Dawn
A crow circled above her head, cawing, “Behind one door is the answer; behind another is a clue. Behind a third is how you will die.” Phoebe was alone. Tatiana was wounded half a mile back, and Rhule had gone to find help. How was she going to decide?
—Phoebe and the Secret Service of the Vines
The next day Audrey and I woke up early, full of pent-up excitement, and as we packed the car, the unrelenting summer sun beat down hot and yellow on our exposed shoulders—me in an Old Navy tank top and Audrey in a crisp spaghetti strap sundress.
We laid our suitcases into the back of Audrey’s white Range Rover with the tinted windows, and with Alfie curled up on the back seat, I clicked my seat belt into place and checked my texts one last time to see if Dennis or Mom had texted.
Nope.
I felt outsize disappointment about both.
Which in Dennis’s case was ridiculous; I’d basically told him to back off.
But Mom…I wanted to talk about all this with her.
It felt strange not to. I had the mounting sense that she was hiding something from me, which only increased my suspicions that the author was someone she knew.
Who else could it be but the lover, my father, who she’d never wanted to talk about?
The one subject that had always been forbidden between us?
Who are you to talk? Aren’t you keeping a whopper of a secret from her?
“Do you want to listen to the book?” Audrey asked.
“Sure,” I said.
I managed to concentrate on the first hour, which was largely a recap of the events of the previous book.
Audrey and I exchanged meaningful looks when Phoebe gets out that hammock and lies in it to do some homework.
This second book in the series, Phoebe and the Secret Service of the Vines, seems to be setting up the multibook fight against Morbus.
Phoebe and her friends Tatiana and Rhule begin a special training that gives them all the same information about the elixirs that Morbus has, which is highly privileged information in Vineland.
It only took two hours to reach the edge of Palm Springs.
“I think I need a shake and fries,” said Audrey.
“That sounds amazing. And if it won’t offend your vegetarian sensibilities, I’d love an In-N-Out burger.”
“Perfect. No California road trip is complete without In-N-Out Burger.”
We sat at one of the outside tables and devoured our ambrosial lunch as a SiriusXM radio station played ’90s hits.
When Sarah McLachlan’s “Possession” came on, Audrey said, “Oh my god, we had this song on constant repeat freshman year.”
I flashed to a crystal clear image of us dancing around our little dorm room, singing along like the song was transporting us straight into our fabulous futures. “Everything felt so heightened back then,” I said.
Audrey nodded. “And yet,” she said, “I wouldn’t do those years again if you paid me. At the same time, though, I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I needed to go through all of that hell.”
“I sometimes wish things still felt as full of possibility as they did when I was twenty.”
Audrey nodded. “Yeah, getting older narrows the field. But I kind of like that. Too many choices freaked me out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, I had no focus. I didn’t know if I wanted to keep acting, even though everyone told me I should. And if I wasn’t an actress, what was I?”
“And I wanted to make movies but lacked the backbone.”
“Let’s put that noose back in the closet, mm-kay? If you really want to stop drinking, you might need to find a way to be nicer to yourself.”
“Did you used to make deals with yourself about drinking?”
“Oh yeah. All the time. I’ll just have one. I’ll stop at nine o’clock. I’ll only drink on weekends or when I’m out. I won’t keep it in the house. I’ll drink two glasses of water for every one of alcohol. And on and on. I lost every bet I made with myself.”
I looked down at my empty burger wrapper and felt a mixture of relief, shame, and bewilderment. I wanted to never think about drinking again.
“It’s okay if you’re not completely ready to stop,” Audrey offered.
I gave her a dubious side-eye.
“Seriously,” she said. “No one is ready until they’re ready.
One thing I will say, though, is that it gets easier.
Think of yourself like Dante in the Inferno.
There’s a sign above the gate to hell that says ‘Abandon hope all who enter here,’ and then Virgil shows up and they go on this life-changing adventure. ”
“Is hell really the metaphor you want to use here?”
“The point is that you have to go through hell to get out of it.”
“I’ll just have to take your word for it.” But I felt a tidal wave of resentment crash inside my body. This whole thing felt daunting and unfair. I wanted to heed the warning of the sign and turn around.
Audrey checked her watch and said, “Let’s get to Mason. He’s not far away.”
“Mason?”
