Ask Cassandra

Chapter Two

Cassie woke up disoriented, and reached for her glasses.

They weren’t on her nightstand. The nightstand didn’t seem to be there either.

It took a confused moment before the dimensions of the space translated from her expectations into reality, and then she sat up and groped around in the shelf set into the head of the bed, until her fingers hit her glasses case.

Right. Right. She wasn’t in her apartment with Ilione and Lyz. She’d sublet her room and come upstate, to where they didn’t believe in road signs, but passionately adored patchwork.

And her boss was coming to pick her up soon, so she had a precious hour to get dressed, fed, and work on her other job, the one she didn’t put on her resume or mention in interviews, other than to say she did some freelance writing.

This was true. She could even point to a few articles with her byline. Laodice was really good at letting her know when Olympus editors were looking for pitches, and had the inside track on what kind of work might best appeal.

But her real freelance writing was answering questions for Ask Cassandra.

The name was an unfortunate coincidence. Ask Cassandra had been an Agora staple from its first publication in the 70s, one of the new women’s lib magazines following Ms. magazine’s spectacular debut. The original advice columnist, Cassandra Donovan, had been a firebrand who’d told her letter writers how to demand better from their communities, dump their abusive boyfriends, walk away from their heinous families, and fight for their rights to bodily autonomy, gender equality, and basic human respect. Cassandra had been lauded and reviled, viewed as a hero and a demon, and she’d received so much hate mail during her decade-long tenure that the next Ask Cassandra columnist had taken “Cassandra” as a pen name and remained anonymous.

Daphne Tr?n had only revealed her role years later, on a Gaia TV special focusing on the women’s magazine movement. When Gaia had asked why she’d decided anonymity was the way to go, Daphne, now a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, had been blunt: “It was all the death threats,” she’d said. “If they were going to threaten that middle-class white woman with murder, I thought they might actually murder me.”

After Daphne had come more Cassandras. Some of them had chosen to reveal their own names alongside the pen name, but most of them had sheltered behind the tradition.

Like the original Cassandra, Cassie was a middle-class white woman, but she’d never considered using her own name. She lived in the era of doxxing and cyber terrorism, and she was telling people how to demand better from their communities, dump their abusive partners, walk away from their heinous families and fight for their rights to bodily autonomy, equality, and basic human respect, because fifty years after Cassandra Donovan, that was still work that needed to be done.

And the best way she could think of to maintain the energy and will to keep going was to make sure that nobody knew she, Cassie Troiades, was the one doing it.

Five people knew the truth: Cassie’s sisters, her editor at Agora, the payroll supervisor who handled her cheques, and Hera, the CEO of Olympus. The filters designed by the Olympus IT department screened out most of the hate mail that came in for “Cassandra,” and her editor handled the rest. Cassie got the letters, from people who wanted her help, with problems large and small. Occasionally she got mail from someone who was very much in the wrong, but telling those people to get lost was also fun (and was great click-bait, according to her editor).

She ventured downstairs, shivering in her bathrobe, and found the space heater hidden in the cupboard under the stairs, right where the folder of useful info had said it would be. She didn’t know why Manny Pelopson wasn’t in hospitality any more, but it clearly wasn’t because he was bad at it.

She fixed a bowl of cereal while the living room heated up, sat down in a comfortable armchair, and opened her laptop.

Dear Cassandra,

Last month I (18f) was at the beach with some friends, and someone dared me to climb up some rocks. Long story short, I did, and I got stuck there when the tide came in. It was really stupid, and I totally know that now.

My friends didn’t even notice, they kind of all took off and left me there (we’re not really friends any more) and I was freaking out, because I can’t swim very well, and the tide was getting higher.

Then a guy on a surfboard (let’s call him Percy, 22m) paddled over to me and got me to climb on his board and he swam me back to shore. He kept saying all this stuff about how I was so beautiful and he was so honored to be the one to rescue me, and honestly, I don’t know what I said back, I was mostly just crying, but I guess I must have said something to encourage him.

Percy said he’d take me home, so I gave him my address, and he did, but that turned out to be really dumb too. Now he knows where I live and he follows all my socials and he keeps asking me out. So far I’ve been like, oh, I made plans with my friends, or, sorry, I’ve got a big test and I need to study. He asks me at least twice a week. There’s nothing wrong with him, but I just don’t want to go out with him, and I think if I say yes I might be leading him on, but I don’t want to say no because that feels mean. I wish he’d get the hint.

I don’t want to be mean to this guy, because he for real probably saved my life. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t turned up, and people have drowned on that beach before. My dad says that I should at least go on one date, just to be polite. Is he right? Is there something else I should be saying so that Percy gets the message, but doesn’t feel rejected?

Yours,

Galaxy Brain

(My real name is Andromeda but please don’t use that, I really don’t want to hurt Percy’s feelings and idk if he reads your column.)

Cassandra cracked her knuckles.

Dear Galaxy Brain,

First, your dad is wrong. You should not ever feel obliged to go out with someone, or feel that it is rude to decline.

Second, Percy (possibly) saved your life; that is unequivocally a good thing. You can be grateful that he was there and thankful for his efforts on your behalf.

Third, asking you out is an entirely separate issue, and frankly, he’s being a dink about it. He should be getting the hint.

I don’t think you need to worry about not hurting Percy’s feelings. His feelings are his business. He’s asked you a question, and he has the answer, even if he’s unable to acknowledge it. Honestly, he’s scored a real own goal here. If he’d just left things at “I rescued another human from a scary situation” he would get to be the hero of the story. But “and then I persistently asked her out over her consistent evasions” is not a good addendum, and I have to think that it’s spoiling all your gratitude and relief.

Consciously or unconsciously, Percy is using that lack of a firm no as an excuse to keep asking. It’s time to remove that excuse and say that you don’t want to go out with him. Don’t say “maybe later,” don’t say “when I’m less busy with school.” I’m going to advise that you don’t even say “thanks for saving me but—” because Percy is definitely the kind of guy who will leverage your gratitude for a pity date if he can.

