. “My name is Leona Price, and I’m with Child Protection and Permanency.”

  Melissa’s pulse raced. The investigation Jeremy talked about. “He’s not here right now,” she said into the intercom.

  “I’m afraid this is quite important,” the voice insisted. “May I come up and give you my card?”

  “Uh, sure.” Filled with foreboding, Melissa buzzed the woman into the building.

  TWELVE

  UNABLE TO REFUSE NIKKI Jordan, Jeremy sat in his car with her, two scant blocks from the Forrest School, staring into those glacier eyes like a lovesick fool. “Better go,” he said. “You’ll be late.”

  She massaged the back of his hand, a feather touch of her index finger, and Jeremy felt heat rise in his groin. “Nikki…” Almost a moan. Crazy to be here, he knew. “Go now,” he urged.

  She smiled. “Thanks for saving me from the cold. You’re the best.”

  Jeremy pulled away, bereft, as Nikki trotted off. Where to now? Only 8:30 by the dashboard clock. He could have slept in instead of throwing on a pair of sweats, rushing out on a freezing morning and driving to the very place he was prohibited to be. Now Melissa would expect him to come home perspiring from a workout, but Jeremy’s head ached, probably from all the wine last night, and the idea of the gym held no appeal.

  Coffee, then. Breakfast at the diner. Already becoming a regular there, he thought.

  A fried egg with rye toast and two cups of black coffee later, Jeremy felt sufficiently restored to consider going over to lift some weights after all. He tipped the waitress, paid the tab and walked outside. The sun had warmed things up a bit and he took heart. A workout would do him a world of good.

  The call from Melissa caught him en route to the gym.

  “Hey,” he said. “How you doing? You were dead to the world. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Jeremy…”

  She sounded wide awake now. Serious. Scared. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “A woman from the state—from Child Protection—was here looking for you.”

  “Jesus.” So soon?

  “You have to talk with her,” Melissa said, “and you absolutely need a lawyer.” She drew a breath. “I called my parents.”

  “Yeah, and…?” Wary, unsure whether to be angry or grateful.

  “It’s all arranged. So please, don’t give me any arguments, Jeremy. My father’s attorney, Peter Winkelman, will meet us at my parents’. I already called the woman from Child Protection and told her to come there in half an hour.”

  Jeremy simmered. Everything orchestrated, just like that, and nobody consulting him. Yet, what choice did he have? “Why at your parents’?”

  “Winkelman’s idea. Their place makes…” Melissa hesitated. “A different statement than ours.”

  Hard to argue that, but it still pissed him off. “Mel…”

  “Jeremy!” No mistaking the urgency in her voice. “Please, just go, will you?”

  He gave up. “On my way.”

  Melissa’s Escape pulled into the circular driveway fronting the Miltons’ colonial as Jeremy got out of his Honda. She held out a card to him as they headed up the walkway.

  “Here. Her business card. She’ll be here any minute.”

  Jeremy glanced at the official looking card while Melissa opened her parents’ massive front door. A short, rotund man in a navy blue suit, dark hair receding from his forehead, app
roached and held out a hand in greeting as they stepped inside.

  “Attorney Peter Winkelman.” He pumped Jeremy’s hand and motioned toward the living room. “We’ll be meeting in there. You can brief me before she gets here.”

  Jeremy followed him inside and stammered out a hasty summary of his situation. Winkelman listened intently, nodding from time to time, his questions few and to the point.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured Jeremy. “I’ll handle it.”

  “I—we may not be able to afford your fees,” Jeremy said. The man’s suit looked like it cost more than his monthly take-home pay.

  Winkelman shook him off. “I do a lot of work for Howard. The arrangements are taken care of.”

  Yet again, Jeremy juggled the familiar blend of resentment and abject need that characterized his dealings with his father-in-law. Still processing all of it, he heard the front doorbell and felt the muscles in his neck tense.

  Peter Winkelman flashed him a grin that radiated confidence. “We’ve got this,” he said. “Just follow my lead.”

  THIRTEEN

  Jeremy and his lawyer turned as Melissa entered the Miltons’ living room, accompanied by a stout, middle-aged African-American woman.

  “Is one of you Jeremy Barrett?” the woman asked.

  Jeremy gave a nervous nod. “Yes.”

  “Leona Price. I’m an investigator with the Division of Child Protection and Permanency.” She passed him her card. “May I speak with you…” She eyed Winkelman, then Melissa, “…in private?”

  “Melissa,” Winkelman said, “your parents are in the family room. Perhaps you’d like to join them.”

  A friendly tone, but it carried weight, Jeremy observed.

  With a worried glance at Jeremy, Melissa left.

  Winkelman stepped up to shake hands with Ms. Price. “Peter Winkelman.” He gave her his card. “I’d like to sit in.”