Victoria hung up with Ford, thinking that would indeed be ironic.
On Friday morning, she received the paternity test results from the lab and called her client to give her the news.
“Inconclusive? What does that mean?” Nicole asked.
For starters, it meant that Victoria wasn’t entirely the super-sleuth she’d thought she was. “It means the lab didn’t have a good enough sample to get an accurate result. Apparently, you need the root of the hair to run the test, and none of the hairs we got qualified.” She was quick to reassure her client. “This doesn’t affect anything, Nicole. I just figured we’d run the test for our own edification. But you’re sure this guy is Zoe’s father, right?”
“Positive.”
“Then we move forward as planned. I’ll call him at work today.”
Nicole sounded surprised things were moving so fast. “Wow. Okay. What do you think he’s going to say? It’s not every day a man finds out he has a baby with a woman he probably doesn’t even remember.” Her tone turned serious. “His wife is going to hate Zoe and me, isn’t she? We’ll always be a reminder of how he cheated on her.”
Victoria said nothing for a moment, thinking back to the day when she was ten and had found her mother sitting in the living room, staring blankly out the front window.
He’s leaving us. Your dad is starting a new family and a lot will be changing around here.
“You didn’t know he was involved with someone, Nicole,” she said. “And even if you did, at the end of the day, this isn’t about you and Peter. It’s about Zoe. He’s her father—which means, at a minimum, that he needs to support her financially. The money will help you and Zoe, right?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Well, then, it’s my job to get it for you.”
Unfortunately, however, when Victoria called the gym where Peter Sutter worked, she was put through to one of the assistant managers instead.
“Sorry, Peter’s not in today. Is there something I can help you with?” the assistant manager asked.
“That’s okay, I’ll just call again later. When do you expect him back in?” she asked.
“Monday. He gets here pretty early, usually around seven thirty.”
As much as Victoria was eager to get the ball rolling, she preferred not to call him at home, where he lived with his pregnant wife, with the news that he’d fathered a child with another woman. If for no other reason, she’d probably get a much more honest reaction from him if his wife wasn’t around while they talked.
So it appeared that Peter Sutter had a three-day stay of execution.
* * *
“YOU WERE ABLE to stop the panic attack? That’s excellent progress, Victoria.”
As pleased as she was, she didn’t want to overstate what had happened in the closet during the Sutters’ open house. “It wasn’t so much that I consciously stopped it,” she told Dr. Metzel. “More that I became focused on something else, and that kept me from going down the rabbit hole.”
He smiled. “That’s a good way to describe it. Often, it’s the fear of having a panic attack that can trigger another one. But in this case, when you became focused on something other than your anxiety, your body stopped acting as though it was in a fight-or-flight situation.” He jotted down something on his notepad. “Have you gone to any more exercise classes?”
She nodded. “I even managed to make it through a cardio workout class. I took a water break anytime I started worrying about being light-headed. I guess it reminded me that I could just leave the room anytime I wanted to.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.”
“A fear of being trapped during an attack is very typical with panic disorder,” he assured her.
Disorder. Heaven forbid the good doctor made it one measly session without getting in the word somehow.
“And have you tried riding the L again?”
“Yes, this past Sunday.”
“Do you feel ready to take the next step and ride when the train will be more crowded?”
She thought about that. Between her relaxation techniques and this new distraction strategy that had worked in the closet during the open house, she felt like she now had several solid tricks in her arsenal. “I think I am.”
He seemed pleased. “Good.”
“There’s something I’ve been wondering: do you think that my panic attacks have anything to do with the fact that my mother was clinically depressed?”
Dr. Metzel set his pen down and studied her. “Are you asking if I think mental health issues run in your family?”
She paused, not one hundred percent sure she wanted the answer to that. “Yes.”
“There is evidence that suggests both panic attacks and depression run in families, but I don’t think the two conditions are linked in and of themselves. Meaning, I don’t think you’re genetically predisposed to panic attacks because your mother suffered from depression. But obviously, I think your childhood experiences are a large part of the reason you have control and intimacy issues.”
She’d gotten that message loud and clear during their last session. “Look, I get where you’re coming from. Maybe I do have a few barriers up,” she conceded. “But why is that necessarily a bad thing?”
“You don’t want to have healthy adult relationships?”
She sat forward in her chair. “But what is ‘healthy’? Living with someone for twenty years who will eventually come to hate you so much that she’ll go to war with you over a stamp collection that she doesn’t give a damn about? Or, being married for fifteen years to someone and then discovering that he’s had a mistress nearly the entire time? Day in, day out, I’m bombarded by relationships that were probably once ‘healthy’ but now are anything but.”
“I agree that your job provides you with many examples of unhappy relationships.”
Good. She was glad they could agree on that. “Yes, it does.”
“But I also think it provides you with a handy excuse for avoiding relationships yourself. There are happily married divorce lawyers out there.”
Victoria sat back in her chair. Well. Wasn’t he suddenly all about the psychoanalysis today?
