Acts of Contrition Read online

  I was twenty-three years old and in law school when I had lunch with David Kaye, an old lawyer buddy of mine from my days at Becker, Fox & Zuckerman.

  “Looking good, Russo,” David said. “A little stressed, a little sleep-deprived. Exactly how a first-year law student should look.”

  “Not like you,” I said. “Living the life of Riley. Is that how it is once you’re a partner? Easy street.” I signaled to David’s wardrobe: worn khakis and a rumpled, untucked polo.

  “Hey, I did some work today,” he said. “I just didn’t have any client meetings.”

  “You did some work? What does that mean, you bossed around a bunch of overworked associates?”

  David laughed, then changed the subject to my love life. “Seeing anyone?”

  “Like I have time to date,” I said, reaching for the basket of warm rolls and thinking about a disastrous date I’d gone on just a few weeks ago with a slick litigator who talked about himself for two hours straight.

  “How sad,” David joked. “No time for love.”

  “I barely have time to study and eat.” My mind flipped to my refrigerator, which maybe held a Tupperware container of leftover ziti from Mom and a lone Sam Adams. I considered pocketing a few of the rolls and squares of butter for later.

  “In that case, never mind,” he said, reaching for a roll himself.

  “In what case?”

  “I had someone I thought I might introduce you to,” he said. “But if you’re too busy…”

  “I didn’t say I was too busy,” I said. “Who’s the guy?”

  “A nice guy,” David said. “New to town, just took a position with Myers & Jones.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Met him years ago, when he was a summer associate at Becker.”

  “How many years ago?” I asked. “Do I know him?”

  He thought for a minute. “It was probably four years ago,” he said. “Were you still at the firm then?”

  “I was,” I said, and because he was talking about “the summer of Landon,” I had to carefully steady my breath so as not to hyperventilate.

  “Then maybe you know him.”

  “What’s his name?” I said, tapping my finger on the table.

  “Landon.”

  “Landon…seriously?”

  “Landon James.”

  I nodded, attempted to take a bite of roll, but the dough seemed to expand in my throat.

  “Seeing that your face just turned a lovely shade of plum, I’ll take it that you do know Landon James.”

  “I met him,” I said. “We spent some time together. Four years is a long time ago. I barely remember him.”

  “So what do you think? Should I set it up?”

  “Set it up, don’t set it up,” I said. “Whatever.”

  “If you’re not sure…,” David said, appraising me carefully.

  “Set it up,” I said. “Just set it up, okay?”

  A week later, I was scheduled to meet Landon James for drinks. The same Landon James who had taken me fishing, who had leaned into me and stared into my eyes and said that he was falling hard. The same Landon James who drove me to the top of a scenic mountain, and then kicked me off the cliff.

  I spent an hour the night before planning what I would wear, trying to achieve a just-came-from-school appearance while still looking attractive. The last thing I wanted was for Landon to think that I primped for hours getting ready for him. It was humiliating enough to recall that I had written him a letter like a lovesick schoolgirl. I called my sister Angela, the most fashionable of the four of us sisters, for advice, and she suggested my black pencil skirt with high-heeled leather boots and a clingy cardigan.

  “Just in case I want to turn a trick later in the night?” I joked, smiling through the phone lines at my sister, who had a special fondness for tight, black leather.

  I spotted Landon and David sitting at an outdoor table on the patio of Morton’s, a popular lawyer hangout. I hung back, taking him in. He looked the same: bold, towering, Superman. His broad shoulders in his expensive suit, his floppy yet perfectly behaved hair, his killer smile that brought me to my knees. Turn around, my mind blared. Leave while you can. Somehow I knew that seeing Landon again would be no different than taking a hit of heroin. I’d want more. He’d be stingy with it. The pain of withdrawal would be bugs crawling under my skin.

  Yet I fluffed my hair, sucked in my stomach, puffed out my chest, and sashayed over, sliding in next to David.

