by Kit Frick
“Guess that’s how you can watch so many scary movies.”
“Hmm. Never really thought about it, but you might be right, Anna Cicconi.”
* * *
Back on Linden Lane, Caden and I part ways with a wave. The Arling Windmill is still in my head as I walk down the drive toward Clovelly Cottage, then round the corner of the house toward the pool deck. It’s a horrible story, however much is true. I can’t unsee the image of a tiny blond girl tumbling down the steps to her death. Her broken body at the base of the stairs, the spectral gleam of her face in the grubby windmill window. I shove my hands deep into my pockets.
When I get to the deck, I’m walking fast, eager to get inside the pool house and close the door behind me. But the broad shape of a body, blacked out in silhouette against the bedroom light I must have left on, stops me in my tracks.
“Anna.”
It’s a woman’s voice, but not one I can easily place. The breeze tugs at her dress, or maybe it’s a nightgown, and the fabric billows out, making her appear oddly shapeless. Ghostly. I press my lips between my teeth, try to shake myself free from Caden’s silly ghost stories.
“Yes?” I can’t keep the tremble out of my voice.
She takes a step toward me, out of the light. I squint.
“I’m glad you’re home. I’d like the two of us to have a chat.”
She keeps walking forward. Two steps, three. I take a step back, feel for my phone in my pocket. When there’s about four feet between us, she comes into focus in the dark. Meredith Talbot, barefoot and wearing a nightgown that looks too hot and scratchy for summer.
She must have seen me with Caden, at the stable or in the film room. She knows I haven’t been staying away from Windermere like she asked. But when she comes to a stop in front of me, her body uncomfortably close to mine, it’s not Windermere she wants to talk about.
“You were seen in town with the Jenkins girl,” she says, a note of accusation in her voice. You were seen. Like I’ve violated some social code by hanging out with Martina. Someone must have spotted us at the ice-cream shop. My breath hitches. What had I been thinking, sitting in that front window? Anyone could have seen the flash drive on the table between us. Possibly even overheard our conversation. I press my lips together and wait for Mrs. Talbot to reveal her hand.
“I don’t know what you think you know,” she continues, “about my son. Martina Jenkins has already caused enough trouble with her podcast, pointing the finger at Caden. It’s irresponsible, implicating someone without any evidence. If that girl wants to be a journalist, she has a lot to learn. Preferably without dragging our family through the mud in the process.”
I breathe out. If she knew I had the flash drive, she would have said so by now. Looks like I’m just guilty by association, wrapped up in this bone Mrs. Talbot has to pick—somewhat understandably—with Martina.
She narrows her eyes at me. “We’ve been through enough,” she says after a beat, when I’m still silent. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. Befriending Caden, earning my son’s trust. Then running off and spilling … whatever he’s told you … to the Jenkins girl.”
Whatever he’s told you. So Mrs. Talbot knows that her son has something to hide. But she’s not going to spell it out for me because she doesn’t know how much I know. I breathe a little deeper.
Maybe she just means Caden’s engagement to Zoe, but I doubt it. If Herron Mills found out they were engaged, it would stir up some gossip, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But if everyone knew about “IdaBeWise,” how Caden was falling for someone else, looking for a way out of his relationship with Zoe right before she disappeared? Mrs. Talbot glares down at me, and there’s something behind the flash of scorn in her eyes. Fear.
Caden’s told me how much his mom loved Zoe. How close they were. But as much love as she had for her son’s fiancée, it’s clear that the person she’ll do anything to protect is Caden. I wish I could tell her that I don’t want Caden slandered either, that that’s exactly why I’ve been talking to Martina and not the police. At least until we know more.
“I should go inside,” I say carefully. I’m not planning to make any promises tonight that I can’t keep. “Do you need help getting back to Windermere?” Aside from the fact that she’s over here barefoot in her nightgown, she seems perfectly coherent—no evidence of the positive symptoms Caden mentioned earlier. But still, I can’t just leave her out here.
