Chapter 12 Olivia
I blow-dry my hair in the pool house bathroom, and dress for the evening in the white shorts and blue-and-white-striped T-shirt Mom bought me.
All my new clothes are lightweight summer wear and, as usual for North Carolina, the late spring weather has been consistently warm.
Summer officially begins next week. If I’m still here in the fall, I’ll need a whole new cold-weather wardrobe.
But it’s hard to imagine that. I have the strong sense that all this is temporary — that it will all somehow come to a head.
For now, I’m on an enforced vacation from my regular life.
In many ways, it really is like a vacation. I’m living in a gorgeous pool house by the creek. I’ve been cycling daily these past five days — “exploring,” as Mom calls it. As if I don’t already know this area intimately.
Three days ago, emboldened by the new-found freedom the bike has given me, I rode over to the house Jake and I’d bought and fixed up last year, curious to see what it looked like in this reality.
To see who was living there. I pulled my bike onto the path leading to the bungalow’s bright blue door, which I’d repainted a soft gray-green, and knocked.
A middle-aged woman, about Mom’s age and dressed in capri pants and a twin set, opened the door. “Hello?”
“Hi. Uh, I’m Olivia. I’m sorry to disturb you . . . I used to live here. I was riding by,” I gesture to my bike, “and I guess I was curious to see what had become of the place. I hope you don’t mind.”
She beamed at me. “Not at all, honey. Are you the daughter of the Diazes?”
The people who sold it to us last year. I smiled in return, wishing I didn’t have to lie to this sweet lady. “No, from before that. Way back.”
The look she gave me was assessing, taking in my age, my clothes, and the likelihood of me being a threat.
Apparently I passed the test. “Well, come on in, honey, if you’d like to have a quick look around.
I don’t mind at all.” She stood aside to let me through.
“We haven’t done much. We’ve only been here a year. ”
The interior was the same as the Diazes had left it when Jake and I moved in — the reception room was now furnished with a beige velvet couch and armchair. The fireplace still had its tile surround and brass plate trim, which I’d replaced.
She led me into the kitchen, talking away.
The wall was still closed in, and the tan wooden cabinets, which for us had ended up in a skip, were still there.
Along the corridor, the floral wallpaper we had stripped off was still above the bed in the primary bedroom, and the bathroom still had its avocado suite.
The new owners had done nothing with the place.
Jake and I had never lived here in this world, that’s for sure.
“Was this your room as a child?” the woman asked as I stuck my head into the small second bedroom.
I nearly replied no, then stopped myself.
The Diazes had been there fifteen years before putting it on the market, so nothing else would make sense.
I had nodded, struggling to lie outright to this kind woman.
I thanked her quickly, made my excuses when she offered me some lemonade, and left, ashamed at myself.
Is this what my life would be now? Half-truths and lies to make my existence make sense to others?
In the pool house, I slick on the lip gloss Mom has given me, wishing I had even a little jewelry to dress up this outfit. My left hand feels naked without my engagement ring, and I’ve developed a nervous habit of digging my thumbnail into the base of my ring finger, just to feel something there.
Aside from sandwiches on the beach, this will be my first meal out since arriving in this world. My stomach flips, more from nerves than hunger. I don’t know what I’m walking into tonight.
With Dad begrudgingly coming around, Mom’s been working on Charlotte this week.
Telling her all about me, my ‘miraculous’ story, and how I know everything about our shared history before I was twelve, and even some common elements after that, such as that party at Stacey’s.
Then, yesterday, Mom told me Charlotte agreed to have dinner tonight.
Even if Mom can’t see it, it’s clear to me why Charlotte was so easily persuaded.
It’s because of what I told our parents about my version of Stacey’s party, and how Jake and I had prevented her one-night stand with Craig Phillips.
Knowing Charlotte, she’ll have some questions for me. And she won’t go easy.
But I want to see my sister, so badly. So I’ll take it. All of it. And she’s bringing Taylor, the little girl I can’t wait to meet.
I lock up the pool house and stick my head through the bifold doors into the great room. Mom spots me immediately. “You ready, honey?”
With Mom chattering nervously the entire 10 minutes of our journey, we drive along the sweeping, manicured roads of the Landfall community, out to the main road, and across the two island bridges out to Wrightsville Beach.