“Let me ask you this,” Dr. Metzel continued. “The men you date: do they know how you feel about relationships?”
“Absolutely. And I purposely date men who feel the same way as I do. Not looking to settle down, just wanting to keep things casual.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
Victoria hesitated. Part of her didn’t want to open the door to this line of questioning. But something compelled her to continue. “Kind of, I guess. His name is Ford.”
Dr. Metzel perked up in his chair. “Okay, good. Tell me more about Ford.”
She sighed. Here we go. “He’s my next-door neighbor. When I first moved into the building, we couldn’t stand each other—that’s a whole other story—but then I got roped into helping his sister with her child support case. He and I have been spending a lot of time together with that, and I guess things just evolved from there.”
He began taking notes. “Is this a sexual relationship?”
“Indeed, it is.” She smiled cheekily, thinking back to her and Ford’s very steamy night together last Saturday. When Dr. Metzel looked up at her, she put on a more serious expression and cleared her throat.
“You said that when you first met, you and Ford couldn’t stand each other. What changed?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I guess he grew on me.”
“How so? What do you like about Ford?”
Victoria hadn’t expected that question. “For starters, he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever met. I mean, we’re talking blushing, giggling, oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-how-gorgeous-this-man-is levels of hotness here.”
“So it’s a purely physical thing?” Dr. Metzel asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s only a physical attraction,” she hedged. “I suppose he can be funny at times, when he’s n
ot trying to push my buttons.” She smiled slightly. “Clever, too, in a quick-on-his-feet kind of way. Very good writer. I would never admit this to him, but I’ve been reading his stuff in the Trib, and you can tell he’s passionate about what he’s doing. Did you know one of his stories just made the Sunday front page? Pretty impressive, huh? Don’t get me wrong, he knows he’s good; he’s got this . . . confidence that definitely gets a little out of hand at times. But beyond that, there are these moments with his sister, or his niece, when he’s protective and really very sweet. I mean, he volunteered to babysit his four-month-old niece on a Saturday night. Do you know any other single man who would do that?” She smiled. “Granted, it sounds like it was a total disaster for both him and the baby, but still—that’s adorable.”
She stopped, suddenly realizing that she’d been going on and on.
Dr. Metzel smiled softly. “He sounds like a really good guy.”
Victoria shifted uncomfortably in her chair, immediately feeling the need to clarify something. “Look, before you get all jazzed up about this, and start writing in your little notepad, you should know that nothing will ever happen between Ford and me. And that would be the case even if I didn’t have my alleged ‘intimacy issues.’”
“What makes you say that?” Dr. Metzel asked.
“Because the guy is as messed up as I am.” She half-chuckled at the truth of that. “I don’t know the whole story—actually, I don’t even know one-tenth of the story—but I do know that his father was an alcoholic who died only about a month ago and there are definitely some unresolved issues there. And besides, he told me he doesn’t do commitment.” She gestured emphatically. “Does that sound like someone I should be pursuing a relationship with? I don’t think so.”
Dr. Metzel studied her thoughtfully. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you describe yourself as ‘messed up.’ Granted, I don’t like that term, but I find it interesting that your relationship with Ford has enabled you to be more comfortable acknowledging your own intimacy issues. Perhaps that’s something we should explore in more detail.”
Yep.
That’s what she got for opening the damn door.
Twenty-four
THAT AFTERNOON, CHARLIE and Tucker came over to help Ford set up for his barbecue. The annual—and semi-legendary—party, which he hosted every July, reminded him of the summer barbecues his parents used to have in their townhome, when they would clear out the garage, and family and friends would mingle indoors and outdoors, sitting on lawn chairs along the driveway and in the small front yard while the kids played kickball and ghost in the graveyard in the subdivision’s adjacent field.
Maybe it was the nice weather, or the company, but for whatever reason, his father had always been on his best behavior during those times.
This year, more than ever, Ford liked being reminded of good moments like that.
The three of them were moving his folding tables and chairs out of the storage room when his mother called his cell phone.
“I’m downstairs,” she said. Having been in the city to visit Nicole and Zoe, she’d called earlier to see if she could drop off another box with his father’s things—some photo albums he’d saved of Ford’s grandparents and great-grandparents, and a huge stack of old baseball cards.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come up?” he asked.
“Hey, Mrs. Dixon,” Charlie and Tucker called out.
“I’m sure. Tell Charlie and Tucker I said hello,” she said, having gotten to know them well in the sixteen years since they’d been Ford’s college dorm mates.
He ran down to meet his mom in front of the building, where she was waiting with her car temporarily parked with the hazard lights on.
“Your dad was such a pack rat. But maybe those baseball cards are worth something. I don’t know.” She gave him a quick smile to cover the flash of sadness in her eyes, and handed over the box of his father’s things to him.
“You don’t need to go through all his stuff yourself, Mom. I’m happy to come to the house again and help.”
She waved this off, only about the tenth time he’d offered. “I want to do it. It gives me something to do.”
