Husbands & Lovers

Chapter Eighteen Mallory

July 2022

Winthrop Island, New York

Paige is on the phone with the lawyers again. I give her a wide berth as I shepherd the kids back to the house from the beach, but snatches of conversation still find my ears as she paces up and down the lawn.

…not going to stand in front of the cameras like the loyal fucking Stepford wife and…

…suing for how much? Is that a fucking joke?…

…don’t care if she’s lying or not, he shouldn’t have been sticking his dick…

…understand why I’m supposed to defend the indefensible here…

…well, someone’s gotta show a little dignity…

We pass by the guest house, from which you can hear the notes of a piano meander faintly behind the walls. In the days since I knew the old Monk estate, the pool house has been rebuilt with changing rooms and an outdoor shower, where I frog-march the kids to rinse off all the sand before proceeding to the side entrance of the main house.

Grace calls out from the kitchen. “There you are, Miss Mallory! Could you tell Mr. Monk the steaks are ready for the barbecue?”

“Will do! Kids, go get a snack from Grace and run upstairs to change for dinner.”

Six days after landing at Logan Airport to be bustled into a black Escalade and delivered to the ancestral Monk estate on Winthrop Island, I’m well aware that Monk Adams will have his cellphone switched off while he’s working. I strike off back across the lawn and knock on the door of the guesthouse that’s now his studio. The notes pause on the piano.

It’s open, calls Monk’s voice.

I push the door wide. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He gives me this quizzical look, then takes off his readers and glances to the clock on the wall. “Oh, shit. I’m supposed to turn the grill on, right?”

“You got it.”

I turn to leave and check myself.

“Hey, Monk?”

He’s gathering up the pages of music manuscript scattered over the grand piano, which sits at the side of the room where the bed used to be. “What’s up, Pinks?”

“I just want to say thanks. I hope we’re not getting in your way or anything. I mean, trust me, I realize kids can be pretty chaotic.”

“Are you kidding? You guys are great. The place needs a little chaos, if you want to know the truth. Just like the old days. Except now I’m the patriarch holding the barbecue fork instead of my grandpa.”

“Well, it’s incredibly generous and I want you to know we appreciate it. I promise we’ll be out of your hair as soon as the…the thing dies down a little. The TV trucks parked outside Paige’s house.”

Monk motions me out the door ahead of him. “It’ll blow over soon if you lie low. The general public’s got the attention span of a gnat, trust me.”

“I still can’t wrap my head around it. I can’t even imagine what he was thinking. Having an affair with a junior associate, that’s just so basic.”

“I’m guessing the thinking part didn’t really enter into the decision-making.”

“But Jake! Seriously, the nicest guy you could ever meet. If even half the stuff she’s saying is true, he must have a serious dark side.”

“Everyone’s got a dark side, Pinks. I’ll bet even you have a dark side hidden in there somewhere.”

Across the lawn, Paige rips her AirPods out of her ears and stomps toward the house.

“I should go change,” I say. “Grace has everything ready in the kitchen. I’ll send the kids down to set the table.”

“Pinks, wait.”

I turn back.

“Sorry, that came out a little wrong.”

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.”

“It’s just my awkward way of telling you that you have the most integrity of anyone I know. That’s all.”

I push back my wind-tangled hair and look beyond his ear at the ocean, rolling in past the tip of Long Island. “I don’t know about that.”

“Also my way of saying that whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen. No anger, no judgments. I feel like the past few days, it’s been good for us. Right? To see each other as human beings again. The same human beings who cared about each other before. So I really—I just want to understand this. I want to hear you.”

Shit, I think. Shit. Here it comes, out of nowhere. Soft, expensive therapy words. Who can resist them? Who doesn’t want to be heard? Understood?

I shift my weight from one foot to the other and imagine Monk in the office of some therapist, some stranger who knows all the details of our summer together, the secrets that were supposed to remain inside the sacred space between Monk and me.

From a second-story window floats the shriek of Ida’s voice—That’s mine! Give it back!

“Although,” Monk says, in his old voice, the voice I know, “before you go thinking I’m some kind of hero, the real reason I invited everyone here is so I can keep spending time with Sam. Selfish jerk that I am.”

I gather myself. “It’s not selfish. It means the world to Sam. You’re…you’re terrific with him. You are. When I saw you showing him a few chords this morning, I kind of…”

He raises his eyebrows and waits for me to finish the sentence.

Fell in love with you all over again, I think. Melted into a pathetic puddle of infatuation.

He’s wearing a worn orange T-shirt over a pair of crumpled chinos. The falling sun shines in his eyes. The breeze riffs his hair. I force out a smile. “Anyway. Go start that grill, okay? Everyone’s starving.”

