Chapter Seventeen #2
My mouth opened stupidly; I was shocked by the implication. “Excuse me? Are you…what are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that everyone knows something. He must, too.”
Thinking about watching Margo give Rig an interview—no, an interrogation—made my skin prickle with unease, but I knew she was right.
If anyone here knew about my mother’s mysterious ex–best friend, it would be him.
“Just please—remember that he’s grieving.
I mean it when I say don’t be an asshole to him, okay? ”
“I’ll play nice. Pinky promise.”
She grabbed her coffee and sashayed back toward her room. “Tell him I’d like to meet this morning, after breakfast.”
I leaned back on the stool, running my finger along the lip of my mug, and wondered for the umpteenth time if I was making a big mistake by trusting her.
But then I stood, downed my coffee, and went to find Rig.
—
We met in the new communications center, in the back room that would double as Val’s office and a boardroom for when donors came to visit. It smelled like fresh paint and bleach.
Margo was sitting at the head of the table when I walked in, which surprised me. I’d gotten here fifteen minutes before the agreed upon time—nine thirty. I wanted to ease Rig into the conversation, make sure Chelsea hadn’t brought a weapon.
This was going to be really fun.
“You’re early,” I said.
Margo cut her dark eyes to me but said nothing. She pulled the cap of a pink highlighter off with her teeth, then started aggressively underlining something on the notepad in front of her.
I hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a minute, not sure if I should sit, or intercept Rig and Chelsea outside. I really, really hadn’t wanted Chelsea to come, but she’d insisted.
It had been a terrible case of wrong place, wrong time. I’d gone to knock on Rig’s door, and she’d been inside with him, gripping my mom’s favorite rainbow trout mug in both hands and giving me what could only be described as a death glare.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” I’d asked, trying to keep my voice quiet and casual.
He’d furrowed his eyebrows, not catching my subtext. Chelsea was still watching us.
“Come on in, ladybug,” he’d said, rather than stepping outside. I’d wavered, for a second, until he’d finally caught on. “What is it?”
“It’s…” I’d trailed off. I’d had a plan for how to approach this, yes. But when I got there, had stood in front of Rig—kind, gentle, grieving Rig—I felt unbearably wrong. Almost dirty.
But the ugly thing was that, after my conversation with Margo, I realized that I wanted to know everything there was to know about Winona Hayes and her connection to my mother.
I didn’t care what it cost.
So I’d pushed through my misgivings and asked Rig if Margo could interview him.
I hated myself for playing on his emotions, telling him how much I would appreciate it, insisting that Margo was the only reporter here I trusted.
I leaned into the work my mother had done to get so many writers here this week, that so much of Welcome Back Weekend was built around the need for good publicity.
And that the Atlanta Times article would likely be our crowning achievement—so we had to make sure she left pleased.
I didn’t let myself think about how I was lying to his face.
I’d watched from my periphery as Chelsea’s face turned pale. Rig himself had looked reluctant, perhaps even uncomfortable, but after a few seconds of painful silence, he’d nodded at me.
“Let’s get it over with,” he’d said gruffly.
“Dad,” Chelsea had warned, so much acid in that single word.
Rig had raised his eyebrows, and she’d clamped her mouth shut. “Chelsea, leave it. We’re just gonna talk. You can come, too.”
I’d tried not to wince, but it had been hard.
And that was how, roughly ninety minutes later, the four of us wound up in a conference room; a motley crew if I’d ever seen one.
Rig and Chelsea had shuffled in awkwardly, single file, and sat on either side of the overlong table.
I closed the door, still panicking about what I should do, and finally took a seat on the one end opposite Margo.
She sat at the head of the table in the nicest chair, hands laced and assessing us all coolly, as if she were Logan Roy, with all the power and time in the world. Her face was almost a smirk, but there was an iciness in her eyes that could freeze the sun itself.
Seemed like she was definitely going to honor my request and be nice.
“Well, I guess we can go ahead and get started,” she said at last, with an air of affected detachment. The clock above her head ticked ominously.
“This better not take all morning,” Chelsea said, so violently that it was as if she’d been holding her jaw shut until just this very moment, when she could unleash the full weight of her anger on both of us.
