Chapter 9

The Other Woman

Abby

“You can do this, Abby,” I tell myself, taking a deep breath as I stand across the road from Lindsey Holland’s house.

I’ve tried calling her three times, but all I get is her answering machine. I’ve left messages, of course, saying that I work for Grant Herbert and that I have an interesting proposition for her, but she hasn’t returned any of my calls. I’ve sent her about a dozen emails, too, and even tried to get in touch with her through her social media accounts to no avail. She just won’t answer. That’s why I’m here at her address now in Atlanta. After all, I can’t convince Lindsey if I can’t even talk to her.

And I promised Grant I would do my best. Not just that. I want to do this for him. I want him to prove that selfish old man he calls his grandfather wrong. I want him to be able to make his own fortune, to succeed on his own terms.

I want him to be happy.

To that end, I’ve made up my mind to do everything I can. That doesn’t mean I’m not shivering in my shoes right now, though.

Crossing the street to the dreamy two-story house with the blue roof and the white windows, it dawns on me that I am meeting Lindsey Holland in the flesh.

The Lindsey Holland.

The same Lindsey Holland who has a New York Bestselling book series telling women of all ages how to cope with just about every situation. The same Lindsey Holland who’s been on numerous talk shows speaking out against domestic abuse and shedding light on postpartum depression. The same Lindsey Holland who married a resort tycoon and opened hotels, spas, and recreational facilities designed especially for women.

The same Lindsey Holland who I looked up to for the past five years.

I stop in front of the blue front door with the silver knob and the wreath of colorful roses, my heart pounding like crazy.

What if she won’t talk to me? What if she doesn’t like me? What if she sees through me and is disappointed in me?

All of a sudden, I feel scared.

So what? Are you going to run away?

No. I’m not. I’ve come this far, and I’ve got way too much on the line.

What was that Lindsey wrote in one of her books? Put one foot in front of the other until your fears are behind you?

Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to conquer my fears and hope for the best.

Taking another deep breath, I press the doorbell. No answer. I can hear children’s voices, though, so I press again and I’m about to press a third time when I hear footsteps scurrying to the door. When it opens, a woman with salt and pepper curls who looks like she’s in her late fifties stands in the doorway, wearing glasses, a luminous rosary around her neck, a floral apron over a white shirt and loose black pants and a pair of light flip-flops that look just like the ones I used to wear as a child.

A Filipino maid?

“I’m so sorry I took so long.” She adjusts her glasses. “I was cooking and taking care of the kids, and you know, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“It’s no problem at all.” I give her a warm smile. “I’m sorry I rushed you.”

“Well, what can I help you with?”

“I’m here to discuss a business proposition with Miss Holland, actually,” I inform her. “I sent her an email to let her know I was dropping by.”

“Really? She didn’t tell me she was expecting anyone.”

“I see.” I tuck a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. “Is she home?”

“Sorry, dear, but you just missed her. Why don’t you call her?”

“I’ve been doing that, actually, but she hasn’t been answering.”

“Well, she’s awfully busy.”

“I understand.” I can feel my heart sinking but I refuse to jump ship just yet. “Would you know what time she’ll be back?”

“I’m afraid not. It depends on a lot of things.”

“Oh.”

I reach inside my purse for my business card so I can hand it over but just then, a child, about four or five, comes to the door, poking her head between the woman and the door frame.

“Who’s that, Lola?” the child asks.

Grandmother? Don’t tell me this is Lindsey’s mother. I’ve never read anything about her being from the Philippines. Then again, come to think of it, I’ve never read anything about her mother at all.

“Oh, just someone looking for your mom,” the woman says, placing a hand on the child’s shoulder.

“She’s not here,” the girl tells me.

“So your Lola told me.” I smile at her. “I guess I’m out of luck today.”

“We really must go back in,” the woman says. “I still have to finish cooking my—”

“Sinigang,” I finish the sentence for her, having caught a whiff of the tamarind soup base. “It smells good.”

The woman lifts her glasses as she looks at me in surprise. “You’re a Filipino?”

I nod, offering her my hand. “I’m Abby Gomez. Nice to meet you.”

She shakes my hand. “Well, you’re someone I don’t usually see on this doorstep.”

“Do you speak Filipino?” the girl asks. “Lola taught me a little bit.”

“Why, of course,” I tell her, kneeling in front of her. “Magandang umaga, munting prinsesa.”

“Is that good morning?”

“It sure is. ‘Good morning, little princess.’”

The girl smiles sheepishly, her body swaying from side to side.

“You know what? I don’t know what time my daughter is coming back but I’ll be waiting here until she does,” the woman says. “You’re welcome to wait with me if you like, maybe help me out a little bit. I’d appreciate that. Plus, I’d love to have someone to eat the sinigang with. The kids don’t like it, I’m afraid.”

“It’s too sour,” the girl complains.

I chuckle. “That’s what makes it good, though.”

“So?” the woman asks. “Tuloy ka?”

I stand up, smiling at the sincere invitation, at the warmth in her eyes that reminds me of my grandmother’s.

Strange. I’ve been running away from my culture this whole time, yet now, it seems like it’s just saved me. For once, it’s done me something good.

Maybe Grant’s right. Maybe I should stop trying to deny or hide it.

I take her hand, pressing it to my forehead before giving a nod. “Salamat po.”