What you probably don’t know about Monk Adams—multiple Grammy winner, chart-topping whisperer of the nation’s soul, the Sexiest Man in Music—is he can grill the best damn steak you’ve ever eaten, with one hand holding a bottle of beer.

“There’s no secret,” he tells me, when I bring him the plate of steamed asparagus to finish off above the flames. “Little salt and pepper, high heat. And a timer. I learned at the feet of an old grill master.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Every time I stand here, I picture him. This cheesy red apron we got him one year. World’s Best Grandpa. He wore it every time. He was a real character. Wish you could have met him, Pinks. You’d have loved him.”

“I would expect nothing less from the father of Aunt Barbara.”

“Yeah, she was his favorite. I mean, he would never admit it. But they just had this thing, you know?” Monk tilts the bottle to his mouth and drinks. “I think that was a big part of my mom’s issues. Feeling like a third wheel.”

“How’s your mom doing these days? She must be so proud of you.”

“A lot better, thanks. Finally got her into some treatment that really worked for her. We’re closer now, it’s good. She’s got this place in Maine, she loves it. Right on the water, plenty of space. A—uh, you know, female friend. They’re together. Kind of a surprise, but not really, right? Awesome woman. Treats her well. Everyone’s happy.”

“I’m so glad to hear that, Monk. I really am.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of looking forward to taking Sam to meet her. When the time is right. If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it’s okay with me. I think that would be terrific. He could use a grandma.”

Monk checks his watch and flips the steaks, one by one, with a pair of silicone-tipped tongs. When he turns to me, there is a watery gleam to his eyes. “Thanks, Pinks,” he says. “I appreciate the trust.”

We eat outside on the teak dining table, to which Monk has added an extra leaf. The kids have set the places somewhat haphazardly with old plates and a bewildering mismatch of forks and knives, along with side dishes of red potato salad and roasted corn succotash and green salad tossed with fresh strawberries and walnuts, all whipped up by Grace during the afternoon. Monk uncorks a bottle of red wine and sets out the platter of sizzling rib eyes and tells us to dig in.

Grace joins us. She nearly passed out in a pile of laundry when she first saw me the other day. Miss Mallory! she exclaimed. I asked her what she was doing here, and she said Monk hired her over here when his father died, since the twins hardly ever stayed at Seagrapes anymore. We had a good gossip until Grace put her hand on my arm and her eyes filled with tears.

Why did you leave him, Miss Mallory? Why did you break my boy’s heart?

What could I say? I just opened my arms and gave her a hug and said it broke my heart to go.

I pour some wine into Grace’s glass. She protests, then gives in. The steak disappears; the air turns gold. Monk shows Ida how to balance a spoon on her nose. Even Paige starts to crack a smile, once she’s had a couple glasses of wine. Maisie forces us to start a game of telephone, and pretty soon everyone is laughing from their bellies, so hard and so loud that I guess nobody hears the car in the driveway, nobody hears the slam of doors and the voice calling out, until a woman steps through the french doors and comes to stand near the table.

I spot her first. She has tumbling, sun-streaked brown hair and her skin glows like a lightbulb. A shrunken green T-shirt clings to her breasts and her ribless waist, ending an inch or two above the waistband of a pair of satiny blue wide-leg pants. The conversation stops. Monk is the last one to turn in her direction. He almost spills his wine.

“Holy shit. I thought you were in Texas!”

Lennox Lassiter opens her arms. A million suns catch the facets of the rock on her finger. “Well, darn it. I realized how much I missed you, sweetie!”

Monk jumps out of his chair and rounds the corner of the table to return her embrace. They kiss tenderly. My throat shrivels into sand and blows away in the wind. Lennox makes this laugh from somewhere near her esophagus and turns to face all the goggle eyes. Her smile lands on Sam. She puts her hands over her mouth.

“Oh my goodness! It’s you!” she says, like she’s been waiting for him all her life. She looks at Monk, at Sam, at Monk again, and tears fill her eyes. “Sweetie! He’s like you! Oh, honey. Come here and let me meet you. I’m going to be your stepmom!”

Sam shoots me this terrified look. He’s due for dialysis tomorrow morning and his face is flushed and a little bloated. I give him a smile and what I hope is an encouraging nod—believe me, this takes everything I have, a total focus of maternal will—and he rises from his chair and walks toward Monk and Lennox and holds out his hand, like I’ve taught him.

“Oh, no, honey,” she says. “I’m a hugger.”

She opens her arms and folds him in. Across the table from me, Paige makes a noise like somebody’s strangling her. Sam looks at me from Lennox’s shoulder like he’s being filmed in a hostage video. Monk clears his throat.

