Chapter 32
I wake up with a gasp, nails buried in the sheets, my body locked tight as a vise. Daylight splinters the room.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
“Charlotte? You awake?” says a man’s voice.
It’s Eric. I look around to get my bearings, my heart still sprinting. “Uh…yeah.”
“I’ve got to head out shortly. Are you still able to take the kids to the festival?” His tone is casual, but there’s something sharp beneath it.
Shit. What day is it? I promised Eric and Olivia I would take the girls to the local fair today? What’s happening to me? I never forget plans.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I didn’t forget. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I force myself out of bed, throw on joggers, a hat, and sunglasses, like a celebrity trying to avoid the paparazzi. My mouth feels and tastes like I ate dinner out of a dumpster.
Fifteen minutes later—ten, if you don’t count the five Eric spent futzing with the boat’s starter because it was “on the fritz”—I’m skimming across Lake Minnetonka with Eric, Emma, and Penelope, toward Wayzata.
The sun sparkles on the town ahead of us, but when I glance back, Big Island lurks behind a ribbon of gray like it’s trying to hide.
I think of Olivia, back at the house, in Eric’s office, editing her documentary, alone in that vapor.
Is she safe? Normally, I’d jump at the chance to spend a day at a carnival with kids, but the twins aren’t typical kids.
And after last night, my nerves are hair-trigger.
Eric drops us off at the dock and heads to the bakery.
We stroll down Lake Street and soak in the idyllic scene.
A massive ocean-blue banner hanging over the street proclaims, “James J. Hill Days.” I grab a guidebook so I can plot our path through the fair.
The festival, named after the late railroad baron, has been a local tradition since long before I was born.
It looks the same as I remember it. A polka band plays on the bandstand at the old railroad depot.
Crowds of people in T-shirts, hats, and sunglasses bustle along the street.
Blue-and-white striped tents, each hosting vendors with crafts and artwork, flank our path.
It’s almost enough to make me forget last night.
I take a deep inhale, savoring an intoxicating blend of popcorn and cotton candy.
It’s a glorious day, but there’s a nip in the breeze that reminds me that Minnesota summers are fleeting.
The girls walk ahead of me. I tried to hold their hands, but they refused, so I trail a step behind like their personal secret service agent. Spotting a cotton-candy vendor up on the right, I pat them both on the shoulder.
“Girls, look, cotton candy! Want to get some?” If I can’t win the twins over with charm, I’ll bribe them.
Penelope wrinkles her nose and scratches her beauty mark. “No, thanks. It’s too sweet.”
Emma hesitates, like she wants some, but then defers to the queen and shakes her head.
What kind of kids don’t like cotton candy? It feels like I’m back in elementary school, constantly guessing the right thing to say to impress the cool kids and getting it wrong, always slightly off-key.
Undeterred, I point at a craft ice cream stand across the street. “Okay, what about ice cream? Everybody likes ice cream.”
Now it’s Emma’s turn to lead the Charlotte abuse. “It’s too cold for ice cream, dummy.”
“Yeah, dummy,” echoes Penelope.
I bite my lip and feel my face flush. If these were my kids, we’d be going home immediately, but I don’t want Eric and Olivia to think I’m out of my depth. I muster my most patient tone.
“Girls, it’s not very nice to call someone a dummy, is it?”
“Mom says to always tell the truth,” Emma replies with a sadistic smile. I’ve got to give it to her; not a bad comeback.
I open my mouth to respond, but then I catch a familiar face.
It’s Carlos.
He’s sitting outside Ben & Jerry’s, licking an ice cream cone, long tongue easing its way across Cherry Garcia.
Staring at me.
But he’s not alone. He’s with another woman. More like a girl. She can’t be over twenty-two. And she’s gorgeous. Thin. Fake boobs. Blond hair perfectly waved. Bright-blue eyes, and a measured tan. She’s like me, but artificially “upgraded” in every way. A tinge of jealousy runs up my spine.
He waves and takes a bite of the waffle cone. His hand strokes the ink on his collarbone. The tattoo of his mother, after last night’s surprise late-night visit, doesn’t seem so endearing anymore.
Emma tugs at my shirt. “Who’s that? He looks like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.”
“Never mind,” I say.
“No, tell us,” says Penelope, pleading, her ponytail bobbing as she jumps up and down.
“Yeah, tell us,” says Emma.
I toss him a wave. It’s unavoidable now.
Carlos whispers something to his “friend” and rises from his seat and strides over, cone in hand.
“Hey, Mami. Funny seeing you here,” he says.
“Yeah, it’s a small world.” I give him a hug and wonder if it really is that small.
He kneels down and waves at Penelope and Emma. “And who are these two lovely ladies?”
The girls blush ear to ear, smiling gummy smiles. Penelope twists her braid in her hand.
“This is Emma and Penelope. They’re daughters of the family I’m staying with.”
“Hi, Emma and Penelope.” He shakes their hands. The girls can’t take their eyes off him. “Would you like some ice cream?”
“Oh, they said it’s too cold for—”
“Yes, please,” says Penelope. Emma nods. I roll my eyes.
The four of us amble over to Ben & Jerry’s. He introduces me to his friend Kenzie, who has the personality of a lily pad. We head inside, and he sets the girls up with two double-scoop cones. Kenzie sits outside, tanning. While they wait for their order, he pulls me aside.
