I Killed Zoe Spanos

by Kit Frick

  From somewhere in the depths of my backpack, I can hear my phone buzz. I’m already regretting this respectable sundress, its lack of pockets. I’ve been told I will need to “dress for dinner,” but I hope my regular summer uniform of cutoffs and tank tops will be permissible around town. Otherwise I’m going to be recycling the same four dresses until I get my first paycheck.

  I roll my unwieldy purple suitcase across the platform and prop it against the railing, shrug my backpack around to the front to dig for my phone. It’s new, a graduation gift from Mom, gold case still sparkly and screen not yet scratched. I should take good care of it—it’s the nicest thing I own—but chances are I won’t.

  The texts aren’t from Emilia Bellamy, or Tom, the husband I haven’t yet met. They’re from Kaylee.

  I can’t believe you abandoned me.

  We JUST graduated like ten seconds ago.

  What am I supposed to do with myself all summer?

  Anna, hello?

  A guilty twinge in my chest says I should have given Kaylee more of a heads-up about my summer plans, but I knew she’d react like this. I close out of my messages and make sure my ringer is cranked all the way up in case the Bellamys call. By now, the platform has cleared out, and most of the parking lot too. I hope I’m in the right place. That I got the meeting time right. It would be just like me to fuck this all up, which is exactly why I’m here. To get out of Bay Ridge. Away from Kaylee. Away from myself. In two months, I’ll be a first-year at SUNY New Paltz while Kaylee starts community college in Brooklyn. We’ll both be starting new lives, or at least I will. But I can’t wait another two months. I need this fresh start now.

  I’m debating calling Emilia when a shiny black Lexus SUV pulls into the lot below. A man’s tan arm and face lean out of the window, peer up at me. “Anna Cicconi?” he asks. He’s handsome in a dad way, or at least he’s what I imagine a young, successful dad would look like. I used to have one of those. When I was a kid, he was always working. Now I barely remember his face.

  I give him a small, awkward wave. “Mr. Bellamy?”

  “Call me Tom,” he says, motioning me over. Backpack over one shoulder, purple monster wheeling behind me, I make my way down the ramp.

  * * *

  It’s a quick ten minutes from the train station into Herron Mills, one of the many ocean-side towns dotting the southeastern shore of Long Island like jewels on a sandy crown. To my surprise, we pass as much farmland as we do art galleries and private homes on our drive toward the shore. The sun flares low and hot and orange against the tree line. I squint into it, trying to take it all in. I haven’t seen the water yet, but this is definitely not Brooklyn.

  “First time in the Hamptons?” Tom asks.

  I turn my head toward him, tearing my eyes from the hedgerows and entrance gates that obscure what promise to be jaw-dropping houses from public view. “Yeah. Yes. I think so, anyway.”

  My interview for the nanny position took place last month, in Manhattan. I met Emilia and Paisley on the terrace café at MoMA, and the three of us spent the afternoon together. Emilia paid for my iced tea but not my entry to the museum. They probably have a membership. I guess little things like fourteen-dollar student tickets don’t cross your mind when you’re rich. In my lap, my hands clench and unclench.

  “Then let me give you the lay of the land,” Tom says. His teeth flash white and straight against his tan skin. The weather just warmed up last week; I wonder how he’s had the chance to spend so much time in the sun. “The Hamptons stretch along the East End of Long Island. Twenty or so hamlets and villages in all. We’re on the South Fork, the branch of the peninsula that meets the Atlantic. To our north is the bay, then the North Fork.”

  “Got it.” I did look at Google Maps. Maybe not until I was packing this morning, but still. I’m hoping for more local history, less geography, but I don’t want to be impolite.

  “Herron Mills is one of the oldest villages, so you’ll see a real mix of architecture, everything from Dutch colonial to very modern. And Restoration everything. Clovelly Cottage is English country traditional, so it blends in with the older architecture on Linden Lane, but it’s a 2011 construction. We’ve made a few updates over the years, but we bought it turnkey because Emilia needed to be settled before Paisley came. Barely made it too; we closed in late February and she went into labor three weeks later.”

