Haven Point

by Virginia Hume

  In the rush to get out the door, Maren had little time to think, but now, as she left Dorothy to her plotting, her mind wandered. She had no idea what the woman looked like. She conjured a vision of her own physical opposite—someone dark and tiny, but voluptuous, maybe foreign. When her imagination painted in huge smoky eyes, she felt nauseous.

  She tried conceiving of a positive outcome. She would knock on Oliver’s door and find him alone, no woman in sight. The entire episode would turn out to be an explainable misunderstanding. She could not come up with the details to flesh out the scenario, but it ended with a wonderful, productive talk. He would be chastened that his remoteness could have led Maren to believe such a horrible thing was even possible. All would be well. As the city grew closer, she clung to the fantasy with all her might.

  By the time they pulled into a garage near the Waldorf, it was dark. They entered the hotel through a lesser-used entrance, and Dorothy outlined the plan.

  “You wait in the lobby while I check the bars and restaurants. If Oliver saw you down here, he could explain away anyone we found him with. If we catch him, it has to be in his room.”

  Maren did as she was told. As she stood, obscured in a darkish corner, hopes for her fantasy outcome ebbed. The art deco lobby reminded her ominously of the lobby of the Kennedy Warren, where she and Oliver had lived as newlyweds. She jumped when the enormous carved bronze lobby clock chimed.

  Dorothy returned, shaking her head.

  “He’s not in the bar or any of the restaurants. Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” Maren asked, following dumbly behind.

  “To a house phone. I found one hidden away.” She dragged Maren to a bank of phones down a hallway. Dorothy picked one up and dialed for the operator.

  “Hello, Operator, could you connect me to Oliver Demarest’s room?” She paused. “Thank you.”

  She looked at Maren and smiled slightly. Maren’s stomach fell. She had held out hope that Oliver was not even staying at the Waldorf this trip, but that was now dashed.

  “Oh, hello—eet ees room service. Is zis zee Thompson room?” Dorothy used a peculiar accent, with shades of Irina, just odd enough to be credible. Maren’s sleepless night and emotional day were catching up with her, and she was beginning to feel a little punch-drunk. She giggled in spite of herself.

  “No? Oh, pardon me, I am zo confused. Eez zees room 520? No? So sorry, what room eez zees? Room 617? Oh, so sorry!” She hung up.

  Dorothy grabbed her hand and led her across the plush carpet to the elevator. Maren’s heart was in her throat when they reached the sixth floor and headed toward the room.

  It almost felt as if they were in a Renaissance painting with linear perspective, the long hallway growing narrower toward a vanishing point far in the distance. An older woman opened one of the doors, stepped into the hallway, and eyed them suspiciously. She wore all black, except a rope of pearls that hung long from her neck, like a flapper’s, as if she’d forgotten to double them up. She seemed to Maren like another bad omen, a raven.

  As they passed by room after room, 603, 605, 607, Maren’s heart thumped uncomfortably. Their footsteps were not audible on the thick carpet, but Maren still felt she should tiptoe, as if she were doing something wrong, rather than trying to discover whether her husband had.

  They finally reached 617. The door, like all the others, was of a heavy dark wood with four panels and no peephole. Dorothy put her ear to it and shook her head, unable to hear anything. She knocked. After a second came a sound, then a voice—Oliver’s.

  “Who is it?”

  Maren’s stomach plummeted further. She was overwhelmed by the idea that this was a fool’s errand that would end not in reconciliation, but with Oliver angry at her for not trusting him, or for being rash and crazy. Part of her wanted to run back down the hallway, away from all this. She looked around, wondering where she might hide.

  “Ees room service,” Dorothy answered in the same accent she’d used on the phone. Maren took a step away, so she was not immediately visible when the door jerked open.

  “I didn’t order room ser—” Oliver opened his eyes wide upon seeing Dorothy. Maren stepped forward and looked at him.

  Her last remaining hope was that she would see innocent confusion on his face. What she saw, however, was fear. Dorothy recognized it, too.

