“Don’t be pissed,” Arden says. “It’s not my fault. She found out I was home and offered to drive me. She said she was coming to see you anyway. I texted you.”
I’d seen her text come through but ignored it. “Whatever. Did you tell her?”
“No, but my mom knows. She totally lost it.”
That surprises me. I’d have guessed Aunt Nat would’ve been cool with it. “Too bad.”
Arden crosses her arms. “You want to tell me what happened to my birthday cake?”
—
We take a booth in the corner, and when Hunter comes in, I wave him over.
He’s wearing a button-down shirt and cologne. My mom will notice he’s making an effort. I’m not sure whether this is good or bad. I’m annoyed with myself for even caring. “Hello,” he says politely. I slide over to make room.
“I’m so glad you could join us,” Mom says.
After we order, my mom leans forward, her hands clasped. “I’ve been to your family’s website,” she says to Hunter. “It looks like they have quite a lovely shop.” This is her way of telling me she’s on to me, that she knows exactly where he’s from and it’s not an exclusive area in California. She’s been with me for more than an hour and has kept this information tucked inside her. She’s very good about timing revelations so they’ll have the greatest impact. She went through my college essays—the ones Arden helped me write—moving things around so that they read more like short stories. “Are they artists themselves?”
“Not really. My dad took a few classes in community college, but that’s it. My mom quilts.”
Great. My mother’s biggest threat while I was growing up: You don’t want to end up at community college, do you? I can’t even look at her face. I know it’s gone rigid with politeness. I want to throw up. I want Hunter to stop talking. Doesn’t he realize how this sounds?
“They must be so pleased to know you’re going into medicine.”
I press my knee against Hunter’s and he says in a slightly startled way, “They are.”
“Do you know where you’ll be applying?”
“Uh.” He looks to me.
“Mom, seriously. It’s too early to be thinking about that.”
“I wish that were true, but you remember what your guidance counselor said. College is just a stepping-stone. We have to think of the big picture.” My mother, reading glasses perched on her nose, leaning over and nodding as my guidance counselor pushed papers across for her to examine while I sat there, bored out of my mind and texting beneath the table. “I’m not talking about you, Hunter. How you figure these things out is of course your own business. But Rory knows.” She fixes me with a meaningful look. “In order to get into the best schools, you need to start planning now. Speaking of which, have you started on those summer internship applications? You’ll need two letters of recommendation. Congressman Simmons says he’ll write one. Do you have a professor you can ask?”
My mother’s emailed me a list of links, with her helpful comments. TOP priority! Not sure they take out-of-state applicants. Two essays, but maybe you can use the ones you wrote for your college apps. We might know someone in this firm. I’ve clicked the links, the tiny print swimming before my eyes. Mr. Simmons is the congressman who lives next door. I can just picture my mom banging on the door and smiling when he finally answered. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You’d better think about it. Internships at the best law firms go fast. You don’t want to end up at some little general law firm in the suburbs. You might as well work scooping ice cream for the summer.”
I feel Hunter shift uneasily beside me. “Mom, I’ve got four years.”
“Four years is nothing. It will fly by, I promise you. You need to think of the big picture.”
“Why? I have you to do that for me.”
Her mouth tightens and she sits back. “Tell me, Hunter. Do you talk to your mother this way?”
The waitress arrives and sets down our cappuccinos. “I’ll be right back with your pie.”
As I pluck a packet of sugar from the bowl, my mom says, “Careful, darling.”
Careful, Rory. Don’t touch.
She raises an eyebrow as she sips her coffee, her way of telling me that she’s noticed how I’m wearing my blouse long to cover the undone top snap of my jeans. My cheeks burn and I drop my hand to my lap. Arden’s got her head lowered with embarrassment for me. Hunter looks puzzled, like he knows he’s missed something but he’s not sure what. My mother’s talking to Hunter, badgering him about his family. Now Arden’s shooting me sympathetic looks that bounce off, harmless rubber balls. My mother’s voice swims. I listen carefully to all the syllables flowing together but still can’t hear her accent.
“Isn’t that right, Rory?” I don’t know what my mother’s talking about now, but I nod anyway. Of course I do.
—
The house is dark.
The wooden steps creak. I stand on the rough, bristled mat, the carved wood of the door lost in shadow. An owl hoots. It makes me think of Lake Barcroft, the birds rustling in the trees as Arden and I drift on her boat. It feels very far away. A dog barks. Another one barks back. A car drives slowly past, the sucking sound of tires kissing pavement. I knock. I pull my hoodie around me. I’m shivering though it’s a warm night, and still.
I knock again, louder this time.
The porch light flashes on. Someone’s peering at me through the tiny circle of glass. The light flashes off, draping me in darkness. The rattle of the latch and she’s there, standing in the doorway, her robe tied around her waist. Her hair is loose and shining. She’s smiling. “Hey.”
I step forward.
Natalie
MY CELL PHONE BUZZES. It’s Liz, texting to say she needs to talk. “There’s a problem at the restaurant,” I tell Theo, standing. “I’ll be right back.” I let myself out of Arden’s room and walk down the hall.
