23. Maren
MAREN
The snowdrops are on the dresser. I do not know who put them there.
I have, in three hours, taken them off the dresser exactly twice, walked them to the trash by the bathroom door exactly twice, and put them back on the dresser exactly twice.
The card is still folded. I have not opened it.
I do not need to. The handwriting on the front, where the little envelope has my first name on it, is his.
I am currently packing.
I take down the suitcase from the top of the closet.
I lay it open on the bed. I take, from the bathroom, the small zip pouch with my toothbrush and my retainer and the moisturizer Livian gave me for my birthday, and I tuck it into the side pocket.
I take, from the dresser, the cream slip.
I fold it. I put it in the suitcase. I take, from the hook by the door, the dress I wore to the chef's table — the pale yellow one — and I fold it, and I put it on top of the slip.
I do not, when I do this, allow myself to think about what either piece of clothing is, currently, archival of.
There is a knock at the door at ten.
"Maren?"
"Go away, Sebastian."
"Mr. Rourke would like — "
"Go away."
The footsteps, after a beat, retreat down the hall.
They do not, however, sound like Sebastian.
They sound like the small lawn boy, the one who came out to the lower lawn at noon yesterday with the napkin.
Cassian has, evidently, run through Sebastian's patience, and is now using whichever member of staff is closest to the door.
There is a second knock at ten thirty. I do not get off the bed. The voice is the maid this time — the one I do not know by name, the one I have nodded at in the corridor for two weeks. Her voice through the door is small and apologetic.
"Miss — Miss Castellan? There's a tray. Mr. Rourke asked?—"
"Take it back, please. Thank you."
"Yes, miss."
The third knock comes at eleven, and this time it’s Sebastian. I know the sound—two quiet knocks, the right-handed pattern—and I know the pause afterward, the brief, reluctant beat he falls into when he’s been sent to retrieve something.
"Miss Castellan."
"Sebastian."
"He has, in this hour, asked me three times to come up here.
I have, in this hour, agreed twice and refused once.
The card on the tray, which I have set on the floor outside your door, is in his hand.
He has not asked me to read it. He has, however, asked me to ensure you know it is there.
I have, currently, ensured. I am going downstairs. I will not, miss, be back."
"Thank you, Sebastian."
"Miss."
"What."
"For what it's worth."
"Mm."
"I am glad it is you."
"Don't, Sebastian."
"No, miss."
He goes.
Livian picks up on the second ring.
"Mar."
"Li."
"Honey."
"I need — Li — I need to tell you a thing and I need you not to interrupt me until I am done. Can you do that."
"Always."
"He did it on purpose, Livian. The engagement.
He — there was a call. September 4. Two days before the chef's table.
With — with Becca Lin, Vance's deputy. They were already planning it.
He blocked Roland Vance's suite for the dinner on August 31, Li, before he had even said the word.
He had a calendar. He had it titled. He paid Henri to start the rumor on the thirteenth.
I have the paper, Livian. With his hand on it.
With my initials. MD, like a — like a — Livian, he had me on a deck.
I sat on a desk on Wednesday morning. Not a desk — the kitchen — I — Livian, he had me on the kitchen counter, and I have not, in a week, had a single conversation with him that he had not, in some part of him, scheduled. "
“Maren.”
“Please don’t start by telling me you told me so.”
“I’m not telling you that.”
“Don’t even imply it.”
“I’m not implying it.”
“Li.”
“Honey.”
“I’m leaving.”
“All right.”
“I mean it. I’m leaving the villa tonight.
I’m putting in for a transfer tomorrow—Carmel, if they’ll take me.
They still have that open front-desk spot Davies emailed about last month.
I’ll take it. I’ll move in with my cousin until I find a place.
And I’m not—Li—I’m not going to be at the resort in the morning. ”
“Maren.”
“Don’t tell me to think about it.”
“I’m not. I’m actually telling you the opposite. Davies works Sundays; send him the email tonight. Tomorrow I’ll pack the things in your apartment. Tomorrow I’ll take you for a drink. And in about ninety minutes I’ll be fully crying, but I’m not doing it on this call.”
“Livian.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Honey.”
“Mm.”
“He’ll come for you.”
“I know.”
“Don’t open the door.”
“I know, Li.”
“All right. I’m hanging up. I’m going to go cry.”
“All right.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, Li.”
She hangs up. I remain on the bed in the dark, the phone hot in my hand, the suitcase open on the bedspread, and I cry for the second time today. When I stop, time has slipped; I couldn’t place it.
Lunch is on the lower terrace. I had thought about not going.
I had thought about it for forty minutes.
I went, in the end, because of my mother.
Because if I did not appear, my mother would come up.
