Pretty Things

by Janelle Brown

  “Los Angeles?” He enunciates the syllables as if sounding out the name of an exotic destination. “What makes you think I’ve been to Los Angeles?”

  “I saw it programmed in the destination history in your car. It was the first address in the list.”

  A mottled purple shadow darkens his face. He stares at me, his jaw tucking tight into his chin. “For fuck’s sake, Vanessa. You’re checking up on me? You’re spying?” He paces around the island until he’s on the same side as me, standing too close, his chest thrust out in a pugilistic stance. “We’ve barely been married a month and you’re already turning into a jealous wife? What next, you’re going to start looking at my text messages and my emails? Jaysus fuck.” His hands are clenched into fists that tremble at his side, as if waiting to be unleashed.

  “Michael, you’re scaring me,” I whisper.

  He looks down at his fists, and releases them. I can see the white crescents where his fingers were digging into his palms. “And you’re scaring me. I thought we had something special, Vanessa. Jaysus, what happened to trust?”

  “We do have something special.” What have I done? I stumble over myself with apologies. “No, I swear. I wasn’t spying. I came across it by mistake. It just…I didn’t understand, because you said you went to Portland…and the history said Los Angeles.” I want to cry.

  He’s breathing heavily. “I did go to Portland.”

  “But Portland wasn’t in the list of addresses…”

  “Because I didn’t need directions! I know how to drive to my own goddamn house!”

  He’s still towering over me; I feel tiny in the face of his fury. And I think, If I upset him he might leave and then I’ll be alone again. “OK,” I say, hating how pathetic my voice sounds. “But I still don’t understand why there’s a Los Angeles address in the destination history.”

  “Christ, Vanessa. I. Don’t. Know.” He throws himself down on a stool and buries his head in his arms. I stand there, helpless. Have I ruined everything? The kitchen is silent, except for our labored breathing. And then, suddenly, he lifts his head, and he’s smiling. He grabs my hand and pulls me onto his lap. “You know what? I figured it out. The car probably originated in Los Angeles, right? That’s where it came from, before they shipped it up to Reno. The address you saw was probably from the Los Angeles BMW dealership, or something along those lines.”

  “Oh.” I am flooded with relief. “OK, that makes sense.”

  He laughs. “Silly goose. What did you think? That I have a lover hidden in Los Angeles? That I’m living some kind of double life?” He cups his hand along my cheek, shakes his head with bemusement. What did I think? That Nina was in Los Angeles, and he’d gone looking for her. That he came back with a car full of his belongings that weren’t in Portland at all. And that would mean…what? That at least something of his history was a lie?

  But I prefer his version of events, even if it all feels just a hair too convenient.

  I put my hand over his, pressing it tighter against my cheek. “I don’t know very much about you, you know. We’re still strangers.”

  “My Vanessa, we’re not strangers in the ways it counts.” He tips my chin up, so that he’s looking directly into my eyes. “I’m not hiding anything from you, my love. I’m an open book, I swear. If you are worried about something, just ask me. Don’t snoop around behind my back, OK?”

  “I won’t,” I promise. I bury my face in his neck, because that seems like the safest place to be. He pulls my face up again and kisses me, and then picks me up in his arms and carries me up the stairs to the bedroom. And that’s it, the subject is closed. We’re both relieved to move on.

  * * *

  —

  Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

  We make martinis, we cook dinner, we chat about tomorrow’s plans for New Year’s Eve. It’s decided that we will leave the house, for a change, and go to a nice restaurant to celebrate. Things are shifting; we are settling into a new routine, ready to leave the cocoon and face the greater world. We smile, we laugh, we make love, and everything is fine.

  I think.

  * * *

  —

  New Year’s Eve. I have dragged another dress out of retirement, a wool Alexander Wang with leather detail. Tights, knee-high boots. Nothing too ostentatious: This is Tahoe after all. Most of the people at the restaurant will probably be in jeans.