“Hey, everyone. I’d like you to meet my fiancée. Lee Lassiter.”

Probably you know more about Lennox Lassiter than I do. For me, what happens on social media is like a tree falling in a forest on the other side of the world. Besides, ignorance is bliss. I don’t need to read all the breathless accounts of Monk and Lennox, in print and on the internet. So I don’t.

But thanks to Paige, thanks to the atmosphere of celebrity gossip our modern culture breathes, I know her story in outline form. Quit her Wall Street career in her late twenties to found a beauty and wellness empire that—tell me if I get this wrong—curates the New England lifestyle, whatever that means. Probably you already follow her on Instagram or (more recently) TikTok. You’ve traveled along on her mother’s sobriety journey, her best friend’s endometriosis journey, her college roommate’s transgender journey. You know her tear-streaked no-makeup face and her no-makeup makeup face. You realize, as a sophisticated internet consumer, that the real Lennox (call me Lee, she instructs me) is not the same as the social media Lennox.

Still, when you sit next to her on a beach, it’s hard to separate the two in your head. To know so much about a person you hardly know.

Lennox—Lee, I remind myself, and for some reason this is a difficult mental transition—lounges on her stomach in a Barbie-pink bikini the size of a Kleenex and flips through her phone. A paperback copy of Where the Crawdads Sing sits in the sand next to her beach towel.

“You know what sucks about this gig?” she’s telling me. “I can’t take a single day off.”

“Why not?”

“Analytics,” she says. “Engagement.”

She swings her legs and curls her toes. Her thumbs are a blur. I’m on my laptop trying to tweak a bamboo trellis pattern for next spring’s collection and the umbrella’s shade keeps moving as the sun climbs in the sky, making it difficult to see the screen. When I glance in Lee’s direction to think of some reply, I realize she’s unhooked her bikini top. Tan lines, I guess. Thank God Sam’s indoors for his dialysis right now.

I avert my eyes from the obvious and say, “I honestly don’t know how you think of all these posts. I would have run out of ideas in a week.”

“Oh, it’s not just me, trust me. I have a team back in Austin, where I’m from? We do a big brainstorm every Monday morning, come up with all our content for the week, what we’re obsessing over. What eats up all my time are the videos. Thank you, TikTok.” She sighs. “So, every day I have to shoot tons of footage and send it to Austin so the team can edit everything into a literal one-minute reel. It’s insane. I mean, today’s easy, at least? The wedding planners are coming over? My followers love all the wedding shit. Can’t get enough.” She sets down the phone and turns her head to me. “So, what are you up to? Monk says you design fabrics and things?”

“That is correct. I’m kind of semi-freelance. I do some stuff for a clothing retailer and also for a home design company. This one’s for a new collection of coordinated wallpaper and curtains.” I turn the laptop screen in her direction.

“Oh, neat. You’re so talented, Mallory. I can barely draw stick figures. I mean, I have an eye, obviously. I love design. I just can’t do design.”

“Well, there’s a lot of technique involved. Pattern is geometry as much as art. It’s not just raw talent, trust me.”

She lays her head in the cradle of her elbow. “I’d love to feature some of your designs on my channels. That’s right in our sweet spot. I don’t know if you’ve checked us out at all? But the platform is all about my passion for body positivity and wellness and empowerment. Help women find their joy, you know? I mean, look at you. Maybe you’re not what the world considers a success”—her fingers make quotes around the word success—“but you’re following your passion and bringing joy and that’s just so inspiring.”

“I’m not really trying to inspire anyone,” I say. “I’m just trying to make a living.”

“So let me help you. Send me some of your designs and kind of a few lines about what inspires you and your craft and all that? My team can turn it into a cool reel. Boom, millions of eyeballs on your work.”

“That’s—that’s generous of you.”

“Mallory, I feel so passionately about this. I do. I feel like women should just be out there helping one another out. Lifting one another up?”

“Oh, totally.”

She reaches out one hand and squeezes my wrist. “I’m so happy to meet you. I really am. You’re such an important part of Monk’s past. His story. And I feel like we should embrace all of that, the good and the tragic, right? It’s what makes us who we are. I mean, do you think we can be friends, Mallory?”

“I would love to be friends.”

“Because…can I be honest? I feel like you’re a little wary of me, right? And I totally understand. But we share this beautiful thing. We both care about this incredible man. And I know Monk wouldn’t have loved you if you weren’t an amazing person. So I want you to open yourself to me, Mallory. Trust me.”