  “Mary!” David cheered. “Great to see you. This is Landon James.”

  I held out my hand, and as he and I shook, the junk hit my bloodstream like the strike of a match. I would like him too much, I would fall too hard, I would lay out my heart, and whether or not Landon would protect it was anyone’s guess.

  “Well, well, Mary Margaret Russo,” Landon said. “Are you old enough to order a beer now?”

  “Way past the age of majority,” I said, feeling myself blush.

  “Are you sure?” Smiling the smile I’d been seeing in my mind for four years. “Because I could order for you.”

  “Feel free,” I said. “I like being waited on.”

  Landon and I locked eyes, and my cheeks pulled into an uncontrollable smile. He was even more gorgeous than I remembered: brown, wavy hair, steel-blue eyes, perfectly square jaw. I was sorry I hadn’t taken Angela’s advice of downing a shot of tequila on my way in.

  “Seems like we’re all old friends here.” David was grinning. “And as much as I’d like to bear witness to this wonderful reunion, the wife and children are expecting me.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at David, daring him to tell me that he was truly headed home, not just next door to another bar.

  For the next hour, Landon filled me in on his new position at Myers & Jones; how he’d graduated three years ago and had been working as an assistant US district attorney in the Eastern Division of Chicago, prosecuting everything from tax fraud, embezzlement, bank robbery, sale and possession of narcotics and firearms. He was now ready to put in a number of years with a high-profile corporate firm.

  “It’s a ten-year plan,” he explained. “By the time I’m thirty-five, I’d like to have some firm footing in the Republican Party.”

  “You want to be a politician?” I asked. “How’d I miss that?”

  “I’ve always wanted to serve,” he said. “I’ve had a Reagan obsession my entire life.”

  “Serve in what capacity?” I asked, still baffled.

  “If everything goes according to plan, I’ll have won a Virginia state senate seat within the next few years. From there, who knows? Maybe attorney general? Maybe the governor? Maybe Congress.”

  “Wow, and to think that my goals are to be employed with my student loans paid off in ten years.”

  We talked easily for the next three hours. At some point we ordered dinner. And wine with dinner. Then after-dinner drinks. We ended up on the floor of my apartment, sitting across from each other, our knees bumping. Landon leaned into me, wrapped his arms around my back, and pulled me toward him. We kissed long, luxurious kisses.

  “Are you sure you want to be a politician?” I asked, my mouth brushing against his.

  “Are you sure you want to be a lawyer?” he asked, kissing me more.

  “No,” I said, and then burst out laughing. But it was true—being a lawyer was my fallback plan. I kept it to myself around my hard-charging female friends, but what I really wanted was to be a wife and a mom. What I really wanted was a house to call my own, bedrooms bursting with children, dinners around the same table every night. But I certainly wasn’t going to tell Landon James that, or any guy, for that matter. “I’m just kidding,” I said. “I really like law school, and I’m sure being a lawyer will be great.”

  “What now?” Landon asked, leaning in, kissing me again.

  “You should go,” I finally said. “I can drive you home.”

  “I was a Boy Scout, remember?” he said. “I’ll find my wa
y.”

  “Last time you tried to find your way home, you must have gotten lost. I didn’t see you for four years.”

  “That’s not going to happen again.”

  “How can I be so sure?” I said, leaning in and kissing him.

  “Because when I want something, I go after it. And right now I want to see you in your Girl Scout uniform. And I’m not going to rest until I do.”

  “Maybe I’ll even put my hair up in a bun,” I said, gently biting his lower lip.

  After he left, I lay on my back on the floor where we had just kissed and called Angie. “He’s perfect,” I said.

  “Take a breath,” she said. “No one’s perfect.”

  “He is, Ang. Seriously, I could die.”