“I’m fine,” she snaps. “I’m not a child.”
“Of course not,” I mumble, stepping around her and toward the door. I wonder if Doreen and Caden have noticed she’s missing by now and resolve to shoot Caden a quick text as soon as she leaves.
“Good night, Mrs. Talbot.” I step inside and slide the pool house door closed.
* * *
Hours after Mrs. Talbot is back at Windermere—Caden apologized profusely, but I doubt he’d be so apologetic if he knew the whole story—I’m still wide awake. Around two o’clock, I give up and get dressed. My feet take me away from Clovelly Cottage, deeper into residential Herron Mills. The village may be small, but if tonight’s excursion to the windmill taught me anything, it’s that Herron Mills is hiding secrets I haven’t yet uncovered.
I’ve gone a couple miles when I arrive at a house that makes me stop short. I’m not sure why; it’s huge, set far back from the road, and shrouded in nighttime quiet. Which is to say, it’s just like every other house I’ve passed tonight. But there’s something so familiar about this place. Forty-Five Crescent Circle. I’ve been here before.
I close my eyes. My feet are still planted on the sidewalk, but my mind is in a room that feels warm and damp and smells earthy like a greenhouse. I breathe in deep, willing my memory to take over. To show me whatever it is this house is stirring up.
With my mind’s eye, I look around. I’m standing inside a glassed-in pool at the back of the house. There’s lush vegetation on all sides like some kind of enchanted tropical forest. The floor is an expanse of terra-cotta tile. Emerald-green vines crawl up bronze poles, and fuchsia and buttery yellow blooms spill from scores of hanging planters. Wisps of steam rise from the water, and a small waterfall trickles down a stone wall into the pool.
Eyes still closed, I look slowly to my left. Stretched out on lounge chairs are three girls in brightly colored bathing suits, drinking pink cocktails. Two of the girls look a lot like me.
I gasp, eyes flying open.
I’m back on the sidewalk, staring at the house in front of me. The air feels hot and thick with steam, a lingering thread of memory invading the present. My legs are weak from too much walking, too much sun, not enough sleep. I slump down in the grass in front of the entry gate and press my forehead into my hands.
I close my eyes, try to picture the girls again. See their faces. But this time, the memory is gone.
21 THEN
July
Herron Mills, NY
JULY SWELTERS. As the days tick by, a salty film descends upon everything and everyone in Herron Mills, making our skin itch and armpits sweat and drawing us like hungry gulls toward the ocean. Unlike in the city, there’s no sickly sweet garbage smell on Tuesdays or persistent cry of the Mr. Softee truck to break up the summer air. My days are a constant cycle of sunshine and beach salt and my nights a retreat into cool showers and air-conditioning.
I mostly avoid Caden for the next few days, finding it hard to strike the balance between keeping up appearances and accepting that he’s dishonest at best and dangerous at worst. On Wednesday, he texts me just as we’re wrapping up dinner. I excuse myself into the pool house.
You’re acting weird.
Huh?
Don’t tell me Emilia has you doing chores again at night. Do you have a secret boyfriend, Anna Cicconi?
The irony. I think fast.
Haha. The nonstop pace of the job is just getting to me. I was embarrassed to say I was going to sleep at 9:00.
Well if you can m
ake it up past your bedtime, we could do movie night again?
I can’t put him off much longer. My fingers hover over the screen.
Sure thing. Meet you out back at 7:30?
I put down the phone, then pick it right back up. I need to talk to Kaylee.
“Hey.” Kaylee’s voice is flat. I’m surprised she even picked up, given the fact that two very short texts are all I’ve gotten out of her since she went back to Brooklyn.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I say, “that Max guy hasn’t sent me a single text since we left his terrible party. He’s clearly no longer into me.”
“Max who?”
“Ha-ha.”
“Dude, it’s fine. Ian and I are back on again anyway.”