(Aside to readers in the comment section: A reminder that “why didn’t you just say no in the first place?” is not a helpful comment. If Galaxy Brain felt comfortable and safe saying an immediate flat no, she would have already done so. What is she supposed to do, build a time machine to meet your expectations?)

But before you say no, there are two things that concern me here: he knows where you live, and he’s been asking you out “at least twice a week”. I want you to go and read the safety resources for leaving an abusive relationship linked in the sidebar. Not all of these apply to your situation, but—

Cassie scowled at the screen. She didn’t want to coach yet another young woman through the terrifying prospect of her first no. She did want to reach through time and space and give “Percy” a good smack, and then she wanted to lay waste to the patriarchy, possibly burning down late-stage capitalism on her way out.

So, a normal work day on her side gig.

Her phone rang and she picked up without looking.

“Hey, Mom,” she said, still glaring at the screen. Nobody but Hecuba Troiades called her this early.

Her mother’s voice was warm and breathy. “Honey, are you checking your breasts regularly?”

“Every month, Mom.”

“Oh good, because I just saw this terrible story on the morning show. Are your sisters checking their breasts?”

“It hasn’t come up in conversation lately.”

“I’d better call them,” Hecuba decided. “I’d hope that Polly is checking her breasts, she’s showing so much of them on her little videos. I’m sure those flashy sports bras can’t be very supportive.”

“She’s a fitness influencer, Mom. Her sponsors send her clothes.”

“Well, all right,” Hecuba said. “At least she’s making a living.”

Polyxena was a millionaire, and had been before her twenty-second birthday, but Cassie knew better than to start that discussion again.

“So I’ll call Dicey next, and then Polly. Have you started your new job?”

Someone knocked at the door. Cassie startled. “Mom, I’ve got to go,” she said, getting hastily out of the chair.

“Are there any good prospects there?” Hecuba said, talking faster. “Because the story on the morning show said it’s best if someone else checks your breasts, that’s what happened to the woman on the show, her husband found the lump, although it was very sad in the end, because—”

“I love you, Mom, talk to you later, bye,” Cassie said, and hung up as she opened the door, letting in a blast of frigid air.

“Sorry,” Manny said. “I know I’m early, but—” His gaze snagged on the front of her bathrobe, and he cleared his throat. “I can come back in ten minutes?”

“No, come in, it’s freezing,” Casie said. “It’s my fault, my mom called and I lost track of time.” She went up the stairs to change into jeans and a thick sweater, grateful that she’d checked the weather forecast for the region and packed appropriately. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face, and finger-combed her hair into place, wondering if her mother would consider Manny a “good prospect.”

Probably. He was a business owner with a property portfolio. And Cassie thought that he wouldn’t mind checking her breasts for lumps.

She thought she wouldn’t mind either.

But he was her employer, and she was the sensible sister, too sensible for workplace romance, and she could palpate her own boobs, damn it. She packed her stray thoughts away with her pajamas, pushed under the pillow, and went downstairs fresh-faced and ready to go.

Manny was standing in the middle of the room, frowning at his phone, but he slid it into his pocket as she reappeared. “My brother,” he said, by way of explanation.

“Family, huh?” Cassie said. “Can’t live with them, can’t stuff them in a sack and throw them into the river without answering some awkward questions.”

Manny huffed a laugh, and she wondered belatedly if that was a diplomatic thing to say to a man who did live with family. She covered the awkwardness by slinging her laptop bag over her shoulder and picking up the red box that held her archival kit. “Shall we? I’m dying to see this fabled attic.”

Cassie Troiades looked just as good in the morning as she had last night, her eyes bright and cheeks pink with the cold as they walked over to the main house.

“I think this is what they call brisk,” she observed.

“I should have driven,” Manny said. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said, sounding slightly surprised at her own demurral. She took a deep breath, which made her sweater move interestingly. It was a dark orange that picked out the russet highlights in her dark curls. “The air really does smell fresher out here.”

“You don’t spend much time in the great outdoors, I take it.”

“Only when I’m on a run. And even then, it’s the suburbs.”

“You run?” Manny said. “Me too. I can tell you about a few good routes around here, if you like.”

“That’d be great,” Cassie said, but she was looking at the big house as it loomed above them. “Wow. I didn’t quite realize how impressive this was last night.”

Manny knew what she was seeing. The big house was technically Pelopson Manor, but no one ever called it that except on address labels. It stood at the top of a small rise. The slope was barely noticeable, but the effect was of the house looming over you like a disappointed elder. The building was three stories tall, and clad in grey masonry blocks. The arched windows on the lower two floors looked over the neat squares and rectangles of the French-style garden. The narrower windows of the third floor, designed as servant’s quarters, were a neat row on top, and the pointed, gabled roof, dusted with snow, gave the impression of eyebrows arched in disapproval.

Or maybe that was just him. Probably Cassie only saw the elegant lines and obvious wealth that had gone into the house. Inside, she’d probably appreciate the polished floors and massive rafters, the lead window detailing and the wooden panels on the interior walls.

What Manny saw was the massive heating bill and the antique wiring, the plumbing refit his mother was still paying for and the roof replacement that his father had been putting off for five years. The gardens were beautiful, but they’d been designed in the time when the servant’s quarters had been occupied by actual servants. They were meant to have a groundskeeper, not his mother doing what she could on top of her other job.

“Home sweet home,” he said, more grimly than he’d intended. He tried to recover, adding, “Most of this dates from the 1920s rebuild. The architect’s blueprints should be in the archives somewhere.”

“Oh, excellent,” Cassie said, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. “Architects are generally very good with records.”

He led them past the tennis court to the back, where a porch had been added in the 70s and they went carefully up the ice-slick steps. They stamped the snow off their boots in the mudroom. The kitchen was warm and bright, and there was half a pot of coffee left. Aerope was sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed in a tweed skirt set, sipping a cup while she did the crossword.

“Good morning,” she said, her face neutral.

Manny stooped to kiss her cheek, wondering if she’d truly repented of her opposition to bringing in a professional, or if she were biding her time. His private bet was on the latter. “Morning, Mother.”

