Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I’m self-aware enough to comprehend that working for me is no walk in the park, so I try to soften the blow when I can. Privately. Anonymously. Always.
I’ve no need for karma or accolades.
I’m seven answered emails into my morning when Margaux rings my desk phone.
“Yes?” I exhale into the receiver.
“Mr. Schoenbach? Your mother is here.”
Lovely.
“Send her back.” I hang up and finish composing my last response, managing to hit ‘send’ the instant Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach strolls through the double doors.
I rise to greet her—not out of respect but because I’m not in the mood for the passive aggressive guff she’ll give if I don’t.
“Darling.” She makes her way across the room, her thin red lips puckered into a faux pout, her arms outstretched. Leaning across my desk, she cups my face in her gloved hands and kisses the air beside my cheek. “Thank you so much for handling the preparations last night. I was in the area this morning. Thought I’d come here to check on you. How’d it go?”
After leaving the funeral home last night, I’d meant to text her Saturday’s details, but instead I texted Deidre-from-6A and had her come over for a nightcap—and to suck my cock.
“Fine, Mother. The memorial is Saturday morning. Eight to ten.”
“Such a tragedy, isn’t it?” She clucks her tongue, staring toward the scenic city abyss behind me. “Honestly, it was for the best.”
“Excuse me?”
“Since the moment she came into our lives, she’s caused nothing but trouble.” She keeps her voice low despite the fact that this office is sound-proofed and a world away from anyone else who may or may not be nosy enough to listen in. “You know, I never liked that girl.”
“You don’t like anyone.”
It’s an incurable sickness.
Bred into the Tuppance DNA.
Passed down generation to generation like a genetic defect.
We don’t tend to care much for anyone unless they’re serving a direct and useful self-serving purpose.
“Fair to assume you won’t be attending?” I lift a brow.
My mother gasps, a hand splayed across her heart. “Can you imagine what people would say if I didn’t? My God, Bennett. You know how they talk around here. Would I rather be meeting the ladies for brunch at The Marigold that morning? Yes. Of course I would. But not going isn’t an option.”
A simple yes, I’ll be there would have sufficed …
“Your honesty is … refreshing,” I say.
“It’s much too early for sarcasm, darling. Please. Enough.”
“Have you spoken with Errol yet?” I change the subject.
Tugging at her pearls, she draws a resigned breath. “I have. He’s aware of Larissa’s untimely passing, and he plans to attend her memorial, but he won’t be bringing his wife. We both know that’s a good thing. Larissa and Beth never got along. Oil and water, those two.”
It probably didn’t help that my mother poisoned their relationship early on, pinning them against one another like some sick and twisted game solely for her own amusement.
All of their differences aside, Beth and Larissa never stood a chance where my mother was involved.
She’s a destroyer, that woman.
She destroys all that is good in this world, whether she means to or not.
She destroyed our family, her marriage, my father …
It’s as if she can’t help but to meddle, to ensure everyone else is as miserable as she is.
“All right, well.” She rises, straightening the hem of her boucle jacket. “I’ve got a million little things to do this morning and I’m sure you do as well, so I’ll leave you be.”
Thank God.
My email chimes with Margaux’s expense report—fifteen hours late.
“And Bennett?” My mother stops at the door, turning back to me. “Call your brother. You two haven’t been on speaking terms for years, and I’d hate for things to be awkward Saturday morning.”
“Will do,” I lie.
Whoever said death brings families closer never met the Schoenbachs.
5
Astaire
The sound of children laughing and shuffling down the hallway Friday morning is my cue to silence my phone.
I tuck it into my top drawer for the day and reach for my coffee, stealing a few more sips before the craziness of the day ensues.
I found the Schoenbach obituary—if you can call it that—earlier this morning. The funeral home posted it sometime last night.
Her name was Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach, and she was twenty-seven when she passed. It mentioned no family, no cause of death, no photograph. Nothing more than a birthdate and a single line about a private sunrise memorial service tomorrow morning and the words INVITATION ONLY in bold red letters. All caps.
I spent a few minutes Googling “Larissa Cleary-Schoenbach” earlier this morning. But I couldn’t find a thing.
No social media.
No LinkedIn.
No archived newspaper articles of any kind.
No graduation archives; high school, college or otherwise.
It’s as if this woman never existed.
“Good morning, good morning!” I take my place at the front of the room, grinning and waving and trying to psych them up for the day. Fridays are hard. The kids are exhausted, attention spans are waning. My students hang their jackets and bags on their hooks and then make their way to their assigned square on the rug. “Happy Friday!”