  I nod and pretend I’m following more than every second word out of Tom’s mouth. Clovelly Cottage, I’ve gathered from my exchanges with Emilia, is the name of the Bellamys’ home. Because of course these people name their houses. They’ve been here eight years if they moved in the year Paisley was born. Everything else, I guess I’ll figure it out when we get there.

  “Where did you move from?” I ask.

  “Upper West. Great commute, but Emilia didn’t want to raise a family in the city.” He shrugs. “Everything’s a trade-off.”

  Tom slows down as we turn onto Main Street. Everything’s Tory Burch and Ralph Lauren and what looks like a small house converted into a pop-up shop for Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle line. It’s like they took a slice of Fifth Avenue and plopped it down on a quaint, tree-lined village street with brick sidewalks and an abundance of benches and parking.

  “This isn’t the most direct route home, but I wanted you to see downtown before it gets dark. I’m sure Paisley will drag you into town tomorrow. Or to the beach.”

  I close my eyes for a second and hope for the beach. I can hear my phone chirping again, surely another series of pissed-off texts from Kaylee, and reach into my backpack to turn the ringer down.

  We take another couple turns off Main Street, and then Tom’s steering us onto Linden Lane. He slows down again. “This first house is Seacrest. Belongs to the Fulton-Barrs, our newest neighbors. Jeffrey and Arvin had it designed by Michael Kent, which you can see in the angles and use of glass.” I tilt my head to peek out the window. The house is set back on the property and concealed partly by a privacy hedge. Only the second floor is visible from the road, or what I assume to be the second floor, because Seacrest is all sweeping glass windows and sharp angles that make no structural sense. I can’t tell if the building is actually futuristic or more like a model of what some architect in the seventies thought the future would look like.

  “Hideous, right?” Tom laughs, and I’m so relieved, I laugh too. “Seven point two million. It’s what we call a starter home around here.”

  I swallow to keep my jaw from dropping open. A starter home?

  “This next one’s Magnolia House. 1920s construction, still in great condition. Kyra and Jacques take excellent care of the place. Can’t see much from the road, but it’s the largest property on the block, a full five acres. Real beauty. And this”—Tom slows the car to an almost stop, and I crane my neck to get a good look—“is Windermere. Owned by the Talbot family since the estate’s construction in 1894. Real shame how they’ve let the place go these past few years.”

  What was once a privacy hedge has grown to soaring and unsteady heights along the side of the road. Through gaps where the shrubbery has parted, made flimsy in its reach for the sky, I can catch glimpses of a stone drive leading to a large, wood-shingled house with vines creeping up the walls and white-painted columns. The house is three stories, plus what looks to be a steepled attic up top. A long balcony terrace wraps around what I can see of the third floor, and an unused porch swing and several rocking chairs populate a front porch on the ground level. It’s beautiful and creepy all at once. Gothic. Through the leaves, I think I see the front door open, a tall shape step onto the porch. But before I can be sure, we’re driving on, and Windermere is swallowed again in a curtain of green.

  “Who lives there?” I ask.

  “Meredith Talbot’s the sole owner now; her husband left her widowed about fourteen years ago. Their son Caden’s home from Yale this summer, looking after things.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Yale, naturally. The thought of having someone
close in age nearby is nice, but I’m sure he has more important things to do than befriend the nanny next door. Before I can give Caden Talbot too much thought, we’ve pulled up in front of what must be Clovelly Cottage, and Tom is pressing the remote to open the entry gate. Two sturdy wooden panels on stone pillars part to swing soundlessly inward on their hinges, and we drive on through.

  For a moment, all I can see are lush green trees to my right and a long line of flowering bushes to my left, in full powder-pink bloom in front of still more trees. As we curve around the end of the long, pebbled drive, a building slowly emerges.

  “This,” Tom says, “is your home for the summer. Welcome to Clovelly Cottage.”