“Hello, Mrs. Pelopson,” Cassie said, and Aerope nodded at her.

Or, rather, at the red box in her gloved hands.

“You might need more than one of those,” she said, with glacial good humor.

“This is just my essentials kit,” Cassie said. “Gloves, mask, Post-it notes—a bunch of stuff, really. But you’re right.” She turned to Manny. “What do I need to do about my car? The rest of my kit is in there, and I don’t want it getting snowed in.” She smiled. “Though I guess I don’t have to worry about it being stolen.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Manny said. “We’ve got a group of kids round here who think it’s funny to steal anything that isn’t nailed down, and some of the things that are. They mostly leave it somewhere after they get bored, but no guarantees.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed. “Do they steal road signs?”

“Good guess.”

“Theodore already left to notify the mechanic,” Aerope said, taking another sip of coffee. “You could wait to start until you know what’s happening, if you like.”

“No, thank you,” Cassie said politely. She smiled at Manny. “Which way to the attic?”

“Right this way,” Manny said, and shot his mother a warning glance behind Cassie’s back. Aerope ignored him.

The house had three main floors, with the attic on top of that, and there was no elevator installed. Manny’s job listing had specified that the candidate had to be physically capable, and indeed, Cassie climbed the first two flights of stairs without slowing down. She did pause when Manny opened the hidden door at the end of the third-floor hallway, revealing the narrow, steep set of stairs that led to the attic. It wasn’t quite a ladder.

“Do you want me to carry that?” he asked, nodding at her box.

“I’m fine,” Cassie said. It had the cadence of an automatic response, but Manny nodded and went up the steps first, hand groping above his head for the string that dangled from the antique light bulb. He caught it on the third swing and tugged.

The attic lights flickered into feeble life, and he cleared the steps so that Cassie could come up too.

She stopped dead at the top of the stairs, her lips parting in wonder.

The first manifestation of the Pelopson house had been built in 1863. Successive generations had taken turns to tear down and rebuild the space as the family size and fashions changed. Most of the structure now dated from the 1920s rebuild, and the fittings were much newer, but Pelopsons didn’t throw away things that were still perfectly good, if a little old-fashioned.

They stored them instead.

Dust sheets shrouded the furniture, most of it wooden, some of it elaborately carved. One wall held a perilous stack of dismantled platform beds. Manny hadn’t known what a box spring was until college. From previous explorations, he knew there were sideboards and bookshelves, washstands and wardrobes, dining chairs, arm chairs, reclining couches, innumerable footstools and side tables, and one huge antique desk that had apparently been dismantled before it went up the stairs and reassembled afterwards, for reasons that entirely escaped him, because nothing had ever been put in its many drawers.

Then there were the boxes. Some were plastic storage tubs, some were cardboard, some were wooden harvest crates salvaged from the vineyard. All of them were crammed with toys, clothes, books, kitchenware, dining sets and mementoes, and all of them had been put up there by Pelopsons who probably sincerely meant to clean up the attic once they had the time.

“Believe it or not, it used to be worse,” Manny told Cassie.

“I bet those help,” she said, and pointed at the shelves. They were utilitarian stainless steel, obviously modern.

“That was me and my brother, about ten years ago.” He thought. “Wait. Oh man, it has to be fifteen years now. It was the summer I turned sixteen.”

Manny and Augie had spent a substantial amount of the summer installing the shelving units and packing them with boxes. Their dad had made them keep all the paper records separate, placing them in the little room he’d built in the far corner.

“One day, I’ll turn this into a proper archive,” he’d said.

Manny remembered the sting of barked knuckles, the irritation of sweat getting into his eyes, the tang of the cold beers Augie had snuck upstairs for them. And the pride on his father’s face as he put his hands on his hips and rocked back, surveying the shelves with the Tantalus archives. “Nearly two hundred years, boys,” he’d said. “That’s what we’re looking at here. Seven generations of good work.”

Manny coughed to clear the lump in his throat.

“This is incredible,” Cassie said, rotating slowly. “I’m not archiving the entire attic, am I? Because your ad said a three-month contract and this is…much more than that.”

“Oh no. Most of it’s just ordinary attic junk. Old toys, clothes, sporting equipment. The archives are this way.” He led the way, skirting the elderly steamer trunks too large to go on shelves with the rest of the luggage. Cassie followed, making gratifying noises of interest and curiosity.

They came to the small enclosed room at the far end of the space, and he opened the door, leaving the key in the lock. “Here it is,” he said, and watched Cassie’s face as she took in the space.

Three rows of aluminum shelves had been crammed so closely into the narrow space that getting the boxes in had required some careful maneuvering. Some of the more heavily laden shelves were actually dipping slightly under the weight of massive photos albums, record books, and whatever other ephemera had been deemed worth keeping by the Pelopsons. There was a strange, not entirely unpleasant odor, of musty paper and worn leather. He felt as if the archives were surveying them too, cynical of any changes, but not entirely closed off to hope.

Cassie’s mobile face went from intrigued to intimidated to determined. “Ah,” she said, and put her red box down. “Okay. I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me. Okay if I move furniture around to set up a workspace here?”

“No problem. There’s a bathroom on the third floor, and my office is there too if you need anything,” Manny said. “I’ll be around most of the day, I think, but feel free to text any questions if you can’t find me or don’t want to climb down.” If she were a new employee at Delphi he’d be letting her know about break times, but that seemed inappropriate. Cassie was clearly a competent person capable of managing her own time, and it wasn’t as if the archives had a concierge desk that needed manning. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen for lunch and snacks, or head back to the guesthouse, whichever you prefer. I’ll let you know when I hear about your car. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” Cassie said. She lowered her voice, and Manny instinctively leaned closer to her. There was a faint scent of something herbal coming from her hair, and it mingled pleasantly with the dusty aroma of the attic. “I don’t want to get in the way of any family conflict or pry into stuff that isn’t my business but can you tell me anything about why your mom doesn’t want me here? I’d rather not accidentally poke any sore spots.”