She’s lying on her side, effortlessly graceful, long-limbed. In three dimensions, she’s even more compelling than when you see her in a photograph. Maybe it’s the light beneath her skin, this illumination she wears like it’s the natural state of all women to glow like that.

I close my laptop and turn a little to face her. “I’m sorry if I seem a little standoffish. It’s kind of an East Coast thing, maybe?”

She laughs. “Oh, I know. These women here on Winthrop! All this passive-aggressive bullshit. I mean, you’re not like that, obviously. But you know what I mean.”

“It’s a culture,” I say.

“We’re just so open out west. I have to remember sometimes that I can come across as a little pushy over here. I mean, even Monk took a long time to really open up, you know? He just held everything in, everything he was feeling. I nearly broke up with him a million times. Probably I should have broken up with him for my own sanity, but—oh my goodness, you know how adorable he is. You loved him too. But I’m an empath. You know what that is? It’s like you feel everyone’s pain.” She presses a hand to her chest. “And I felt his pain in my bones and I couldn’t do anything about it, and it was killing me.”

Her hazel eyes fix this earnest look on me. The long, sun-streaked hair swings down to veil her boobs. She’s wearing a tiny gold cross on a tiny gold chain, and the cross nestles right in the hollow of her throat, tilted a few degrees like it’s taking a nap.

“So what happened?” I ask.

“The trigger, you mean? When his dad passed away. He was devastated. I mean, so was I. Buzzy was always so kind to me. But they had such a complicated relationship, you know? So the whole cancer diagnosis was a roller coaster. I remember coming to visit with my dad—that’s how we reconnected, Monk and me—and it was like trying to get two stray cats in the same room. And then he went into remission, and then it came back a year later, and the end came pretty quickly after that. Really awful. Monk was just a wreck. So I got him into therapy. At last. And it was like a drain coming unplugged. He finally told me about you. And I was like, oh, babe. That explains everything. The trust issues and the intimacy issues. Not that I’m blaming you.” She reaches out for another wrist squeeze. “Honey, I understand. I’d have bolted too, if I was in your shoes. The toxicity of this family. You know about his mother, right? His bratty brother. And the sister? Blue? Cold as ice.”

Something’s hammering at the back of my head.

Texas, I think. Lee. Lee and her dad and Monk’s dad.

I glance down at her hand on my wrist, which happens to be her left hand, ring glittering. “So, Lee—and this is not to be critical or anything, I’m just curious—if you’re from Texas, and you have this whole Western sensibility and everything, which is awesome, what sort of prompted you to found your business around the New England lifestyle?”

She withdraws the hand and laughs. “Oh, I love the vibe, don’t get me wrong. I went to college in Maine, got a job in Boston. This old-school finance shop. So all my friends were New Englanders, I was spending weekends on the Cape and Kennebunk and everything—”

“Hold on a second.” My mind is reeling fast, like a video on fast-forward. “Where did you say you went to college?”

“Colby.” She smiles. “Didn’t you know? That’s how Monk and I got together. Our dads were friends from Harvard?”

“Oh,” I say. “Right. Of course. Harvard.”

“We first met when we were ten years old, can you believe it? Class reunion. They put you in the kid camp so the parents can get wasted together. And I show up at this thing and it turns out all the other kids knew each other from school or summers or whatever—it’s like this whole Cosa Nostra thing, this fucking Harvard mafia, you’re so lucky not to have to deal with this shit—and I was the brat from Texas with the wrong clothes and the wrong accent. The wrong everything. Little bitches were so mean to me. So then Monk swoops in, right? Like my own personal Lancelot. Literally takes me by the hand and drags me in to join in all the fucking reindeer games. And of course they all turned sweet on me after that. Punks.”

“That sounds like Monk.”

“Oh, he claims he doesn’t remember, but I knew right then he was the one. I knew from the bottom of my heart we were meant to be together. I spent the next eight years dreaming about him, and yeah, I might have made a hurry-up red zone drive to get into Colby once I heard he was going there.” She winks and lays a finger over her lips. “Then our dads took over. Kind of low-key set us up, freshman year. Buzzy made Monk call me up and ask me out for coffee, you know how it works, and this time I made sure he wouldn’t forget me, right? We hit it off right away. So many good times.”

“So what happened?” I ask.

“Oh, you know, it was college. He was still figuring stuff out. He wasn’t ready. And I had to let him go. Broke my heart, but if the time isn’t right, it’s not right. So he did his thing and I did mine, just kind of biding along until Buzzy got sick and it brought us back together. The way it was meant to be, right? The love of my life. And finally it hits him too. The love of his life.”

