The Siren

by Katherine St. John

  The room phone rings and Stella answers. “Felicity,” she calls after a moment. “It’s Taylor, confirming our info for our plane tickets.”

  Good damn thing I legally changed my name before all this. I take the handset from her. “Hi, Taylor. I thought you weren’t booking tickets until five.”

  Taylor and Jackson had held a crew meeting this morning at breakfast, during which they’d announced the impending hurricane and given everyone until five this evening to decide whether they wanted to shelter on Saint Ann or fly out.

  “The flights are all full,” she says. “I’m gonna have to charter a jet, so I need to get a head count. Are you guys flying?”

  “A jet?” I ask, surprised. “How’d you convince Cole to pay for that?”

  “Jackson’s paying for it.”

  My heart involuntarily swells with—I don’t know what. “Jesus.”

  “What?” Stella asks.

  “Jackson’s chartering a jet,” I tell her. “Do we want to go with them?”

  Stella throws a thumbs-up as there’s a rapping at the door.

  “We’re in,” I say into the phone.

  After I hang up, I answer the door to find none other than Jackson himself outside, shading his eyes against the noonday sun. “You talk to Taylor yet?” he asks.

  “I just got off the phone with her. A jet, huh?”

  He tucks a strand of unruly dark hair behind his ear, a mannerism I’ve come to recognize means he’s stressed. “No other way out at this point, and I’m not gonna risk the lives of my crew. I’m headed up to the restaurant to grab some lunch. Come with?”

  “Sure.” I slip on my flip-flops and sunglasses and call out to Stella, “I’m going to get food with Jackson. You want anything?”

  “I’m good,” she returns.

  I sneak a glance at Jackson as we stride down the dock together beneath the cloudless blue sky. He’s tanned and has put on some muscle in his shoulders from working out with Cole’s trainer, which he credits with reducing his stress level. There’s no doubt that the shoot—and especially working with his father—has been trying. But he thrives on set. He’s in his element working with the crew and the actors to make each scene come to life. He really encourages a collaborative creative environment, listening to the desires of each department and implementing them when possible, always holding on to the ideal of what’s best for the film. He’s well liked and respected by everyone except for Cole, who undermines him every chance he gets. Cole’s the one with the jealous streak, not Stella, and he can’t stand it that his son is more loved than he is.

  Jackson did almost recognize me the first time he saw me, though of course I denied ever having met him. It was the first day we’d arrived, and I was sunbathing on a rock that jutted out over the turquoise water when he swam over to say hello. He welcomed me to the island, thanked me for coming down, and asked what department I was in. I noticed him looking at me funny as I told him I was Stella’s assistant.

  “Have we met?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  “You look so familiar.”

  “People always think I’m some girl on a show about teenage vampires,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ve never seen it.”

  This was always a valid explanation in LA, where you could never be sure whether the cute guy in line behind you at the juice bar was familiar because you’d crossed paths in real life, or he was mildly famous.

  “Maybe that’s it.” He shrugged. “Or maybe we met at a party or something and I embarrassed myself trying to talk to you.”

  “Maybe,” I’d said, laughing to cover up my surprise at how close he was to the truth. “But I don’t remember.”

  At which point he splashed me.

  Part of my plan had been to get close to him in hopes of gleaning some information relating to my mother’s death—a task I’d looked forward to after our brief meeting at the Blue Cat—but I’ve found myself unable to complete the seduction. The problem isn’t a lack of desire. I see the way he looks at me; all it would take is a well-timed knock on his bungalow door and I’d be a permanent fixture in his bed. The problem is me.

  It’s not that I don’t want him. Truth be told, I’d love nothing more than to dive into bed with him, and in the privacy of my own room at night I fantasize about it with an unfamiliar longing that’s never satisfied when I finish myself off. But I can’t deceive him. Or rather, I don’t want to.

