Yawning, I went to the bathroom, found Hardy’s robe, and tugged it on. The coffeemaker was all set up in the kitchen, with a mug and a clean spoon laid out. I pushed a button, and the air filled with the cheerful gurgle of brewing coffee.
I picked up Hardy’s phone and dialed his cell number.
No answer.
I hung up the phone. “Coward,” I said without heat. “You can run, Hardy Cates, but you can’t hide forever.”
But Hardy managed to avoid me all Saturday. And while I wanted badly to talk to him, pride wouldn’t let me chase after him like a lovestruck skink, a Texas lizard which was known to lunge and circle around the male it was interested in. I figured I could afford to be patient with Hardy. So I left a couple of casual messages on his machine, and decided to wait him out.
Meanwhile, I got an e-mail from Nick.
The whole thing is crazy,” I said when Susan had finished reading Nick’s e-mail. I had printed it out and asked her to take a look at it during our Saturday therapy session. “He’s turned everything backward. Upside down. It’s like Alice in Wonderland.”
It was ten pages long and filled with accusations and lies. I had felt dirty and tainted after reading it, but most of all, outraged. Nick had recast our entire marriage, with himself as the victim and me as the villain. According to Nick, I had been an insane, histrionic, and unfaithful wife, and he had tried in vain to pacify me and my moods and rages. And in the end, when he had lost his temper with me, it was because I had pushed him to the edge, by rejecting his honest efforts to fix our relationship.
“What pisses me off the most,” I continued heatedly, “is how detailed and convincing it is . . . like Nick believes his own crap. But he doesn’t, does he? And why would he write this to me? Does he actually think I’m going to buy any of this?”
Susan’s brow was furrowed. “Pathological lying is the MO for a narcissist . . . they’re not interested in the truth, only in what gets them what they want. Which is attention. Supply. So basically Nick is trying to get a reaction from you. Any kind of reaction.”
“Like, me hating him is just as good a supply as me loving him?”
“Exactly. Attention is attention. The only thing Nick can’t tolerate is indifference. That creates what’s called ‘narcissistic injury’ . . . and unfortunately this e-mail is sending strong signals in that direction.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “So what happens when Nick gets a narcissistic injury?”
“He may try to frighten you in some way, which to him is another form of supply. And if you refuse to react, it may very well escalate the situation.”
“Oh, great. Does that mean more phone calls? More unexpected visits?”
“I hope not. But yes, probably. And if he’s angry enough, he may want to punish you.”
There was silence in Susan’s small office while I digested the information. It was so unfair. I had thought that divorcing Nick would be enough. Why did he have to pull this crap with me? Why did he expect me to go on being a supporting player in the movie of his life?
“How do I get rid of him?” I asked.
“There’s no easy answer. But if I were you, I would save this e-mail and document every interaction with him. And try to go no-contact, no matter what he does. Refuse gifts, don’t answer e-mails or letters, and don’t discuss him with anyone who might approach you on his behalf.” Susan looked down at the e-mail, frowning. “If a narcissist is made to feel inferior to something or someone, it eats away at him until it’s relieved. Until he feels he can walk away as the winner.”
“But we’re divorced,” I protested. “There’s nothing to win!”
“Yes there is. He’s fighting to retain his image of himself. Because without that image of superiority and dominance and control . . . Nick is nothing.”
The session with Susan had not done a lot for my mood. I felt anxious and angry, and I wanted comfort. And since Hardy was still not answering his cell phone, he had moved close to the top of my shit list.
When my phone finally rang on Sunday, I checked the caller ID eagerly. My hopes were deflated as I saw it was my dad. Sighing, I picked it up and answered morosely. “Hello?”
“Haven.” Dad sounded gruff and self-satisfied in a way I didn’t like. “I need you to come over. There’s something we have to talk about.”
“Okay. When?”
“Now.”
I would have loved to tell him I had something else going on, but no convenient excuses sprang to mind. And since I was already bored and moody, I figured I might as well go see him.
“Sure thing, Dad,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”
I drove to River Oaks, and I found Dad in his bedroom, which was the size of a small apartment. He was relaxing in a massage chair in his sitting area, punching buttons in the control panel.
