Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I stand in front of the tiny wardrobe, rifling through my pack.
I empty the books and charging cords and find the Swiss Army knife I inherited from Mom.
Inherited is a strong word—more like ‘found in her stuff after she died’—but the blade is sharp and has given me courage when I’m walking at night in the city.
I unload the rest of the clothes onto the bed.
Most of what I brought is practical. Jeans, T-shirts, hiking gear.
Perfect for the outdoors, useless for a party.
My mind wanders. People! People at Pine Ridge! And not just any people—friends of Grace. Artists, writers, and musicians. They can’t all be assholes. Some of them might even be famous, like Grace.
I haven’t been to many parties. I spent my normal college years looking after Mom, and by the time I was a freshman, I was too old to go drinking with teenagers.
At the bottom of the pile, I find the one dress I packed almost as an afterthought. It’s dark blue, with thin straps and a plunging neckline. The fabric clings, and the hemline sits high on my thighs. I bought it for one of Neil’s work functions and have worn it precisely once.
I slip it on and check my reflection in the rusty mirror beside the bed. The dress reveals more than it conceals, but it’s all I’ve got.
I wait until dark before making my entrance.
When the sun finally dips behind the trees, I slip on my only pair of decent shoes and step outside.
The path to the main house is pitch black, and I walk slowly until I reach the driveway.
I hear faint traces of laughter from the front porch of the house, where two men are talking, and I pause.
What am I doing here? I’m dead sober, and I have nothing in common with these people.
They’re probably talking about art and philosophy.
What can I talk about? Since turning eighteen, my life has been little more than caring for a dying mother, sleepwalking through a dead-end relationship, and learning about seabirds.
Did you know Arctic terns experience more daylight than any other creature on Earth due to their pole-to-pole migration pattern?
That’s me: life of the party.
“Brie!”
Damn—one of the men is Bradley. I wave and walk to the house, feeling awkward in my dress.
“I thought that was you!” he says, as I get closer. “You look amazing.”
“Sorry, I don’t have many clothes.”
“You put me to shame.” He points to the man standing next to him, who is sucking on a cigarette. He’s tall, with a closely trimmed beard, wearing a check button-down and slacks. “Him, too. Excuse me, I’m going to get a drink.”
The man holds out his hand, and I climb up the steps to take it.
“I’m Brie.” I angle my head. “You look familiar. Do you live in the city?”
“Unfortunately, not. I’m in Manhattan for my sins. I’m Jesse Youngman, Grace’s agent.” He takes another drag from his cigarette. “You staying in the murder house?”
“Excuse me?”
“The cottage. I always tell Grace to knock that place down.”
“Why do you call it the murder house?” I ask, feeling protective of my new home, even if I secretly agree.
He looks at me for a second, as if to see if the question is genuine. “Inside joke. Don’t worry, no real murders have taken place there.”
“What a fun joke.”
I feel his eyes moving down my body, but I keep looking ahead at the driveway and pretend not to notice.
Frigatebirds can fly continuously for up to two months without landing, using unihemispheric slow-wave sleep, resting one half of their brain while the other half remains alert.
I smile. If I were truly myself and talked about what I really wanted to talk about, how long would he feign interest? How long would it take for me to scare him off?
“First time at one of Grace’s gatherings?”
“Total virgin,” I say, instantly regretting my choice of words. I’m too sober. Where is Bradley with my drink?
“You’ll get used to it. You’re Grace’s new muse.”
“What?” I’m shocked by the choice of words. Since when was I her muse? And what does it mean to be the muse of a crime writer? “That’s not true. I barely see her.”
“A muse isn’t a companion,” he says, in a tone so condescending I want to punch him.
He’s talking like I’m a child who still believes in the tooth fairy.
“It’s a source of inspiration and energy.
Grace likes what you represent, even if it drives her crazy.
” He gives a dramatic pause, and the faux-suspense makes me want to laugh.
“Especially because it drives her crazy. It inspires her work. Just like poor Caroline.”