  There’s this infectious openness to him, an honesty about who he is and what he wants, a curiosity about life along with a willingness to embrace its beauty and strangeness without shying away from the unpleasant parts. He has no need for a coat of armor made of irony and cynicism; he comes bare-chested with sincerity and humor. If I make him sound unsophisticated or naive, then I misrepresent. He’s generally the smartest person in the room; he chooses candor.

  Complicating things is the fact that he’s declared it his mission to make me laugh. I’ve never been a person who laughs a lot, not having had any friends, but he’s sought out my sense of humor until he knows exactly what to say or what look to give me across a room to coax the unfamiliar fizz of delight from my throat.

  He’s confided in me about growing up with a mother more interested in partying with her model friends than raising a son and a father for whom he was nothing more than a photo op; told me horrifying tales of boarding school in Switzerland and wild stories about his gap year in India and the resulting passion for yoga, which he credits with saving his life. Never, though, has he come close to saying anything about Iris.

  It would have been easier if he were self-centered and satisfied with talking about himself, but no such luck. He asks me endless questions about my life, my convictions, my aspirations—which I answer as truthfully as I can. The aspirations are easy: I don’t know. I haven’t gone to college. It’s not too late, but I don’t know what I’d study—I can’t see myself as a lawyer or a doctor or an HR director. I enjoy acting—wearing the face of a character is both exhilarating and liberating—but especially after getting to know Stella, I’m not sure I want to be chewed up and spit out by the entertainment industry (a sentiment he understands). What I can’t tell him, of course, is that the only thing I’ve ever really wanted is to take revenge on my mother’s killer, which seems more and more likely to be his father.

  Convictions are more difficult—what do I believe in? My go-to answer has always been an eye for an eye. But I’m beginning to understand that life is sometimes more complicated than that.

  I’ve been as honest as I can about my history; I’ve shared that my mother died and I never knew my father, and he respected my wishes when I told him it was too painful to discuss. I’ve confessed my lonely adolescence with my grandparents and the horrors of their church, careful to substitute New Hampshire for Pennsylvania in keeping with what I’d told Stella. I haven’t told him that in the past few weeks I’ve become closer with him than I’ve ever allowed myself to be with a man, or anyone for that matter—but I think he knows.

  We tromp down the stairs to the empty beach and kick off our sandals to trek across the soft sand. The waves are high, but other than that, there’s still no sign of the storm. “We never should have shot down here in hurricane season.” He sighs. “Taylor and I tried and tried to talk Cole out of it, but he insisted. It was the only time he’d do it. It’s all gonna be over if the storm comes this way. There won’t be any more movie. It may already be over. The crew may not even come back.”

  “But they love you,” I protest.

  “Not as much as they hate my dad.” He shakes his head. “It’s strange—regardless of how he is to those closest to him, he can usually make a crew love him. But this time it’s like he’s not even trying. There’s something different about him. I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.”

  “Hate to be the one to tell you, but your dad’s a dick,” I whisper.

  “That’s not exactly new information.” At the tree line, we slip
our shoes back on to walk up the shaded path through the ferns and white flowering plants toward the restaurant. “He’s only producing this movie to bribe me, anyway.”

  My ears perk up. “What do you mean?”

  He pushes his Wayfarers up on his nose as we start up the wide stairway that curves around the blue tiled waterfall wall to the pool area. “It’s a long story.”

  “I got time,” I return too quickly.

  “It’s not explicit. He didn’t come out and say he was bribing me, but we both know it. There are…things that happened when I was a kid that he wishes I didn’t know about.”

  This is the closest he’s ever come to alluding to my mother. I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Like what?”

  But we’ve reached the pool deck, and he gestures to the hive of activity on the restaurant patio up ahead. “Now’s not the time.”

  I grab his arm and turn him toward me. “You’re seriously gonna drop the bomb your father is bribing you and then you say it’s ‘not the time’ to tell me why? That’s mean!”