Manny stiffened. The knee-jerk reaction to protect his family was something he’d been working on, but it still took him by surprise sometimes. “My dad died six months ago,” he said. “He’d been talking about going through the archives for years, but he’d actually started poking around up here. He told Mom he was going to cut back on his hours running the winery and write a book about the family history. And then he died, very suddenly.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. And it’s funny—Mom isn’t the Pelopson, you know? She married in. But she cares about the history, maybe even more than he did, and now she wants me to do the organizing and research and Augie—that’s my brother—to write the book. But only when we have time, which we really don’t right now.”

“So I’m treading on hallowed ground.”

“Yeah.” Manny rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d like to say she’ll come around, but I don’t know if she will. And I know that might make the job uncomfortable from time to time. But let me know if she says or does anything out of line. You’re working for me, not her, and it’s my job to look out for you.”

“Family conflict actually comes up a fair bit in this job,” Cassie said. “People have different ideas about what to do with their private archives, where they should be stored, whether they should call in a professional—all that stuff. You’re not alone.”

“Huh,” Manny said, feeling a bit better. “I hadn’t thought of that, but yeah, that makes sense.”

She gave him a professionally sympathetic smile. “I’ll do my best not to hit your mom where she’s hurting. Thanks for letting me know the background.” She rolled her shoulders and stepped back, and only then did Manny realize how close she’d been. Close enough to confide in. Close enough to kiss.

“Okay,” he said hastily. “I’ll let you get to work.”

It took very little effort to find a table Cassie could use. The real difficulty was resisting further exploration. This attic was a wonderland, a gorgeous chaos that tugged at every instinct she had to investigate and make orderly.

But she had a job to do, so once she dragged the table over, she set up her laptop and kit just outside the archive room. There wasn’t really room for her to do much in there; she was going to have to go in, pull boxes out and go through them, one-by-one.

Crammed and cramped as it was, the little room in the attic was very far from the worst storage facility Cassie had ever seen. That dubious honor still went to the basement in Florida, which was not even a place she’d thought you could put a basement. This space was dry, and unless the roof leaked there wasn’t likely to be much in the way of water damage.

Dust, though. Dust was definitely going to be a problem. Cassie hunted through her kit for a mask and gloves, and briefly contemplated the plastic hazmat overalls. Normally she wouldn’t bother unless there was a recognized danger, but she also didn’t want to get mouse droppings or dirt all over her new sweater. Well, wear the overalls for the initial assessment, then, and she could take them off after that.

Aerope Pelopson was also going to be a problem. She’d been friendly enough in the kitchen, but Cassie could recognize a woman plotting a strategic shift when she saw one.

She’d encountered a lot of strong-willed, family-focused women in her job, because those were often the people who held the family history and decided that the records needed to be cleaned up. The matriarch of the Florida estate had been a tiny, wizened great-grandmother with a razor-sharp mind and a tongue to match.

But Nana Sue had also been Cassie’s staunchest defender, as numerous branches and sub-branches of the family argued about what she uncovered and what they ought to do about it. Cassie had left Nana Sue planning to leverage her vast network of family connections to get the archives admitted to one of the local universities, and she was pretty sure Sue was going to manage it somehow.

Nana Sue had also been adamant that Cassie should date one of her single grandsons, marry into the family, and move to St. Augustine. Wayne was a nice man with an even nicer body, but he was also not the sharpest tool in the shed, so Cassie had declined, with regrets, and driven north with the feeling that she’d just escaped a very friendly trap.

Cassie zipped the hazmat suit up, grimacing at the sound of plastic rustling. She got her gloves on, adjusted her glasses and stepped inside the little room.

The Pelopson family history surrounded her.

Cassie did not normally think of herself as fanciful. But every time she first walked into an archive, full of primary records and first-hand accounts, photographs, bank statements, diaries, receipts, and countless bits and pieces that had once been considered essential enough to keep, she felt history pulse around her. At the moment, it was a vast and formless chaos of experience and impression. Her job was to bring order to the chaos. Just by being here, by noticing things and sorting them into categories, she was changing the way those things could be recognized and accessed. She was exerting, however lightly, her own narrative control over someone else’s story, and she never took that responsibility lightly.

It was also the kind of deeply addictive buzz that meant she’d never even considered applying for that archivist position at Olympus Inc, no matter how much Laodice would have loved to work in the same building. Magazine archives, however well-organized and funded, could never provide the same wild thrill.

She picked up the first box on the top shelf, closest to the door, and carried it back to her table. One by one, she lifted out the items within, and identified what they were, entering them into her spreadsheet. Close examination was a job for another day. The initial survey was all about categorization.

And if this box was any indication, the initial survey was going to take at least a week or two. It wasn’t just the shelves that were crammed. The Pelopsons obviously believed in making use of any available space.

As far as she could tell, there was no real established order, either chronological or categorical. This box had contained a sheaf of handwritten recipes on yellowing paper, the vineyard’s tax records for 1973, 1987 and 2004, a bunch of fading receipts with no annotation stuffed into envelopes, a macaroni-decorated art project that had suspiciously rodent-like nibbles, and three family photo albums.

Photo albums were great, and also time-consuming, especially if people weren’t in the habit of identifying who was who and when and where the photos were taken. Cassie could already tell she’d be spending a lot of time trying to track down who was pictured in each photo, but that was a job for another day. She stuck the Post-it listing the contents on the side of the box, carried it back to the shelf, and picked up the next one.

Three hours later, she finished the fifth box, rolled her shoulders, and resolutely ignored the desire to go through just one more. Her stomach was protesting, and she wanted to find out what was happening with her car.

As she hit the third-floor hallway, she saw Manny coming towards her, carrying two plates. “I was making myself a sandwich, and wondered if you might want one,” he explained.

Cassie took one of the plates. It looked like an egg and cheese sandwich, cooked in the best tradition of the best bodega tradition. He’d even added a pickle spear and a side of chips.

“Are you trying to win some sort of best boss ever award?” she asked. “Because you’re making a really good play for my vote.”

Manny smiled. “Who’s my competition?”

