Chapter 46
BERNIE
A flush, footsteps, then water singing in the taps.
Then a disconcerting silence. Bernie should have heard Marta in the upstairs hallway by now; the creaky old bones of her house were bad at keeping secrets.
Instead, she heard the telltale squeal of the first floorboard in her bedroom (the one she’d had to train her ex-husband to step over so that he wouldn’t wake her when she was sleeping off a long shift).
In a bolt, she shot out of her chair.
The sky was dark and the storm was still hammering the island, but the interior of the cottage was a glowing sanctuary lit by a combination of candles and soft lamps.
Bernie had fixed herself a cup of green tea and was happily reading a medical journal in the sunroom on her own.
Marta was cooking dinner with Imogen’s assistance, although Imogen’s help appeared to consist of drinking wine while perched on a stool at the kitchen island and describing the latest designer bags she planned to buy.
Bernie put the journal down when Celeste emerged from her nap and wandered into the room looking puffy under the eyes. She had a fresh pour of white wine in hand, the glass dewed with condensation. “How’re you doing, Cee?”
Celeste gave Bernie a sheepish smile and came to join her on the couch. “Much better, thanks. A bit embarrassed about throwing up, to be honest. You know, I never drink like this . . . my body isn’t used to it.” She took a sip of her wine. “I can’t remember the last time I was that drunk.”
You can’t remember two weeks ago? Bernie nodded.
“Of course. We got a little wild, that’s all.
” She wondered if Celeste realized that her drinking habits were written on her face in the faint red script of broken capillaries.
Or that most people, fresh off an afternoon bender, didn’t pour themselves a glass of wine to start the evening.
“Right!?” Celeste’s smile looked like relief, if Bernie wasn’t mistaken, but the in-between emotions were tricky sometimes. “How often do we have the chance to be off mom duty and let loose? Sue me if I have a bottle of wine.”
Bernie nodded again. “Wine is cheaper than therapy.” She’d seen the phrase on social media and thought it was the type of sentiment that would appeal to Celeste.
Celeste laughed in agreement as she held her glass up in an air cheers, and Bernie sipped her tea.
The women had never noticed that Bernie controlled her drinking as rigidly as she controlled every other aspect of her life.
Two drinks (of high-quality alcohol) on any social occasion—no more.
Sure, she’d accept a shot without protest, but what she did with that shot while the others were tossing theirs back was none of their business.
Bernie relished the feeling of holding the reins as others slipped out of control.
“Actually, I’m glad to get you on your own.” Celeste’s expression turned serious. “I want to apologize for what I said earlier, you know, accusing you of having an affair with Harry. I was . . . very emotional. And I’m so glad I was wrong. But I spoke pretty harshly to you.”
Bernie shrugged. She could be gracious, even though she didn’t want to be. “Forgiven. Don’t give it another th—”
Celeste interrupted her. “But there’s something else I need to say. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to support your candidacy for medical director.”
What. The. Fuck. Bernie straightened up and focused on Celeste’s face, unable to read what she was seeing there. This made no sense. There was no affair, so everything should be good between them.
“I want to be honest—I’d rather you hear this from me,” Celeste said.
“Helping Harry conceal his addiction . . . that showed colossally bad judgment on your part. I know you thought you were being a friend to him, but you had professional responsibilities that you ignored. You know, to the hospital and to the patients.”
“Celeste, no. Please give this some more thought.” Bernie tried to lock eyes with her, but Celeste’s head was bowed, looking into her wineglass.
“Harry told me he was clean, I swear on my children’s lives.
He wasn’t using. I was the one who helped him stay sober.
Until the end—but there’s no way I could have predicted that.
” Bernie was outraged that Celeste was already shaking her head before she’d even finished speaking.
What was the goddamn point of any of it if this self-righteous idiot was going to snatch her well-deserved promotion away from her?
“I’ve already decided. I’m sure you’ll make a great director someday, but it would be unconscionable for me to support your candidacy now, knowing what I know.