  I expect him to laugh with me, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry.” He lowers his voice and pulls me into the shade of an orange-flowering flamboyant tree at the edge of the deck. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just really angry at this whole situation—at myself as much as I am at him. The fact I let him bribe me and set the terms, the way he’s behaved since we’ve been here, and now that the entire movie’s going to just whoosh! Disappear because of a storm.” He sighs. “It’s appropriate though. He doesn’t deserve success, and neither do I.”

  Is this what the guilt of keeping quiet about my mother’s death has done to him? The irony is that it’s exactly what I would have wanted before I got to know him. But now…Now my feelings are more complicated. “What are you talking about? Of course you deserve success. You’re really good at what you do—you’re a great writer and director and everybody loves you.” It’s all true. “No one deserves it more than you.”

  “The only reason I’m here is because my asshole dad is famous.”

  “So? What does that matter? Make it work for you. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? Don’t be a little bitch.”

  He raises his eyebrows, and his dimple deepens, a sure sign he’s holding back a smile. “A little bitch, huh?”

  I shrug. “I’m surprised to hear this bullshit coming from you. You never seemed like the type to feel sorry for yourself.”

  He laughs. “No holds barred. See, this is why I like you, Felicity Fox.” He narrows his eyes at me. “How’d you get a name like that, anyway?”

  I mirror him. “Now’s not the time.” I smirk.

  I can feel his eyes on me as I stride across the sun-splashed deck toward the restaurant.

  Stella

  The calm before the storm stretched over the island like a cat in the sun. I stood on the porch of my bungalow gazing out at the line where the powder-blue sky met the cerulean of the sea, searching for signs of what was to come, but none were apparent. The air was still and thick, the heat oppressive with no wind to disrupt it. I raised my sweating glass to my lips and took a long, sweet draw of ice-cold rum and ginger. The trick was to drink quickly, before the ice melted. I considered the dive pool, but I simply didn’t have the energy. Inside, Mary Elizabeth yapped at a school of fish visible through one of the glass windows on the floor. I stepped back into the blasting air-conditioning, silently glided the door closed behind me, and returned to my post on the couch.

  After endless debate, the weather reporters all agreed: Hurricane Celia was headed straight for our idyllic island. All day, resort employees had been hastily closing the storm shutters, placing sandbags, and doing something to the edges of the roofs in preparation for her arrival. Felicity had thrown most of my clothes into my suitcase in anticipation of our departure tomorrow morning, but I hadn’t let her pack my makeup and toiletries yet. We still had plenty of time.

  Where was Felicity? It felt like it had been hours since she’d left for lunch with Jackson, but a check of my phone revealed she’d been gone only twenty minutes, which meant I still had two hours until it was time for another A-pill, regardless of how anxious I was. It was never time yet. I felt like my whole life I was always waiting for it to be time.

  I still didn’t quite know what to think of Jackson. I knew I should be suspicious of him now after all Cole told me, but was Cole really to be trusted? The fact that Jackson was spending God-only-knows-what to charter a plane to fly his crew to safety sure didn’t line up with Cole’s claims, and truth be told, I’d always liked Jackson when he was a boy. I’d only spent a short time with him, of course, but he never treated me like the evil stepmonster; he was always so kind and easy that he made me yearn for children of my own, which of course made my failed pregnancy only more crushing.

  He’d been kind to me now as well, and he was obviously head over heels for Felicity. I was happy for her. He wasn’t classically handsome like his father, but he had that dimple, and his complete lack of self-consciousness was sexy. Plus, if she decided she wanted a career as an actress, it couldn’t hurt that he was a budding director with a famous father. It was obvious Felicity was equally as smitten with him as he was with her, but she assured me she wasn’t sleeping with him. I couldn’t fathom why; I sure would have been. I yearned for the foolish passion of young love, unfettered by caveats and baggage. They didn’t know how lucky they were.

  I poured myself another rum, skipping the ginger this time. My weather reporter friends Ed and Roberta (what a name, poor girl) weren’t giving me any new information, so I finally grabbed the remote and switched the channel. Nothing but hurricane coverage on every station. I didn’t need any more hurricane coverage. The hurricane was coming; I got it. I could have been the reporter at this point; I had all their lines memorized. Perhaps I should have been a weather girl. I liked the weather, and they always wore such cute outfits.