“Want to try it?” Dad offered, patting the arm of the chair. “Fifteen different kinds of massage. It analyzes your back muscles and makes recommendations. It also grabs and stretches the thigh and calf muscles.”
“No, thanks. I prefer my furniture to keep its hands to itself.” I smiled at him and sat in a nearby, ordinary chair. “No how’s it going. Dad? What do you want to talk about?”
He took his time about answering, taking a moment to enter a massage program into the chair. It began whirring and adjusting the seat position. “Hardy Cates,” he said.
I shook my head. “No way. I’m not talking to you about him. Whatever it is you want to know, I’m not — ”
“I’m not asking for information, Haven. I know something about him. Something you need to hear.”
Every instinct urged me to leave right then. I knew my father kept tabs on everyone and would have had no compunction about digging up dirt from Hardy’s past. I didn’t need or want to hear anything that Hardy wasn’t ready to confide. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew what Dad was going to tell me: about Hardy’s father, and his prison time, and the
DUI
arrest. So I decided to stay and hear Dad out, and put him in his place.
The room was quiet except for the whirring of mechanical gears and rollers. I summoned a cool smile. “All right, tell me.”
“I warned you about him,” Dad said, “and I was right. He sold you out, honey. So it’s best to put him out of your mind and go find someone else. Someone who’ll be good to you.”
“Sold me out?” I stared at him in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”
“T.J. Bolt gave me a call after he saw you with Cates on Friday night. He asked me what I thought, about you taking up with a rascal like Cates, and I told him.”
“What a pair of busybodies,” I said in annoyance. “Good Lord, with all the time and money each of you has, you can’t think of any thing better to talk about than my love life?”
“T.J. had an idea to expose Cates for what he is . . . to show you what kind of man you’re keeping company with. And after he told me about it, I agreed. So T.J. called Cates yesterday — ”
“Oh, hell,” I whispered.
” — and offered him a deal. He said he’d sign the lease contract Cates offered him a while back, and forgo the bonus completely. If Cates promised to drop you for good. No dating, no socializing of any kind.”
“And Hardy told T.J. to go screw himself,” I said.
My father gave me a pitying glance. “No. Cates took the deal.” He leaned back in his massage chair, while I absorbed the information.
My skin was prickling and crawling. My mind rejected it — Hardy would never have taken such a deal. Not after the night we’d spent together. I knew he had feelings for me. I knew he needed me. It didn’t make sense for Hardy to throw it all away. Not for some leases he would have probably gotten in time, anyway.
What the hell was going on in Hardy’s head? I had to find out. But first . . .
“You manipulative old coot,” I said. “Why do you have to go messing around in my private life?”
“Because I love you.”
“Love means respecting someone else’s rights and boundaries! I’m not a child. I’m . . . no, you don’t even think of me as a child, you think of me as a dog you can lead around on a leash and control in any way you — ”
“I don’t think of you as a dog,” Dad interrupted, scowling, “Now, settle down and — ”
“I’m not going to settle down! I have every right to be furious. Tell me, would you pull this kind of crap with Gage or Jack or Joe?”
“They’re my sons. They’re men. You’re a daughter who’s already gone through one bad marriage and was likely headed for another.”
“Until you can treat me like a human being, Dad, our relationship is over. I’ve had it.” I stood and slung my bag over my shoulder.
“I’ve done you a favor,” Dad said irritably. “I just showed you that Hardy Cates isn’t good enough for you. Everyone knows it. He knows it. And if you weren’t so hardheaded, you’d admit it too.”
“If he really agreed to this deal with T.J.,” I said, “then he doesn’t deserve me. But neither do you, for doing something so rotten in the first place.”
“You’re going to shoot the messenger?”
“Yeah, Dad, if the messenger can’t learn to keep his interfering ass out of my business.” I walked toward the doorway.
“Well,” I heard my father mutter, “at least you’re through with Hardy Cates.”
I turned back to scowl at him over my shoulder. “I’m not through with him yet. I won’t be gotten rid of without finding out the reason. A real reason, not some half-baked business deal you and T.J came up with.”