In the ocean before me, Paige and the girls are bodysurfing atop the lazy water. It’s nearly eleven and the air’s already turning hot. I realize my laptop screen is back in the sun again and I stand up to adjust the umbrella. My legs are a little wobbly, my brain’s numb. A voice calls down from the bluff above us.

“Hey, hon! Wedding planners are here.”

Lee turns forward and props herself on her elbows. “Hi, sweetie! What’s up?”

Monk cups his hands around his mouth. “Wedding planners!”

“But they’re early!”

Monk shrugs and squints at the umbrella, behind which I’m hiding in my retro-style granny-panty swimsuit. “Hey, Pinks! That you? How’s the trellis coming along?”

I stick up my thumb over the top of the umbrella.

“Why does he call you that?” Lee asks. “It seems kind of like, demeaning.”

“Oh, it’s just a high school thing. My mom once said something embarrassing about how I used to draw My Little Ponies when I was little, and Pinkie Pie was my favorite. I guess the nickname was our way of owning the humiliation? Just kind of a stupid joke that wouldn’t die, I guess.”

“Are you serious? Pinkie Pie?” She laughs. “You’re like a pair of kids, you two.”

Monk calls down again, a note of exasperation. “Hon? You coming? They’re waiting.”

Lee sits up and reaches back to gracefully rehook her bikini top over her nipples. “What do you think of this one?”

“Excuse me?”

“This bikini. This designer sent me their stuff to try out. I think it’s a little too sexy, don’t you think? Not my vibe at all.”

“Oh gosh. I think you look beautiful whatever you’re wearing.”

She stands, brushes off the sand, and reaches for her cover-up. “Diplomatic answer, Mallie. You’ll go far in this world.”

The wedding planners stay a few hours. When I head inside at noon for lunch, Monk and Lee are nibbling sandwiches on the terrace, photographs and fabric samples spread out on the teak table, conferencing earnestly with three women and a stylish man. I pass by quickly and dart inside the kitchen, where Grace sits at the counter. She jumps up and wipes her eyes.

“Grace, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing.” She turns to the sink and rests her wrists on the edge. “Miss Mallory, you don’t think my cooking is too old-fashioned, do you?”

“Of course not! You’re the best cook I know. Who says that?”

She picks up a pair of glasses from the sink and puts them in the dishwasher and doesn’t say a word.

For some reason, I can’t settle to work. I wander around the house and grounds, trying to find a quiet corner to set up my laptop, but everything distracts me. At half past two, the wedding planners leave. Lee hurries inside to send all the footage to her team in Austin. Monk vanishes somewhere. At some point I find myself standing in front of the pool house fridge, in search of a cold drink. The rows of cans and bottles blur into a psychedelic collage.

A noise startles me. I turn to the doorway, where Monk stands in a pair of board shorts and T-shirt, silhouetted by the sun.

“Mallory. There you—” He breaks off and takes a step forward. “Hey, are you okay?”

I realize there are tears in my eyes and blink them away. “Just getting a drink. What’s up?”

“Thought I’d take the kids down to the old bunkers for some exploring. You okay with that?”

“Oh, totally. Sounds like fun. Wish I could join you.”

He smiles. “Why can’t you?”

Something in that smile reminds me of the last time I visited those bunkers, with Monk. I push back a loose curl over my ear. “Work to do. And it’s good for you guys to hang out without me.”

“Are you sure? We’d love to have you.”

“Totes.”

Monk holds my gaze another second or two, grin still stuck on his mouth like he doesn’t know what else to do with it. “Okay, then. See you later.”

“Have a great time.”

He turns away and swings through the doorway, into a pile of sunbeams.

“Wait!” I burst out.

“Yeah? On second thought?”

“No. No, not that. Just something I—I don’t know, I feel kind of stupid. I didn’t realize Lee was your old girlfriend? At Colby?”

My voice comes out a few notes higher than usual. Monk steps back inside the doorway. The sunbeam falls from his face.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, she was.” He puts a hand on the doorframe. “Sorry. I guess—I guess I thought you already knew that? Under the incredibly arrogant assumption that the whole world knows my business these days.”

“I didn’t know. I don’t—I try to stay off the internet, mostly.”

“Well, you’re smart. Keep doing that.” He looks at his thumb, worrying the edge of the doorframe. “So I guess Lee mentioned it?”

“Oh, I put a few facts together. While we were talking on the beach. You hooked back up when your dad got sick, right?”

“Yep. That’s right. She and her dad came to visit him in the hospital. It was a pretty low moment for me. I was kind of beside myself, to be honest. Dad and I didn’t get along. As you know. And it got worse after you left. For the longest time, I blamed him for that.”

I feel a draft of cold air on my back and realize the fridge door is still open. As I turn to shut it, I say, “Wow. Why?”