The Beach House Bar and Grill sits at the head of the pier, overlooking the wide stretches of sand to each side.
The patio is already jammed, and we are led to a rustic table painted in a distressed blue at a cool spot inside, next to the row of open French doors.
Fishing nets and huge glass jars hang from the vaulted ceiling, strung with tiny white fairy lights.
There’s a giant blackboard at the far end, which has today’s specials chalked onto it.
Nothing has changed here, which is comforting.
I let Mom and Dad take the seats facing the open doors looking out over the water, while I sit across from them, facing the restaurant entrance. This way, I can see when Charlotte arrives.
We’ve only just started scanning the single-sheet menu when I spot my sister pushing through the door, a little girl holding her hand.
Charlotte looks great in a red sundress and sneakers, her chestnut-brown hair in a messy bun.
Her pretty daughter barely comes up to Charlotte’s upper thigh, even though my sister is short like Mom.
Taylor’s hair is chestnut brown like mine and Charlotte’s, pulled into cute bunches and swept off her forehead with a yellow clip.
Charlotte speaks to the hostess and spots me, but then immediately turns back to the front desk. She avoids eye contact as she makes her way through the tables, leading a reluctant-looking Taylor. She’s saying something to her daughter, a warning of some kind.
“Honey, there you are.” Mom gives Taylor a hug off the side of her seat, “Hi, baby girl.” Taylor hugs her back, all the while eyeing me suspiciously. She sticks a thumb in her mouth, defensively. I smile.
“Hi, Mom. Hey, Dad,” Charlotte says, ignoring me. “Taylor, take that chair and I’ll sit at the end.” Charlotte clearly isn’t keen to sit next to me, placing her daughter as a barrier between us.
But Taylor doesn’t budge, shaking her head with a deep frown. She looks up at her mother, who leans down. “I don’t want to sit next to her,” she says in a stage whisper, loud enough for us all to hear.
An awkward moment of silence is unexpectedly resolved by my father. “Sugar plum, how about I go sit over there? You sit next to Meemaw, and Mommy can sit at the end next to you? Is that best?”
Taylor nods, sucking furiously on her thumb, creating a slurping sound.
“Quit that.” My sister pulls the offending thumb out of her daughter’s mouth. “Sit up here. No thumbs at dinner, remember?”
Charlotte takes the seat at the head of the table, the furthest possible spot from me, while Dad sits beside me. At least he’s warming up. Charlotte, on the other hand, looks like she’s going to take a lot of coaxing.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell my sister. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
She picks up the menu, still not looking at me.
“And Taylor,” I turn to my niece, “it’s great to meet you. I’m your Auntie Liv. Or Auntie Livvie, if you like.”
The child screws up her nose. “Mommy says I don’t have an auntie, not really. She says you’re not supposed to be here.”
I twist my mouth, nodding. It’s a reasonable point. “I know, it’s super-confusing. We’re all confused about it. But maybe we can all figure it out together and get to know each other. Deal?” I smile at her, since she doesn’t reply. “I like your yellow barette.”
Taylor sneers, smelling my desperation. Across the table, Mom nods at me, encouraging. Keep going, you’ll get there.
Dad orders for us — his favorite task, in both worlds, even though we’re all highly capable of ordering our own food.
It gives him purpose. He requests the lobster and crab feast, a pricey bottle of Chablis, and a gourmet mac ‘n’ cheese for Taylor.
He’s overcompensating with food for the awkwardness of the situation. At least he’s trying.
Charlotte still isn’t acknowledging me, and Mom is forced to fill the silence with inane small talk about her latest book club read.
When the wine arrives, Dad makes a big production of pouring small amounts into the large glasses, swirling his around excessively, sticking his nose in, and exclaiming delight at the bouquet.
It’s the kind of performance that would usually have me and Charlotte rolling our eyes at each other, but she’s studiously ignoring me, while giving Mom one-word answers, and focusing on Taylor’s juice box.
I stay silent, sipping my wine. It’s insanely delicious.
At least I’m getting something positive out of this.
Our meals arrive, brought to our table by our young server, along with a glamorous, gray-haired woman I know well. She doesn’t recognize me. Mom jumps up and greets her with enthusiasm. “Juliette! What a treat to be served by you personally. I didn’t even know you’d be in the restaurant tonight.”