  Michael has unearthed a suit from one of the duffel bags that he brought back from Oregon—a very modern Tom Ford, I’m surprised to note. It drapes easily across his shoulders and chest, perfectly tailored; he shoots his cuffs with a practiced flick of his wrists, as if he was born to wear formal clothes and not the lumberjack duds he’s been living in. I feel like I’m seeing a whole new side of him, a glimpse of the aristocratic life he was born into. Who knew that my academic husband followed men’s fashion trends? (I confess, I’m just a little pleased!)

  It’s like we’re playing at dress up, donning the roles of husband and wife for our first public appearance. He zips up my dress. I fiddle with the knot in his tie. We laugh at how conventional we are being, how domestic. I’m high on champagne, and happy: This is the fullest that Stonehaven has felt since my mother died and my brother landed in a mental institution. This is what I’ve longed for, for years. It feels like home.

  We have reservations at a lakefront restaurant in Tahoe City, where there will be live music and dancing. I settle into the passenger seat of his BMW. When I go to type the address into the navigation system I notice that the destination history has been completely erased. I sit back, say nothing. Michael turns on the radio and soft jazz swells from the surround-sound speakers. He reaches over and takes my hand, and I smile blankly out the windshield as we back out of the garage.

  The destination history has been erased. The Los Angeles address is gone.

  But it’s not gone, because I already memorized it. I already memorized it; and yesterday afternoon, while Michael was having his postcoital nap, I plugged the address into Google Maps. So I already know that it doesn’t belong to a BMW dealership at all. It belongs to a tiny, vine-covered bungalow in the hills of East Los Angeles.

  * * *

  —

  Why am I so relieved to discover that the New Year’s party is at a family-style restaurant? We are seated at long communal tables, surrounded by friendly strangers on all sides; strangers whose wine-soaked curiosity about Michael and me prevents us from having any one-on-one conversation. It’s been so long since I talked to anyone but Michael and Benny, and I feel positively high from all this human contact.

  Michael keeps his arm clenched possessively around my shoulders during the meal, proudly announcing to anyone who will listen that we are newlyweds, it was love at first sight, he swept me off my feet in a whirlwind romance. (Nina’s role in our history is quietly abandoned to the ash bin.) For a literary writer, he certainly enjoys a cliché. He makes me splay my hand out over the table, showing off the ring that rattles loosely on my finger. “An heirloom, from my family’s estate in Ireland,” he announces proudly.

  It feels so good to be the blushing bride, everyone admiring us; it squelches the murmur of doubt at the back of my mind. Maybe everything is fine! Maybe it’s just my own twisted brain that’s been interpreting the signs in the wrong way.

  The woman sitting next to me, the elderly wife of a venture capitalist from Palo Alto—herself dripping in diamonds—pulls my hand close to examine the ring and then gives me a funny little smile. “The first few months of marriage are the best, when you’re just screwing yourselves into oblivion,” she says to me, and gives my hand a squeeze. “Enjoy this time while you can. Because the blinders will eventually come off and what you see after that is never quite as pretty.” I look at her, startled—What does she know?—but of course, her gaze is blank, generically kind, and it’s just my ow
n fear whispering in my ear again.

  I drink some more to mute it.

  The food is good, the cocktails strong, the company pleasant. Michael is almost manic, ordering the waiter to bring a round of Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve to everyone at the table, and then leading a collective toast to our marriage. Then he orders another. We dance to a swing band (Michael is a quite capable dancer—another surprise!) and just before the clock strikes midnight the waiters circulate with complimentary prosecco. I’m breathless and giddy with drink, abandoning myself to the horn section, letting my husband swing me in increasingly out-of-control circles while I shriek with laughter. Everything is fine! Then it’s midnight, and everyone on the dance floor is cheering. Michael holds me tight to his chest and kisses me. “Farewell to the past, hello to the future. You are my future. Now and forever.”

  Maybe it’s the cheap prosecco mixing with the expensive whiskey, maybe it’s all the dancing, but when he spins me again, I feel like I’m going to throw up. “I think I need to go home,” I murmur.

