“Hello. Ashley Brown. Editor.” Ashley’s voice was zippy as she answered the ringing phone, having ingested a Luna bar seconds ago. Her printer labored in the background, spewing out the first few pages of the manuscript an agent had sent her to have a look at.
She aimed the Luna bar wrapper at the dustbin, but missed. Removing her shoes, she stretched her foot and caught the wrapper between her big toe and second toe and towed it to the metal bin. This time, it sank right in.
While she was doing all this, the person who had called her said exactly zero words. She said hello again and the weighty silence on the other end extended, then broke into a cough.
“Andrew?” Ashley didn’t know why she thought it was him—maybe because she wanted it to be him.
Their last encounter had not been so great. She regretted some of the things she’d said, or rather, the way she’d said it. But with her gigantic ego, she wasn’t going to be the one to call first… or apologize first. However, if he happened to call…
“It’s Carl. Do you remember me? I’m Andrew’s father.”
The gravelly voice she remembered from her wedding day had grown raspier with the passing of time. She curled her tongue, rewinding to the disparaging words he had flung at her on the day of her marriage.
“How can I forget the man who called me a gold-digger?”
“I never called you a gold-digger—just said that you were going to end up becoming a liability for Andrew, which you did.” he clarified.
On the list of the people she hated the most, Andrew Smith was number one. Yet someone else tied for the number one position—Carl Smith. It must be a genetic thing. The Smith family produced disagreeable men generation after generation.
Carl uttered a barely audible, “Sorry.”
“Why are you calling me?” She tapped her pen on the table impatiently, imagining what exactly a billionaire hedge fund manager needed from his ex-daughter-in-law.
“I heard you divorced. I’m sorry.” The sincere regret his words held was the only reason she responded civilly.
“The divorce happened years ago. Your apologies come too late.”
“I only heard about it recently. Andrew and I haven’t been on the best of terms lately.”
She couldn’t smother a snigger. When had they ever been on good terms?
“But are you okay now? You were in hospital for a while, weren’t you?” he probed.
Ashley’s spine froze into a column of ice. How did Carl know about her having been in hospital? Had someone violated HIPAA? More importantly, how much did he know? The beats in her chest escalated. She was very discreet with her medical history. There were too many negative stereotypes associated with ‘suicide’ and ‘depression’. Judgment was the last thing she needed.
“Who told you I was ill?” Ashley crushed the receiver so tightly, it would have broken into pieces if it wasn’t made of plastic.
“Andrew did, when he came to me to borrow money to pay off your medical bills seven years ago. I told him how stupid you were for not having taken out medical insurance. I hope you have some now.” The disapproval in his tone didn’t even register.
Andrew had paid her medical bills? She’d always assumed her parents would have paid, even though it was unlikely that two retired people who couldn’t even pay her college tuition could have possibly paid for her month-long stay at the hospital and year-long therapy. And she’d never asked.
“How much did he borrow?” Her hands were sweaty and the phone was slipping from her grip.
It was going to be a big amount, wasn’t it?
She would pay him back. It might take time, since she was still paying off her mortgage, but she would ensure that she paid him back in full. The last thing she wanted was to be indebted to Andrew, though she suspected she already was—heavily.
He didn’t abandon you completely. He was still supporting you. If he had been a billionaire like Carl, she would have dismissed the financial help as nothing more than a token to ease his guilt—money couldn’t substitute for love. But Andrew hadn’t been a billionaire—he had been a struggling, cash-strapped startup founder.
He must have really loved her to ask the man he hated the most in the world to loan him money. But he had done it for her sake. Her heart kicked up like a wild horse, galloping out of control at that thought. No. Don’t start loving him again, she warned herself.
“So how much was it?” she repeated, as she clamped her eyelids shut, waiting for Carl to pronounce the figure.
“Don’t worry, he repaid me.”
“Tell me.” She was emphatic. “I want to know how much I owe him.”
Papers rustled and then his computer’s mouse clicked. “You want to know the principal he borrowed or the amount he repaid including the interest?”
“You charged him interest?” Her jaw dropped. “You’re a billionaire, for goodness’ sake!”
She threw her head back over the backrest of the chair, burning with rage. Was Carl even human?
“Common people have an unrealistic perception of billionaires. Money doesn’t grow on trees for us. Nor do we have bucket loads of cash lying around in our backyards.” Mr. Smith’s voice turned rougher.
“But isn’t it too much to charge your own son interest, Mr. Smith?” The drone of the printer stopped. The manuscript must be done.
“I only asked for five percent.” Carl said, like that would redeem him.
“Five percent is a lot! Federal student loans are zero percent interest and I struggled to pay back mine.” The more he revealed, the angrier she became at all Andrew had endured for her sake.
He snuffed. “I’m glad Andrew isn’t like you. He made it through college debt free.”
“You must be so proud of him,” she bit out, knowing that Carl had been immensely unsupportive of Andrew going to college.
“I am.”
Had she heard that right? Had Carl just said that he was proud Andrew had gone to Columbia?
Carl sniffled. Yes, sniffled. Ashley wondered if her aural apparatus had given up altogether. Maybe she should get a health checkup. And sign up for health insurance while she was at it.
Carl muffled his emotions. “I didn’t call you to talk about this. I’m throwing a party for my seventy-first birthday this week at my home in Greenhaven. I’d like you to come.”
“I don’t think we are close enough for me to attend your birthday party.”