Liz answers immediately. I cut her off before we can go into the whole conversation about how Arden’s doing. I don’t want to talk about Arden. “What do you mean the linen order’s been canceled?”
“I know it’s not the kind of thing I should be bothering you about, but I sat on it for two days.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad you did. Can you give me the linen company’s phone number? I’ll call and straighten this out.”
“Sure, but, Natalie, he won’t budge. We haven’t paid him in two months.”
“Wait. That’s not right.” I scramble back through the days. “Saturday. Just this past Saturday. I had the payment queued up.”
“I know, but the florist bill came due at the same time. You know we had that VIP party coming in and the florist threatened to cancel the delivery. I couldn’t reach you, so I asked Vince. I’m really sorry. I know I’m not supposed to, but I didn’t want to make the decision on my own.”
“Vince told you to pay the florist bill instead of the linen bill?” I can’t believe it. Flowers are a nice touch, but napkins and tablecloths and aprons are essential. Vince knows that. “What the hell was he thinking?”
“He said he had a good relationship with the linen company and he’d sweet-talk them. But I guess…you know.”
I know. I really do know.
“We can make do tonight,” Liz says. “But it’s going to be tough tomorrow.”
“All right. Give me the contact info and I’ll deal with it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” I slide open the door to Arden’s room. “Your genius brother did it again.”
Theo looks up from his laptop. “What happened?”
I drop my phone into my bag and twist the elastic from my ponytail. “We don’t have linens for tomorrow. Vince thought flowers were more important.” I yank my hair back tighter, thinking hard. Would Mitchell lend us linens to last us a few days until I sort things through?
“I’m sure Liz can figure something out.”
“She can’t. That’s why she texted me.”
br />
“Well, I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”
“The deal is, I handle the finances. Not him.”
“Are you ever going to let it go, Nat? Are you ever going to just drop it? It’s just Vince being Vince. You of all people should know how he is. You knew what he was like and you still went into business with him.”
“You were happy when we decided to open a restaurant together!”
“What was I going to tell you, that it was a mistake? You were miserable working for Mitchell.”
“If you thought it was a bad idea, you should have warned me.”
“You wouldn’t have listened.”
“It kind of sounds like you think this is all my fault.”
“Well, why didn’t you keep a closer eye on things?”
I’m utterly astonished. Theo has never once hinted that he felt this way. “Are you serious? How could I have possibly predicted he’d buy that stock? There’s no way. I don’t want to talk about Vince anymore.”
“Frankly, that would be a relief.”
—
“Have you talked to your father?” my mom asks.
“A little while ago.” Mary Beth, Dad’s second wife, has been online and found terrible stories of women setting their lovers on fire or burning the houses where the other women lived. It seems to be a female crime, she’s told him, a message he’s passed on to me. I don’t tell Mom I’d stood there, listening in disbelief and understanding that the distance I’d always felt was not my doing. I don’t tell her I’d hung up without saying goodbye. I don’t tell her that Theo and I are fighting, that I’m out here in the hall making phone call after phone call, just to avoid him. “He’s going to help with the legal fees.”
Because now we have a lawyer, a woman named Hannah Murphy. She’s young and energetic. She’s going to call Detective Gallagher to find out whether they plan to arrest Arden. Will they post an armed guard outside Arden’s room? I’d asked Theo. In case she plans to escape?
“Good,” my mother replies. “It’s the least he can do.”
I caught Christine earlier, on her way between hospital and home. The surgery had gone well and the little girls were in recovery. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours were critical. Dad can be such a bastard, Christine had told me with feeling. Don’t let him in your head. She’s always seen things so clearly. Don’t talk to the police anymore. You need to focus on Arden.
“I took the boys for haircuts. They got the same style, long on top and short on the sides and back. They look adorable.”
I try not to get the boys matching anything. I want them to choose, and the way it always goes is Henry picks first and Oliver hurries to follow. Henry likes Oliver following his lead. He never tries to dissuade him. So what I end up with are two little blond-haired boys who look exactly alike, right down to their little sneakers. They’ll outgrow it, Theo says, although he can’t know.
“Henry was a little champ. He climbed right into that chair and sat as still as a soldier. Oliver got a little teary. I had to hold his hand and give him a lollipop, which made sort of a mess, I’m sorry to say. It got covered with hair.”
Yes, Oliver hates change. He’s my sensitive one, my little chef. He studies the food on his plate, takes tasting bites, offering his opinions and asking questions in his piping little-boy voice. Henry’s my sturdy politician, who’s more interested in why people do the things they do and whether they say what they mean. He’s the one who will break up arguments among his classmates, who will reason with my mom when she babysits. He’s a walking, talking lie detector who never really bought into Santa or the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. Henry’s the one who looks long and hard at me when I tell him I love him, gauging, and then, satisfied, nods.
The elevator arrives with a muted ding. I don’t even remember having pressed the button. “Poor Oliver. Poor you.”
“Oh, we’re fine here. The boys miss you and Theo, of course, but we’re staying busy. Don’t you worry about us.” She sounds content, despite everything. I had wanted Mom to be closer so I could watch over her. I never once considered the possibility that she would end up watching over me.