“A little old lady named Nana Sue. She’d serve you a slice of key lime pie in one breath and cut you off at the knees in the next.”

“In that case, I happily concede my inevitable defeat.”

“It’s the only smart choice,” Cassie agreed. She hesitated, not sure of whether he meant her to go and eat in the attic, or head down to the kitchen, or…

Manny opened a door. “My office is in here, if you don’t mind company.”

“Sure,” Cassie said, and followed him in.

The archives were practically tidy in comparison. Here, dusty bookshelves were crammed with texts and ledgers, and knickknacks and antiques were cluttered on every flat surface. Computer equipment was piled in one corner. She spotted at least two monitors, and a huge processor tower that looked decades older than current tech. Under the windows was a massive oak desk with sturdy carved legs, an ancient computer, and folders and printouts and reference texts, all piled haphazardly on top of each other.

Cassie’s archivist instincts itched.

“Uh, yeah,” Manny said. “Sorry about the mess.” He moved a few cushions, a pile of origami animals, and a tennis racket (how? why?) from an armchair and gestured her into it, taking the rickety wheeled office chair himself.

Behind him, Cassie spotted the slimline laptop taking up the single cleared and dusted corner of the desk, mouse and mousepad neatly aligned beside it. The one piece of order in the chaos.

She bit into the sandwich. Melted cheese oozed into her mouth. “This is really good,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“But what were you going to do if I were vegan? Or lactose-intolerant?”

Manny shrugged. “Eat two sandwiches.”

Cassie could see his point. She wouldn’t mind eating two of these. They ate off their laps in companionable silence. At about the point she was starting to miss her water bottle, still upstairs, Manny said, “Oh, right,” and opened a mini-fridge holding an array of sodas. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Okay, you’ve got to tell me what ‘I was in hospitality’ means,” Cassie said, selecting a root beer. “Because this is starting to look like magic.”

Manny laughed. He had a nice laugh, kind of a happy rumble. “I managed a boutique hotel in the city. Delphi.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that! The fancy one downtown?”

“That’s the one.”

“And now you’re managing Tantalus?”

“It seems so,” Manny said, and smoothly shifted gears before she could ask more about that. “How’re things going upstairs?”

Cassie took the hint. “Pretty good, so far. I should have an initial survey done by the end of the week. That’s mostly just saying what’s in each box at first glance. I keep a spreadsheet that catalogs the items. After that I go through everything piece by piece and start tentative categories. That’s where the real fun happens.”

“You actually mean that,” Manny said, sounding faintly surprised.

Cassie shrugged. “I like things organized. Classic eldest daughter. But there’s always the part where you might turn up something interesting.”

“Interesting? Like, scandalous?”

“I can’t reveal client information,” Cassie said primly. “But I can say that a few families have skeletons in their closets.”

“Literally?”

“No! Well, unless it’s rats, and even then, they tend to mummify.”

Manny shuddered.

Someone banged on the door, and then opened it without waiting for Manny to reply. It was Theo.

“Manny, what stupid fucking nonsense have you been telling the boys at the winery,” he said, storming in, and then halted in his tracks as he registered Cassie’s presence.

It would almost have been funny, how quickly the rage was swallowed by cheerful good humor, if it hadn’t also been deeply alarming. “Well, aren’t you two cozy?” he said, eyes glinting.

“Just taking my lunch break,” Cassie said, standing up and brushing crumbs off. She collected Manny’s plate as well as her own. “I’d better get back to it. But I’ll take these down.”

“Thank you,” Manny said quietly.

Cassie looked him straight in the eye. “Thank you. Lunch was delicious.”

“Steph from the garage said she’ll give you a call later this afternoon,” Theo told her. “She’s got a few jobs this morning.”

“Right, thank you,” Cassie said. She didn’t want to be in this room, where the air had turned sour with the threat of recrimination. She almost wished she could take Manny out with her.

But he was a grown man and could presumably take care of himself. Indeed, as she let herself out, she heard him say, patient, but firmly, “Theo, I’ve explained why investigating organic makes sense.”

“Liberal hippie bullshit,” Theo snorted, and then she was far enough away that she couldn’t hear them.

“We can’t afford to go organic,” Theo said, his face like a thundercloud, and Manny wanted to leave him and chase Cassie instead, offer to take her anywhere, as long as he could escape and she could be with him. He’d felt calmer in her presence than he had in literally months.

But he had duties and responsibilities, and he wouldn’t ignore them for the illusion of freedom.

“We can’t afford to go organic right now,” he said. “But when we refurbish the carriage house and open for visitors this summer, we could put aside some of the projected profits for crop overhaul. Organic is a way for us to stand out in a crowded market dominated by the Californian wineries. We can’t compete with them in quality, quantity, or price point, so we have to find other points of differentiation and target a tighter demographic.”

“There’s nothing wrong with our wine’s quality. The cellar door does great.”

“It really does,” Manny said. “I was surprised by how much it brings in.”

The Tantalus cellar door was Theo’s pride and joy, an add-on profit stream he’d proposed, created, and managed for nearly twenty years. It was essentially a small tasting room with shelves of wine for purchase, cash only, and a stool behind the counter that Theo occupied whenever he felt like it.

Manny had visited a couple of times since he’d been back, and he could see some distinct areas for improvement. The room’s decor was outdated, and not the cute vintage kind of outdated that attracted antique hunters or day-trippers. The sign by the highway was small and unenticing, the hours were variable, and the whole place could have done with a vigorous deep-cleaning. But Theo must have been doing something right, because the direct sales from the cellar door turned a decent profit.

Theo grunted, unappeased by this praise for the project he’d originated. “You’d know the wine was good if you drank it.”

Manny shrugged. Most wine tasted like sour grape juice to him. He’d drunk half a glass of champagne on his wedding day, and vaguely recalled it being pretty good, but the subsequent disaster had forever tainted that experience.

