Page 11 of Bride on the Dotted Line

“Hi, baby,” she responds. “How are you doing?”

Her voice is rich and toned like fine wine. She sang opera before she met my father, who was making enough money by the time they got married that she could focus on raising me. Thirty years later, our circumstances have changed, but her sound still has an innately soothing quality—part of the reason she’s been able to calm my dad down when things get bad.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, standing my phone against my toaster so she can watch me put away groceries. “How are things over there?”

For the next few minutes, Mom tells me all about Shirley at the supply store who never comes to church, then goes on a tangent about Uncle Aldo—how he embarrassed her at her Tuesday lunch group in front of her friends. I fold my empty grocery bags and throw them into my closet, wandering into the living room with a peanut butter sandwich.

“And when I tried to tell him to apologize, he just groaned something at me and walked off. Thenerveof that man.”

“Shocking!” I say, sifting through my pile of magazines one-handed. “I’ll make sure to give him the cold shoulder next time I’m in town.”

“Oh, that would be lovely. Hopefully, that will be soon, Sienna. We haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Let’s see how next month goes.”

“How’s the city?”

There’s a part of that sentence she always leaves unsaid:since we had to leave.“It’s fine.” I take a bite of my sandwich and flop on the couch. “Starting to feel like spring.”

Mom nods. Her eyes are downcast, and I know we’re getting to the part of our call where we’ll either have to talk about Dad or hang up. It’s been like this since his business failed, and I still don’t know how to navigate it. I’m squirmy, the peanut butter in my mouth too dry.

“Your father says hello,” Mom says. “He’s resting in the garden.”

“How’s—um—how’s he doing?”

The side of her mouth does a little, unhappy twitch. She carries her phone into another room, ensuring she’s out of Dad’s earshot. “Better, but … he’s lonely. The time away from the city seems to be helping, so that’s good. I just don’t know how he’s ever going to feel better if he doesn’t leave the house.”

“Mental health is complicated, Mom. I’ll try calling him more often.”

“Sure, but he misses his old friends. If they would just come and …”

“No.” A flare of anger shoots through me, hot lightning out of a dark sky. “His friends are assholes.”

“Sienna.”

“It’s true, Mom. They did nothing to help him when he needed it.”

She stares at me. There’s so much more to say, and we both know it … but there wouldn’t be any point.

“Okay, baby,” Mom says finally. It might be the glare from her phone screen, but it looks like her eyes are sparkling with tears. “His legal debts?—”

“We won’t have to worry about those for much longer.” One bright spot in the storm. I examine my feet while I tell her about the Harwood deal. “If Nick agrees, my portion of Harwood Restaurant Group’s check should cover the debts from Dad’s lawsuit.”

Of course, even that seven-figure payout won’t touch the debts from Dad’s personal guarantees, but Mom and I leave that unsaid, too. Every time I think about the damage Dad’s business partners did to our lives, I feel like I’m suffocating. Like I can’t breathe, and I need to punch through something—a wall, a window, someone’s face—to get a pull of clean, fresh air.

“That’s great, Sienna,” my mom says quietly. “I’m happy to hear it. I can’t watch your father lose hope.”

“You won’t.” I say it like an oath. “You won’t.”

We hang up a few minutes later, after she promises to send a recipe for a stir fry she found online. If she thinks I’m a good enough cook to manage a stir fry, she’s never seen me make a peanut butter sandwich.

I lick my fingers, staring at the water stains on my ceiling. My nonna used to say that love is a great, unbreakable chain, passed through generations. If she were still here, I’d ask her if pain is like a great chain too, passed forward, inherited, wrapped tight around a family and squeezing.

A notification sounds from my laptop. I squint at the screen.

It’s the Google alert I set forNick Harwood.

I deliberate, then let my curiosity get the best of me. Sitting cross-legged, I pull the computer onto my lap and click on the news article.

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