“I’m hoping Andrew will be there, too. I want you two to get back together.”
Really?
“I distinctly remember you being unhappy about me marrying him when we were twenty-three.” She wasn’t going to let that go so easily. Nobody could hold grudges like her.
“That was before I saw him crying over you.” Carl stopped there, leaving her holding her breath, waiting for what would come next. “I have never seen him cry since he turned ten. I was speechless. He really cares about you. I don’t know why, since I don’t see anything special in you, but he does. So for his sake, I’m willing to take a chance at this.”
Something blocked her air supply—an uncertain emotion. “We divorced for a reason.”
“Whatever reason that was, I don’t know. All I know is he loves you and if I’m not wrong, you love him too. You were both too young for it to work out the first time, so you made mistakes. But only someone who has made mistakes knows how to get it right.” He coughed again.
This was the fifth time in fifteen minutes. Ashley wondered if Mr. Smith was sick—he must be, or he wouldn’t be doing this. This was so out of character. “Besides, I’m over seventy now. I want to see my son married and possibly a grandchild before I turn into a corpse.”
So that was the real reason for this phone call. She closed her eyes and nailed her head to the desk. He had made her recall one more problem that she had forgotten about.
Kids.
Andrew didn’t want kids.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. I do appreciate you calling me and inviting me to your birthday, but I will be unable to make it.”
“If you change your mind, you just have to turn up. The dress code is formal.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Smith.”
She laid the phone down and blew out a hurricane, letting it scatter the pages on her table. For a minute, she let the chaotic feelings churn her inside out. Then came the making sense part.
The day she had visited the cemetery, Ashley had glimpsed something in Andrew when he had spoken about her suicide. She had labeled it as fear. But had it been something more than fear?
Having been in and out of the offices of psychiatrists and therapists, Ashley knew that post-traumatic stress disorder was not uncommon amongst people who witnessed incidents such as the one Andrew had. Her psychologist had told her repeatedly during their sessions that not everyone was capable of dealing with a spouse who had mental illness.
Could that have been why he had never visited her in hospital? Because he was scared it would trigger something? Could that have been why he had been edgy while he’d handed her the papers and then rushed out immediately?
Deep inside, she knew it made sense, but whether that was because she wanted it to, or because it was the only explanation she could provide for him not having been by her side, she couldn’t tell.
Resorting to nail-biting, she vented out the confused state of her heart. What she had heard from Mr. Smith changed something inside her in a profound way. She was starting to see Andrew in a new light.
His actions hadn’t been ideal, but at least now, they seemed like something a man who had loved her would do. And something Mr. Smith had said hit her like a one-ton brick.
All I know is he loves you and if I’m not wrong, you love him too.
Yes, she loved him. Buried under the layers of hurt, anger, confusion and animosity was love. Six years ago, on her therapist’s couch, she had admitted that she still loved the man who had abandoned her, but she would stay away from him because she was tired of her painful, one-sided love. But now he hadn’t abandoned her—not completely at least. Maybe her love hadn’t been so one-sided after all.
She played with her phone, edging precariously close to dialing his number.
Wait, there was someone else she needed to call before that. Her dad.
It was fifteen minutes past three. Her dad should be home. She didn’t usually waste time on personal phone calls while at work, but today was an emergency.
“Hello?” Her father’s voice was lacking in vigor.
“Hi. Dad, it’s me.”
“Oh. Ashley. What a surprise. You don’t usually call at this time.” Hearing her, he perked up.
“Dad, do you remember the time I was in hospital seven years ago?”
His breathing grew deliberate. In. Out. In. Out. “How could I have forgotten that?”
“Did Andrew pay my medical bills at that time?”
“Yes,” was her father’s reply.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She tried to keep her voice down, tried not to let the violent feelings shake her sentences. Inside, she was trembling.
“You never asked. Violet and I decided it was best not to talk about it since you were so upset over your divorce and then we weren’t sure how you’d handle it.”
“You could have told me last year. Or this year. You know I am perfectly okay now.”
“It never came up.”
“How much did he pay? In total.”
“I have no idea. You’d have to ask him. He paid for your hospitalization and surgery in New York as well as the counseling sessions you had after that. And he deposited some money every month into Violet’s bank account to cover your medicines and traveling costs to New York for your appointments.”
That was basically everything. “How could you have let him pay for everything? You knew we were divorced.”
“He was quite adamant about paying, and Violet and I didn’t have the resources for your treatment, so we decided to accept his offer. I thought you two were still on good terms, since it was a mutual consent divorce.”
She hadn’t revealed his cold behavior to her parents, seeing no point in stressing them out more. Her story had been that they had realized they weren’t compatible, but that they were going to remain friends. Lies really came back to bite you in the ass.
“Okay, thanks, Dad.” she said.
There was only one person who could give her all the answers now. She called Andrew. A minute later, no one picked up. She called him again. This time, he cut the call. The third time, she was sent straight to the automated answering machine.
So he was going to avoid her.
After their argument at Café Noire, she’d expect no less. They had parted with the understanding that not another word would be exchanged between them.
She toyed with the idea of going to his office, but dumped it. It was his turf. He’d never let her get past his secretary.
No, she had to ambush him using some other tactic.
Then an idea struck her like a bolt from the blue. Mr. Smith’s birthday party. That was it!
Ashley smiled.
Carl Smith sure knew how to set two people up.