  I switched to the resort’s On Demand feature and scrolled through endless movie titles. There was a whole section devoted to movies with Cole in them—as a troubled trust fund kid in Bad Boy, a vigilante cop in Bloodhound, a charming but ruthless double agent in the Gentleman Gangster series, and of course, right there in the middle of the list was the film we did together. Faster. The catalyst. Ironic that it was about a relationship that moved at the speed of light and crashed spectacularly. If I’d never done that film, never met him, where would my life be today?

  The poster featured our thirteen-years-younger faces staring longingly into each other’s eyes. The passion was real; I was in love with him when we shot that poster and believed he was in love with me—though now I wondered if he was even capable of real love. The photo shoot had been the week before we ran off to Vegas and got married. We’d been fucking like rabbits for a whole six weeks, and he had me completely convinced he was my knight in shining armor—back when I thought I needed a knight in shining armor, which of course he wasn’t anyway. But at the time I was addicted to him. Everyone on the crew was tittering behind our backs because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, but we didn’t care. It would be funny if it hadn’t all turned out so sad.

  Sometimes I felt like the Ghost of Christmas Past, visiting myself in happier times. I drew out the golden moments with an appreciation I never had when living through them: nights in satin and diamonds, the scent of freshly applied lipstick and the pop of the flashbulbs as the velvet rope lifted; press junkets in foreign cities, signing autographs for smiling fans whose languages I didn’t speak; the stick of pine needles beneath my knees and frost on my skin, fanning the ephemeral flame of truth for the camera. Watching an old movie I’d done was like a portal into the past.

  I selected Faster and settled into the pillows with Mary Elizabeth in my lap. The piano riff to “Mad World” began to play beneath the familiar credit sequence, and there I was. Splendor in the springtime of life. My skin lustrous, my eyes bright, not a wrinkle in sight—I really wa
s something. The deep emerald-green evening dress I was wearing clung to my curves and dipped nearly to my belly button, revealing legs for days and perky side boob every time I moved. I’d loved that dress. I kept it after we wrapped, but burned it after Iris…

  Without warning, the vision of Iris wearing that dress filled my mind, spinning in circles so fast she crashed into my bed, dizzy. The moment I knew I wasn’t in love with Cole anymore.

  Iris loved that dress even more than I did. She liked to put it on and imitate my lines until we collapsed in a heap of giggles. That’s the thing I remembered most about Iris: the laughter.

  But I couldn’t think of Iris.

  Iris standing on the diving board of my pool, turning back to smile with the sun in her hair before plunging into the shimmering blue.

  Iris humming off-key while cooking dinner in the kitchen, a glass of red wine in hand.

  I’d been so good in recent years about not thinking of Iris, but spending time with Cole had opened Pandora’s box. I couldn’t help myself; all the memories from that time were fighting to get out, clawing their way to the surface.

  Thirteen years and I hadn’t told a soul.

  I wiped my cheeks and realized that I was crying. Silly after so many years to still be so emotional. But I couldn’t help it when I thought of the future we had planned, all gone in an instant, as though it had never even existed. She was the only person who had ever truly loved me for myself, and I’d never been allowed to mourn her.

  I scooped up Mary Elizabeth and wandered into my room, where I rifled through my suitcase in search of the sketches I kept neatly folded inside the jacket of my signed copy of Uta Hagen’s Respect for Acting. I sat on the bed and removed the jacket, carefully spreading the drawings out on the down comforter. The light streamed through the windows, illuminating the yellowed paper and faded colored pencil. The first sketch was of me, naked, looking over my shoulder at the artist, the green dress dangling from my hand. The second depicted Iris, also naked and lying with her head on a pillow, her eyes closed and her flaxen hair spread out around her, the way she was when I first laid eyes on her. A sleeping beauty.