Ah. So that’s why Kaylee’s been MIA. I am not Ian Nussbaum’s biggest fan, mainly due to his inability to stay committed to Kaylee for more than two months at a time, but I have to admit I’m relieved her silence has been Ian related, not Anna related.
“Oh yeah? Tell me what’s new with Ian.”
As Kaylee fills me in on Ian’s latest million-dollar idea—a Meetup-style app for video gamers that would also bring you chips and beer—which actually sounds moderately interesting, and their plan to look for an apartment together in the fall, which sounds like a recipe for heartbreak and financial disaster rolled into one, my mind keeps cycling back to Fourth of July weekend. While I’m thrilled to hear that Kaylee is over it, I’m not sure I am.
To clarify, I am 100 percent over Max Adler, not that there was anything to get over in the first place. But Kaylee’s uncharacteristic ability to find her way to Bridgehampton unassisted; her snappy familiarity with the layout of the liquor store; her friend Becca that I could swear we don’t know from Brooklyn; her complete lack of questions about Herron Mills or the Hamptons in general? Maybe I’m overthinking things. Probably I am. But Saturday night’s strange memory, or whatever that was, has stayed with me. I think Kaylee might have been the third girl drinking cocktails at that glassed-in pool … Zoe, Kaylee, and me.
“Do you know a girl named Zoe Spanos?” I interrupt.
“Who?”
“Zoe Spanos. I think we might have partied with her last year, maybe over the summer or winter break?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. She one of Mike’s friends?”
“No, she’s from here. From Herron Mills,” I clarify.
“Girl, are you on that again?” Kaylee asks. “I told you I’ve never been out there before. Your digs are posh as shit. I think I’d remember.”
“Yeah, I know. I just thought … this Zoe girl, she looks a lot like me. Do you remember anyone like that?”
“A girl who looks just like you? Definitely not.”
“Forget it,” I sigh. My brain has been doing undeniably weird things all summer. What I said to Caden wasn’t a total lie—this job is all-consuming. Save for the not-so-restful break over the Fourth, I haven’t had a day off since I got here. I don’t get weekends. Paisley’s wonderful, and the Bellamys are great employers, but taking care of an eight-year-old is exhausting, and the constant string of workdays combined with too much sun and too many unsolved mysteries is starting to make my head swim.
I hang up with Kaylee, satisfied everything is back to normal between us, and change out of my dinner dress (one of my new ones, with pockets) and back into regular clothes before meeting up with Caden.
I still have a few minutes, so I head into the main house kitchen to poke around for movie snacks. I’m filling a Tupperware from a giant bag of rosemary olive oil popcorn when the Bellamys’ landline rings. It’s a 212 number, someone calling from Manhattan. Maybe Tom. I can hear Emilia upstairs with Paisley, so I pick up the phone.
“Bellamy residence.”
“Yeah, is Tom there?” a male voice asks. He sounds like he’s in a rush.
“He’s in the city during the week,” I supply. “Do you have his cell?”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Is this Emilia?”
“No, this is Anna. The nanny.”
Another pause. “And you’re sure he’s not there? Because he left the office early today.”
“Oh. I … I don’t know. I mean, no, he’s not here.”
The line goes dead.
I file that away under 1,000 percent not my business and pop the lid on the Tupperware.
* * *
When I come out on the other side of the trees between the two estates, I’m not prepared for the complete wreckage of the stable in front of me. I wasn’t expecting to see a brand new stable already erected in its place, but the scene looks basically untouched since the night of the fire. The ground is littered with ashes and charred slats of wood, and the surrounding grass is burned away. The rest of the lawn is still nicely mown, but the gaping, blackened eyesore in the back of the property kind of steals the stage.
“I’m getting a contractor out here next week,” Caden says. “I hope. As you might find unsurprising by now, Mom’s been difficult about the process. She wants her horses back, but the idea of letting multiple people onto the property to work isn’t easy for her. It’s going to take some cajoling.”
“Right.” I look up, and there she is—Meredith Talbot, darkening an upstairs window. She looks none too pleased to see me standing in the backyard with her son. I raise my hand in an apologetic wave.