What if he’d been in the operating room when that happened?
What if he’d killed someone? For that matter, Harry deserved better from you too.
Maybe he would have gotten real treatment if his secret had been exposed.
You enabled him, Bernie. And I’m sorry, but I simply am not going to change my mind about this.
” Celeste looked proud of herself, as if she’d rehearsed her little speech in the mirror.
“I do hope that this doesn’t change anything between us on a social level.
My decision is purely about the hospital and has nothing to do with you as a friend. ”
Bernie squeezed her fist, blinked, then concentrated on getting it right.
Mouth set in a line, curved up slightly at either side, a non-threatening expression of understanding and resignation.
Eyes down. Slight nod. “I’m disappointed, obviously.
But I understand the position I’ve put you in.
Of course this won’t change anything between us. ”
Immediately, Bernie began to scheme.
Later that night, it had been relatively easy to get Celeste to come outside with her.
Quick, quiet, and—she was quite certain—unnoticed.
Friday night was her hastily concocted Plan A.
Bernie had told herself that if she must, she would wait until Saturday, but there were no guarantees that she’d have an opportunity then, and she really, really didn’t like waiting.
She had self-control, of course she did; she was capable of great restraint when it served her.
But fighting her darker urges was difficult and she knew she’d have to contend with the buzzing in her chest until she gave in.
The hive was swarming behind her heart as she guided Celeste down to the rocky outcropping that was mostly out of sight from the sunroom—she’d checked earlier that afternoon.
There was no chance that Imogen or Marta would catch a glimpse of them outside, not in the heavy darkness that had draped its mantle around their little island.
“What about Harry?” Celeste’s voice was blurred with wine.
Bernie spoke quietly, hoping Celeste would mirror her and lower her voice.
“I wanted to apologize that I didn’t tell you about Harry’s problem earlier.
I’m sorry that you had to find out by going through his messages.
I should have been the one to tell you, but it seemed like it would be unnecessarily hurtful—there was nothing else to be said after he was gone. ”
Part of her wondered if Celeste might save herself. If Celeste spontaneously walked back her earlier comments about not supporting her candidacy, she’d let it be, because Celeste would be more useful as an ally. But she didn’t think that was going to happen.
“It was bad, Bernie. Real bad.” Celeste spoke more quietly than before.
“I know, I know it was bad,” Bernie whispered. “But you know I was trying to help, right? I was his friend and I didn’t want to do anything that would have jeopardized his sobriety or his professional standing. You know you can trust my judgment, don’t you?”
“Nooo.” Celeste’s no was more of a sigh than a word, dissipating in the wind.
Bernie’s spine filled with liquid steel.
That’s how it’s going to be, then. Bernie reached into the front pouch of her oversized hoodie and grasped the crude device she’d fashioned with items from the boathouse.
It would have been simpler to use a blade; she knew where and how to inflict maximum damage, but, not wanting to show her hand, she’d been forced to improvise.
Bernie had never been one to agonize too much over a decision—if the time seemed right, she went for it and dealt with the consequences if and when they arose.
It was a skill that had served her well so far in surgery; as a resident, she’d impressed the attending physicians with her decisiveness in the operating room, and that same attribute had saved lives on more than one occasion.
Of course, her dexterity with a scalpel didn’t hurt, but she liked to think that boldness was her secret sauce.
Things always worked out for her, one way or another.
So when Celeste unexpectedly became an obstacle to what should have been Bernie’s slam-dunk promotion to medical director, Bernie impulsively decided that she’d have to go.
A loon called and another one answered, their ululations echoing over the lake.
Celeste turned to look for the birds, her long braid draping over her shoulder.
It couldn’t have been a more perfect opportunity if she’d planned it this way.
Bernie stood, stepped behind Celeste, and extracted her homemade garrotte (a short length of yellow rope, each end knotted to a paintbrush), and gripped the handles in her gloved hands.
She paused for a moment to make sure the angle was right, then dropped the loop over Celeste’s head, crossed her wrists one over the other, and pulled.