  Michael pulls me off the dance floor. “Of course. I’ll settle up.”

  The waiter materializes with the check and Michael reaches for his wallet. “Two thousand forty-two. Jaysus, maybe I shouldn’t have bought that second round for everyone.” He laughs, seemingly unconcerned, but then freezes with his hand halfway to his pocket. “Oh God, I forgot. My credit card, I had to cancel it. Because of…you know. Her.”

  I reach for my evening bag. “I’ve got it.” I sign the bill, feeling my stomach clench at the ludicrous number, once again wondering how I’m going to tell Michael about our finances. Because as much as he protests that he doesn’t care at all about money, I’m starting to suspect that this isn’t quite true. We need to get to Ireland sooner rather than later, so he can tap into his inheritance.

  As I hand over my credit card to the waiter, I see that the venture capitalist’s wife has been watching us from across the room. She smiles thinly, and turns away.

  It’s snowing outside. Michael goes to retrieve the car, so that I won’t have to trudge through the slush in my designer shoes. I wait inside the restaurant’s vestibule, peering out the window at the icy street and the cars slowly slipping past. I feel someone come up behind me and turn to see the venture capitalist’s wife. She takes my hand and lifts it, so that we are both looking at the ring on my finger.

  “It’s not real,” she says quietly. “It’s not real, and it’s not an antique. A very good fake, but definitely not an heirloom.”

  I stare at the ring for a long time. Maybe he doesn’t know? “Are you sure?”

  She presses my palm between hers. “Honey. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. But yes.” Outside, the BMW slides silently into view, and I wait for Michael to climb out and come get me, but he stays behind the wheel. I stand frozen in the vestibule, waiting for my stomach to stop tying and untying itself in knots. Michael honks the horn, three short blasts that shatter the starless night.

  The venture capitalist’s wife winces. “I hope you got a prenup,” she says.

  And then, just like that, she’s gone. I wrap my scarf across my face, concealing my expression, and gird myself for the long drive back to Stonehaven.

  I feel like I’m driving back to jail.

  32.

  Week Seven

  MICHAEL’S BEEN ON THE PHONE in the study for days now, the door closed so that all I can hear as I walk past is the faint swing of his cadence as he speaks to someone in a low voice. He’s trying to locate Nina and recover his money, a project that seems to involve endless hours talking to lawyers and private investigators and the authorities in Oregon.

  I spend my waking hours lying in front of the fire in the library, my sketchbook open to an empty page on which I’m failing to draw. Here I am again; wasn’t finding love supposed to make all this go away? But this time, the dark chatter in the back of my mind isn’t about my worthlessness; instead, it’s about my fear. The faint whisper: What have you done?

  I’m listless, fatigued, nauseous; I haven’t drawn a thing since New Year’s. I feel acutely aware of my body, the uneasy shifting of my intestines and the dryness of my eyeballs against the backs of my lids. When I pick up the pencil I can feel the bones inside my hand, pressing against the lead. It’s unbearable.

  Instead, I lie here on the couch, huddled under blankets. The hives on my arms are back, and I scratch at them until they bleed, blooming red stains through the fabric of my robe. I barely even register the pain.

  This is where Michael finds me on the fourth day of the New Year. He materializes at the library door with a cup of tea for me, in my grandmother’s best rose china. “My love. You look awful.” He puts the tea on the coffee table and draws the blanket over my legs. “I’ll drive to Obexer’s and get you some chicken noodle soup, yeah?”

  I shudder. “Maybe later. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Drink your tea, then. Tea with milk and honey will fix any ill. That’s what my grandmother Alice back in Ireland used to say. Of course she also laced hers with whiskey, so maybe that’s why she felt so good.” He laughs, hands me the teacup, but I’ve grown tired of hearing about Grandma back in Ireland. (Another whisper of doubt: Does she even exist?) The liquid is so hot that I have to put it back down immediately. He draws a finger through a droplet of tea on the table, rubs it on his jeans. “Are you feeling well enough to talk?”