“Also known as the Keeper of Names. The guy I told you about yesterday, the one who knows so many people in recovery? Anyone who stays at the Betty Ford Center and wants to be found later leaves their name with Mason. There are Facebook rehab groups and stuff, but some people prefer to rely on Mason. He’s more discreet than an algorithm. ”
“But what if the author didn’t go to the Center?”
“I figure since the author of the books knows Hartley so well, there is a good chance they got sober in California. And even if they didn’t go to the Betty Ford Center, Mason might still know who it is.”
“This feels like a long shot.”
“Remember what I said about Dante and Virgil? Recovery is full of Virgils. People who show up exactly when you need them. It’s a thing.”
“If you say so.” I layered my voice with doubt, but inside my chest I felt a fizzing excitement at the magic of this prospect.
“Just watch. All will be revealed.”
It wasn’t long before Audrey was parking in front of a shimmering mirage of a diner that looked like it had been constructed from an abandoned train car, buffed to a shine on the outside. It was the only structure around for miles, and the parking lot was full.
“What are we going to do with Alfie?” I asked. “It’ll get hot in the car if we both go in.”
“Shoot, I hadn’t thought of that,” Audrey said.
“Okay…I can stay in the car while it runs AC, and you can go in. Ask for Mason, and when he comes out, tell him who you are. Say you’re Dawn Hartley of Hartley Vineyard and you are looking for the author of the Vineland books.
If he knows the connection, he’ll tell it to you. ”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Can’t you do it, and I’ll stay with the dog?”
Audrey shook her head. “You need to see some of the magic sobriety stuff to believe it. I don’t want you to doubt the process.”
“Alright,” I said, opening the door and then stepping from the cool car and into the brutal desert sunshine.
Even through sunglasses, the light hurt my eyes.
I shaded them with my hand, pointlessly; then I marched into the diner, which was jam-packed and smelled and sounded just like the hundreds of other places I’d been in just like it: bacon, syrup, toast, burgers, the clatter of stoneware and plastic cups and forks scraping plates clean.
At the thick stainless-edged counter, five round blue leather stools stood vacant. I picked the one in the middle.
I sat and waited for the harried middle-aged waitress with the bright-coral lipstick that flaked at the corners to notice me. It only took a minute.
She handed me an enormous plastic menu and said in an incongruently Long Island accent, “Want some coffee, hon?”
“Um,” I stalled. “I’m actually here to see Mason. Is he working today?”
The waitress put her stubby pencil behind her right ear and headed back into the kitchen.
I tried to read the menu while I waited. Which again, was not long.
The waitress came back with an older guy who looked a lot like Jack Nicholson in a stained white uniform. He was wiping his thick fingers on a damp dishcloth, and he wore an inscrutable expression. “How can I help you?” he asked in a voice that implied a lifetime of smoking.
“Mason?”
He nodded, and the waitress bustled off to leave us alone.
“I’m…” You’re here. No chickening out. “My name is Dawn Hartley, and I grew up at Hartley Vineyard up in Napa, and I’m looking for the author of the Vineland book series.
Have you heard of it? The kids’ series?” I didn’t let him answer.
“I think they might be set on my family’s vineyard, but no one knows who the author is.
” I sound totally insane, but it’s too late to stop now…
. “I was told you might know?” I trailed off, losing steam.
“You’re Dawn Hartley, you say?”
I nodded.
“When were you born?”
“November 2, 1975.”
If he asked for my social security number next, I’d give it to him.
But he didn’t. He just said, “Winifred Hartley.”
I tilted my head in confusion. “Winifred Hartley? Winnie?”
“Winifred Elizabeth Hartley is the author of the books,” he said with absolute confidence.
My aunt? “But…are you sure it’s not a man?”
He just looked at me. I tried again.
“But Winnie…she’s dead.”
“Only to some.”
I suddenly understood what it meant when someone said their blood ran cold. I was certain I’d turned white as a sheet. How could this possibly be true?
Mason went on, I’m sure because my mouth was hanging open in shock and bewilderment. “She left the Center in 1998, but she came back here after the third book and left specific instructions to give her name to only two people, and one of them was Dawn Hartley, whose birthday is November 2, 1975.”
I swallowed, and my throat felt as dry as the desert outside that diner. When I spoke, it sounded like I’d had bronchitis. “Who was the other person?”
Mason smiled in a way that clearly said I wasn’t going to get that out of him.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“That’s all I got.”
“Do you know where she might be?”
Mason shrugged and said again, “That’s all I got.”