disconnected from her children, more irritable if not downright nasty and pushing them away. Merry's neurologist warned us about personality changes. This must be what he meant. Merry was ill-tempered around me, but I assumed our old friction was reemerging in spades. I hadn't seen her take her bad moods out on the children, though.
“Have you told your dad?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Tell him when he gets home. Or maybe over dinner. Make him take you out. Promise?”
“Okay.”
Emilie had added another worry to my pile. If Merry, who'd been the quintessential soccer mom before the accident, now avoided her children, I had to break through her self-absorbed fog.
“When are you coming home?”
“Sunday, but I'm coming back here again next month. Would you like to come with me?”
“You bet.”
“We'll plan a weekend for goofing off. Sound okay?”
“Yes. See you. Love you.”
“I love you, too, Em.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Raney was in Gustavo's when I arrived. We hugged, and she waved at the bartender. “Our table will be ready soon.”
I perched on a stool.
“Martini, Mrs. Davies?” the bartender asked.
“Please.”
Raney and I became regulars at Gustavo's as soon as it opened. Though new, the restaurant was old-school. Most of the newer places were brass-and-fern bars rather than lush with dark mahogany. Gustavo's felt more like a private club than the trendy place it was.
“Good board meeting?”
The bartender placed a dirty martini with three olives in front of me.
“We've had a terrific breakthrough.” I was the chairman of Davies Enterprises, my late husband's company. “We've been testing a new type of engine. It doesn't use gasoline.”
“Really? This could be in a car I'd buy?”
I sipped my martini before eating the first green olive. “It could. If we manufacture it, I'll have every oil company in the world putting a hit out on me. No need for gasoline. Period.”
“Your table's ready, ladies. If you'll follow me…”
Gustavo's maître d' led us to a quiet table at the side of the main dining room. We stopped talking while we listened to the daily specials, looked over the menus, and ordered our meals and a bottle of Cabernet.
We were well into our first course when the conversation turned serious again. “What's the latest on Merry?”
“She's home.” I put my fork down. “She's walking and talking almost normally.”
“It isn't enough, is it?”
“No. She's so different. The kids don't understand. To be honest, I don't either.”
“Different? How?” Raney looked at the seafood risotto the waiter set before her.
“Her personality's changed. Part of the time she's out of it, disconnected from the world around her. A lot of what she says doesn't make sense. She treats the kids like crap.”
I told Raney about the phone call from Emilie. “She acts one hundred eighty degrees different from the way she was before the accident. The brain injury is much worse than I thought.”
“Shouldn't she be glad to get back into her routine?”
“You'd think. Before the accident, the kids and Whip were enough. Now, they're not. Her doctor put her on antidepressants and about a dozen other pills.”
“Like that helps. Is she seeing a shrink?”
Raney had gone through enough therapy to appreciate the power of psychiatry. Her husband, her childhood sweetheart, was kidnapped years earlier in Syria. Released after seventeen months, he was never the same. She knew firsthand Merry wouldn't get better until she asked for help.
“No. I want her to go. So does Whip. She insists she's fine.” I finished the last drop of wine. “Fine, my ass.”
“So you've tried to talk to her?”
I picked up a stray peppercorn on the white tablecloth. “Oh, yes. Many times. If I ask her what's wrong, she shuts down. She won't talk to me or anyone else.”
“She's leaning on you now, because she can.”
“Of course.”
“What if you weren't there?”
“I've been
“Have you told your dad?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Tell him when he gets home. Or maybe over dinner. Make him take you out. Promise?”
“Okay.”
Emilie had added another worry to my pile. If Merry, who'd been the quintessential soccer mom before the accident, now avoided her children, I had to break through her self-absorbed fog.
“When are you coming home?”
“Sunday, but I'm coming back here again next month. Would you like to come with me?”
“You bet.”
“We'll plan a weekend for goofing off. Sound okay?”
“Yes. See you. Love you.”
“I love you, too, Em.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Raney was in Gustavo's when I arrived. We hugged, and she waved at the bartender. “Our table will be ready soon.”
I perched on a stool.
“Martini, Mrs. Davies?” the bartender asked.
“Please.”
Raney and I became regulars at Gustavo's as soon as it opened. Though new, the restaurant was old-school. Most of the newer places were brass-and-fern bars rather than lush with dark mahogany. Gustavo's felt more like a private club than the trendy place it was.
“Good board meeting?”
The bartender placed a dirty martini with three olives in front of me.
“We've had a terrific breakthrough.” I was the chairman of Davies Enterprises, my late husband's company. “We've been testing a new type of engine. It doesn't use gasoline.”
“Really? This could be in a car I'd buy?”
I sipped my martini before eating the first green olive. “It could. If we manufacture it, I'll have every oil company in the world putting a hit out on me. No need for gasoline. Period.”
“Your table's ready, ladies. If you'll follow me…”
Gustavo's maître d' led us to a quiet table at the side of the main dining room. We stopped talking while we listened to the daily specials, looked over the menus, and ordered our meals and a bottle of Cabernet.
We were well into our first course when the conversation turned serious again. “What's the latest on Merry?”
“She's home.” I put my fork down. “She's walking and talking almost normally.”
“It isn't enough, is it?”
“No. She's so different. The kids don't understand. To be honest, I don't either.”
“Different? How?” Raney looked at the seafood risotto the waiter set before her.
“Her personality's changed. Part of the time she's out of it, disconnected from the world around her. A lot of what she says doesn't make sense. She treats the kids like crap.”
I told Raney about the phone call from Emilie. “She acts one hundred eighty degrees different from the way she was before the accident. The brain injury is much worse than I thought.”
“Shouldn't she be glad to get back into her routine?”
“You'd think. Before the accident, the kids and Whip were enough. Now, they're not. Her doctor put her on antidepressants and about a dozen other pills.”
“Like that helps. Is she seeing a shrink?”
Raney had gone through enough therapy to appreciate the power of psychiatry. Her husband, her childhood sweetheart, was kidnapped years earlier in Syria. Released after seventeen months, he was never the same. She knew firsthand Merry wouldn't get better until she asked for help.
“No. I want her to go. So does Whip. She insists she's fine.” I finished the last drop of wine. “Fine, my ass.”
“So you've tried to talk to her?”
I picked up a stray peppercorn on the white tablecloth. “Oh, yes. Many times. If I ask her what's wrong, she shuts down. She won't talk to me or anyone else.”
“She's leaning on you now, because she can.”
“Of course.”
“What if you weren't there?”
“I've been
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