2. Elena
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Elena
“Black, no sugar, right?” Camille doesn’t look up from the French press.
She’s wearing yoga pants and a cropped sweater that shows a strip of toned stomach, and her hair is already perfect even though I know for a fact she was supposedly asleep twenty minutes ago. “I noticed that’s how you take it.”
Adrian is at the breakfast bar with his laptop open, scrolling through something that requires his full attention. He glances up long enough to accept the mug.
“Thanks, Camille.”
“Of course.” Her fingers brush his as she hands it over, and I watch her linger there, one beat, two beats, before pulling away. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve both been so welcoming.”
I pour my own coffee from the carafe on the counter. It’s barely warm.
“Sleep well?” I ask her.
“Amazingly.” She settles onto the stool next to Adrian, my stool, the one with the good view of the garden, and tucks one leg beneath her. “This house is so peaceful. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Oh, you know.” She waves her hand vaguely. “The future. Getting back on my feet. I’ve been reading about Adrian’s company, actually. Vale Industries is doing some fascinating work in sustainable development.”
Adrian looks up from his laptop. “You’ve been researching the company?”
“I’m interested.” She leans toward him slightly, and I watch her hand land on his forearm like it belongs there. “The quarterly margins on the Singapore project were impressive. Most firms would have cut losses by Q2, but you held.”
Quarterly margins. Since when does Camille know the phrase “quarterly margins”?
“That project was a risk.” Adrian is actually engaged now, actually making eye contact in a way he hasn’t with me in weeks. “Thompson wanted to pull out, but I knew the regulatory environment would shift.”
“Intuition,” Camille says, almost purring. “You trust your instincts. I like that.”
I set my coffee cup down too hard. “I didn’t know you were interested in corporate development.”
She turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Elena. We weren’t exactly close growing up.” She tilts her head. “You were always in the workshop with Mom while I was trying to figure out how the real world worked.”
The real world. As opposed to my fake one.
“I should go,” Adrian says, closing his laptop. “Board meeting at nine.”
He’s out of the room before I can respond. Camille watches him go with an expression I can’t quite read.
“He works so hard,” she murmurs. “It must be lonely.”
“I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
***
That afternoon, I walk into my workspace to find my bottle of Jo Malone perfume sitting on Camille’s vanity.
I know it’s mine because Adrian gave it to me for our anniversary. Jasmine and bergamot, a scent I picked out myself on our honeymoon in London. The bottle was on my bathroom counter this morning. Now it’s here, in the guest suite, sitting among Camille’s things like it belongs there.
“Camille?”
She emerges from the bathroom in a towel, skin damp, and I catch the scent of jasmine and bergamot rising from her collarbone.
“What’s up?” She follows my gaze to the perfume. “Oh! I found that in the guest bathroom. I figured it was leftover from a previous visitor. Is it…”
“It’s mine. Adrian gave it to me.”
“Did he?” She picks up the bottle, studies it like she’s seeing it for the first time. “That’s so sweet. He has good taste.” She holds it out to me. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. It just smelled so nice, and I ran out of my own fragrance during the move.”
I take the bottle. Her smile doesn’t waver.
“Easy mistake,” I say. “The guest bathroom is down the hall.”
“Right. I must have gotten turned around.”
She’s lying. I know she’s lying. But I can’t prove it, and accusing my recently-divorced sister of stealing my perfume feels petty in a way I can’t stomach.
“Dinner’s at seven,” I say. “Vivian’s having the Hendersons back.”
“Again? Don’t they have their own dining room?”
“They’re investors.” I’m already walking toward the door. “It’s a whole thing.”
***
Dinner is a disaster, which is to say dinner is normal.
Vivian holds court at the head of the table, directing conversation with the precision of a surgeon. The Hendersons laugh at her jokes and compliment the wine and don’t seem to notice that she hasn’t asked me a single question all evening.
What they do notice is Camille.
“And what do you do, dear?” Mrs. Henderson asks, leaning forward with genuine interest.
“I’m in transition,” Camille says smoothly. “Recently divorced, rebuilding. Elena and Adrian have been generous enough to give me a place to land.” She reaches across the table to touch my hand. “Family is everything.”
“How lovely.” Mrs. Henderson turns to me. “And Elena, are you working?”
Before I can answer, Vivian cuts in. “Elena has a little creative space upstairs. Furniture, I believe? She tinkers.”