He was forced to rely on other data to judge Tantalus’s products. And the dwindling sales and smaller profit margins told their own story. Theo could point to stellar reviews from the wine appreciation titles of the 80s all he wanted, or protest the success of his cellar door sideline, but modern cuisine magazines concentrated on the big guns or exciting newcomers, not family vineyards with mid-shelf reds. Their sales to wholesalers were drying up. If Tantalus was going to survive, they needed to position themselves as a boutique vineyard, and switching to organic was one way to do that.

Manny didn’t know how to make wine. But he knew hospitality. He knew the kind of person who’d love to stay in the carriage house of a historic vineyard, go on a guided walk through the vines, visit the cellars and maybe even have an expensive high tea at the big house. Although that was a thought he hadn’t dared to suggest to his mother yet. But she and Augie had approved his plans to refurbish and rent out the carriage house.

Manny’s grandfather had left the house and grounds to Arthur, but the business to his sons, so while Theo couldn’t stop Manny from renting out the carriage house, he could veto any major changes to the winery. Most of what Manny was doing at the moment was gathering information and trying to show Theo how change might benefit them all.

“Have you had a chance to consider refurbishing the cellar door?” he asked. “Modern cellar doors have the store, but also make it more of an experience—a bar with tasting flights and platters, or even a full restaurant.”

“The cellar door is fine the way it is,” Theo said, immediately and predictably. “Why don’t you reach out to your work friends and get more of our wine in hotel bars, hm? That’s a way you could help this family.”

“That’s a good idea,” Manny said, and Theo paused, looking suspicious.

“No, I mean it, it’s a really good idea. We could set up a tasting experience for beverage managers at hotels and restaurants. Some of those people oversee contracts worth millions. If we invite them to stay in the carriage house, then take them on a tour, get them to see a new cellar door experience—”

“Oh, here it is,” Theo said, snorting. “Manny, I’ve been looking after the business for thirty years. You’d be better off learning how it works now than trying to change it.”

“I have an MBA with specializations in Marketing and Analysis,” Manny said. “I’m not a viticulturalist, but I do know how to run a business.”

Theo looked disgusted. “But you’ve never owned one. You ran that little hotel for rich people—”

“We’re rich people, Theo,” Manny said wearily, and rubbed his temples. “But yes. I ran the top-rated private hotel on the Eastern Seaboard for an excellent salary. I didn’t own it myself. And that’s actually good for you, because when you and Mom wanted me to quit and move here, I could do that, instead of trying to find a buyer. Why did you even want me to come, if you weren’t going to listen to me?”

Perhaps some of the regrets he had about that choice were showing, because when Theo next spoke, his voice was more tentative. “I thought I’d teach you how it worked. Not that you’d start poking your fingers into every damn pie.”

“I’m learning as fast as I can,” Manny said. “But I think we need to make changes before I’ve learned everything. The books are messy. I’ve done the best I can, but I wish you and Dad had hired an accountant years ago. If we get audited, I can’t guarantee we’ll be found compliant.”

Theo shrugged. “Arthur told me he had a system. We don’t owe much, do we? Or are there problems with Arthur’s accounts? I’ve got some savings, if you need a loan.”

Manny felt a burst of warmth at the offer, which was given as carelessly as Theo offered critique, and with about as much forethought. Whatever anyone said about Theo, no one could accuse him of being ungenerous.

“No, it’s okay. The vineyard doesn’t owe anything at the moment, and there’s enough in Mom and Dad’s account to pay off the rest of what we owe on the house electrical refit.”

“Then don’t worry about it,” Theo told him. “If it’s not a problem, it’s not a problem.”

“I’m not actually worried about debt,” Manny said. He hated it when finance guys said things like “you’ve got to spend money to make money,” usually right before they tried to get you to invest in something shady, but he’d run the projections. The way the vineyard was going, they’d be in the red within five years. Right now, Tantalus could get a loan without much trouble. But if they didn’t make an effort to turn things around now, while they were still making a profit, it would be too late to ask. At that point, investors would consider a loan throwing good money after bad.

At that point, they wouldn’t be able to correct the slide.

Tantalus Vineyard really did need to spend money to make money, and they needed to spend it soon.

“We don’t need to make any changes right now,” Theo said dismissively. “It’s only six months since your father died—aren’t you supposed to hold off on changes for a while anyway? That’s what the grief brochure said.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong about that. Manny’s therapist had said something similar. Unfortunately, the numbers didn’t lie, and they didn’t care about his feelings. “Uncle Theo, I just want us to think about the possibilities.”

“Waste of time. Come out and help me with the mulcher today. You need to get your hands dirty, and you’ll feel better if you get outside for a bit.”

Manny looked out the window. “Let me get my coat,” he said, and when Theo beamed at him, he found himself regretting the sharp tone he’d adopted earlier. Everyone was grieving Arthur Pelopson in their own way. Aerope was wound tighter than a spring, Theo was picky and critical, and Manny was…urgently trying to address everything at once, as if acting on a time limit would give him back the time he’d missed with his dad.

He hadn’t called Augie for a few days. He should do that tonight, ask him to put the kids on the phone. Remind himself that under all the frustrations and quirks of family life, they loved each other.

And that he should make the most of what he had, every day, because he never knew when tragedy might strike.

By late afternoon, Cassie had sore eyes, a runny nose, and a scraped elbow. The space between the shelves was much too tight for easy movement. Even thin people would have had some trouble. At her size she had to practically hold her breath and suck it in to get the boxes out. How had Manny gotten those boxes in there in the first place? He had less breadth in the stomach than she did, but more in the shoulders. Maybe his brother was smaller.

She entertained herself for a moment, picturing the contortions Manny Pelopson might make in order to prevent his juicy ass from knocking anything over. Then she took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. The lights up here were giving her a headache, and she’d need a double dose of her antihistamine to deal with the dust. But she’d made good progress; the top shelf of boxes had been cataloged, and this last box had been half-empty, which had definitely sped up the process.

She picked it up, ready to return it, and set it back down when something fluttered to the ground.