“Hey, I just wanted to tell you again. I’m sorry about last night. It seemed like a fun, spontaneous idea but clearly was a total fail.”
I place a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I know you were just trying to be sweet. Plus, it looks like you found someone else to hang out with.”
“Oh, no, it’s not like that. She’s just a girl I hung out with a couple of times in Chicago. She’s the only other person I know here, so when I didn’t hear from you, I looked her up. She lent me the pontoon boat.”
“How nice of her.”
He ignores my sarcasm. “Do you still want me to stay at the house with you?”
I stiffen. I don’t know if it’s because I’m hurt. Or because of Eric, and how much I enjoyed breakfast yesterday, just the five of us.
“Honestly, I don’t think it’s such a good idea anymore,” I say.
He pulls back. “Really? Why not? It’s not because of Kenzie—”
“No.” I scramble for a convincing lie. “The Parkers’ dog just died, and I don’t think they can handle guests right now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” He cracks his knuckles. “Well, do you want to hang out at all?”
“It would probably be better if we didn’t. I think the family needs me right now.”
The girls grab their cones and run back outside to harass Kenzie. I keep my gaze locked on them, but I feel Carlos’s eyes studying me.
“Is everything all right, Charlotte?”
I clutch the doorknob to exit the shop. “Yeah, why?”
He grabs my forearm and spins me around.
His grip is unnaturally strong, cutting into my muscle.
“Why? I don’t know. Could be because you invited me here and seemed like you were excited to have me stay with you.
And now you’re basically kicking me to the curb.
You tell me the family dog died and some guy from work assaulted you.
You keep saying you’re fine, but you don’t look fine.
” His gaze flicks from one pupil to the other, trying to mine something in me.
I snatch my arm out of his and burst out the door. “What, are you my therapist now?”
“No, but it just seems like every time I get close, you push me away. I’m worried about you.”
“Look, sometimes people change their minds. And your showing up in the middle of the night didn’t exactly help, all right?”
Desperate to escape this conversation, I scan the festival until my gaze lands on a Tilt-A-Whirl in the distance, spinning and swaying enticingly. “Look, girls, they have rides up there.”
In an instant, the twins turn their attention to the Tilt-A-Whirl, mesmerized by its movements. They exchange a look as if communicating telepathically and sprint toward the ride, ice cream dripping behind them.
“I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry this didn’t work out.”
He just stares, eyes pulsing, licking his ice cream. His face is a mask I can’t decipher.
I jog after the twins, weaving through the crowd. But as we approach, I notice they aren’t slowing down. If anything, they’re speeding up. They dash past the Tilt-A-Whirl and past the merry-go-round (thankfully, all the horses still have their eyes). Where are they going?
Then I see it: the Ferris wheel, looming in the sky like a storm cloud.
I watch it slowly turn, the slow tinkle of the merry-go-round behind me, and I’m transported back to memories of the State Fair.
Olivia reaching for me. Watching her fall.
The dead look in her eyes. The flicker of the ambulance lights.
The girls jump in line for the Ferris wheel, and I reassure myself that this time is different.
I’m an adult now, capable of riding a Ferris wheel with two little ones.
But then I think of Eric. Of Laelynn. Of Olivia.
And a pang of worry strikes me. How would they feel about me taking their pride and joys on a Ferris wheel after all that has happened?
Gently, I grab Emma and Penelope by the shoulder. “I’m sorry, girls. We can’t go on this ride.”
“Why not?” asks Penelope, crossing her arms.
“Because you’re too young.”
Emma huffs and points to the height requirement sign with a cartoon pig holding out his hand just beneath the tops of their heads. “It says we have to be this tall.”
“I know, but I don’t want your dad to get mad at me.”
“Is that because you have a crush on him?” asks Penelope, casting a sidelong glance at Emma. I watch as their lips pout and their faces adopt stony expressions. Clearly, they’ve already discussed this theory.
“No. Why would you say that?”
“We see the way you look at him and how you talk to him,” Emma declares dramatically. “‘Oh, Eric, you’re so funny.’ ‘Oh, Eric, this burger is delicious.’” They make kissing noises, their faces contorting with playful revulsion.
“That’s hilarious, but no, I don’t have a crush on your dad.”
“Okay. Then why won’t you let us on the Ferris wheel? Is it because you’re afraid of the ghost?” asks Penelope.
I stop walking, and the sounds of the festival fade into the background. I see the girl outside my window last night. Was it even real?
“What ghost?” I ask.
“The ghost of the girl who fell off the Ferris wheel. The one who killed Heathcliff.”
A chill coils down my spine. I kneel next to her. “Have you seen this ghost?”
“No, but Dad says Mom is haunted by her.”
I fire a look at Emma to see if Penelope’s pulling my leg, but she just licks her ice cream as if her sister’s said the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Why do you think it was the ghost who killed Heathcliff?”
Emma crosses her arms. “How else could he have died?”
I rise and strike an easy pose, patting them on the backs. “Ghosts don’t exist, girls. I’m sure your dad was just speaking metaphorically.”
Their hunter eyes lock onto mine. In a barely audible whisper, Penelope says, “You should leave our dad alone. Or the ghost will get you too.”