Tinkers.
“Actually,” I start, “I’ve been commissioned by…”
“We should discuss moving that workspace,” Vivian says to Adrian. “It’s taking up valuable entertaining space on the second floor. The basement has better ventilation for… chemicals and whatnot.”
“I don’t use chemicals. I use hand tools and natural…”
“Adrian.” Vivian’s tone is final. “What do you think?”
My husband is looking at his phone under the table. He glances up when he hears his name.
“Sorry, what?”
“Elena’s workspace. Moving it to the basement.”
“Oh.” He frowns slightly. “That seems like a lot of work. Can we discuss it later?”
Not no. Not my wife is an artist and she deserves proper light. Just later.
“Of course.” Vivian smiles at the Hendersons. “More wine?”
***
After dinner, I’m passing Adrian’s study when I hear voices inside.
“…just think you should consider how it looks.” Camille’s voice, soft and earnest. “She’s talented, obviously, but the showcase timing is awkward. With everything going on with Singapore…”
“Elena’s showcase is important to her.”
“Of course it is. I just mean…” A pause. “You have a lot on your plate. Maybe she doesn’t realize how much pressure you’re under.”
I should walk away. I should absolutely walk away. Instead, I push the door open.
Adrian is at his desk. Camille is perched on the arm of his chair, one hand resting on his shoulder, her body curved toward him in a way that makes my stomach clench.
“Am I interrupting?”
Camille straightens but doesn’t move away. “I was just keeping Adrian company while he worked. You know how isolating these late nights can be.”
“I do know. I’m his wife.”
“Of course you are.” She slides off the chair arm. “I’ll leave you to it.”
She passes me on her way out, close enough that I smell jasmine and bergamot, and this time I’m certain she’s wearing my perfume again.
“What was that?” I ask Adrian.
“What was what?” He’s already looking at his laptop. “Camille was just talking. She’s lonely, Elena. Her divorce was hard.”
“She was touching you.”
“She’s affectionate. She’s your sister.”
“She’s my sister who I barely know, who showed up in the middle of the night, and who seems to know more about your quarterly margins than I do.”
Adrian sighs and takes off his glasses. For a moment, he looks exhausted. “I don’t have the energy for this. I have a conference call with Singapore in twenty minutes.”
“When do you have the energy for this? For me?”
“Elena…”
“Never mind.” I’m already leaving. “Good luck with Singapore.”
***
The next morning, I come downstairs early to find Camille at Adrian’s desk.
She’s bent over something, pen in hand, and when she hears me she jerks upright so fast she nearly knocks over the lamp.
“Elena! You scared me.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just…” She gestures vaguely. “Looking for a notepad. I wanted to write thank-you cards to some of your neighbors. Mrs. Patterson brought over cookies yesterday, and I thought…”
“At Adrian’s desk? At 6 a.m.?”
She laughs, a brittle sound. “I couldn’t sleep. The guest suite doesn’t have a proper writing surface.”
I walk closer. On the desk, I see a small cream notecard. On the notecard, I see letters, Adrian’s signature, or something very like it, in Camille’s handwriting. Adrian Vale. Adrian Vale. Adrian Vale.
“That’s not thank-you cards.”
“It’s calligraphy practice.” She gathers the notecards quickly, shoving them into her pocket. “I’m teaching myself. Adrian has such elegant handwriting, I thought I’d use it as a model.”
“You’re practicing his signature.”
“I’m practicing penmanship, Elena. God.” She pushes past me toward the door. “Not everything is a conspiracy.”
After she’s gone, I stand in Adrian’s study for a long moment. The desk drawer is slightly open, the one she claimed to need for notepads. I pull it wider.
Inside, I find a stack of Vale Industries corporate credit card statements. I flip through them, not sure what I’m looking for, until I find it.
A supplementary card. Authorized user: Camille Vasquez.
The authorization date is three weeks ago.
My sister has been living in my house for three weeks. She’s been wearing my perfume. She’s been touching my husband. And now she has access to his corporate accounts, approved on a date that corresponds exactly with the night I heard two sets of footsteps pause outside my bedroom door.
I pull out my phone and take a photo of the statement. Then I close the drawer and walk upstairs to my workspace and sit down at my drafting table and stare at the honeybee drawer pull until my vision blurs.
What the hell is happening in my own house?