“I figured he’d stuck his finger in, that’s all. Maybe talked you out of it or something. Anyway, it was easier than blaming myself.”

I turn back to face him. He’s still staring at his hand, braced against the doorframe.

“But Lee worked her magic,” I say. “Brought you back together.”

Monk sighs and lifts his head. “You have to understand, Pinks. Seeing her again, it was like coming home. She’d cared about me before—you know, before all the music shit happened. So I knew I could trust her. I was safe with her. I could settle down, finally. And my dad. My dad thought the world of her. It just—it felt right.”

Inside my head, I’m screaming some nonsense. Some shit I’ve apparently locked deep in that box of mine, the one I don’t open. The one that will burst open, from time to time, all on its own, for its own reasons.

No! NO! This was supposed to be our story! You and me. I was supposed to be the old girlfriend you found again. I was supposed to be your happy ever after. Lovers reunited.

Not her. Not Lennox Lassiter. Lee.

“Well, you chose well,” I say. “She’s pretty incredible. Building that business from scratch. And healing the rift with your dad. She’s a keeper.”

“My dad.” Monk clears his throat. “My dad, right before he died? He said I should pop the question. So I did. We got engaged. He’d come home at that point, we had a hospice nurse for him. She showed him the ring. He was over the moon. Died the next day.”

“That’s—wow. I’m so sorry. But at least—you know. You’re happy now. And wherever you dad is, he’s smiling. The girl he always wanted for you.”

Monk looks at the floor. Lifts his hand from the doorframe and sets it on the back of his neck.

“Pinko,” he says.

A voice calls from the doorway. “Babe? Is that you?”

Monk spins around. Lee Lassiter blocks the sun, slim and long-legged. Her bikini winks beneath a kaftan of white linen. She looks from Monk to me to Monk again.

“Oh! Hey, honey,” says Monk. “Just checking in with Mallory about the bunker plan.”

Lee’s face screws up. “About that. Bad news. Kevin called me? He’s been trying to reach you. Emergency conference with the lawyers about that copyright thing. He says they’re waiting for you.”

“Shit,” says Monk.

While Paige supervises the kids at the pool, I find a quiet sofa, open my internet browser, and type into the search field.

Fire egypt 1952

I click on the top result, a Wikipedia entry—Cairo fire.

The Cairo fire (Arabic: ???? ???????), also known as Black Saturday, was a series of riots that took place on 26 January 1952, marked by the burning and looting of some 750 buildings—retail shops, cafés, cinemas, hotels, restaurants, theaters, nightclubs, and the city’s Casino Opera—in downtown Cairo.

I dig between the sofa cushions for my phone and send a text to Paige. Wikipedia says there was huge fire in Cairo in Jan 1952!!!!

Paige: So???

Me: Remember nuns said Hannah arrived at convent with burns. Early 1952

Paige: Wait why Egypt?

Me: Bc Luca thinks bracelet is from Egypt

Me: Dates fit

Paige: Idk seems tenuous

Paige: Probably coincidence. Correlation does not mean causation

Me:

I look again at the cobra on my wrist, resting atop the laptop keyboard. An Egyptian cobra, Luca said confidently. I know snakes.

From another room comes the sound of Lee’s voice. She’s on the phone, I think. Talking to her team. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a team. Instead, I am the team, or part of it. That’s what the head of design calls us, her team. Lee’s voice takes on an edge. I hear the words clearly now.

But that’s not the direction I gave you, Kayla. This is all wrong. We talked about this, the evolution of the brand.

I turn the bracelet so the eyes look toward the doorway, so the tiny ruby tongue tastes the air breezing in from the hall.

Believe me, if there was literally anyone else I could ask to do this, I’d ask. But I’m stuck with you for now, honey, so can we pull on our big-girl pants and get this shit done exactly the way I told you to do it? Thank you.

Before I have time to react, Lee storms into the room. When she catches sight of me, she makes a start of surprise. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry you had to hear that.”

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

She plops on the sofa next to me. “Managing people is just the hardest thing. I mean, I admit. I’m a perfectionist. I have high standards. Is that wrong?”

“Of course not. You should never apologize for having high standards.”

“Thank you. That’s exactly how I feel.” She glances at the laptop screen. “Ooh, Cairo. Looking for design inspo?”

“Not really. Just some genealogical research.”

“Oh, cool. I did that a couple of years ago. Sent in my DNA just to see what turned up. It was lockdown, I was bored. You know.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Ha. You might say that. So, I’m part Scandinavian and part British Isles, which I knew. But then I started getting all these pings from random people and, long story short, my dad was a sperm donor in college, before he met my mom.” She shakes her head. “Can you believe it? Apparently Scandinavian is super popular. Height and coloring and everything?”