It was a photograph of a dozen or so kids in swimsuits, clustered on a dock jutting into a lake, with an adult couple in the middle. The photo had been caught under the cardboard flaps, as if someone had tucked it in at the last moment. Cassie hadn’t spotted it on her first survey, a sure sign that she’d reached her capacity for the day. There was no notation on the back for time, place, or people, but the clothes and condition of the photo provided some clues. She dutifully logged “Loose photograph, c. 70s?” on her spreadsheet and returned the picture to the box.

The door to Manny’s office was ajar, but he wasn’t there. She quelled a momentary disappointment, and went down the stairs, which made enthusiastic noises as she went, retracing her way to the kitchen and the back door. She would have loved a chance to look around the house, but it would have been unforgivably nosy to take herself on a tour. Maybe she’d ask Manny for one tomorrow.

On this hopeful note, she opened the back door, and jumped back when she saw Aerope Pelopson standing right outside it, her hand reaching for the handle.

“Oh!” she said, and then, feeling like a fool. “Sorry, Mrs. Pelopson, I didn’t know you were there.”

The other woman looked equally startled, but recovered swiftly. No bulky puffer jacket for her; she wore a navy wool coat, belted at the waist, and a pristine white scarf wrapped around her throat. Cassie was willing to bet the scarf was cashmere. “Ah, Miss Troiades,” she said. “I was planning to fetch you, as it happens. Stephanie Marshall at the garage came into the library and said she’d just finished work on your vehicle. She’s closed the shop for the day, but you’d be welcome to come pick it up in the next hour.”

“Oh,” Cassie said. “Uh, thank you. Manny said he’d take me into town to get it, but I don’t think he’s around.”

Aerope hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I’ll take you,” she said. “If now is good?”

Cassie hesitated in turn. “I appreciate the offer, but didn’t you just drive out from town?”

“It’s no distance, and you need your vehicle,” Aerope said, and turned on the heel of her practical, yet stylish snow boot. Cassie followed, very aware of the sweat that had gathered under her breasts and the dust that was no doubt clinging to her curls.

She felt slightly better when they rounded the corner to the parking spaces, and discovered Theo and Manny getting out of Theo’s BMW. Both of them were red-faced and grimier than she was. Manny had a swipe of dirt on his cheekbone, just above the line of his beard, and a dried leaf actually stuck in there.

“What on earth have you two been doing?” Aerope asked.

Theo thumped Manny on the back. “Teaching this one how to use the mulcher! We’ll be ready for spring, once the first thaw comes. Where are you girls off to?”

“To fetch Cassie’s car,” Aerope said.

“I can take you,” Manny said immediately. “Uh, if you can give me ten minutes to shower and change.”

Cassie grinned at him. “You do have a little something there,” she said, and gestured just below her chin.

Manny swiped uselessly at his beard a couple of times and she shook her head. “May I?” She stepped closer when he nodded, and plucked the scrap from his beard. When she glanced up and met his eyes, she was suddenly aware that they were very close. Touching distance, in fact. It would be nice to touch him again.

From the spark in his eyes, she didn’t think he’d object.

“Um, so, yeah, I can wait ten minutes,” she said, and stepped back again.

“Don’t be silly,” Aerope said, her eyes very sharp. “I’m ready now. And we shouldn’t keep Stephanie waiting.” She smiled. “Besides, it’ll give us a chance to get to know each other. Just us girls.”

Damn. Clearly Cassie wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that flare of mutual attraction. But there was no graceful way out of it. She climbed into the SUV with Aerope, and waved at Manny as they departed.

According to Cassie’s research, though there were smaller villages and hamlets scattered all over the region, the town of Weeping Rock was the only real urban space in the Lake Lydia municipality, and it was what everybody seemed to refer to when they said “in town.”

“It’s lucky for me that you were in the library at the same time as the mechanic,” Cassie said.

Aerope sounded surprised. “Of course I was in the library. I work there.”

“Oh,” Cassie said. She had immense respect for librarians—more than half of her graduating class had gone into library work—but she’d thought the stereotype of the stern librarian had dropped out of real life years ago. “In administration, or…?”

“I’m the head of the Children and Youth department. Stephanie brought her daughter in for my story time this afternoon.”

Cassie pictures Aerope reading to children. Probably a sprightly tale about a very naughty archivist who invaded the ice palace of a beautiful blonde queen, and had to be severely punished until she learned the error of her ways. “That’s good,” she said inanely, and watched the countryside darken around them as the afternoon slipped into evening. It was about the same time she’d been stuck on the side of the road yesterday.

Only yesterday? It felt like it had been longer than that.

“So!” Aerope said brightly. “Is there anyone special in your life? Manny has been seeing a nice psychologist in the city.”

Oh, very subtle. “Not at the moment. I’m dating, but there’s nobody serious.”

“Very wise. No need to narrow the field at your age.” Her tone turned inviting. “You must miss the city, though. Not many dating prospects here.”

“Actually, I have a date scheduled with someone local tomorrow night,” Cassie said. She might be a romantic cynic, but she firmly believed in the appeal of a casual hook-up. There hadn’t been many possibilities in the area, it was true, but the dating apps had supplied one guy who had good photos and a fine line in flirty texts.

“With whom?” Aerope asked, grammatically correct and frigid as an ice floe.

Cassie seriously considered telling her it was none of her business, but that might spark more conflict than she wanted to deal with, and besides, Aerope was a local. She probably had more information than Cassie could get in a quick session with a search engine.

“Isaac Corey.”

“One of the Idlewild Coreys?” Aerope said instantly. “The one who went to medical school or the banker?”

“The banker, I think,” Cassie said. Their texts had included some references to finance.

“The banker divorced recently, I remember that. His ex-wife taught at Weeping Rock elementary school and had an affair with a student’s father. Terrible business.”

“Ah,” Cassie said. Well, it wasn’t necessarily a red flag that Isaac hadn’t mentioned that. She’d frequently advised people looking for casual dates not to tell potential hookups their entire life story. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Not that you should let that put you off,” Aerope added, apparently remembering that she was trying to keep Cassie away from her son. “Everybody has some baggage, as you young people say. Besides, you won’t be here long.”

“Three months,” Cassie agreed.

Aerope took them over a bridge, and onto a road that looked more well-traveled. There were other cars on it, at least. “Maybe less time than that,” she said.

