"Do you know why I married my four husbands?" she asked.
A proper guess would have been, "Because you loved them," but Lance felt that was too easy, so instead he shook his head and said, "No."
"When I was young, you had to be married to have freedom. It may sound silly to you, but it's true. My husbands and I traveled the world; we met interesting people, we had fascinating lives. A single woman could not have done that in my time. But"—Ro-Ro cocked her head—"times have changed.
An independent woman today, a woman like my niece, for example, would have other options. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, meaning it.
"I know my niece well," Ro-Ro said. "We're very much alike. She has a good life, an independent life. I don't imagine that she has any reason to change it."
There was a ding, and Lance felt the doors slide open. He stood and began to push the chair into the corridor. "Yes," Ro-Ro carried on, but her tone was decidedly different. "Marjorie VanGundy might do wonderful things for you. But only if you mention my name."
Julia found her mother flipping through a magazine in the waiting area down the hall from Ro-Ro's door. She sat down beside her, handed her a cup of coffee, and asked, "Is Daddy back yet?"
Madelyn closed the magazine. "He left. Didn't Lance tell you?" "No."
"Oh, honey, they left." "They?"
"Your father and Lance. Didn't Lance tell you he was leaving?"
Julia saw the packed bag sitting by the fireplace. And there was Lance, sitting beside it.
"The cab's gonna be here soon," he said, standing up.
Julia allowed the door to slam closed behind her. She dropped her keys on a table and acted cool as she slid out of her coat and asked, "A cab? All the way out here?"
"It's really a shuttle, I guess."
"Oh. And your flight?"
"There's a six o'clock to Dallas. I can connect and be in New York by midnight." Lance took a step toward her.
"Were you going to say good-bye?"
"I was going to call you from the airport."
"Glad I made it back in time then," she said with a touch of sarcasm. She held out a hand. "It was nice knowing you. Good luck."
"Hey," Lance said, gripping her outstretched hand, pulling her closer to him. "You want me to leave. Remember? You want me out of your house and out of your life and ..."
She wrenched her hand from his grasp. "So, what do you have lined up? Is it a play?" she asked with feigned casualness. "A movie?"
She saw him flinch, and she knew she'd hit a vein of truth.
"You can tell me," she said, wanting to ignore the alarm bells sounding in her mind. Then she looked at his bag on the floor and saw the corner of a script peeking out from the side pocket. She pointed at the pages. "Where did you get that?" she asked. Tell me I'm wrong, Lance, she thought. Tell me I'm wrong.
"Julia, it's not..."
"Don't tell me what it isn't. Tell me what it is" she said, but then her eyes fell to the ashes in the fireplace, to what was left of her great secret, and she realized where the script had come from. "He gave that to you. Didn't he?"
Guilt spread across Lance's face.
"You didn't break in and throw his clothes in the pool. You lied to me." She sank into the truth, then whispered, "You lied."
"Julia," he said, "I did what I had to do."
Then another image came to mind. "You knew last night you were going back, and still you tried ..." Julia couldn't finish. She played through the scene again and again, wondering how she'd known that he would betray her, wishing that she hadn't been right. "Like I said, thanks for your help. Good luck." She bolted for the stairs, but Lance was instantly beside her, looking into her eyes.
"Just say you don't want me to go. All right? Just say it. Don't pick this fight, please."
"I'm not fighting. You're the one who wants to leave. I'm not standing in your way."
"Then stand in my way," he said. "If that's what you want, then stand in my way."
"What I want is my life back!" Julia cried. "I want my reputation. I want my career. I—"
"You are like a little kid!" he barked. "Spoiled. Used to having your own way—"
"Did I just hear you correctly?" she asked, her voice seeping with indignation. "Did you just infer that I am not a grownup?"
"Yeah." He nodded his head, defiantly. "I did."
"I've been on my own for fifteen years! I've built a dynasty! I've been on Oprah’
Lance pointed to her grandmother's painting that still leaned against the wall. "Where are you going to hang your picture, Julia? You've leaned it up against every wall in this house. Pick one. I'll drive the nail."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Thirteen cabinet knobs, Julia. Thirteen. You can't even commit to a two-dollar knob." He shook his head as the headlights of the shuttle washed across the widows facing the porch. "How did I ever expect you to commit to me?"
He grabbed his bag and walked toward the door. "Keep on playing solitaire," he told her. "Keep on staying up nights and wondering why you're too tired to get out of bed in the morning. Keep on laying out those cards, and then ask yourself when you're Ro-Ro's age if it would have been so awful to put that painting someplace."
The car outside honked, and Lance glanced involuntarily toward it before turning back to her. "I don't have a lot of pride, Julia, but I can't hang around here waiting just because you're not used to other people's noise."
He opened the door, then stepped onto the wide-planked porch with its peeling paint and sagging center and started for the rickety stairs. When he reached the bottom step, he turned to her. "Good-bye, Julia," he said. "And good luck. I really mean it."
Julia watched him walk away.
She stood in the cold wind until the taillights of the shuttle disappeared. Then she went inside again, locked the door, sat in front of the fireplace, and shuffled.
Chapter Twenty Six
WAY #88: Plan for your later years.