“Okay, that’s kind of creepy.”

“Kind of? And that’s not even the craziest part.”

“Yeah? What’s the craziest part?”

“My sweet, lovely grandpa who I loved more than anything on earth? Fucking cheated on Grandma. Had a whole other family on the other side of the state.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. My therapist was like, honey, it happens way more than you think. She’s dealing with this all the time now. DNA results turning up all this crazy shit. Apparently the official term is paternity incident.” Lee makes her quote marks around the words.

“Paternity incident?”

“When the guy on the family tree isn’t the biological dad. Is that what you’re researching? One of your grannies had an affair with an Egyptian guy?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. We don’t have the DNA results back yet? But this bracelet my mom left me…”

Lee takes my wrist and looks at the bracelet. “Holy shit. That’s the coolest piece I’ve ever seen. Your mom gave that to you?”

“When she died. Her mother left it to her. Her biological mother. She was adopted.”

Lee lets go of my wrist and fixes that earnest look back on my face. “And how are you dealing with all that?”

“Me? Oh, fine. I’m just fascinated, that’s all.”

“I mean, believe me, I know it can be crazy as fuck, finding out all this shit about people you thought you knew. But then you start to realize it can be kind of cool too. When I went to go meet with all my new aunts and cousins in El Paso, it was the most amazing thing. I felt this bond, right away. I could literally see my grandpa’s gestures and—I don’t know—the way he looked at you? Surreal. We talked all night.” She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “I’m so glad we’re talking like this, Mallie. I’m so glad you’re opening up to me.”

“Well, I mean—”

“Seriously. This is like our one peaceful moment to get to know each other. Before all the wedding craziness. I want us to be like sisters. I mean, we’re going to be co-parenting this beautiful kid together. Isn’t that amazing?”

“It’s wonderful. Sam is really…really happy to meet you. Develop a relationship.”

“He’s so cute. I’m in love, I really am. He’s so much like Monk, it’s scary. He’s almost enough to make me want to get pregnant.”

I turn my head to her in surprise. “But Monk said…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.” She reaches out for another squeeze. “Honey, talk to me. We’re sisters, right? Sisters in spirit.”

“Nothing. I was just, you know, under the impression you were already trying? For kids?”

“Did Monk say that?” She smiles. “I mean, sure. He’s super eager to start a family. I’m just…I don’t know, one thing at a time, right? We’ll get pregnant when the moment is right.” Her head falls back on the sofa. She holds up her phone and flips around her apps with lightning thumbs. “Look at me, obsessively scrolling. I’m going to find Monk. Sex always de-stresses me.”

She jumps up from the sofa and swings out of the room.

At one o’clock in the morning, someone knocks on my door.

“It’s me,” Paige whispers. “You awake?”

I sit up and turn on the lamp. “Come on in and join the party.”

My room is on the first floor, a study that was converted into a bedroom when Monk’s grandfather grew too old to climb the stairs. There’s a bathroom attached with grab bars in the tub. For some reason, this makes me feel ancient.

Paige wears a tank top and lounge pants that hang from her hips. In her hand, she’s clutching her phone. She climbs into the bed next to me and pulls up the covers.

“Paige, you need to eat something,” I say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I feel like I’m lying next to a skeleton.”

Paige lifts her phone. “So I’ve been texting Lola. She says she’d love to have us over at Summerly.”

“You mean for the day?”

“I mean move over there. Don’t you think that’s a good solution? Sam’s just a few houses down from his dad. We get a little space.”

“What makes you think—”

“Mallie, for God’s sake. This isn’t fair to you. This is the literal shittiest thing in the world and it’s my fault. Okay, Jake’s fault. Since he was the one fucking his junior. But also my fault for marrying him.”

“Paige, this is not your fault. This is all on him.”

“Yeah, well. My drama shouldn’t be your problem, so—”

“Fuck you, Paige. Your drama is always my problem. What are you saying, I can’t come to your rescue once in a while?”

“No,” she says. “That’s not our dynamic. You’re the screwup, I’m the big shining success. I’m the one who—who—”

I drag her crumpling face into my shoulder. Her back heaves a few times. “Paige, it’s okay. We’ll find our way through. Just sticking together, you and me.”

Paige heaves another sob. “Do you want to know the latest?”

“What’s the latest?”

“She’s pregnant. Of course.”

“Pregnant? Are you kidding me?”