Cassie contemplated leaving it alone. But they were sweeping past the sign that read Welcome to Weeping Rock, and she’d be out of the car in a minute or two. If there was going to be a confrontation, now was a good time. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, her voice as neutral as she could make it.

“Just that you might find some reason to leave early,” Aerope said. She pulled the car to a stop outside a shop with a bright pink sign reading “Marshall Auto.” She leaned across the car seat towards Cassie. “You might find a better opportunity somewhere else. I wouldn’t blame you, if you did. I’d be happy to pay the rest of your fee if you left sooner than expected.”

Holy shit. Cassie had been telling Manny the truth when she’d said that archivists often uncovered family conflict, but she’d never had anyone try to bribe her before.

“That’s very generous of you,” she said, in lieu of anything else.

Aerope smiled, or at least bared her teeth. “I can be very generous, when merited.” She left unspoken how she might behave towards people who didn’t merit generosity.

“Well, see you later,” Cassie said, and got out of the car. Did she need to tell Manny about this? It seemed like someone attempting to bribe you away from your job was something you should tell your boss, but what if that someone was your boss’s mother? And she was grieving her husband and his father, and living in the same house with your boss, and maybe part of his business structure?

What would Cassandra say, if someone wrote in with this problem?

“Hey! Are you Cassie?”

Cassie jerked out of her daze, and smiled at the woman walking out of the garage, wiping her hands off on a rag. “That’s me.”

“I’m Steph Marshall.” The woman rocked back on her heels and looked Cassie over. Cassie returned the favor. Steph Marshall was only a couple of inches taller than her, but just as broad, filling out her blue overalls with sturdy muscle. Her hair was cropped short and dyed bright pink, the same flamingo shade as the sign above her head. “Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but I’m covered in grease.”

“I’m covered in dust,” Cassie offered. “I’ve been in the Pelopson attic all day.”

Steph whistled through her teeth. “I bet that’s an interesting place.”

“It really is,” Cassie said, more enthusiastically than she’d meant to.

“You cleaning up there?”

“No, I’m an archivist. I mean, there’ll be some cleaning, but I’m mostly there to catalog and organize their documents. I’ll do some preservation too, if I have time left over.”

“Damn, that sounds amazing.”

Cassie nodded. “I’ve only just started, but the archives have already offered some fascinating glimpses into local history.”

“Do you know what the family plan to do with them? Donate to the library or something?”

“I don’t actually know,” Cassie said. She wouldn’t say if she did, of course—that wouldn’t be ethical—but she found herself pleased she didn’t have to obfuscate anything to this woman.

Steph looked enthusiastic anyway. “You know, I bet Mrs. Pelopson could get a display at the library.”

“Oh, yes,” Cassie said. “She’s… A children’s librarian?” She couldn’t help the questioning inflection that crept in at the end.

“Yep. Best librarian in the state. She’s so great with those kids. I used to wish she was my mom.”

“Really?” Cassie said.

Steph caught the doubt that time and blinked at her. “You bet. My mom wanted a girl who’d dress up and date quarterbacks. I wanted to wear jeans and date cheerleaders. She thought it was a phase I’d grow out of, and we argued a lot, so I spent plenty of time in the library. Mrs. Pelopson’s warm and kind, but she’s a fighter, too. She used to get queer books in for me, and every June she puts on this massive display for Pride Month.” Steph snorted. “One of the local ministers tried to challenge that once. Just once.”

Cassie tried to reconcile the idea of Aerope as warm and kind with the woman she’d met, but her brain flatly refused to do it. Fighter, now, that made sense. “I’m glad you had someone to fight for you,” she said, in lieu of are we talking about the same Aerope Pelopson?

Steph grinned at her, and Cassie realized she’d just passed a test she hadn’t known she was taking. “But I’m yammering on and you’ll want your car,” Steph said easily, and gestured Cassie into the garage. Cassie’s car had pride of place in the center of the workshop. “Nice little vehicle. You look after her yourself?”

“My sister does. She likes cars.”

Steph nodded approvingly. “She knows what she’s doing.” She went on to describe what the problem had been and how she’d fixed it, but Cassie didn’t have a good memory for mechanics at the best of times, and was too busy eying the trunk and backseat for anything missing. Manny’s talk about the local teen thieves had alarmed her, but everything seemed to be there. Teens probably weren’t all that interested in her stationery supplies anyway, not when there were road signs for the taking.

“How’s Manny getting on with being back?” Steph asked.

“I don’t know him that well yet,” Cassie said, and her brain added, all unbidden, but I’d like to. “Fine, I think? He’s really made me feel at home.”

“I used to stare at the back of his head in AP English and wish he were a girl,” Steph confided. “He’s such a good guy. His brother’s an asshole, though. He was a senior when we were freshmen, and you’ve never seen a dude so high on his own ego. Don’t ever ask Augie a question unless you want a ten-minute monologue.”

“Got it. I’m not sure if I’ll meet him.”

“Best to avoid it, if you can.”

Cassie nodded. “So, what do I owe you?”

Steph eyed her up and down, then looked at the car again. “Ninety dollars, plus tax,” she decided.

Cassie raised an eyebrow. “Are you cutting me a deal?”

“I’m charging you what I’d charge a local,” Steph said, unruffled.

“I’m not local.”

“But you’re a guest, not a tourist.” Steph nodded firmly to herself. “If you feel bad about it, you can buy me a drink sometime.” She caught Cassie’s hesitation. “Friendly drink. You’re interesting, and you have an interesting job. And you’re staying with the Pelopsons, who have been good to me. And I like your vibe. I’d be happy to show you around some, introduce you to a few people.”

“I like your vibe too,” Cassie said, with complete honesty. “I’ll be in touch about that drink.” She paid her bill, exchanged numbers with Steph, and reclaimed her car, feeling the warmth of making a new friend. She wasn’t as social as her sisters, but she liked people and her job sometimes isolated her from them. Especially in small communities, which didn’t always warm up to strangers.

It would be nice to get to know some people.