Who Is My Shelter? (35 page)

“This isn't the place, but”—he tipped his chin toward the foggy windows of the restaurant—“it's not exactly a great day to walk and talk outside. So I, uh, wrote you a letter.” Philip reached inside his sport coat and drew out a long envelope. “This is actually what I wanted to talk to you about, but I realized you wouldn't be able to hear it until I'd made some practical plans to deal with, well, the whole gambling debt mess. I'm sorry to say the consequences of that have overshadowed everything else that's important. Like our marriage. You and me. Our family. The boys.” He slid the envelope toward me. “Will you read it before you go?”

I looked at the envelope for several long moments before putting out a tentative finger and drawing it toward me. But I didn't pick it up. Probably a divorce notice. Or a legal separation. What else would he put in an envelope? I shook my head, my heart thumping, loose curls sticking to my damp forehead. “I . . . I'll take it with me and read it later.” I picked it up and stuffed it into my purse, once again gathering my things.

Philip reached out his hand again. “Gabby,
please
. Read it now, because there are some things I need to say after you read it.” He glanced around. “We're pretty much alone now.”

Breathe, Gabby, breathe
. Reluctantly I took the envelope out of my purse, lifted the flap, and slid out the single sheet of folded paper.

“More coffee?” The waitress stood over us with a full pot. She must have sensed the unfinished conversation hanging in the air. “Don't worry, take your time.”

I licked my dry lips. “Yes, coffee, please.” I waited until my cup was full, opened two more of the individual creamers and poured them in, then took a long sip of the hot liquid before unfolding the sheet of paper.

Dear Gabby,

I hardly know how to begin, there's so much I need to say. But the first thing is . . . I'm sorry. Sorry for the pain I've caused you. Sorry for kicking you out of the house. Sorry for everything. I thought I had good reasons, thought you needed a wake-up call—but I'm just now beginning to see that it was all about me. What I wanted. What I thought I needed. We were going in different directions and needed help to get our marriage back on track. But I took matters into my own hands.

I was wrong.

The paper in my hand shook, and my other hand gripped the edge of the table with white-knuckled fingers. I took a deep breath to steady myself and kept reading.

I don't know if you can forgive me. I've hurt you deeply, I know that. I hope you can—but even then I don't know what that would mean. You've picked yourself up, you've moved on, you've made a new life for yourself. I don't know if there's any room in your new life for “us.”

If not, I have no one to blame but myself.

Where do we go from here? I don't know. I'm only now getting a grip on how I got into such a mess—thanks to the shakedown I got yesterday from two unlikely “brothers.” Still hard to admit I'm a gambling “addict.” Hard to admit I ruined my own dream of making it big here in Chicago. Harder still to admit I'm the reason our marriage failed.

But it's all true. I know I need help—just not sure where to get it.

There's a lot more I need to say. Want to say. But the one thing I desperately want you to know is . . . I'm sorry.

The letter was just signed “
Philip
.”

Tears stung my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I hastily brushed them away and used a napkin to blow my nose, staring at the letter. Oh, how I'd wanted Philip to admit he was wrong! To say he was sorry for all the pain he'd caused in my life! To beg for my forgiveness!

But now that he had—in writing, no less, in black and white, in his own handwriting, with his own signature—I had no idea what to feel. Or say.

“Gabby?”

I could hear the question in his voice. But he'd had time to think about what he wanted to say. I needed time too.

Refolding the letter, I slid it back into the envelope, put it in my purse, and took a deep breath to steady my ragged breathing. “I . . . can't respond right now, Philip. I'm sorry.”

Gathering my things, I slid out of the booth and started to leave. Then I hesitated—and for the first time since he'd given me the letter, I lifted my eyes and met his troubled gaze. Then I walked out of the restaurant.

chapter 33

By the time I stumbled through the rain to my car, I was a blubbery mess and wanted to sit for a while and have a good cry. But I knew Philip would come out of the restaurant any minute and see my car still sitting there, so I pulled myself together long enough to turn on the wipers and head back to the Wrigleyville North neighborhood.

There was no way I could go back to work. I'd have people in my face asking, “What's wrong? Are you okay? What happened?” and I didn't want to talk to anybody right then.

Taking advantage of a long red light, I called Manna House on my cell and told Angela I wasn't feeling well—
I wasn't! I was a wreck!
—and was going to head home. “Tell Paul when he arrives after school to go ahead and do his homework in the schoolroom with Carolyn, and I'll pick him up at five. Oh yeah, and Dandy.”

“Not you too!” Angela wailed. “I hope I didn't catch anything from you this morning! Jin and I are—”

“Uh, gotta go, Angela—green light.” I clicked the phone off and waved apologetically to the car behind me as I headed through the rain-soaked intersection. Fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of the House of Hope, eager to disappear inside, make myself some hot tea, and reread Philip's letter. I had at least an hour before P.J. got home, two before I had to pick up Paul. Blessed peace and quiet.

But even before I got out my house keys, I could see several moms and kids hanging out in the hallway through the glass-paneled door of the foyer. I groaned. I'd temporarily forgotten that
none
of the House of Hope residents had day jobs—not counting my leftover tenants in 2B and 3B—and we had three preschoolers in the building, two of whom were hanging on Shawanda right now and hollering for attention.

Shawanda pulled the door open. “Didn't know you got home this early, Miss Gabby! Tanya an' me was just talkin' about this cute kitty Dessa found under the back porch this mornin'. It was all wet and shivery, poor thing.”

“
My
kitty!” Dessa yelled, peeking around her mother's skinny jeans.