“I have to go, Mom. I have another call coming in.” The nurse, with news? Theo, calling to apologize? I disconnect and glance at the display. It’s a phone number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Natalie Falcone?” A man, confident. “This is Chris Rogers from Fox News. Do you—”
Horrified, I press the end button. He’d sounded so smug. What did he want? How did he get my number?
The elevator shudders to a stop. The lobby’s deserted. The floor gleams. Muted lights hang from the ceiling. I step forward and the doors whoosh open with a hiss. The air is cool, the purple sky streaked pink and orange. The glitter of first stars, and in the distance, the murky line of trees. The Chesapeake Bay is out there somewhere, a mere twenty miles away. My bag is slung over my shoulder; inside it are my car keys.
—
The road’s a stretch of ribbon winding into darkness. I follow another car, its red brake lights a distant comfort. The road dips. When I reach the summit, the car is gone, having turned off onto one of the narrow roads crisscrossing the fields. I roll down the windows and salty air fills the car. Arden loves the beach. As a toddler, she’d crouch in the sand, sunhat tied around her chin, and dig little trenches decorated with broken bits of shells. She could play like that for hours. I’d lie nearby on my blanket and watch her, and feel so lucky. I’d never understood how pure love could be. There’s just the ocean rolling in and out, seagulls squawking overhead. Joy stretching in all directions.
The road ends. I turn left, toward the glow of lights.
Streetlights appear, sidewalks, storefronts. I’d been surprised, and relieved, at how pretty the campus turned out to be—lots of trees and grass, brick buildings, a water fountain in the middle of the traffic circle. Early September, the leaves had been just turning colors.
Look, I’d pointed. They’ve got a nice gym. I’d hoped Arden would take swimming up again now that she didn’t feel the pressure to compete on a team. She’d merely sighed and looked away. I’d known she was thinking of USC. Am I going there next year? she’d asked while we were up late packing the night before, just the two of us, and all I could think was that everything I was doing at that moment to help her get ready to leave was the very last thing I wanted to be doing. It was one of those times as her mother that I did what I had to do and tried not to think about it. I hope so, I’d begun hesitantly, and she’d said, Which means no. Her face shuttered closed.
Which means, daughter of my heart, that where you go to college is important, but not as important as our being able to pay the mortgage. But I didn’t say that.
I had shaken my head at the piles of her belongings in the entry hall waiting to be loaded into the car. If you need anything, I’d told her, trying to figure out how we were going to fit them, and us, into the car, we can always bring it to you. Theo had put his hand on my arm. It’s all right, Natalie. We’ll make it work.
I’m going slow this evening, looking for that convenience store Theo and I had passed, when a student steps off the curb in front of me. I brake sharply to let her run across the road. My headlights catch on her jeans, her swinging arm, the backpack strapped to her shoulders. She steps onto the far curb and disappears beneath the spreading branches.
It’s called The Bowl, I had told Arden as we carried armloads of bedding across the parking lot. She had been quiet for much of the three-hour trip. Here it is, I’d chirped. The twins had come running. They’d been the only ones fooled into thinking we were having fun. I’d been a relentless tour guide that day. They have an arboretum. There are bike trails leading down to the Bay. I wince, thinking of how artificial my cheerfulness had been. Arden had borne it all stoically, saying little as she hauled her stuff up three narrow flights of stairs. We’d left her and Rory putting away their things as the sun eased itself below the horizon, softening
everything in its path as we drove away, the boys’ chatter in the backseat the only sounds that accompanied us on the long drive home.
I stare through the windshield. In the distance, hundreds of tiny lights flicker. The vigil for Hunter. I’d forgotten.
—
It’s a silent crowd gathered in front of the dark brick building. Between people’s shifting shoulders, I glimpse the marble steps piled with stuffed animals and cellophane-wrapped cones of flowers, cards and posters, and the occasional flickering candle, which seems unkind. The air is damp with all the recent rain, the ground smelling rich. This is the last place I want to be, but here I am.
Someone hands me a votive candle in a paper cup. A young woman, about Arden’s age. Her face glows in the candlelight. “Thank you,” I whisper, and she nods.
Hunter’s parents are up on the front steps, Phil’s arm around Janet’s shoulders. They can’t see me where I’m standing, well back and in the shadows. I recognize the man beside them, the school official who’d been by right after the fire to offer his help. He’s been by a second time and Theo had been the one to talk to him, to tell him we were fine, we’d let him know if we needed anything. What we needed was to be left alone. What we needed was a miracle.
“Did you know Hunter?” the girl asks me, and I shake my head. “No, but…”
No, but my daughter did. No, but my niece did.
I look up through the branches to the gaping black hole that was my daughter’s dorm window. Was it only six days ago that she woke up and stretched, rummaged through her clothes, laughed with friends? I see her sitting cross-legged in her plaid bathrobe, her hair messily tied back and her lower lip caught between her teeth as she stares at an open textbook. I don’t see her splashing paint thinner across her room, striking a match, and stepping back. I stare at that window ledge she’d crouched on, the wooden sides she gripped before letting go and falling forward.