Of course that was her answer. Between her job as a teacher’s aide, the second job she’d worked on evenings and weekends at Walmart for extra money after his father had injured his hand and gone on disability, and raising him and Nicole, his mother had spent the last thirty-plus years having more than enough “to do.” But she liked it that way, he’d long since realized. Once his mom rolled up her sleeves and set her mind to a task, pretty much the only thing anyone else could do was get out of the way.
“Just promise me you won’t try to move anything heavy. Save that for me.”
She gave him a semi-offended look—at five foot ten, she was hardly a petite waif of a woman—but didn’t argue. “Nicole seemed better today. Less overwhelmed.”
Nicole had told their mother the truth about Zoe’s father, and, at her doctor’s suggestion, also had joined a new-moms support group. “I think so, too. The other day, she said that—” Ford stopped mid-sentence, spotting Victoria walking along the sidewalk in their direction, carrying two bags of groceries.
So, this was . . . unexpected. It had been years since his mom had met a woman he was involved with—and, admittedly, he hadn’t been thinking he would break that habit today.
One of the inherent risks of dating a neighbor, he supposed.
Victoria saw him a moment later, and her expression immediately turned hesitant when she saw the woman standing next to him. “Hey there,” she said, with a tentative smile as she approached.
“Hey yourself.” Ford nodded at the bags she carried. “Need a hand?”
“I’m okay.” With a grin, Victoria nodded at the large box he held. “Do you need a hand?”
He chuckled. “Thanks, I think I’m good.” He saw his mother looking at him expectantly and made the introductions. “This is my mother, Maria. Mom, this is Victoria, my neighbor and—”
“The divorce lawyer. Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to finally put a face with the name,” his mom gushed, pulling Victoria in for a warm hug. “I’ve heard so much about you from Ford and Nicole.”
“Oh—thank you. That’s good to hear.” Looking surprised by the hug, Victoria blushed as she caught Ford’s eyes over his mother’s shoulder. She gave him a little smile as she hugged his mom back, as if to say, What can you do, right?
And in that moment . . . something tightened in his chest.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping my daughter and granddaughter,” his mom said to Victoria when she pulled back. “Nicole told me all about it. And Ford, too. He says you’re a very talented lawyer, and a saint to be doing all this for free.”
“A saint? Really?” Victoria turned to him, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she undoubtedly recalled his skepticism over Nicole’s use of that very word just a few weeks ago. “Ford, you are too kind.”
He shot her a look. Cute. “I’m not sure saint was the actual word I used.”
“It sure was.” His mother smiled at Victoria. “And my son is not one to give compliments lightly, so if he has such wonderful praise for you, there must . . . be something to it.” She paused, as if thinking about that, then turned to him with a curious look.
“I’m happy to help Nicole and Zoe,” Victoria said. “It’s a unique situation, so professionally this has been a nice opportunity for me.”
“You have your own firm in the city, I hear,” his mom said.
They chatted for a few moments about Victoria’s law practice, and then she held up her grocery bags. “Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I should probably get these upstairs, anyway. It was very nice meeting you, Mrs. Dixon.” As she turned to head inside their building, she gave him a nod in good-bye. “Ford.”
“So, that’s Victoria,” his mom said when it was just the two of them. “She seems lovely.”
Through the glass door, Ford watche
d as Victoria stopped at her mailbox, the one next to his. Her hair, which she wore in a long, sexy ponytail again, fell over one bare, golden shoulder as she perused her mail. “She definitely has her moments.”
“Sounds like you two have been spending a lot of time together.”
He turned his attention to his mother, just now catching her sly tone. “Some, yes.”
“Will she be at your barbecue today?”
“Yes, I invited several of my neighbors.”
“Any others who you stare at like that?” She smiled knowingly when he didn’t immediately respond. “I didn’t think so.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re as bad as Brooke.”
“Brooke is a smart woman. Probably, you should listen to her about . . . well, whatever the situation is between you and Victoria.”
Not wanting to have this conversation with his mother—because there was no “situation” between him and Victoria, at least not the kind his mom was thinking—he shifted the box in his hands and kissed her on the cheek in good-bye. “I have to get back upstairs. The grill’s warming and Charlie and Tuck shouldn’t be left around open flames without adult supervision.”
His mom opened her mouth, likely to object—and then seemed to reconsider. “Too true.”
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Ford made his way through the living room, where a group of die-hard fans sat watching the Cubs game and drinking beer, and out onto the terrace. The loft was packed, both inside and outside. Every year, the party seemed to get bigger, although he wasn’t quite sure where all the extra people were coming from.
He had music playing on the outdoor speakers, and unlike last year’s weather fiasco—an unexpected downpour that had driven everyone inside—it was sunny and in the midseventies. He did a quick round on the terrace, going from group to group to say hello to new arrivals and to make sure no one needed anything. Tucker manned the grill, and in addition to beer and wine, Charlie had made a tropical rum punch, supposedly “for the ladies,” that seemed to be a huge hit.