  The next day I woke up early and showered because I didn’t want to miss hearing the phone when Landon called. By noon the phone still hadn’t rung. By midnight I had checked for a dial tone umpteen times, and still no call. At first I honestly couldn’t believe it. And then I did. Two more days passed—on campus, in class, at home—and I barely managed to cut through the thick fog of my days. “Are you okay, Mary?” friends asked. I nodded but couldn’t speak. It was happening again. Landon had reeled me in and then let me go. How could it feel so right to be with him and then this? Angie called, almost on the hour. “It’s better to know now, Mare, what kind of guy you’re dealing with.”

  “Maybe something happened,” I said, excusing his abominable behavior, giving him the benefit of the doubt that perhaps he was in a car crash, or suddenly struck mute.

  Angie only sighed.

  It wasn’t until the fourth day that Landon called. “Hey, you,” he said. “Wow, what a busy week. Been thinking about you, though. Are you free this Saturday night?”

  The previous four days had been torturous. Physically, I suffered—nausea, fatigue, insomnia. Mentally, I shrunk—my self-worth boiled down and scorched. I had rehearsed what I would say to him a thousand times, “Go to hell!” being at the top of my list. Yet when I heard his voice, the heroin rush charged every atom of my being, and I bargained that maybe a busy week excused his behavior. I was desperate to see him again. I was desperate for another hit to take the edge off. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deserving of Love

  IT’S BEEN NEARLY A MONTH since my conversation with Landon about the photo and I’ve been saying a novena every night. Tom’s busy at work and, while the kids are intuitive, they’re also blessedly self-centered. They don’t seem to notice that I’m preoccupied, clumsy, and accident-prone. They don’t seem to notice that my head is dizzy with thought. They don’t complain when I burn the French toast, or drop a plate, or allow them a soda for dinner instead of milk. My sister Angie is the only one who questions me. “You’re acting weird, Mare.”

  So far the threatening photo of Landon and me hasn’t shown up. Each day I flip the channels between Fox, CNN, and the local news. I search Landon James on my laptop for new stories. I read blogs, listen to radio commentaries. The photo hasn’t surfaced. But still, I feel sick. What if. What if the photo does show up and I have to explain to Tom what I was doing in DC that day with Landon? Tom doesn’t deserve to be hurt by this.

  Time passes, though, and buffs my worry until it’s no longer sharp. Each day it slips a little further from my thoughts. A sliver burrowed under my skin.

  The rain starts to fall sometime before dinner on the night before Thanksgiving. Just as I’m spooning pot roast over egg noodles, an enormous clap of thunder sets the sky into a torrential pour. The girls run to the window to see the black clouds racing in, shrouding the last patches of struggling daylight.

  “Get back from the windows,” Tom says, and the girls leap onto the sofa, huddled together, loving every minute of the brewing thunderstorm, with all of the tumult of a Greek myth, Zeus throwing a tantrum. Meanwhile the boys huddle around my legs, koala bears clipped to a tree.

  Tom clicks on the television and a warning for our county is flashing across the screen. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSE UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY, it warns. The newscaster is using the terms “mini-tornado” and “microburst” to describe the impending storm. An unreasonable frustration swirls in me like the weather outside: Mother Nature is very inconveniently ruining our Thanksgiving plans. If the storm keeps up, my sisters will never make it. As if she were reading my mind, the phone rings and it’s Angela.

  “J. C., Mare. If you didn’t want us to come, you could have just said so.”

  “I know,” I whine. “This sucks. I was really looking forward to seeing everyone.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” I say, not so sure. “They’re talking about downed power lines and trees on the roads.”

  “Don’t stress. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep positive thoughts.”

  “Screw that,” Angela says. “Say a Hail Mary. For the storm…and for whatever else is bugging you.”

  “I have been,” I say.

  “Saying Hail Marys?”

  “A lot of them,” I admit.

  “For the storm? Or for what’s bugging you?”

  “The storm just started,” I say, hanging up before I reveal too much. So long as it’s not said, perhaps it isn’t real. As much as I’d like to tell Angie about the photo, about Landon, I can’t, because by now I’m certain of one thing: The truth is owed to Tom, no one else.

