Chapter 3
3
Connor is gone for an hour. I brush my hair to tame the opportunistic tangles that have cropped up during the long car ride, put on a tasteful amount of makeup, examine myself in the mirror. My hair is a shade between copper and blond, cut just below my chin. I have one of those faces people always call “striking,” which is to say slightly off-putting—broad cheekbones and wide-set eyes that look gray or blue depending on the light. Connor calls my face mercurial: I have a small mouth but a smile that rounds my cheeks, and when I’m angry my whole expression tenses into harsh angles.
Tonight I need to try for pretty, which means a smile is a delicate bend of the lips. I put on the outfit I chose for this dinner—a cable-knit sweater and wool trousers, both of them bought with Connor’s credit card. I was surprised how easy it was, handing it over. How little shame I felt. Maybe it would have been different if he had ever seemed to care that I wore thrift-store clothes and owned only two pairs of shoes, or if when he suggested I buy clothes for the trip, he hadn’t sounded as blithely casual as if he were telling me to get a loaf of bread at the store.
In these clothes, I almost look like I belong.
I almost feel like I belong, when I thought that was impossible—that I could belong anywhere or to anyone. There’s something different about moving through life with Connor at my side. The world seems to part before us, to watch with admiration and with envy. It’s not about the money or the clothes or the fancy dinners, though there are those: meals that melt on the tongue and supple leather boots molded to my ankles, a teardrop of gold set with a sapphire glinting at my throat.
It’s about the way the ground suddenly seems solid. How I have room to breathe, to move, to be unafraid. Money isn’t just money. It’s power, freedom, and protection.
Or so I thought, until the messages arrived and things started to feel far from certain. Far from safe.
I push the thoughts away and loop the scarlet scarf around my neck. I examine my reflection, checking for flaws, for cracks in the illusion. My fingertips trace a fold in the fabric, a strange sense of familiarity shivering through me.
I don’t have very many memories of my early childhood. A scattering of images, nothing more. Snow; sitting in the back seat of a car while the radio played; a woman in a red scarf. I can never recall her face.
Did it look like mine?
“Theo?” Connor is back. I hurry out of the bathroom, feeling strangely guilty. It must be snowing again; a dusting of white flakes decorates his hair. He shuffles his feet on the entryway mat. Deep lines crease the corners of his eyes.
“Did you manage to catch up with your sister?” I ask, not prying, not not prying.
There is a hesitation before he speaks. “Yeah. It’s just a family thing. Sorry about that,” he says, eyes dodging mine. The fearful animal inside me flinches. “We can head to dinner soon.” He takes in the new outfit and the makeup, looking chagrined. “As soon as I get cleaned up enough that I don’t look like a complete slob next to my girlfriend. Fiancée. ”
“Smooth,” I say. He ducks his head. It’s not like I have any room to complain. My ring lives in my bedside table most of the time, and at work Connor remains “the boyfriend.” Harper has asked me more than once, in her hesitant, just-worried-about-you way, if I don’t think I’m moving a little fast. Of course I am, I want to say. Moving fast is the only way to stay alive.
Instead I tell her that I’m fine, that this time is different. That Connor loves me, that I’m safe with him. She pretends to believe me and keeps on worrying.
Twenty minutes later, Connor and I are stepping out the door. It’s already dark outside, with only the golden pool of light from the cabin to illuminate our steps until Connor turns on a flashlight. I have always seen well in the dark, been adept at navigating by feel, without making a sound. It was a necessity, growing up. I almost prefer the dark now. The light only blinds you to what might lie beyond it.
Besides, we don’t need light to know where we’re going. The great lodge is a beacon shining through the trees. At the steps, orchestral Christmas music rises to meet us. The door swings inward to reveal a petite woman with dark hair streaked liberally with gray, sleek as lacquer and drawn back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. For a moment I think this must be Connor’s mother, until I recognize the stance, the warm but restrained smile.
Of course the Daltons didn’t come to the mountain without staff.
“Irina,” Connor says. “So good to see you.” He leans in to kiss the air just shy of her cheek.
“Ah, Mr. Connor. It’s been too long,” she says in an Eastern European accent, and pats his arm affectionately. “And this must be the mysterious girl we have heard so much about.” Does her voice cool as she turns her attention to me? She folds her hands in front of her, head tilted slightly, that smile still fixed in place.
“I’m Theo. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, not sure if I should extend my hand, but she’s already gesturing us inside.
“Irina has been working for my family since before I was born,” Connor says as we step in. We shed our coats and boots and slip into the formal shoes we carried with us.
