Everything We Ever Wanted

Joanna took stock of Catherine’s words and finally understood. Her mother’s reservations weren’t about Joanna not knowing how to hang pants on a hanger or how to properly set a table. Catherine thought Joanna didn’t deserve this marriage – she did. Catherine was the one who had wanted, who had worked, who had strove, but Joanna had swooped in and taken, taken, taken.

Joanna had pushed her hand over the top of her head, feeling a mess of bobby pins. She walked away from her mother, not dignifying her with a response. As she spun back toward Charles, who was sitting with his groomsman, having danced his one and only dance of the wedding and therefore fulfilled his duties, a sharp pain prodded her side. She suddenly felt dizzy and thirsty and on display. When the photographer grinned at her from behind his camera, she was afraid he was secretly laughing. What if Catherine was right? What if she didn’t deserve Charles? Was that what was niggling at her?

It wasn’t possible. What she’d just felt was wedding jitters, that was all. And underneath that, a fizz of excitement. Excitement that her life was about to change. Excitement for it to be all she’d anticipated it would be. In fact, no – more than that. Excitement that it was going to be better than she’d ever imagined.

5 (#ulink_399f4e02-247d-5a89-9b0e-4e8a87c43914)

A horrible idea had begun to form in Sylvie’s mind.

It was a torturous idea, an enticing idea. Her fellow board members said yesterday where the boy had lived. They’d dangled it out there, a worm on a fishing line. She knew where the apartment complex was – everyone knew where it was, even though everyone pretended places like it didn’t exist. She could remain anonymous enough and just go and see.

No, she told herself, as though she was a bad dog. No. She tried to garden, to do a crossword puzzle. She read the first few pages of her grandfather’s copy of The House of Mirth, one of his favorite ‘guilty pleasure’ books. He wrote notes in the margins, chicken-scratched nonsensicals she could barely decipher. She went into James’s office and stared at the filing cabinet. It was so infuriatingly stoic. She looked again at the blank spot on the bookcase where the jewelry box had been. She turned her diamond ring around and around her finger.

To stave off the idea, she called Hector, the lawyer who had handled James’s will. She described the situation at the school to him in dainty, unworried tones. Just if you have acouple minutes to chat. Just if you have an opinion. Hector passed her to another lawyer, one who ‘handled cases like this’. Sylvie wanted to ask what he meant by that – maybe he could fill her in. But then he added, ‘I just handle tax law and estate planning, Mrs Bates-McAllister.’

The second lawyer’s name was Ace. He sounded about nineteen years old. Uncomfortably, Sylvie explained what she knew all over again – that Scott had coached this boy, that there was a rumor floating around, that the coaches might’ve been negligent or even encouraged the hazing. ‘Though I can’t imagine how,’ she added. ‘Certainly the coaches wouldn’t be stupid enough to whisper terrible things into boys’ ears, just to see if they’ll do them. Boys look up to their coaches, sometimes even more than their parents.’

But then she looked down at her hands. She’d picked the skin on the side of her thumb clean off. Could Scott have used his power as a coach to turn these boys into monsters? Could Scott have put the hazing ideas into their malleable little heads?

Ace-the-lawyer let out a long sigh and waited almost ten whole seconds before speaking again. ‘Well, if his parents choose to fault the school for negligence, since your son works for the school, he might be called to answer questions. It seems like a hard thing to prove, though – unless, of course, one of the other boys confirms the rumor. If they discover evidence, they may be able to build a case against your son. That his influence had lead to this happening, that sort of thing.’

‘There’s no evidence,’ Sylvie said quickly. ‘Someone’s making this all up.’

Ace cleared his throat. ‘The boy that died…he was on scholarship, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Hector mentioned you’re the chairman of the school’s board of directors.’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve been on the board for years. It’s a family thing.’

‘And Scott still lives at home. I understand both your grandfather and your husband left quite an estate when they died. I’m so sorry about your husband, by the way.’

She sniffed out a thank you. Then, ‘Where are you going with this?’

‘Well, when some people lose a loved one, they look for someone – or something – to blame,’ Ace said. ‘Worse than that, they lose sight of what’s important. I’ve seen it more times than I want to admit. They just see dollar signs, especially if they think you’ll do anything to preserve your reputation.’

‘I’m not asking these questions out of concern for money or my reputation,’ Sylvie spat. ‘I’ve called you because I don’t want my son to be implicated for something he had nothing to do with.’