Margo, to her credit, was nonplussed by the outburst. “I’m writing an article for The Atlanta Times.
Small-town paper, you probably wouldn’t have heard of it out here in the woods.
Please remember, you are free to leave, if you feel uncomfortable,” she said, diplomatically waving toward the door.
Chelsea’s face turned an unflattering shade of maroon.
We were all thinking about it, of course; the way that Margo had treated Chelsea back then. Like she was gum beneath her shoe.
I knew I could step in, should step in. Instead, my eyes just ping-ponged uselessly between the two of them, praying no one would throw a punch.
“Oh, no. I’m definitely staying.”
Margo smiled venomously. “Maybe if you’d just sent me a real invitation, we wouldn’t have had to worry about this story at all. But alas, here we are. You’ve only got yourself to blame, Baby.”
“Hey,” Rig said, and we all looked at him. The authority in his voice was both sudden and unexpected.
“Let’s everyone take a few deep breaths,” Rig said.
“I’m happy to answer your questions, Margo.
Sounds like whatever the two of you are working on is important to Greer.
And if it’s important to Greer, it’s important to me.
” He gave me a meaningful look from the other side of the table. “That’s why I’m doing this.”
He leaned back, lacing his calloused and sun-damaged hands in front of him. “But, girls, let’s keep this conversation cordial.”
His eyes landed on his daughter. “And that means you, too, Chels.”
I could almost hear what Chelsea was shouting in her head, her thoughts were so loud on her face. But she only shook her head, her mouth a thin line.
After another few beats of truly excruciating silence, Margo gave the world’s primmest nod and picked up her pen. She clicked a few things on her phone, and I imagined she was turning on her recording app.
“Let’s get started, shall we? Please state your full government name and repeat the following phrase: I consent to being recorded.”
He complied.
“You grew up near here, is that right?” she asked next.
“Yes.”
“Yes,” Margo repeated, her voice cool. “What was your childhood like?”
Rig tilted his head to the side, and I wondered how much time they’d ever actually spent together. Clearly not much. Neither had any room for interest in the other’s nuances. It would have been mildly entertaining, if I wasn’t stretched as taut as a rubber band.
“Not much to tell. Grew up on Saddleback Lane, in the heart of Lavender, with my mother, father, and four brothers. I was smack in the middle. My father was a mailman, and my mother helped out at First Presbyterian, where her uncle was the pastor.”
Margo’s expression was pinched, but she was writing something down. I wished I’d sat next to her, just to get an idea of what she deemed important.
“And your first summer at Dread’s Cove was…?”
“When I was seven years old,” he said. “Earliest they allowed back then.”
“What was it like? Coming to Dread’s Cove as a camper?”
It was the first time he smiled since he’d walked in.
“It’s a pretty magical place,” he said, and gestured around the bland meeting room as if that was evidence.
“This is where I learned to swim, ride a horse. Now, my first couple of summers were when Dread’s was coming into its own.
Nowhere near as big as we’ve got it now.
” He gave a wistful sigh, caught in some old memory.
“And then, well, the summer I was eleven was when Frankie showed up here. We were thick as thieves, you know. Always getting into trouble.” He gave a low chuckle.
Frankie. I’d heard Rig mention Frankie a handful of times over the years. Usually thrown into an old story, like this one. Now, I realized with a lurch, the name held much more significance. His friend Frankie must have been Steph’s dad.
Margo and I locked eyes across the table. It was brief, but I knew she’d put it together, too.
Margo was writing furiously, gripping the pen in her hand so tight that her knuckles were white. “Go on,” she said.
Rig waxed poetic for a while on the more minute details of day-to-day life at the Cove in the eighties. Margo prodded him with questions now and then, but once he got going, it was perhaps the most I’d ever heard Rig talk without stopping.
“And when did you decide to forgo any higher education and stay working at the camp indefinitely?” There was a bite in her words that snapped me back into place. I sucked my teeth, hoping she’d look my way.
Her eyes flickered toward me, then away, like I was a fly she’d noticed and glanced at only out of instinct.
Rig didn’t seem bothered, though I could feel the coldness radiating from Chelsea, see how she’d lowered her chin.