  What stands before us is hardly a cottage. It’s not even a house. Clovelly Cottage is nothing short of a mansion. I can see at once what Tom meant by the building blending in with the older architecture in the area. The estate is clearly in pristine condition, but it doesn’t look like something built in 2011. Unlike the oddly angled Seacrest down the street, Clovelly Cottage is perfectly symmetrical and very grand. The front of the house displays two clear wings joined by a rectangular midsection with a curved front entry. The house is painted a dusky rose, one shade darker than the flowering bushes we passed on the ride in. It looks like it belongs in the English countryside, surrounded by windy moors and horse-drawn carriages, which I guess is the point. English country traditional, Tom called it.

  He steers us around a stone fountain big enough to fulfill a child’s swimming fantasies and shifts the car into park in the circular band of driveway abutting the front door. With the house to my right, I can see that, beyond the fountain, the trees and flowering bushes give way to a private tennis court, its crisp turf and netting concealed entirely from the road. My palms feel clammy all of a sudden, and I wish again for pockets I could shove them into.

  “Do you play?” Tom asks, catching me looking.

  I shake my head, no. My hair falls forward into my face, and I lift my arms to tame it, grateful for something to do with my hands. I thought about cutting it after graduation, a new look to go with the new Anna, but I love my hair too much to crop it off. It’s my best feature.

  “Well, maybe you’ll pick it up. We have plenty of spare rackets. I’m sure Paisley would be thrilled to have a new opponent.”

  I nod gamely and wonder if I’ll have any time to squeeze in some practice before getting my butt handed to me by an eight-year-old. I don’t tell Tom I’ve never held a tennis racket in my life.

  “Come on,” he says, swinging his door open and stepping out onto the drive. “Paisley is dying to see you. She’s been chattering nonstop all day. One of the many reasons I don’t make a habit of working from home.” Tom explains that I’m unlikely to see him much during the week, from this point forward. Monday through Thursday, he stays in an apartment in the Financial District. He’s only home today to meet me, then he’ll disappear into the city before I’m awake tomorrow.

  I swing my door open too and grab my backpack from the floor while Tom pops the trunk and effortlessly hefts the purple monster from the back. The sun has dipped now behind the house, and I prop my sunglasses back on top of my head to get a better look. It’s stately. I guess that’s the right word. The house embodies the same mix of classic beauty and money that seems to seep out of the Bellamys’ pores.

  “Emilia wasn’t kidding,” Tom says, appearing suddenly next to me. “You really do look just like her.”

  Before I can ask who she is, the front door bursts open and Paisley runs out and down the three stone steps to the drive, fine blond hair and eponymous green paisley sundress streaming behind her. Emilia stands in the open doorway in pressed linen pants, a pale blue blouse, and a matching linen blazer. She gives me a smile and neat wave. Paisley comes to a sudden halt before her father and me, clearly conflicted about who to wrap her arms around first.

  “Hey, angel,” Tom says, crouching down to pull his daughter into a quick hug, then spinning her to face me. “You remember Anna, right?”

  “Hi, Paisley.” I crouch down too, then stick out my hand. She takes it solemnly in hers and gives me a firm shake.

  “It’s lovely to see you, Anna,” she says, her voice too small and lilting for the formality of her words.

  My lips part into a grin. She’s as precocious and charming as I remember. I’m going to be the best version of myself for this little girl, all summer long. It’s the promise I made when I took this job. To the Bellamys, but mostly to myself. This is my new leaf. Anything short of flawless is not an option.

  “Well, it’s lovely to see you too.” I give her hand a small squeeze, then push myself back up. “You want to show me inside?”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, we’ve nearly completed the Clovelly Cottage tour, although Paisley pulls me from room to room so fast, I’m sure I’ve missed everything. Emilia attempts to supplement Paisley’s commentary—this is the best room for playing pretend; this is the window through which she saw three baby bunnies once—with a litany of design details, but before she can finish, Paisley’s impatient and tugging me toward the next tour stop.