“We didn't talk about pets, yet, did we, Miss Gabby,” Tanya said, frowning. “I'm kind of allergic—”

“But Miss Gabby's got Lucy's dog here, ain't that right?” Shawanda shot back.

A stabbing headache started at the base of my skull. “Sorry, girls,” I mumbled, “I'm not feeling very well, that's why I came home. Maybe we can talk about this later.” I fumbled for my house key, let myself in my apartment, and shut the door quickly behind me.
Rats
. Now Tanya would tell Precious and Precious would tell Edesa, and pretty soon I'd hear a well-meaning knock at my door, asking if I'm okay and can they do anything for me?

This community-living, everybody-knows-everybody's-business definitely had its downside.

I decided to be proactive. Pulling open the door again, I said, “I need some quiet right now, might take a nap. Headache, you know. If you girls don't mind?” They took the hint and faded into Tanya's apartment, and I was able to make a pot of hot tea and sink into my mom's wingback rocker undisturbed.

Now . . .
now
I could digest Philip's letter. At first I'd been annoyed that he'd given me a letter to read—of all things!—instead of just talking to me. But maybe I should be grateful he'd written it down rather than trying to remember what he'd said.

I pulled the envelope out of my purse and read the letter again.
“. . . the one thing I desperately want you to know is—I'm sorry
.” Had to admit he sounded truly remorseful. But was it enough? A general “I'm sorry” that covered everything?

A protest rose up inside me, wanting a detailed list of every offense he'd committed against me!
“I'm sorry for making you feel like your job was just a hobby, nothing important. I'm sorry for not making your mother feel welcome when you brought her here from North Dakota. I'm sorry for stealing our sons and taking them to my parents without your permission. I'm sorry for this . . . and this . . . and this . .
.” Tears and groveling wouldn't hurt either.

I scanned the letter again, pausing at the place where he owned the fact that I'd not only survived the breakup, but I'd moved on and made a new life for myself. That felt good. As for himself, he actually admitted his gambling was an addiction, that he'd ruined his chances to make a success of his business, and even admitted
he
was the reason our marriage had failed. He also confessed it was hard to admit these things, but he
did
say they were true.

Strange, he didn't directly ask me to forgive him, didn't ask if I had room in my new life for him. Rather, it was as if he'd spilled his doubts and fears onto the page.
“I don't know if you can forgive me . . . I don't know if there's any room in your new life for ‘us' . . . I don't know where we go from here . . . I know I need help, I just don't know where to get it . .
.”

And there were a few other things I never thought I'd hear from Philip Fairbanks. He said he'd hurt me deeply. Said he was wrong. Said he had no one to blame but himself that our marriage had failed.

Never before in our entire life together had Philip been that vulnerable! Did it have something to do with the “shakedown” he'd mentioned from “two unlikely brothers”? What in the world had Denny and Harry said to him?

I sat in the wingback rocker a long time, staring at the letter. My tea got cold. At one point my cell phone rang—P.J., saying he was hanging out at the school gym with some friends watching girls' basketball intramurals, but he'd be home by supper. I said, “Fine,” and hung up, my mind elsewhere.

Something bothered me about the letter. Something missing.

And then I realized what it was. Philip didn't say he loved me. Didn't even sign it,
“Love, Philip
.”

I did get a knock at the door later that evening, but it was Maddox Campbell from 3B. “Speak to yuh, Missy?”

“Of course, Mr. Campbell.” I opened the door wider and left it open, moving back a step or two so the Jamaican tenant could come in out of the hallway. The tall dark-skinned man was wearing a jean jacket and a different green-gold-and-black knitted “Rasta” tam than I'd seen before, dreadlocks hanging down his back, as if he'd just come in—or was leaving.

He pulled off the knitted tam, as if his mother had taught him to remove his hat indoors or in the presence of women, and played with it nervously. “Mi tink mi found an apartment for de t'ree of us. Mi a-go see it nex' day. But, mi wanting to be sure, no penalty if we move early? Don't want me wife an' mada getting demselves all excited if it not be workin' out.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Campbell. I put that in the letter I gave you. You may leave before the end of your lease without any penalty. When would you move?”

Now the tam seemed to spin around his nervous hands. “Well . . . if me wife an' mada like de place, maybe dis weekend—”

“This weekend!” That meant two Saturdays in a row with movers going up and down the back stairs all day—or front stairs if it was raining. And another apartment for Josh Baxter to renovate after just finishing the last one.

“—if dat be no problem.”

“No, no, it's fine, whatever works out best for you.” It did feel sudden, but I was the one who'd told him I wasn't renewing his lease in January, and he'd need to find another apartment. “Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Campbell. I hope the new apartment works out for you and your family. Tell me if you need a reference, okay?”

Nodding and smiling, he backed out of the doorway, smashed the knitted tam back on his head, and headed up the stairs two at a time. I slowly shut the door and leaned against it. A tsunami of emotions twisted my gut.
It's too much . . . I can't do this. Philip . . . Lee . . . dealing with petty problems in the building. Now an empty apartment— and Mabel and I haven't even talked about who's next on the list for the House of Hope. And I can't afford an empty apartment for long
.

I took Philip's letter with me to work the next day but didn't call him to talk about it, and he didn't call me—unless he called the house and left a message on the machine. Had to admit I felt bad not responding in
some
way. I hadn't even stayed to hear what else he'd wanted to say. But at least he was respecting my need to take some time before getting back to him.

Still, I should find out when he was going to Virginia. Definitely needed to respond to his letter before then. One way or the other, I'd need to call him.