My heart skips a beat. There’s that name again. “What do you mean? Who’s Caroline?”
His smile fades, and he shakes his head. A second ago, I could have sworn he was six drinks deep, but he now looks completely sober.
“No one.”
“Why do you call her poor?”
“She’s not here. That’s why she’s poor.” He takes a final puff of his cigarette, then flicks it into the grass. I picture myself picking that up in the morning and feel annoyed. “Just be careful, right?”
“Careful of what?”
He shakes his head and takes another drink, acting once more like my question is impossibly naive.
“Well,” I say, cursing Bradley. “Excuse me, I'd better say hello to everyone else.”
“Everyone else?”
“Grace said this was a party.”
He laughs, as though this was a great joke. “I’m afraid it’s just us. We’re the guests of honor.” Without letting me respond, he opens the door. “I look forward to your grand entrance.”
A moment later, I hear more laughter from inside the house. Jesse is probably telling them what I said. My cheeks are hot. I feel ridiculous. I dressed up just so I could drink with Grace’s fancy friends, but it turns out the only other guest is her creepy agent.
I decide to go back to the cottage and change. As I walk down the driveway, I try to remember where I’ve seen Jesse. I run through my usual haunts in the city—the university, the coffee shop, my apartment building—but I can’t place him.
The front door opens behind me, the light flooding the drive. I turn and look back at the house, and as Bradley calls out my name, I glance up at the attic and remember exactly where I’ve seen Jesse before.
In the window when I first moved in. The man that Grace pretended wasn’t there.
“Brie!” Bradley takes the steps two at a time and jogs towards me. “Where are you going?”
“I have to change.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m overdressed. I thought this would be a party, but it’s just Grace’s”—I take a beat, mentally inserting the word creepy—“agent.”
“I’m so sorry. We had some cancellations. But you’re not overdressed. Grace will love it. She’s dressed to the nines. She’s very disappointed in me and Jesse.”
“Really?”
“Come.” He extends his arm like the handle of a teapot, and I hesitate before placing my hand on his elbow.
He walks me back, and I feel strangely like a bride walking down the aisle.
But what does that make Bradley, in that scenario?
My husband, or my dad? I must be smiling at the thought, because Bradley is looking at me, confused. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing!” I say quickly. “I’m just embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. Please.”
He opens the front door for me. I squeeze past and find the room lit with candles. Grace is standing at the bookshelf, wearing a long white dress and gloves, as if she’s about to go out drinking in postwar Paris. She says something under her breath to Jesse, then smiles at me.
“Look who made it.” She takes a sip of her cocktail. “Our beautiful helpmeet. It’s like we’ve hired an escort for the night.”
“Don’t be rude,” Bradley snaps. He goes to a drinks trolley in the middle of the room and picks up a glass.
“Apologies. It’s a compliment. It means she’s hot.”
“No, you’re being cruel.” He hands me the glass. “Have this. It might help you feel more at home.”
“What is it?”
“Vodka and tonic.”
I feel Grace watching me, loading more insults into her chamber. But instead, she turns her attention to Bradley.
“Let’s all have a drink,” she says. “A toast to Bradley.”
“A toast?” I ask. “Why?”
“I got the response from the tenure committee today.”
“That’s amazing! Congratulations!”
“Not so fast,” Grace says. “It wasn’t good news.”
“Indeed.” Bradley sinks his drink in one. “They said no.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say rapidly, feeling my face go hot. “They’re idiots. Assholes.”
“Don’t be. It’s just twenty years of my life down the drain. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” Grace says. “Just our financial future.”
“If you want financial security, darling, you know what to do,” Bradley snaps. “You have a trust fund just sitting there waiting for you.”
“Yes, let’s accept profits won from the destruction of our planet, just so my husband doesn’t need to work a normal job. What a great outcome. How fun it would be to look at ourselves in the mirror every morning.”
“I believe I’d get over it.”