  “About what?”

  He settles on the couch next to me, his hand on my leg. “So, I’ve been talking to this private investigator, yeah? And he has a lead. He thinks Nina is in Paris, living large on the money she stole from me. But I can’t do anything about it as long as she’s there. We need to find a way to bring her back to the States—drag her back if need be—so that we can press charges against her. The lawyer suggested I hire this fixer he knows, someone who specializes in this kind of thing.”

  I frown. “In what kind of thing? Kidnapping? Couldn’t you just extradite her?”

  “Do you have any idea how long that will take? How many legal hoops we’ll have to jump through? You think she’s gonna stay in one place for long?” Michael sighs. “Look: She’s a thief, and an imposter. Apparently she’s been working her grift for years, faking identities so she could get close to wealthy people and rip them off. She stole from me, and I’m sure she was planning to steal from you, too. That must be why she brought me here in the first place. This place—it’s full of valuables, yeah? I think she was planning to slip some things in her pockets before leaving town.” It makes sense; I nod. “So then. She deserves whatever she gets, and if that means, say, knocking her out and then putting her on a private plane, so be it.”

  “Knocking her out—how? You mean, getting her drunk? Or are we talking about roofies here?”

  Michael’s fingers on my leg tighten and release, tighten and release. His hair has grown longer in the two months he’s been in Tahoe, and nearly touches his collar. He’s tucked it back behind his ears in a way that I don’t find particularly attractive. “Honestly, I would have thought you’d be happy to see her go down. I’m not sure why you’re ambivalent. Didn’t you try to poison her, for chrissake?”

  He’s right, of course. I remember the Visine that I squeezed into Nina’s drink, ages ago now. I was thirsting for revenge then, it’s true. But that was a harmless prank: a night spent over the toilet, nothing permanent. (Not poison! Not technically.) And yes, I stole her fiancé (and her ring) but that was love, and forgivable. Kidnapping sounds so…violating. And illegal. I imagine her waking up on a plane, her wrists bound, with no idea where she’s headed. The image isn’t satisfying; it’s disturbing.

  “It sounds like a complicated endeavor,” I murmur. “Legally dubious. And expensive.”

  He runs his hand up and down my leg. “Mmm. Actually, that’s what I need to talk to you about. The fixer and the private inves
tigator and the lawyer…they all work on retainer.”

  I suddenly see where this is going. “You need money.”

  “Temporarily. Until I disentangle my finances.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred-twenty.”

  I’m relieved. “A hundred and twenty dollars? Sure, I’ll get my checkbook.”

  He chuckles: So charming. “No, darling. A hundred twenty thousand dollars.”

  I pick up the tea again, and take a sip that scalds my tongue. It’s too strong and too sweet. The dark knot inside my belly is twisting and twisting and twisting. “Michael. Maybe you should just let it go. That’s an awful lot to spend on what sounds like a wild-goose chase. How much money of yours did she even take? I can’t imagine it’s worth the expenditure.”

  He stares at me. “It’s the principle of the thing. She should pay for what she did.”

  “But she brought us together, too. So maybe we call it even and move on.”

  “If we don’t stop her, she’ll just go on to target other people. And it will be our fault.”

  “But isn’t that the job of the police?”

  He jumps up and starts pacing the room. “I called the police. They said their hands were tied because we had set up joint accounts, so it was my fault. It’s up to me to bring her to justice. It’s up to us.” He picks up the poker and prods at the dying fire, sending sparks flying. “Vanessa. I can’t believe you’re fighting me about this. With all the money you have at your disposal.”

  This is the moment. “Actually, I don’t have any money at my disposal.”

  He laughs. “Very funny.”

  “I’m dead serious, Michael. I don’t have much money. Not that I can give you.”

  He stands turning the poker in his hand, the light from the fireplace reflecting shadows across his face. “You mean it’s not liquid.”