again, flagrantly disobeyed her.
Melanie got out of the car. If there had been another choice, she would have taken it. But it was her job to protect her daughter whether she wanted to be protected or not. Even if the person she was protecting Shelby from was Shelby herself.
6
T HE APARTMENT WAS too clean. Vivien hadn’t even left yet and already it felt like it belonged to someone else. Her furniture still sat on her wool rugs, which sat on her hardwood floors. Her artwork still covered the walls. But her essence was already packed away in the oversized suitcase that held the only clothes she owned that might have enough elastic in them to see her through the next months.
She knew she was lucky to have found someone to sublet the apartment. Lucky that a friend of a friend had been temporarily reassigned to the New York bureau and didn’t want to commit to anything permanent until he knew how long the assignment might last. Lucky that she didn’t need board approval to have someone there to water her plants, flush the toilets, keep the apartment from sitting empty. Especially lucky given the state of the stock market, the demolition of her 401(k), and her lack of a serious job, that she had someone to pay her rent.
Lucky.
Wheeling the suitcase behind her, Vivien rode the elevator down to the lobby and handed the envelope with a set of keys to the doorman. “You treat him right, Ralph, you hear?” she said as the cab pulled up out front. “And anything that gets delivered by mistake can be sent to that address in Atlanta I gave you.”
“You got it.” Ralph stepped smartly to the front door and opened it for her, then did the same with the cab. Ralph had been there every one of the ten years Vivien had owned her apartment and she had never once seen him slouch or grouse. Over her shoulder she saw him tip his hat to her and continued to watch as first Ralph and then the building dwindled and then disappeared.
At Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, Vivi retrieved her suitcase from the baggage carousel and wheeled it out to the curb. At home in New York she would have cued up for a cab or maybe already lined up the limo service that serviced the network. Here people actually drove to the airport and circled like the planes above them, landing only briefly to retrieve their traveler before swooping out again to the highway of their choice.
It was early November and the sky was a perfect blue, the air just shy of crisp. The leaves that would have been every shade of red and gold imaginable just a few weeks ago were now pale and faded, their grip on their branches loosened. The smallest breeze would send them spiraling to the ground.
She spotted Melanie in the driver’s seat of a silvery gray minivan. Despite the exhaustion that had become her constant companion, Vivien’s lips began to lift into a smile. She was always glad to see Melanie; it was just what happened after that initial burst of pleasure that was sometimes unpredictable. But the smile died before it was fully formed when she saw who sat in the passenger seat. Vivien blinked twice, hoping that she’d been mistaken, but despite their mother’s disdain for minivans and the suburbs from which they were launched, Caroline Baxter Gray was, in fact, riding shotgun.
The van slid up to the curb in front of Vivi, and Melanie hopped out and ran around to greet her. They hugged quickly—the police at Hartsfield didn’t allow time for major reunions—and Vivien was shocked at how thin Melanie had become. She had the sense that if she squeezed too hard something might snap. This, of course, could not be said of Vivi. Now in her fourth month, she wasn’t yet showing, but had already packed on an extra six pounds.
Nonetheless, Melanie insisted on taking the suitcase from her and hefting it into the back of the van. The backseat door rolled open unaided and Vivien did a double take.
Melanie held up the key remote. “Sorry. Should have warned
Melanie got out of the car. If there had been another choice, she would have taken it. But it was her job to protect her daughter whether she wanted to be protected or not. Even if the person she was protecting Shelby from was Shelby herself.
6
T HE APARTMENT WAS too clean. Vivien hadn’t even left yet and already it felt like it belonged to someone else. Her furniture still sat on her wool rugs, which sat on her hardwood floors. Her artwork still covered the walls. But her essence was already packed away in the oversized suitcase that held the only clothes she owned that might have enough elastic in them to see her through the next months.
She knew she was lucky to have found someone to sublet the apartment. Lucky that a friend of a friend had been temporarily reassigned to the New York bureau and didn’t want to commit to anything permanent until he knew how long the assignment might last. Lucky that she didn’t need board approval to have someone there to water her plants, flush the toilets, keep the apartment from sitting empty. Especially lucky given the state of the stock market, the demolition of her 401(k), and her lack of a serious job, that she had someone to pay her rent.
Lucky.
Wheeling the suitcase behind her, Vivien rode the elevator down to the lobby and handed the envelope with a set of keys to the doorman. “You treat him right, Ralph, you hear?” she said as the cab pulled up out front. “And anything that gets delivered by mistake can be sent to that address in Atlanta I gave you.”
“You got it.” Ralph stepped smartly to the front door and opened it for her, then did the same with the cab. Ralph had been there every one of the ten years Vivien had owned her apartment and she had never once seen him slouch or grouse. Over her shoulder she saw him tip his hat to her and continued to watch as first Ralph and then the building dwindled and then disappeared.
At Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, Vivi retrieved her suitcase from the baggage carousel and wheeled it out to the curb. At home in New York she would have cued up for a cab or maybe already lined up the limo service that serviced the network. Here people actually drove to the airport and circled like the planes above them, landing only briefly to retrieve their traveler before swooping out again to the highway of their choice.
It was early November and the sky was a perfect blue, the air just shy of crisp. The leaves that would have been every shade of red and gold imaginable just a few weeks ago were now pale and faded, their grip on their branches loosened. The smallest breeze would send them spiraling to the ground.
She spotted Melanie in the driver’s seat of a silvery gray minivan. Despite the exhaustion that had become her constant companion, Vivien’s lips began to lift into a smile. She was always glad to see Melanie; it was just what happened after that initial burst of pleasure that was sometimes unpredictable. But the smile died before it was fully formed when she saw who sat in the passenger seat. Vivien blinked twice, hoping that she’d been mistaken, but despite their mother’s disdain for minivans and the suburbs from which they were launched, Caroline Baxter Gray was, in fact, riding shotgun.
The van slid up to the curb in front of Vivi, and Melanie hopped out and ran around to greet her. They hugged quickly—the police at Hartsfield didn’t allow time for major reunions—and Vivien was shocked at how thin Melanie had become. She had the sense that if she squeezed too hard something might snap. This, of course, could not be said of Vivi. Now in her fourth month, she wasn’t yet showing, but had already packed on an extra six pounds.
Nonetheless, Melanie insisted on taking the suitcase from her and hefting it into the back of the van. The backseat door rolled open unaided and Vivien did a double take.
Melanie held up the key remote. “Sorry. Should have warned
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