“Yes,” Grace says. She steps towards the drinks trolley and stumbles a little. I wonder if she’s drunk. She’s so thin that it would only take a few drinks to knock her out. She picks up the bottle of vodka and half-fills her cocktail glass. “I have gathered that about you.”
“Bradley, my friend!” Jesse calls out from across the room. “I hear you got a Keats first edition. Can I see it?”
“It’s in the safe.”
“How on earth did you get it?”
“A consolation gift from a mentor in the department,” he says, glaring at Grace. He’s clenching his fists, and I can tell he’s doing everything in his power not to lose his cool. “Let me show you.”
I feel my chest go tight as he leaves the room. I scan my mind for conversation topics. Though I hate myself for it, I’m desperate to prove to Grace that I’m just as interesting as her, just as witty, just as elegant, even though none of that is remotely true.
She walks across the room to the Greek vase in the corner.
“Have you seen this?”
“Not really,” I say, thankful that she’s taking the lead.
“It’s an amazing scene. This figure here is Calliope, one of the Muses. The man next to her is trying to fish a severed head from the waters.”
“Jesus.” I take a closer look. “Who is it?”
“The head is Orpheus, of course. Calliope’s son, the man who ventured to hell to rescue his wife. He was ripped to shreds by Maenads. But in this depiction, he is still somehow giving prophecies.”
“Is it real?”
“You’re kidding. No, this is just a reproduction, but an ancient and expensive one.”
I stare at the image, unsure of what to say. “What does it mean?” I say, finally.
Grace flashes me a look of frustration and disappointment. I feel like I’ve failed a test. She commands me to finish my drink. “I’ll make you one that lives up to your outfit.”
I obey, then hand over the glass.
“Can you get me a small knife from the kitchen, please?” It’s phrased as a question, though I know it’s anything but.
I do what she asks, but when I return, Grace has already finished making the cocktail. It’s pink, and smells of citrus, and a glance down at the drinks trolley tells me why: Next to the bottles of booze is the corpse of a lemon, its juice wrung out.
“Tell me what you think,” she says, ignoring the fact that she sent me off for no reason. I take the glass from her and sip.
“It’s nice,” I say, even though the lemon is overpowering and there’s something rancid about the aftertaste.
“Don’t nurse it. You’re playing catch-up.”
She takes her own glass and clinks it unsteadily into mine.
Though taking another sip is the last thing I want to do, I’m flattered by the attention—and excited by the possibilities.
What if we got drunk together, just the two of us?
What if she got to know me and even liked me?
What if I became friends with a famous writer?
“Salud,” I say, and knock it back.
Grace watches, her lips curling like a snake in the grass.
“Salud indeed. You finally look the part.”
I put the glass down and ignore the roiling in my stomach.
“Are you OK?”
“Fine. I just don’t drink much. I never have, really.”
“That’s far too wise. You’re a young woman—you should be making mistakes while you can.
It gets so much harder later in life.” She angles her head as if I were a painting in a museum.
“You do look beautiful, dear. It’s much easier when you’re young, of course.
Everything is easier, though the young never appreciate it, do you?
Your energy. Your beauty. Trust me, it fades faster than you think. ”
She takes my glass without asking and starts making another drink. I try to see the ingredients, but she’s in the way.
“What’s in it?” I ask when she hands the glass back.
“It’s a work of art. You might as well ask the ingredients of a Picasso.” She takes her glass and raises it. “To your health. Bottoms up.”
I raise the glass and, fighting every instinct of self-preservation, I begin to drink.
Before I’ve even finished, the room starts to spin.
I can’t be that much of a lightweight, can I?
There’s the same lemon flavor as the first, and when I finish, the rancid aftertaste is overwhelming.
I immediately feel my stomach roiling, as if buffeted by some fierce internal weather.
No.
No.
The restroom—
Too late. The cocktails have begun their evacuation, and before I know it, I’m kneeling on the floor, emptying the contents of my stomach into Grace’s antique vase.