Irina stands to the side, a presence so contained it’s like she takes up no physical space at all. “The Daltons have been very good to me,” Irina says.
“That’s wonderful,” I reply, hoping it’s the correct response.
The entryway of the lodge has cathedral ceilings, leaving plenty of room for the massive tree that dominates the center. At least fifteen feet high, it’s decked with impeccably coordinated ornaments in shades of gold and silver. We skirt it and pass through a short hallway, emerging into what in a normal house I would call a living room, though drawing room or parlor would be a better descriptor. The rustic touches persist: natural wood beams girding the roof, a stone fireplace, a set of antlers mounted to the wall, a fur rug with a black bear’s head still attached. The floor-to-ceiling windows and wet bar belie the illusion.
Alexis sits at one end of a long white couch, a martini glass in hand. Her wife, Paloma, sits beside her, sipping what looks like club soda. Her rich black hair tumbles in artful waves over one shoulder, and she wears a form-hugging maroon dress. Their son, Sebastian, plays with a toy car on the rug in front of them, a perfect cowlick in his dark hair and tiny suspenders over his button-up shirt.
“And here they are!” Alexis says, rising to her feet. In another few seconds I’ve had my cheeks kissed, shaken Paloma’s hand, received an adorably formal greeting from Sebastian, and been supplied with a drink.
“I told you she was pretty,” Alexis says, draped over her wife’s shoulder, not bothering to keep her voice down.
Paloma huffs a little. “Lex, please.”
“I know. I’m terrible, you can’t stand me,” Alexis says; Paloma’s nose scrunches. “So. Have you met Grandma Louise yet, Theo?” she asks me.
“Not yet,” I say.
“She’s the one you have to impress,” Alexis informs me.
“So Connor said.” I laugh a little.
“He’s right,” says a new voice, old but strong as steel, and everyone turns toward the woman walking into the room. She stands ramrod straight, her hands clasped before her. She must be in her eighties, but she doesn’t look it. Maybe that’s what a lifetime of money will buy you—not happiness, but smoother skin, fewer aches and pains along the way.
“Grandma,” Connor says, tension in his voice. He wants this to go perfectly. He wants me to be perfect, but I don’t know how. I feel like I should curtsy or bow or do a little dance; I just stand there frozen.
“Theodora Scott,” the old woman says.
“It’s just Theo.” I try not to sound like I’m correcting her.
“And I am Louise. You can call me Mrs. Dalton.” The formality is almost a relief.
“Thank you so much for inviting me here, Mrs. Dalton,” I say. “Connor talks so much about all the time he’s spent here.”
“A venerable Dalton family tradition,” Mrs. Dalton acknowledges. “Idlewood was built by my husband’s grandfather. Back then, it was only a few log cabins, of course. It’s had many lives over the years. This particular structure was our addition, after the old lodge was damaged in a fire.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“It is,” she agrees. “Now, why don’t you take a seat so I can interrogate you properly?”
I laugh, which seems to be the correct response. Paloma and Alexis make room on the couch, and I sit with hands clasped nervously in my lap.
Her head tilts, examining me. “So, Theo, are you from California originally?” she asks.
“I grew up in Washington state,” I say smoothly. “But I left for college and I haven’t been back.”
An eyebrow arches. “Why LA?” she asks. “No Hollywood aspirations, I should hope.”
I make a face. “Definitely not. I guess I always wanted to live somewhere warm, and… I don’t know. I just always felt drawn to the area.”
“And your family?” she asks. “Are they still in Washington?”
My stomach clenches. It’s an easy question. A normal question that normal people would have a simple answer to. “I don’t have any family.”
“An orphan?” she clarifies, brow arched. I nod. It’s not a lie. Not really. A simpler version of the truth than I could share, maybe. “My condolences. That must be very difficult.”
“It was a long time ago.” I smile—just the bend of the lips, pretty, polite. “But I am so grateful to be welcomed into your family.”
“Well, we shall see,” Mrs. Dalton says. Connor makes a strangled noise. “You mentioned college. You have your degree?”
“A BA in English,” I say.
“And employment?”
“I work at a bookstore.” This is not an ideal response; her top lip wrinkles. “I’m saving up money to go back to school to get a master’s,” I add, and Connor gives me an odd look. I avoid his eyes. I have no such intention and I’m not sure why I said it. The last thing I want to do is delve back into academia. But I need to impress these people, and assistant manager at the Magpie’s Pen is not impressive.
“In something more practical, I should hope,” Mrs. Dalton says.
“I haven’t decided,” I stammer.
