Chapter 5
A small table sits in the center of the room, two chairs pulled to either end. Marmee doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore, but she sticks to tried-and-true menus for brunch. This week, we’re snacking on Mrs. Wilson’s cucumber and cheese sandwiches, mini quiche, and Earl Grey tea.
“Is everything packed?” Marmee asks, her coral lipstick staining the napkin as she dabs at her mouth. Even in her eighties, she never leaves her bedroom without a full face of makeup.
“Almost. The movers are bringing more tomorrow morning,” I say. “You don’t mind me staying here the rest of the week?”
“I’m thrilled about it,” she says, raising a floral teacup to her lips. “Just like old times.”
A bittersweet sensation fills my chest. Happiness over the good memories we’ve shared in this house mixed with sadness over the disruption my move will cause. I’ve always loved traveling, but that only takes me farther away from Marmee, the only real family I have left.
“Someone broke into my apartment last night.”
“Really?” Her thin eyebrows arch. “Did they take anything?”
“Only a few things,” I say, trying to sound unbothered. “I scared the person off with a baseball bat.”
She nods, impressed. “You don’t have to worry about intruders here.”
“You have to worry about intruders everywhere.”
More than once, I’ve considered Marmee’s house the perfect place to commit a crime. Her belongings would fetch millions of dollars on their own. Then you think of the isolation factor. No phones. No internet. Her estate is far enough away that it would take a long time for the police to arrive.
But I don’t tell her that. The last thing I want to do is scare her.
“Ava George visited me last week,” she says, segueing away from the break-in. The inclusion of Ava’s last name humors me, as if she’s some starlet worthy of a formal introduction—Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn.
“What about?” I’ve been dying to ask that question since I arrived.
“She said that she’s hosting a birthday party for you.”
“That’s the plan,” I say. “I’m not too keen on it myself.”
“It sounds like a nice send-off from your friends.”
“I appreciate the thought,” I say. “But my mind is elsewhere. The last thing I want to do is fool with one of Ava’s shindigs.”
Marmee stares at me, reading my expression. I always sense she can see right through to my real thoughts. I imagine her wielding that ability now.
“Ava suggested we have the party here,” Marmee says. “Turn it into a whole weekend affair.”
“What?”
“You are staying at the house until you leave.”
But that’s not why Ava made the suggestion.
For years, she’s dropped hints about hosting an event at Marmee’s house.
She’s visited the estate with me several times, and like every visitor that comes through the front gates, she became mesmerized.
No, Ava is more than mesmerized. This house represents everything Ava is obsessed with—glamour, history, and old money.
She conveniently forgets the tragedy attached.
Any time she’s suggested throwing a party here, I’ve shot her down.
Now she’s convinced Marmee to give her full access to the grounds for the sake of my birthday party, which appears to have stretched into an entire weekend.
“Please tell me you told her no.”
“I think it’s a lovely idea,” she says, raising both hands in the air. “It’s thoughtful of your friends to want to do something for you. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t want a big show of everything,” I say. “No attention on me.”
“It might look strange if you refuse the party altogether.” Marmee pierces me with one of her all-knowing stares, and once again, I feel as if she’s peeling back the layers I’ve built around me, is seeing what I’m really thinking.
The truth about Oliver. “Besides, it’s your birthday. You deserve all the attention on you.”
My birthday revives bittersweet memories.
I can’t ignore that the date marks the day my mother died.
I believe that’s why, for years, my father has avoided me.
He sends a card and an elaborate flower arrangement but never makes an effort to visit.
He doesn’t want to admit he blames me for her death.
I told Oliver about all of this, of course.
The early weeks of our relationship were all about exchanging family lore and shared experiences.
Oliver wasn’t close with his family either, but he must have seen the sadness on my face.
When my birthday came around, he went out of his way to make the day as spectacular as possible.
He showed up outside my apartment in his most prized possession: a sapphire blue 1953 Sunbeam Alpine roadster, the same car Grace Kelly and Cary Grant used to cruise through the French Riviera in To Catch a Thief.
He told me we were driving to Boston for the weekend, had even enlisted Ava to pack a bag for me.
Once there, we enjoyed lobster rolls and clam chowder by the waterfront before settling in at a historic hotel.
Thinking back to how happy I was just a year ago makes me tremble with sadness.
“You’re right,” I say, careful not to reveal everything I’m feeling.
“I think it would be good for you.” She touches my forearm with her fragile hand, the near-translucent skin revealing ribbons of veins and bone. “You can never have too much time with the people you love.”
I’ve always aimed for quality over quantity when it comes to the relationships in my life, which is why Oliver’s betrayal hurts so much. I let him in—something I never do—and got burned.
Marmee has always been the most important person in my life, and I feel guilty for leaving her.
“I could always change my plans,” I say. “After Cannes, I could come home and spend the summer with you.”
“That’s your new plan, is it? Sit around this old house with me until I die.”
I hate when she talks like this. She’s never made light of her age or her health conditions, although she’s managed to overcome every obstacle in her life, and even in her old age, she’s blessed with a mental acuity I can only hope to inherit.
Still, I’m overwhelmed by the fact that she won’t be around forever.
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“I know what you’re saying, and I still want you to go on the trip,” she says. “Sort out whatever needs sorting over this next week and then attend the party with your friends. You won’t regret it.”
I stare ahead, my eyes stuck on the framed picture of my book cover. It’s already been decided. Ava’s finally getting her wish to host a party at Marmee’s mansion.
It’s nightfall by the time I return to my apartment. As I’m unlocking the newly installed doorknob, fear shivers through me. Not even twenty-four hours ago, there was an intruder here. Someone who didn’t belong.
I might have chased them into the hallway with a bat, giving me the upper hand, and they may have had the misfortune of robbing the place the same week I was due to move out, and yet I wonder, was all of that bad luck? Or was it intentional?
All that was stolen was a small box of Oliver’s things, which is why I didn’t mention it to the police. No use tracking down stuff that doesn’t belong to me. But I can’t ignore a prickle of paranoia—out of everything inside this apartment, all that was taken were items belonging to him.
As much as I try not to think about him, I can’t help it. His memory is written all over this apartment, one of the reasons I’m forced to leave it behind.
Lazy Saturday mornings in bed, sunlight streaming in through the large windows and tickling my eyelids. The sensation of Oliver’s hand caressing my stomach, reaching lower, imbuing my body with pleasure. Late nights on the balcony drinking wine, twinkling lights from a restless city all around us.
I never thought I’d let someone in the way I did with him, but once he was there, I thought it was good. I allowed myself to envision a new life for myself, a future with him in it. I bought into that future, bet on the belief that we could get through anything together.
I was wrong.
And now that entire life I once envisioned for myself—for the both of us—haunts me.
I must let it go.
My phone lights up with a series of text messages. Ava has sent something in the group chat, an informal invitation to the party.
Marlowe is the first to reply: Soooo needing this right now. Can’t wait to celebrate you, T.
Constance follows up with Very excited! We finally get to party at Marmee’s mansion!!!
Their forced enthusiasm agitates me. Attending Ava’s party and watching my friends try to hide their pitying looks fills me with embarrassment. The mere thought of people standing around, whispering about whether or not I’m okay, makes me nauseous.
But if I don’t go, it will be even worse.
I have no choice but to stomach this weekend with my friends, convince them that calling off the wedding at the last minute is for the best. Assure them that I’m okay.
Then I’ll fly to Cannes and embark on the next scene in my story, cutting short the life Oliver and I built together, which was never meant to be.