CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MILLY
As soon as the children were in school the next morning, Milly got in the car and drove to Hollywood. It had felt strange as she’d dressed for Lloyd that morning. She’d styled her hair for him, applied her makeup for him. She wore the pastel-pink cap-sleeved dress he’d bought for her birthday several years ago, back when he’d had enough room in his heart and in his mind to go to the dressmaker and select the fabric and style. She hoped it would remind him that he used to care.
On the drive, she tried to come up with what she would say when she saw him and how she would respond if he’d seen her leave with Wes, but she couldn’t find the words. She was sure something would come to her when they were face-to-face. There would be no upset, no arguing. He had had his break from them; maybe that was what he’d needed. He had made his mistakes, and she had certainly made hers, but now it was time to reunite and for him to come back to them. She would force everything else out of her head: She would not allow herself to dwell on whom Lloyd may or may not have been with, and she would not allow herself to relive any of her own stolen moments with Wes.
When she finally pulled into the studio parking lot, her palms were clammy. She felt nauseated. Whether it was fear that he’d be angry thatshe’d shown up at his place of work without warning, fear that he’d reject her again, or guilt for what she’d done, she had to get beyond all that.
She announced herself to the receptionist at the front desk and waited while the girl ran her manicured nail down row after row of names in a blue binder.
“What did you say his name was again?”
Milly smiled. “Lloyd Kincaid.”
“Hmmm,” she said, picking up her telephone and putting it to her ear. “I don’t see his name. But I’m new here. Hold on a second.” She dialed a number, then spoke into the receiver. “Hi, Lauralee, it’s Missy at the front desk. I’ve got a Mrs. Kincaid here looking for a Mr. Lloyd Kincaid.” There was a pause, and a concerned look came over her face. The girl glanced uncertainly at Milly. “Oh, I see. All right. I’ll let her know.” She hung up the phone. “You can take a seat; someone will be right down to see you.”
“Thanks,” Milly said, feeling uneasy.
She sat in one of the hard, upright gray seats and looked out the window, trying to calm her nerves. Why must she be nervous, embarrassed even, about seeing her husband? This was silly. But there was something about the way that girl looked at her. After what felt like fifteen minutes, Lloyd’s secretary walked over to Milly.
“Hi, Lauralee,” Milly said, standing. She’d only met her a couple of times, but she’d spoken to her on the phone frequently, and she suddenly felt a little foolish showing up like this unannounced; he could be in a meeting or on set. She should have at least called ahead and spoken to Lauralee, even if she’d told her it was to be a surprise.
As Milly watched her walk toward her in her fitted two-piece suit, her full curves just tempting those pearl buttons to spring open and reveal what was underneath, she had a terrible thought that maybe she’d been wrong about the actress all along; maybe it was Lauralee who was stealing her husband’s affection.
“Hi, Mrs. Kincaid,” she said, her perfectly plump lips drawing it out longer than necessary. “Lovely to see you. What brings you by the studio?”
Milly stood a little taller and cleared her throat. “I’m here to see my husband.”
“Um…” Lauralee took a few steps toward the window, away from the receptionist, and Milly followed. “Mr. Kincaid hasn’t worked here for almost two weeks,” she said in a low voice, making eye contact with Milly as if to be sure she heard her.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“He doesn’t work here anymore,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid.” She looked very concerned. “I have an address,” she said, “for mail, but I don’t have any other information. I’m so sorry.” She held out a folded piece of paper. Milly stared at it, speechless, then at Lauralee, and then at the receptionist, who quickly looked away as if she hadn’t been listening to every word they’d said. Milly took the paper, folded it again, opened her pocketbook, and slipped it inside.
“Well, thank you for letting me know,” she said, with as much composure as she could manage, and walked briskly to her car.
She pulled up outside a white apartment complex with an orange sign that readTHE LOCOand sat in her car, unable to peel her hands from the steering wheel. She looked out her window to the building and saw through its facade—a recent fresh coat of paint to tart up a tired and worn-down structure. She couldn’t believe he was living here. And yet everything started to make sense now. He’d been too ashamed to admit that he’d lost his job; that was why he hadn’t come home, that was why he’d been pushing her away. And she, dear God—her stomach clenched—she had responded by falling into the arms of another man, a young medical student. What kind of woman did this? The father of her children was struggling, and she had taken a lover. If only he’d told her sooner, she would have understood.
Eventually she got out of the car and took the concrete stairs to the second level. She stood at the door to 2B, the number scribbled on the piece of paper, and heard the sound of a television on inside. She waited,feeling as if she were not actually there, as if she were watching someone else, as her hand lifted to knock at the orange door.
The TV turned off. She heard footsteps, an unbolting of the door, and then Lloyd stood before her, unshaven in his flannel pajamas and a wrinkled T-shirt.
“Milly,” he said. It was almost noon, and the look of shock on his face made her want to cry. “What…” He ran his hands through his hair and wiped the stubble on his chin and cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
All those words that Milly thought would come to her when she saw him, all those persuasive and loving things she thought would innately flow from her, convincing him what a terrible, terrible mistake he’d made—they didn’t come. She just stared at him.
“I went to your work,” she said finally, her mouth dry.
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pajamas and rounded his shoulders, making himself smaller. “I see,” he said. Then he asked, “Where are the kids?” as if he suddenly remembered that he had them.
“They’re at school. Leticia is picking them up and staying with them until I get home. They were so upset that you came to the house yesterday but couldn’t stay,” she said, waiting for him to question her about her whereabouts, but he didn’t.
She looked past him to a relatively bare apartment—just a sofa and a coffee table, on it a milk carton, a cereal box, and a half-filled bowl.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked, following her gaze. “It’s a bit of a mess.”
“No,” she said. She hadn’t known what to expect. She had half expected to walk in on him and another woman, but seeing him like this, scruffy and ragged, she knew there was no woman there.