  “Oh no, Oliver…” Dorothy said, dismayed.

  Maren slipped under his arm, through the doorway. He made a grab for her, but she wriggled away, down the tiny dark passage alongside the bathroom and closet, and into the bedroom beyond. And there, sitting on the bed, wearing the plaid flannel bathrobe Maren had given Oliver for his last birthday, was Khaki Trumbull.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  August 2008

  Washington, D.C.

  SKYE

  “It’s good you’re getting away. No one hires in August anyway,” Adriene said as she turned onto Connecticut Avenue.

  “True,” Skye acknowledged.

  And even if they did, it’s not like I could do anything about it, she thought. Since being ignominiously fired a few weeks earlier, Skye’s anxiety had presented itself in a new and truly hideous form, leaving her frantic about finding a new job, while too debilitated to execute the most basic task in order to do so.

  “Someday you’ll see this like I do. Exposing Randall Vernon is the best thing you’ve ever done in your career.”

  “Well, it is an achievement of sorts. I know people who’ve screwed up their lives, but not quite so thoroughly.” Skye looked out the window at the throng of tourists braving the swampy heat.

  “Any chance Ben Barrows might be up there this week?”

  “I don’t know. If Charlotte Spencer is, then probably.” Skye tried not to sound defensive.

  “One picture in Washington Life, and you make all these assumptions.”

  “One picture at some black-tie thing, with her hanging on his arm like she owned him.” The photograph was from an auction gala in April. Charlotte lived in New York, but according to the caption, she had donated several items from the line of handbags and jewelry she designed. Though it suggested she had invited Ben to the event, not the reverse, Skye still saw it as a sign. “He’s not my type, and I’m not his. These Haven Point people all end up with each other. They always revert to the mean.”

  “As much as ‘the mean’ makes a fine nickname for Charlotte Spencer, I don’t think you can assume he has reverted to her. Besides, if everyone from Haven Point ended up with someone else from Haven Point, their kids would all be born with six fingers on each hand.”

  “Okay, maybe not with each other, exactly,” Skye said, laughing in spite of herself, “but with someone just like them. It’s like a benign form of eugenics, an ongoing experiment to create the perfect child.”

  “Oh, please. You have all the WASP cred those people could want. And the guy has liked you since you were seventeen!”

  “He liked me a little when we were seventeen, and maybe enjoyed reliving an old summer fling all these years later. But I highly doubt he gave me a thought in the interim.”

  “I don’t get you,” Adriene said, shaking her head.

  Skye didn’t answer. Adriene could not understand that since her mother died, what she had once seen as refreshingly uncomplicated in Ben now struck her as unforgivably untouched.

  When they arrived at the airport, Adriene pulled into Departures and angled her car into half a space, leaving the back sticking out in the through lane. Ignoring the cop yelling at her to move, she got out and opened the trunk. After Skye pulled out her suitcase, Adriene wrapped her in a big hug.

  “Good luck with everything. Keep me updated.”

  “Thank you, Adriene. A million times, thank you.” Skye felt a lump in her throat, but before tears could form, she saw a cop bearing down on them, blowing his whistle in an angry staccato beat. Skye managed a weak laugh.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, chill out. I’m going!” Adriene shot him
a look, then took her time returning to the driver’s seat.

  * * *

  An hour later, Skye was looking out the plane window as the Eastern Seaboard passed beneath her, thinking about how much one stupid mistake could change someone’s life.

  And one stupid mistake on behalf of Shelley freaking Vernon, Skye thought.

  Three weeks earlier, Skye had accompanied the congressman and Mrs. Vernon to a campaign breakfast. As they headed toward the back door after the event, a reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch caught up with them.

  “Hey, are you all worried about the polls tightening?” he asked.

  The congressman straightened up and cocked his head, about to deliver his standard pabulum, but Shelley beat him to it.