“She’s pregnant and she told him about the baby in Charlotte—you know, when he was fucking her brains out over Fourth of July?—and he said he wanted her to get an abortion, and she said no, and they had a big fight where she threatened to go public if he didn’t leave me and marry her, and he said you’re bluffing, sweetie, and booked a flight home to surprise me.”

“Asshole,” I say.

“Asshole. So whatever. They deserve each other. But you know what kills me the most? There’s no clean break. He’s always going to be the father of my girls. He’s going to stand there at graduations, he’s going to walk them down the aisle when they get married, and I’ll have to grit my teeth. I’ll have to make nice with his new wife and his new kids.”

“Oh, Paige—”

“And then I think—I can’t help imagining him with her. I try to stop myself, but I can’t. Naked with her. Having sex with her. Having an orgasm inside her, Mallie. My Jake. And I just—I just—”

“I know, honey,” I say quietly. “I know.”

We lie there next to each other, listening to the noise of our breathing.

“So that’s why I texted Lola,” Paige says. “I thought, I can’t put you through this any longer. I mean, the look on your face when they go upstairs together.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re giving yourself a root canal without anesthetic, just to prove how tough you are.”

“Shit. Has anyone else noticed?”

“You mean Monk? He’s clueless. Plus he’s getting laid by a literal swimsuit model, so what the fuck does he care?”

“She’s not a swimsuit model. She’s actually pretty smart. She’s a businesswoman. You know she went to Colby with Monk?”

“Wait, what?”

“She was his old girlfriend. They broke up junior year, right before—you know, the summer I was here. So—”

“Jesus, Mal. You never told me this.”

“I just found out. Today. She told me the whole story. She’s been in love with him since she was ten years old, Paige. He’s the love of her life.”

Paige stares at me. “So, she’s been stalking him since she was ten?”

“Paige, come on. She wasn’t stalking him. It was meant to be, that’s all. She’s a good person. She’s good for him.”

“Good for him? Have you scrolled her Instagram? She’s drunk on herself. She’s selling this fake version of herself, this manufactured perfection, this fucking curated lifestyle crap, and she’s mining her private life, she’s mining him to promote all that shit—”

“She’s a businesswoman, that’s all. Everyone understands that. You used to understand it, remember?”

Paige straightens against the pillow. “Oh, fuck you, Mallory. Stop being so fucking understanding. I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen the stats on depression and suicide. Teenage girls. Which will be my girls in a few years, by the way. My girls scrolling through Instagram and TikTok and seeing her fucking aspirational photoshopped body and her crazy-ass narcissist wellness routines and makeup tutorials on how to make yourself look like a flawless little sex doll. So, yeah, I do take this shit personally. And I don’t see her treating you with even a grain of sensitivity. All that flexing with the itsy-bitsy bikinis and the PDAs. So fuck her.”

I pick at the duvet. “Are you finished?”

“For now.”

“Look, she’s going to be Sam’s stepmom, okay? She’s going to be part of his life. She wants him to be in the wedding. So I have to get along with her. I have to find a way to…to deal with this…to see them together without…”

“Oh, honey.” She yanks me into her lap and pats my back. “Tomorrow morning we pack up and move to Lola’s house. She’s coming over to pick us up. It’ll be cool. She has this awesome guesthouse, two bedrooms plus an attic for the kids to mess around in on rainy days. She says we can stay as long as we like.”

I stare across the whipped peaks of duvet at the bookshelves along the opposite wall, a relic of Monk’s grandfather. Filled with masculine midcentury bestsellers in peeling dustcovers. Norman Mailer, Graham Greene. Herman Wouk, James Michener. Leon Uris, Sloan Wilson.

“Paige, seriously. If you want to talk about it.”

“What, about Jake? We already did, right?”

“I mean how you’re feeling. Your beautiful life blowing up. Your fuckface husband. Any time you want to vent, I’m here.”

“Look, I’m fine, okay? It’s under control.” She nudges me back up and pulls out her phone. “I came downstairs for something else, believe it or not. Something kind of incredible. Check this out.”

She clicks through a link or two and hands me the phone.

“What am I looking at?”

“My DNA profile. Well, our DNA profile. The results came back. There’s a bunch of stuff to pick through, I’m already getting pings from cousin matches. But this is what blew me away.”

I squint at the lines of type. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow? I cannot do science right now.”

“You don’t need to do science. Here.” She snatches the phone and scrolls down until she comes to a pie chart. “Look. Look at that. It’s our geographical slash ethnic heritage.”

I take back the phone and use my thumbs to enlarge the image. Examine the pie wedges and the numbers and words. My jaw falls open.

“Stop it.” I swivel my head to take in Paige’s grinning face. “We’re Jewish?”

“One quarter Jewish, sister. Mazel tov.”