Chapter 20
That evening, Olivia and I get ready for dinner together in my room.
A cloud bank has moved in, and despite the air-conditioning, the air is thick with humidity.
The hot tempers from earlier today have cooled.
Heathcliff’s death still clouds the air, but normality is slowly creeping back through the household.
I hear the clink of pots and pans as Eric whips up another five-star meal in the kitchen and the hum of Laelynn’s husky voice as she reads the twins a story in the living room.
Olivia and I chatter and gossip just like we did when we were kids.
As stupid as it sounds, I miss this—the simple rhythm of getting dressed with a friend.
The floral scent of shampoo, the high whoosh of a blow-dryer, the multiple outfit changes, the chaos of lipsticks, bronzers, and other accoutrements cluttering the bathroom sink.
Undoing all your shower’s good work by overheating yourself with the blow-dryer.
I don’t even know why we’re bothering. It’s not like we’re going anywhere.
It’s pathetic, but part of me is doing it for Eric.
That’s how low I’ve sunk. I’m dressing up for a married man old enough to have changed my diapers.
And what makes it worse is that it’s so cliché.
I had a fucked-up relationship with my dad.
Now I’m searching for validation from an older man.
It’s nauseating. But there’s a reason things become cliché; they happen…
frequently. I need Carlos to get here ASAP.
I grab my phone and shoot him a text.
Hey! Just checking to see when you’re getting in?
I toss my phone onto the bed and wipe the blow-dryer sweat from my hairline. I run a brush through my hair repeatedly until the last snag is gone.
“You’re looking good, girl,” says Olivia, filming me with her phone. The documentary filmmaker in her never sleeps, apparently.
I’m wearing a white linen wrap dress that elongates my frame and masks my total lack of hips. She wears a mint-green romper that looks both elegant and effortless, her rich black hair bouncing down to her shoulders. I try to push my minimal boobs up into something vaguely resembling cleavage.
“You mean it?” I tease. “Or are you just saying that to make up for ditching Emma and Penelope today?”
Her face crinkles in an indignant frown. “Of course, I mean it. What are you talking about?”
I turn from the mirror. “You told me to go on a hike and said you’d watch them. Then I get back, and your mom rips me a new one for leaving them alone.”
Olivia waves a dismissive hand and laughs, unleashing her megawatt smile. “Did she really? Oh God, she’s so dramatic. I stepped out of the room for five minutes. They’re eight-year-olds, not toddlers.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Don’t worry about her, CharBar. She’s just really overprotective of them. She’ll warm up.”
“So everybody says. Where did you go today, anyway?”
She smacks her glossed lips together. “Nowhere. I just stepped out for a second.”
“Did you see the vet?”
“No, why?”
“That vet is going to tell us a lot about what happened to Heathcliff.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, picking at my hangnails.
“What?” asks Olivia.
“I don’t know. I just can’t help thinking that this wasn’t an accident. That someone poisoned Heathcliff.”
“Yeah, I thought that too, but then I thought maybe I was overreacting. You really think someone poisoned our dog?”
“I do. But regardless, I think it’s a little strange that your dad acts as if he doesn’t want to know.”
She chomps on her bubble gum, thinking. “Yeah. I don’t know if he’s worried it’s going to freak my mom out, or…”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know. I got this strange feeling, like he’s protecting somebody.”
“Who?”
Laelynn’s voice cuts through the air from the living room. “Dinnertime.”
Olivia’s eyebrows jump. “I’m not sure. Anyway, we’d better hustle. We don’t want Mom to get mad at you again.” She lets out a high-pitched cackle and sprints out the door. I roll my eyes and chase after her.
Eric sits at the head of the table dressed in khakis and a navy cable-knit sweater that fits him just right.
Laelynn perches across from him at the other end, perfect posture, stunning in a colorful Lilly Pulitzer dress.
Despite their glamorous looks, frost lingers between them.
I plop down next to Laelynn, who stiffens like a duchess next to a street urchin.
Olivia sits beside Eric, and we make funny faces at Emma and Penelope on the sly to keep the mood up.
The sun sinks behind a ceiling of clouds, casting an eerie red glow, like the eye of Sauron watching from above.
A veil of mist creeps in from the lake, slithering up the lawn.
I keep listening for Heathcliff’s trademark sounds: his little bell, the steady panting, the soft pad of his paws on the hardwood, the occasional shake of his fur.
Strange how you don’t realize the imprint a presence makes until it’s gone.
I barely knew him, and even I miss him. Without Heathcliff, only the delicate clink of serving spoons against porcelain breaks the silence.
As Eric rises to grab the food, Laelynn places her hand on mine and whispers in my ear.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper with you today.
” Tears well in her eyes. “It’s just that…
that—Heathcliff was my best friend, you know.
To lose him was…and then the girls when I found them alone.
And having you back here again. It was just too much, you know? ”
I squeeze her arm and nod. “I understand. Don’t give it another thought.”
Eric returns, and she resumes her normal pose, wipes her eyes, and clears her throat.
If he notices, he doesn’t let on. He loads our plates with a cornucopia of comfort food.
