Free The Fortune Quilt by Lani Diane Rich Page A

Christopher lets out a huff and crosses his arms over his chest.
    “Look, Car, if you’re looking for an excuse not to let this happen with us, you don’t need one. Either you’re in or you’re out. And if you’re bringing up some imaginary crush that Lindsay might have on me, it sounds to me like you’re out.”
    I’m in a nose-dive and I can’t pull up. Crash, meet burn.
    “I’ve handled this badly,” I say, going in once again for understatement. “Forget the Lindsay thing. Strike it from the record. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just… there’s so much going on right now. I can’t wrap my mind around this. Can you understand that?”
    He nods, but his expression is tight and hard to read. He pushes up off the table and grabs his jacket.
    “Yeah,” he says. “I understand.”
    “You’re mad.”
    “I’m not mad.” He forces a smile. “I’m not mad. You want to walk with me out to the parking lot?”
    I shake my head. “I’m supposed to meet with Cheryl.”
    “Cheryl?”
    “Human resources. Laid off. Exit interview. She has to make sure I’m not at risk for coming back and slashing the tires on the Live Van. Yadda yadda.”
    “Oh. Yeah. That.” There’s a long moment of awkward silence. “Okay.” He leans over and kisses me on the forehead, then moves quickly out of the room. I collapse over the bull pen table and bang my forehead against its cool surface.
    “I am a whole new strain of stupid,” I mutter to myself.
    “Carly?”
    I push myself up and see Cheryl from Human Resources standing in the doorway. She glances meaningfully at her watch. Poor thing. It’s been a busy day of showing her co-workers the door.
    “I was supposed to be out of here at five-thirty,” she says, apparently not the least bit grateful that she still has a job. “Are you ready?”
    Just about ready to slash the tires on the Live Van, I think, but I follow her down the hall to her office just the same.
     

Four
     
    “Daddy?” I say as I open the door. I am better now, stronger, not as close to total emotional breakdown as I was after kissing Christopher, although my hands are still a little shaky. I need to have a scotch with my Dad. I need a good night’s sleep. I need to talk about something that is not Tucson Today and is not Christopher. I need to think about something else. Maybe play Backgammon.
    I find Dad in the dining room. Ella and Five are sitting across the table from him. They look up at me, their eyes red, their faces wet with fresh tears. Sitting next to Dad is my mother and fuck if I can’t knock her on timing.
    She turns and sees me, then stands up. Her eyes are red. She has a crumpled tissue in one hand. The other hand reaches blindly for Dad, and Dad takes it.
    Dad. Takes. It.
    “Oh, holy Christ,” I mutter. Ella sniffs and grabs from the Kleenex box on the table. Five looks more stunned than anything. Which makes sense. After all, she has no active memories of the desertion, just the cold dead ache of it. This has to be even more of a shock for her than for the rest of us. At least we have a point of reference.
    “Mary,” I say. It feels strange to call her Mary, but she hasn’t really earned Mom . I turn my attention to Dad. “She’s coming back?”
    He stands up, still holding her hand. His eyes are red, too. Jesus. What’s wrong with this family? Does no one have any self-control?
    “She’s my wife,” he says. “And if you’d listen to her—”
    “Um, no. I don’t think so.” I sound like a petulant teenager, and I really don’t give a crap. “No. I have had possibly one of the worst days of my young life and this? Is not what I need right now.” I lock my eyes on Dad’s. “Answer the question. Is she coming back?”
    Dad looks at Mary, then back at me. “We’re going to try, yes. We’re going to go to therapy—”
    “Fuck therapy,” I spit at him. “There isn’t enough therapy in the world to make up for what she did.”
    Dad looks