The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(51)

“You’d be surprised how easy it is to pare down when you don’t have any other choice.”

Mom rubbed my shoulder. “Oh, honey, why didn’t you take us up on our offer of coming home when you first told us about everything a few weeks ago? We could’ve helped. You know our door is always open to you for as long as you need it.”

“No, I’m a big girl. I needed to figure out some of this on my own. And I did, plus, I know your door is always open, but space in an RV is pretty limited. Seriously, let me help you at least get started,” I offered.

“There’s no rush. You have a lot on your plate. Another weekend you can come and Kondo me, it’s a promise.”

There was a tinge in her voice, like she was holding something back. It was the same warble she had when I was eleven and she had a hard time telling me my pet rabbit, Mary Hoppins, died while I was away at a two-week theater camp. “What’s going on? I thought you and Dad planned to be settled in Florida by the summer?”

“It’s no big deal. Really. But, we have to push things off a bit.”

Are her hands shaking?

“What? Why? Are you okay? Is Dad?” My heart suddenly felt like it had plummeted to my stomach, beating like a ticking time bomb deep within my core. Dad was diagnosed with stage one prostate cancer two years ago, but as far as I knew, it hadn’t progressed beyond that.

“No, no, it’s nothing to do with anyone’s health, thank heavens. Guess that’s always the silver lining. Aside from the RLS and a bit too much flatulence outta your dad for my liking, everybody’s doing great,” she joked with a half smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“So, what is it then?” I tried to remember the last time I’d seen my mother upset like this. Angry, sure. I’d seen her lose her shit a few too many times after one thing or another throughout my high school and college years. You know, the normal stuff for a mom trying to make ends meet while raising a moderately mouthy teen. But this distracted, distraught version of my mom was altogether foreign.

Her hands trembled and only stopped once she rested one elbow on the table and her forehead into her palm, closing her eyes like she was warring internally about how to tread next. “I wasn’t planning on telling you this. I figured you were dealing with enough as it is but, we . . . your dad and I . . . we were . . . well, are victims of Adam’s too.”

I exhaled with relief. “Oh, Mom, I know you loved him like a son. I mean, none of us could have seen that coming—” I started as an attempt at consolation until Mom jutted her hand out to stop me.

“No, Avery, I mean, we’re actual victims. A few years ago, Dad was talking to Adam about how we needed the store to turn more of a profit if we were going to be able to retire before we turned sixty-five and he convinced us to invest some money into one of his online marketing packages.”

“No,” came out of me as a whoosh of air as Mom’s words struck like I’d been pummeled in the solar plexus by a battering ram. My vision narrowed, creating a blackness around the edges.

Mom placed her hand on my arm and stroked it comfortingly. “Luckily, it wasn’t as much as your father originally wanted. I’ve always been a bit more conservative where our finances are concerned, but it was enough to derail our plans. Not entirely, but just . . . for the moment anyway.”

Up until now, Adam’s victims had been nameless. Nameless and faceless. It was still unimaginably awful, but not knowing them made it easier to somehow compartmentalize it all. The speeding pace of my thoughts competed with the hammering of my heart. Adam did this to my parents. My mom and dad. All those years we’d visited them for holidays together. All the plans we’d talk about when we’d talk about the future, like taking our children to visit Mimi and PawPaw in Woodbury. It was truly the worst kind of betrayal, and the news of it hit me even harder than the initial knock of the FBI team on our door Christmas morning.

My mind flashed to the $800 bottle of wine, the designer brand names that I started to drop into conversation like they were actual friends, the lavish Upper East Side apartment, the house in Quogue, all of it. Did she think that I was in on it? That I knew what he was up to and turned a blind eye out of self-interest?

“God, Mom, I didn’t know. You have to believe me. Maybe I was naive, but I swear, I had no idea who he really was. What he was really capable of. I can’t believe he took advantage of the two of you. I thought he loved you.”

“And we thought he loved you. And sweetheart, we never—not for one second—believed you had any inkling of what Adam had done. Not only because you were barreled right off your ass just as hard as we were, but more so because you are my daughter and you have one of the very best hearts of anyone I know. As for him? Well, none of it makes a lick of sense beyond sheer greed. Greed and hubris to believe he could swindle so many people and just get away with it.” Mom stood up, licked the pad of her index finger, and dabbed at a rogue crumb from the table before pushing in her chair. “But he didn’t get away with it in the end, did he?” She offered me a crooked brow and a knowing-mom-style satisfied smile.

I lifted my glass in a mock toast. “No, no, he didn’t.”

“We’ll still be able to retire, it just may take another year or two. I promise you, sweetie, we’ll be okay, and I know it may not feel this way now, but in time, so will you.”