“She really doesn’t like me,” I say to Caden.
“She doesn’t like new people, full stop. The fact that you look like Zoe doesn’t help, but if it makes you feel any better, she wouldn’t have liked you anyway.”
“Thanks … I guess.” We both laugh.
Caden leans back and blows a kiss up to his mother, who gives him a small smile before retreating from the window, back into Windermere.
“I wanted to ask you about something,” I say as we walk across the lawn, toward the back patio. “It’s about this place I remembered the other night.”
“A place in Herron Mills?” Caden asks.
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Okay, shoot.”
We sit at the patio table, and I describe the glassed-in pool with the crawling vines and muggy greenhouse air. Jake pushes through the back door and flops at Caden’s feet, tail twitching excitedly. I leave Zoe and Kaylee out of my description, focusing only on the setting. As I talk, I watch Caden’s mouth shift into a frown.
When I’m done, he’s stone silent.
“Does that … sound familiar to you at all?”
“When is this memory from?” Caden asks. There’s a hard edge to his voice.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “This is going to sound a little woo-woo, but it kind of came to me all of a sudden, while I was out walking in town the other night. So I’m not even sure it’s real.” But as the words spill out of my mouth, I know they’re not true. The glassed-in pool is very real. I can tell from the fixed way Caden is staring at me.
“The pool you’re describing belongs to the Spanos family,” he says finally. My heart stops. “George is a landscape architect; he had it custom designed. It’s certainly not the only glassed-in pool in the world, but it’s the only one around here with terra-cotta tiling and a waterfall and a jungle of tropical vegetation.” He leans forward on the patio chair, places his elbows on his knees. “When were you there, Anna?”
My mind is reeling. Of course it would be her house; I shouldn’t have said anything to Caden. But in my heart of hearts, I had expected him to tell me he’d never seen a pool like that. That my brain had cooked it up.
“I don’t know,” I splutter. “I’ve never been to Zoe’s house.”
“So you’re telling me a perfectly formed image of their pool just … came to you? Right down to the tiling and types of flowers?”
“Maybe I saw a picture somewhere?” I suggest. Over the past month, I’ve tapped Google dry for every scrap of information about Zoe I can find. Maybe my memory wasn’t a memory at all. I’d gotten too much su
n, and I’d been awake for over twenty hours. Maybe what I saw was just exhaustion combined with stuff I found online. I tell myself it’s possible. Out loud, I say, “Mrs. Spanos is a magazine editor, right? Did they ever do a photo shoot of their house?”
“How do you know what Joan does?” There’s more than a hint of suspicion in Caden’s voice.
I know this one. “It was in Martina’s podcast. The village historian said she worked at a travel magazine. If they ran a spread, I might have seen it online.”
“I guess …”
“I googled Herron Mills when I was interviewing for the job,” I hedge. “I looked at a bunch of blogs and articles.”
Caden sits back in his chair. “Maybe,” he says. “There could have been a profile. There are profiles of homes in the Hamptons all the time.”
“I swear I’ve never been there,” I backpedal. “I shouldn’t have called it a memory. I’ve never even met anyone in the Spanos family except Aster. And I just ran into her that one time outside Jenkins’ Creamery.”
“It’s weird, Anna. You described how it felt. How it smells in there. And you were dead-on.”
“I have an overactive imagination. When I was little, my mom said I was either going to grow up to be a writer or an inventor. She wasn’t far off—maybe that’s why I’m always sketching. Usually I channel all that imaginative stuff into my drawings. I should keep it on paper where it belongs.” I’m rambling. And Caden’s looking at me like he’s not sure what to make of my story. Not sure what to make of me.
“Huh,” he says finally. “Stranger and stranger.” He shoves himself back from the patio table and stands up. “Now are we going to watch that movie?”
* * *
When I start my walk back to Clovelly Cottage at ten thirty, I have a new message from Martina waiting.
Going through the Yale student directory online. It’s painful.