Fresh-grilled steaks, garlic mashed potatoes, buttery biscuits, loaded mac and cheese, and farmers market sweet corn.
The aroma alone could tide me over for a day, but the flavor somehow exceeds it.
He pours tall glasses of red wine, which pair perfectly with the steak.
We all dive in, savoring the tender, seasoned meat and crisp corn, but Heathcliff’s death hangs over the conversation like the island fog.
The girls proudly tell their mom how they made their doll look like Miss Charlotte and prattle on about their day. No mention of Heathcliff.
Occasionally, an adult says something banal between bites and sips of wine—“Nice day today, huh.” “Corn is good this year.” But every topic anyone cares about is off-limits.
How did Heathcliff die? Did someone poison him?
If so, who? Was his death connected to the note on the front door?
What did Russ Neuman mean when he said I shouldn’t be here?
Why is Eric refusing to acknowledge what’s happening?
The silence suffocates. I shoot a glance at Olivia, prodding her to spark the conversation, but she just shrugs her shoulders as if to say, “What do you want me to say?”
Mercifully, Eric breaks the quiet. Though his choice of topic couldn’t possibly be worse.
“Charlotte ran into Russ Neuman today,” he says. The second the words come out of his mouth, he slow-blinks, realizing his mistake.
My fork clangs against the plate, and beads of sweat form on my upper lip. I fire daggers at him. Emma and Penelope perk up, sensing something tangy is in the offing.
Laelynn drops her knife and fork and grabs her napkin, delicately wiping her mouth. Turning to me with one eyebrow raised, she says, “Oh, did you?” She leans back in her chair and crosses one lotioned leg over the other like a talk-show host waiting for a juicy morsel of celebrity gossip.
“Yep,” I say and take a big bite of Eric’s grilled steak. I chew slowly and savor the salty, peppery flavor, hoping if I chew long enough, she’ll drop the inquisition.
“And what did he have to say?” she asks.
I swallow the meat. “Oh, nothing.” Laelynn and I just shared a moment, and I’m desperate not to break it.
She places her elbow on the table and leans in closer. Emma and Penelope giggle like hyenas. “C’mon now. I know he said something.”
I look at Eric, who nods imperceptibly. A prisoner headed to the gallows.
My words fly out of my lips like machine-gun fire. “Really, it was nothing. He was just trying to scare me. He essentially repeated what you had told me. His family has lived on the island for over a hundred years. There are ghosts on the island. I shouldn’t have come. Blah, blah, blah.”
I watch the vein that was bursting from Laelynn’s forehead this morning return with force. She throws her napkin on the table and pivots to Eric.
“I told you we should have gone to the police.”
I glance at the girls to see their reaction. They just stare wide-eyed, delighting in the conflict.
“Babe, let’s not jump to conclusions. For all we know, Heathcliff ate something from the forest he shouldn’t have eaten. Russ is just a lonely crank. He’s harmless.”
“Harmless? You think threatening a girl who’s walking alone in the woods is harmless?”
Olivia rolls her eyes and chimes in. “Mom, Dad, can we take it down a notch? This is getting embarrassing.” But they ignore her.
Eric’s voice stiffens. “What Russ said to Charlotte was completely inappropriate. But we don’t need to call the police.
I will talk to him man-to-man tomorrow and tell him that if he talks to anyone in our family or our guests or comes on our property, then we are going to call the cops. Is that enough for you?”
She takes a deep breath, stands from the table, and grabs Emma’s and Penelope’s dishes and her own. She leans into the girls, and her voice softens. “Girls, it’s bedtime. Go upstairs, and Mom will read you a story in a minute.”
Both girls rise from their seats and groan. Penelope speaks up first. “Aww, this was just getting good.”
“Yeah, please, Mom, can we stay?” says Emma.
“Absolutely not. Now, go upstairs. Scoot.”
The girls run to their room. Olivia and I trade looks, wondering if we should follow them. Then we both remember we’re thirty years old.
Laelynn snatches the dishes and piles them in the sink.
“I’m sorry, Laelynn,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to cause any consternation.”
She wipes her hands off on a dish towel and tosses it over her shoulder. “I’m sure you weren’t.” A corner of her mouth rises in a challenging smile. Our bond from ten minutes ago has disintegrated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It just seems to me that everywhere you go, trouble seems to follow.”
“Babe, that’s not fair,” says Eric.
She tilts her head as if to say, “Isn’t it?
” and heads toward the stairs. She speaks slowly, like a judge rendering a verdict.
“I’m going upstairs to say good night to the girls.
Tomorrow, I’m leaving for my retreat first thing in the morning.
I’m tempted to cancel the whole thing, but I’ve got twenty people counting on me.
But before I leave, I’m filing a police report.
I want this on the record—God forbid something else happens.
Charlotte, enjoy the rest of your vacation. ”
She stomps up the staircase, each step banging like thunder. Eric and I take long sips of wine and stare into the middle distance.
Outside, the wind howls against the glass, rattling the windows, as though her anger has summoned the gods. A burst of thunder shakes the wood frame. Even the house is trembling.