  “Nobody should worry. Randall Vernon always gets just what Randall Vernon wants.” Shelley’s smile was so fake, her tone so contemptuous, the reporter actually looked taken aback.

  The congressman let out a great belly laugh and shook his head in mock good humor, as if to say, Isn’t that wife of mine a riot? Skye had dutifully smiled, as if she, too, were in on some hilarious joke.

  Skye was not entirely shocked by the outburst. She had noticed Shelley struggling to keep up her public mask in recent weeks. The only surprise was how long it had taken her to learn about her husband’s affair.

  Though Skye despised how Mac and the rest of the staff blamed anyone but the congressman for his behavior, she was not inclined to expend scant emotional energy on Shelley. After all, she reminded herself, Shelley had played the part of Jennifer in the breakup of Congressman Vernon’s second marriage.

  After the reporter walked away, Skye could tell the congressman was having trouble maintaining his composure, so she slipped out, too.

  If only I hadn’t parked across the street, Skye thought. If her car had been in the lot where the Vernons’ driver was waiting, the congressman and Shelley would have seen Skye, checking e-mail on her phone, when they emerged from the building. They would never have knowingly enacted their little drama in front of her. She might have been spared the sight of Congressman Vernon berating his wife, and of the expression on Shelley’s face as it morphed from defiance into fear.

  But what she really regretted was her decision a few minutes later to pick up the phone when the reporter called.

  Hey, Skye. I wasn’t going to bring this up, but given Shelley’s behavior this morning, I have to ask about a rumor I’ve been hearing.…

  The second she got off the phone, Skye knew she had screwed up. She returned to the office and tried to look normal, while her brain was spinning like a plate on a stick, trying to conjure some way to escape responsibility.

  She came up with at least a dozen ideas, each more incandescently stupid than the one before. Her last hope was that the story wouldn’t run for some reason, but a few hours later, there it was on her screen.

  CONCERN OVER CONGRESSMAN VERNON’S RELATIONSHIP WITH CAMPAIGN CONSULTANT …

  The conversation had been off the record, so Skye was only identified as “a source in Vernon’s office,” but she knew she was toast. The timing of the story was too incriminating. Everyone knew Skye had been with the Vernons at breakfast, and that the Times-Dispatch had covered the event. And Skye had never been able to pull off the “Vernon Pod Person” act, especially not after her mother died.

  By the time Mac summoned her fifteen minutes later, she was resigned to her fate, though she was not about to give him the satisfaction of humiliating her. As she headed to his office, she fortified herself with the memory of Randall Vernon leaning over his wife, finger jabbing at her chest, his eyes squinted in ugly rage, and of Shelley cowering, her mouth half open in fear.

  Mac was at his desk. Zachary, one of his creepy deputies, stood beside him like a sentry. (Skye took some perverse satisfaction from the fact that a standing Zachary was barely taller than a sitting Mac.)

  “Skye, are you the source for this article?”

  “Which article would that be?” Skye asked.

  “The one in the Times-Dispatch, obviously. And before you answer, please recall that I started my career in opposition research. I can find out anything about anyone, if I so choose.”

  A nice complement to your talent for character assassination, Skye thought. She looked at him thoughtfully, then raised her eyebrows as if an idea had just come to her.

  “Then maybe you can find out why Congressman Vernon can’t seem to keep his pants zipped?” Skye said. In a cheerful tone, she added, “It seems to me that would be a better use of your time.”

  “Oh my God,” Zachary said, his mouth twisting in disgust, as if Skye had had just committed some grievous crime against humanity.

  Skye saw Mac’s jaw clench. She knew he was not as enraged by what she had done as by the fact that she was not squirming. He delighted in making people squirm.

  “Skye, you’re fired, effective immediately,” he said, enunciating every syllable of the word “immediately.” “Zachary will accompany you to your desk to make sure you only take your personal effects.”

  “Got it,” Skye said with a nod and a smile, as if he’d just given her instructions about formatting a press release. She turned and headed for the door.