  I learn that the kitchen counter is navy soapstone from a local stone yard, which mirrors the navy ceiling. It’s a high gloss paint that Emilia calls “brilliant,” to match the effect of the stainless steel and navy detailing throughout. My gaze lingers a moment too long on the glass-front cabinet displaying the Bellamys’ impressive collection of top shelf booze. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I tear my eyes away before Tom or Emilia catch me staring. I hope.

  The living room is something called “double height,” which I take to mean it extends for the height of two floors. The family room, which houses Paisley’s complete Disney princess DVD collection, is outfitted with a “beachy” natural fiber rug in a color that matches Emilia’s linen pants and blazer. The “character grade” oak throughout gestures toward a turn of the century home. Tom points to the imperfections on the hallway floor as we crest the top of the stairs to the second level, which he notes have been retained intentionally to give the floors an older feel. Christ. Next-level privilege at its finest.

  The house has six bedrooms and four full baths on the upper floor, plus a fully finished lower level complete with a game room and wine cellar with white, glazed-brick walls like you’d find in a French bistro in the city.

  Outside, on what Tom calls an “adequate” two point two acres of land that look vast to me, are the tennis court we saw before and a detached garage to the side of the house. Around the back is the most beautiful swimming pool I’ve ever seen. Guess Paisley doesn’t need to splash around in the fountain. The water spills off the long end facing the tree line in what Emilia calls an “infinity edge.” There’s a hot tub on one end and a pool house on the other, which Emilia explains is a fully equipped guest cottage with its own bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen—and will be my home for the summer.

  “You’re welcome, of course, to take one of the guest bedrooms instead,” she offers. “It’s entirely up to you, if you’d prefer to be in the main house. But we thought you might like a little privacy.”

  “Some separation between work and life, at least at night,” Tom adds. “We know this job can be a bit …”

  “… consuming,” Emilia finishes for him. “Lindsay, our last au pair, was with us for four summers. She loved the job, but she always did appreciate having her own space out here.”

  Paisley squeezes my hand, and I bite my lip at Emilia’s use of the term au pair. It’s how they listed the job, what she said during our interview. I looked it up; technically, you’re only an au pair if you come to work from a different country, in a specific kind of exchange agreement. But Brooklyn may as well be a different country. There’s plenty of money in New York City, but there’s nothing like this. The wide-open green space. The quiet. The stars just starting to glint like tiny flashbulbs in the sky. The stench of privilege is everywhere, but beneath it, there’s something undeniably
peaceful. I can be a new person here. Responsible, better. I can feel it.

  “This will be perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Paisley points up, and I follow her gaze. “That’s Ursa Major,” she says, tracing the stars with her fingertip. “And Ursa Minor.”

  “You’re into astronomy?”

  She nods. “I’m learning all the constellations. But it’s easier to practice in the winter, when it gets dark early.”

  As if on cue, bright lights blink on all around the pool, and the water shimmers and shifts in the yellow glow. It’s a quarter after eight and just getting dark.

  “Why don’t you drop your things inside, and then we’ll eat,” Emilia says. “We usually sit down to dinner much earlier, but tonight we wanted to wait until you arrived. Mary’s making salmon and new potatoes.”

  My stomach rumbles. I was too nervous to eat lunch, and some chips and half a crushed granola bar on the train were hardly a meal. “That sounds great.”

  “Good,” Paisley says, releasing my hand for the first time since we stepped outside and tilting her head back to look me straight in the eyes. “Because it’s almost my bedtime, and I’m starving.”

  I smile down at her, and I know I made the right choice this summer, despite my mother’s empty protests that she needed me at home for reasons she couldn’t define, despite Kaylee’s decree that I’ve abandoned her. If she wants to give anyone shit for leaving, it should be Starr. She’s been in Orlando for months now, and without her around to match my best friend’s thirst for the next party, next high, next adventure, all the pressure to keep up with Kaylee has fallen to me. On nights we’re not drinking, it’s pills pilfered from my mom’s stash or vaping with Mike and Ian. Before Starr left, I used to hole up at home and recharge for days at a time. But with just Kay and me, there’s been something frenetic in the air, charged and ready to spark. The last months of senior year were a hazy, thrilling blaze—but they were also exhausting.