“Theo’s brilliant. Top of her class. She could do anything she wants, really,” Connor says, acting like this isn’t the first he’s heard of my academic ambitions. I take a sip of my drink to hide my expression. The only way I could have gotten to the top of my class was if I’d taken out hits on a half dozen other students. I’d had to work full-time, a night-shift warehouse job. I slept through too many morning classes to hope for a perfect GPA.
Alexis waves a hand. “You’re, what, twenty-four? Basically a baby. You’ve got plenty of time to figure out where you want to land.”
I flush. Maybe I’m imagining how pointed the remark seems to be, but it’s true—I am young. I never imagined myself getting married before thirty, much less twenty-five. I never imagined myself getting married at all.
“Oh, this one isn’t so young,” Mrs. Dalton says. She meets my eyes. “You can tell when someone has had to be grown-up. It’s different when someone is coddled. Allowed to remain in a state of irresponsibility.” Her sharp tone suggests she has someone particular in mind.
“I’ve been on my own for quite a while,” I say, choosing my words like I’m picking my way past a snare. Every sentence feels like it’s waiting to spring a trap on me. “I don’t know if that makes me more grown-up or just more tired.” I try for humor, but she doesn’t smile.
“Yes, I imagine you’ve learned to look out for yourself,” she says. I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t think of anything to say.
Then a gray-haired man steps into the room, and I don’t need to think of anything at all. Connor gets to his feet. Magnus Dalton surveys his family. He’s a thin man—wiry, really, nothing frail about him. He has Connor’s strong jaw and thin lips, the same piercing blue eyes. His skin is sun-weathered, and in defiance of the semiformal dress code, he wears a flannel and jeans.
“Well,” he says, “I see you’ve already terrified the poor girl.”
“We’re having a conversation,” Mrs. Dalton says stiffly.
“We ought to be having dinner,” Magnus says, his hands in his pockets. “Irina tells me it’s ready.”
“Not everyone has arrived,” Mrs. Dalton says.
He grunts. “I’m too old to wait on the young for my supper.”
Her lips press together briefly. “Let us decamp to the dining room, then.” She gets to her feet, her movements just deliberate enough to betray the weakness of age.
Everyone files out. I stand, but don’t move yet. I feel sick. I catch Connor’s eye, and he hangs back.
“You did great,” he says.
“I didn’t expect it to be such a literal test,” I say. “I can’t believe I said I’m going to grad school.”
“You could,” he says.
“I think I might have to now.” I hide my face in my hands. “I can’t do this. I’m not—I shouldn’t be—”
“Breathe,” he tells me. “You belong here because you belong with me. The rest doesn’t matter.”
“What if it does?” I ask him. “What if I do screw this up, and they tell you I’m not good enough?”
“I don’t need their approval,” Connor assures me. He takes my hand, running a thumb over my knuckles. His eyes search mine. “You are good enough. I love you. If they can’t see that, it’s on them.”
I take a stuttering breath. He tilts my head up, kisses me softly.
“It’s going to be all right,” he murmurs. “You’ll see.”
His life has so rarely had a misstep. He doesn’t understand how easily things can fall apart.
“Your mascara is running,” he says, touching a knuckle to the corner of my eye. I’ve teared up again.
“I should go get cleaned up.”
“I can wait for you.”
“No, you go ahead.” I wave him off. He gives me instructions to the bathroom, and after I promise him one more time that I don’t need him to wait, we part ways.
In the bathroom, I wash my hands just to feel the cold water over them and dab at the smeared mascara with a piece of toilet paper. My eyes are a little red, but not too bad, I decide.
I’m not ready to go back out there. I’m running over everything I said, second-guessing.
Mrs. Dalton wants to know where I come from. The answer is nowhere. The answer is I have no idea. Theodora Scott is a fiction, but it’s the only story I have. The rest is fragments. Less than that. The woman in the red scarf; the echo of a voice that never resolves into words.
A dream of winter and branching antlers and the urge to run.
There’s a map on the wall behind me—Idlewood. The year in the corner reads 1983 . Elevation lines chart the shape of the mountain. Trees blanket most of the map. The pond—labeled here Idlewood Lake , with more optimism than accuracy—is dead center, with the grand lodge above it and five cabins scattered here and there, each far enough away from the others for privacy. The corner of the map is scorched. I think of what Mrs. Dalton said—about the old lodge being damaged in a fire.
Damaged, not destroyed. This isn’t a family that sees something flawed and fixes it up. No. When something breaks, it needs to be gotten rid of, in order for something better to take its place.
So I must not let them see the ways in which I’m broken.