There was no one I could talk to. I had been warned by everyone, including Todd, that this was exactly what I should expect from Hardy Cates. I couldn’t even call Liberty, because he had done something similar to her once and she couldn’t say it was out of character. And I felt like such an idiot, because I still loved him.
Part of me wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. Another part was ripping mad. And another part was busy analyzing the situation and trying to figure out the best way to handle it. I decided to cool down before I confronted Hardy. I would call him tomorrow after work, and we would talk everything out. If he wanted to break everything off between us, I would deal with it. But at least it wouldn’t be done third-party, by a couple of manipulative old geezers.
The office was unusually subdued when I went in at eight on Monday morning. The employees were quiet and busy. No one seemed inclined to share details about their weekend as we usually did. No water-cooler gossip, no friendly chitchat.
As lunchtime approached, I went to Samantha’s cubicle to ask if she wanted to go get a sandwich with me.
Samantha, usually so vivacious, looked shrunken and despondent as she sat behind her desk. Her father had died about two weeks earlier, so I knew it would take some time before she was back to her old self.
“Want to go out for lunch?” I asked gently. “It’s on me.” She gave me a wan smile and shrugged. “I’m not hungry. But thanks.”
“Let me at least bring you a yogurt or a — ” I stopped as I saw the glitter of a tear beneath one of her eyes. “Oh, Samantha . . . ” I went around to her side of the desk and hugged her. “I’m sorry. Bad day, huh? Thinking about your dad?”
She nodded and rummaged for a tissue in her desk drawer.
“Partly that.” She blew her nose. “And partly . . . ” Her slender hand reached across the desk and nudged a sheet of paper to me.
“What is this? A billing sheet?” I frowned curiously. “What’s the problem?”
“My weekly paycheck is on direct deposit, every Friday. So I checked my account balance last week, and it was a lot lower than I expected. Today I logged on to the office computer and found out why.” She smiled crookedly. Her eyes pooled again. “You know that huge flower arrangement the company sent to my father’s funeral? The one with all your names on the card?”
“Yeah.” I almost didn’t want to hear what she was going to say next.
“Well, it cost two hundred dollars. And Vanessa took it out of my paycheck.”
“Oh, God.”
“I don’t know why she’d do something like this,” Samantha continued. “But I’ve made her mad somehow. I think it was those days I took off after Dad died . . . she’s been weird and cold to me ever since.”
“You took those days off to go to your father’s funeral, Sam. No normal person would hold that against you.”
“I know.” She gave a shaky sigh. “Vanessa must be under a lot of pressure. She told me it was the worst possible time for me to be absent from work. She seemed so disappointed in me.”
I was filled with volcanic rage. I wanted to storm through the office like Godzilla and trample Vanessa’s desk underfoot. If Vanessa wanted to attack and belittle me, I could handle it. But to crush poor Samantha right after the death of a beloved parent . . . it was too much.
“Don’t tell her I complained,” Samantha whispered “I couldn’t handle getting in trouble right now.”
“You won’t get in trouble. And Samantha, that two-hundred-dollar deduction was a mistake. It’s going into your account right away.”
She gave me a doubtful glance.
“It was a mistake,” I repeated. Pulling out a clean tissue, I dabbed at her eyes. “The office is paying for those flowers, not you. I’m going to fix this, okay? ”
“Okay.” She managed a smile. “Thanks, Haven.”
The intercom pad on my desk beeped. Since the office was furnished in an open-cubicle system, anything Vanessa said on the intercom was audible to everyone.
“Haven, come to my office, please.”
“No problem,” I muttered, leaving Samantha’s cubicle and heading to Vanessa’s corner office. I deliberately took my time, trying to compose myself before confronting my boss. I knew I was probably going to get fired for what I was about to say, and that afterward I would probably be the victim of a highly effective smear campaign. But that didn’t matter. I could get another job. And the damage Vanessa would do to my reputation wasn’t nearly as important as standing up to her.
By the time I reached Vanessa’s office, she had pressed the intercom button again. “Haven, come to my — ”
“I’m here,” I said, going directly to her desk. I didn’t sit, just stood and faced her.
Vanessa stared at me as if I were an ant crawling up the wall. “Wait at my door, please,” she said in a detached tone, “until you’re invited in. Haven’t we gone over that enough times for you to remember, Haven?”