  The rain pounds throughout the night. Tom and I lie in bed and listen to the ting-ting-ting on the rooftop as the wind gusts swoosh by the windows. I get up to check the boys, who are sleeping together in Danny’s bed, the one that isn’t near the window. Emily, too, is sleeping with Sally, whose bed is squished into a corner and draped with a canopy. Back in bed, I snuggle up to Tom, curling around his muscular arm. I bury my face into it and inhale his scent. “Want to make out?” I say, kissing his shoulder.

  “I always want to make out,” he says, rolling into me and wrapping his arms around my back.

  “It’s the flannel, isn’t it?” I say. “This nightgown turns you on.”

  “A warm body turns me on,” he says, yanking at my undies.

  By the time I open my eyes to see the morning light sneaking through the bottom slats of miniblinds, I already have two kids in my bed. The twins are curled into each other like two sides of a butterfly, and Tom is splayed out on his stomach with his arm covering them like a speed bump. I slip out of bed and look out the window. A beautiful sunny morning, birds are chirping, the sky is resplendent, but the aftermath from the storm looks like Armageddon blew through. There are branches scattered across the driveway, entire trees uprooted across the lawn. It looks as if a giant has come and picked up our neighborhood in its meaty hand and shaken it like a snow globe.

  “Tom,” I say. “Tommy, wake up. This is nuts.”

  Tom yawns and stretches and gets out of bed, joining me at the window. “Good God,” he says. And then, “Chain saw.”

  “What about Thanksgiving?”

  “We’re going to have a great Thanksgiving,” Tom says, kissing me smack on the mouth before heading to the bathroom. “But first I’m going to chop up some trees.”

  Down in the kitchen, I crack a dozen eggs with the phone tucked between my ear and my neck. First I call my mother.

  “Ma,” I say. “Have you seen it outside? It’s like a bomb went off.”

  “Dad’s already outside picking up sticks. We lost one big tree. The one on the side of the house.”

  “Did it hit the house?” I ask while whisking the eggs, worried that it’ll cost them a bundle, money they don’t have to spare.

  “No, thank the Lord.”

  “Are you still coming over today?”

  “Of course, honey. Early afternoon. Is that okay?”

  “Great,” I say. “Have you talked to anyone else?” I go to the refrigerator for a splash of milk and a handful of shredded cheese for the eggs.

&nbs
p; “Not yet, you want me to?”

  “I’ll call them now.”

  “Call me back,” she says.

  I pour the eggs into the largest skillet and then dial Angela. Angie lives in Alexandria with her husband, Kevin, and two daughters, Shannon and Kelly, whom my girls worship. They’re ages thirteen and fifteen, all one hundred fifty pounds of them—combined—decked out in their skinny jeans and hooded sweatshirts, glow-in-the-dark braces, and too much product in their hair. You’d never know they wore St. Mary’s plaid jumpers and loafers most of the week.

  “We’ll be there,” she says. “It’s just a matter of when. Kevin is helping some of the neighbor guys. A pretty big tree came down in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Right now they’re trying to wrap a chain around it so they can pull it out further. They’ll be chopping it up for a while.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying not to sound insensitive, but I want to know what time everyone will be here so I know when to put the turkey in. “When’s your best guess?”

  “Early afternoon?” Angie says. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say. “Let’s plan on eating at four.” I slide a double helping of scrambled eggs onto Sally’s plate, a reasonable helping for Emily and Dom, and barely a tablespoon for Danny, my child who barely eats. Set reasonable expectations; can’t expect him to clean his plate if there’s too much food.

  By the time I’ve poured milk for the kids, Sally has finished her plate of eggs.

  “Did you even chew?”

  Sally shrugs. “They’re eggs. Can I go out with Dad?” she asks eagerly, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She loves helping Tom in the yard, especially when power tools are involved.