  “Oh, and Skye?” Mac said. Her hand still on the knob, Skye turned back and saw the gleam in his eye. “Good luck finding a job.”

  “Aw, thanks, Mac!” Skye replied, as if he meant it in kindness, and not as a threat.

  The Vernon staff ordinarily scurried around like a bunch of frantic water bugs, but Skye sensed a distinct pause as she strode purposefully from Mac’s office with Zachary in her wake, doing a little half jog to keep up.

  Ignoring the stares, she grabbed an empty box by the copy machine and headed for her desk. She opened a drawer, grabbed a handful of tampons, held them up to Zachary and raised her eyebrows, awaiting his approval. He rolled his eyes.

  She went through the same exercise with a variety of personal effects, culminating with a figurine from a Washington Capitals ice hockey game.

  “This is my Alex Ovechkin bobblehead.” Skye waved it a little, so the oversized head wagged in Zachary’s face.

  “Fine, Skye,” Zachary said, annoyed. Skye put the bobblehead in her box, then looked at Zachary with a bright smile.

  “That’s all, then. You may escort me out now,” she said, as if they were going on a date.

  I’ll call you, Colette mouthed as Skye passed her desk. Skye rolled her eyes dramatically.

  Zachary walked her out of the building. Skye kept up the charade of self-possession until she was in her car and out of the parking lot. She made it about a half mile down the road before, mouth sweating and heart pounding, she pulled over, then opened the door and threw up in the street.

  Colette texted later that day.

  This guy is slicker than otter snot. She’d included a link to a Richmond Times-Dispatch story. Congressman Vernon had held a brief press availability, during which he completely denied the affair, saying he was a victim of “the politics of personal destruction.”

  Great. Now I’m a turncoat and a liar, Skye thought.

  The worst part was the photograph: Shelley standing by her husband’s side, looking up at him from under her lashes, head ducked and tilted, the absolute picture of submission. Skye did not particularly care for Shelley Vernon, but she had thought the woman had some backbone, at least. The fact that she had willingly participated in the humiliating devoted wife standing by her man media ritual suggested Skye had only made things worse for her.

  Skye had spent the weeks since alternating between foggy stupidity and terrible anxiety.

  Gran had been oddly persistent about Skye visiting Haven Point this summer, and Skye knew she should be happy to oblige her. (Gran never asked her for anything, after all.) And if nothing else, she should be glad for a change of scenery. For some reason she could not begin to parse, the visit to Haven Point filled her with a strange dread.

  Oh well, Skye thought as
the plane began its descent into Portland. As bad as things are, they can always get worse.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  August 1960

  New York City

  MAREN

  Khaki. Maren froze, staring, her mouth open. Yes, she had thought it was possible that Oliver, who had been so distant and disconnected, might actually be having an affair. But in a million years, she would not have imagined this. She felt horribly, horribly stupid.

  Khaki normally wore her hair in a bun, but now it was frizzed out unattractively around her shoulders. She was one of those rare women who looked better in her uniform, which elevated a homely, unruly appearance.

  Oliver is with Khaki?

  She wondered briefly if Oliver had seduced Khaki, if he was some sort of predator, a monster she’d never really known. But Khaki did not look like a victim. An angry expression and defiant cast to her chin told Maren she was here of her own volition, probably of her own ambition.

  Maren was vaguely aware of Oliver standing off to the side, and of a sense that he was diminished, literally, by her entry—that some smaller version of him leaned against the wall, shell-shocked. She knew Dorothy was near, too, but she only had eyes for Khaki. As Khaki stared back, Maren detected something else in her expression.

  Entitlement, Maren thought. She feels entitled.

  She could not begin to peel back the infinite layers to her rage, or to sort through the multitude of questions that competed for her attention. Oliver supposedly hired Khaki to give her work she badly needed, but was that really why? How long had this been going on?

  She had overlooked so much—Khaki’s coldness, her ties to Haven Point. Instead, Maren had sympathized with her need to earn a living and even admired her competence in doing so.