Because if my mother came up, my mother would see the suitcase.
Because if my mother saw the suitcase, my mother would try, in her way, to fix it.
Because what my mother is currently doing is the closest thing to liking me that has, in twenty-six years, ever been on the table, and I am — God forgive me — I am, currently, putting that off until I am out of this house.
I sit. I do not eat. My mother is in cream linen and pearls.
My mother has, on the chair beside her, a leather-bound notebook with a satin ribbon.
My mother is glowing. My mother is glowing and my father, two seats down, is folding his crossword the way he was folding it on the upper terrace yesterday, with his attention not on the crossword.
"Sweetheart!"
"Hi, Mom."
"Sit, sit. I have, I have, the most wonderful — Marguerite called me back. She called me. I — I was beginning to think I had imagined her. She has, Maren — sweetheart, she has cleared a Saturday — "
"Mom."
"— in December, the second weekend, which is — which is fortuitous, considering — which is, I have to say, almost fated — "
"Mom."
"— and she wants — she wants to do white tulips, the small Dutch ones, because she says, Delilah, she said — "
"Delilah."
The voice is my father's. It is mild. It is the voice he has, in twenty-six years, used four times, and three of them have been at funerals. My mother stops mid-sentence and looks at him.
"Graham."
"Let her eat, Del."
"I am letting her eat. I am only — "
"Let her eat."
There is a small space. My mother's mouth, after the small space, closes.
She sets the notebook down on the table beside her plate, with the satin ribbon out, and she lifts her water glass, and she takes a small swallow, and she does not, for the rest of the soup course, say a single word about flowers.
I look at my father. He does not look up.
"Mom." This is Sienna. Sienna, who has been on her phone, who has been, in fact, watching me with the small considering tilt of her head she does when she is, herself, calculating. "Mar's not eating."
"She is eating."
"She is moving the salad around her plate, Mom, that is not eating, that is — Mar."
"Sienna."
"Where is Cassian?"
"He has — he has work."
"He had work yesterday."
"He has work today, Sienna."
"He had work last night, too. He didn't come to dinner."
"Sienna."
"Mar. Where is Cassian? Why are you wearing — Maren, where is your ring."
I had — and this is the part I am, currently, going to be ashamed of for the rest of my life — I had forgotten.
I had forgotten because I had, for two weeks, become accustomed to the small weight of it on my left hand, and the absence of the weight has, for fourteen hours, registered as something else.
I look down at my hand. I look at the small pale band of skin where the ring has been.
It is the same color as the inside of my wrist.
The whole table is, currently, looking at my hand.
"Maren." My mother. Her voice is small. "Sweetheart. Where is the ring."
"Mom."
"Where is the ring, Maren."
"I — I took it off. To shower. I left it on the — on the — "
"Mar." Sienna leans in. Her eyes are bright. Her phone is, finally, face-down. "Is this real? Is this real, Mar. Tell me. Tell me, just — just one time, tell me?—"
"Sienna."
This is Owen. Owen, who has not, since the salad, said a single word. Owen, who has, until now, been turning his fork in his hand the way he turned it on the boat.
"Owen, what?—"
"Sienna. Eat your salad."
"Owen, you cannot — "
"Sienna. Eat. Your. Salad."
She sits back. She sits back the way she has, in twenty-four years, sat back precisely twice for our brother — once when he told her, at sixteen, that her boyfriend was cheating on her, and once when he told her, at twenty, that he had paid the deposit on her car — and her mouth closes, and she picks up her fork.
Owen turns his eyes on me. “Mar.”
“Owen.”
“I’ve been making calls. Since Tuesday. I wanted you to know. Cassian—Cassian admitted yesterday, to me, in the reading room, that you were— that he had— Mar, I am so sorry.”
“Owen.”
“That is all I’m saying at this table.”
“Owen.”
“Mar. Eat your salad.”
I don’t eat the salad. I push my chair back and stand. My mother says, “Maren—” in the small, lost voice she uses when she suddenly loses a thread, and my father says, “Del. Let her go.” So I go.
I walk back into the villa. I walk back up the corridor to my wing.
I close the door. I turn the lock. I cross to the writing desk.
I open my laptop. I pull up the airline.
I pull up tomorrow. The earliest flight to the city where my cousin lives leaves at six fifteen a.m. I book it.
I do it without my eyes welling. I am, currently, past my eyes welling.
I send Davies the email. Mark, requesting transfer to Carmel front desk effective immediately.
Will discuss formally Monday. Personal reasons. Maren.
I close the laptop.
I look at the suitcase on the bed.
I add the chain on my wrist to the small zip pouch.
I am, in the morning, gone.