by Shari Lapena
Ian won’t let it go with David, the attorney. “Have you defended any murderers?” he asks. His enthusiasm finally brings a reluctant smile to the attorney’s face.
“Yes, I have.” He swirls his drink around in his glass. “Many.”
“Come on, tell us!”
“Never mind him,” Lauren interjects. “I think he watches too many crime shows.”
“It’s not always like it is on TV,” the attorney says.
“What do you mean?” Lauren asks, noting his downturned mouth.
He shrugs. “On TV, justice is usually served. It doesn’t always work out that way in real life.”
“You mean—as a defense attorney—you’re too good at your job?” Ian suggests, and they all laugh.
Lauren can hear the two women murmuring now, but she can’t quite hear what they are saying. They’re keeping their voices low.
“I do my best,” the attorney says.
“How do you do it?” Lauren asks him. “How do you reconcile what you do with your conscience—defending someone you know might be guilty of something horrible?” Then she adds hastily, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to judge.”
* * *
• • •
David Paley looks down at his almost empty glass and thinks about how to answer. It’s a question he’s been asked many times. He’s been very successful as a defense attorney. As a human being—he’s not so sure. His partners at the firm have gently suggested that he take some time off, perhaps travel. But he has no one to travel with. He no longer has a wife. And while traveling the world might distract him for a while, it won’t mend the emptiness in his soul. Spending the better part of his career successfully defending murderers has definitely taken its toll. But he has his answer to Lauren’s question down. He knows what to say—he doesn’t necessarily have to believe it.
“I have a job to do as a defense attorney. Under our legal system, everyone is presumed innocent until proven guilty. My job is to represent any accused to the best of my ability.” He adds, “If attorneys could simply refuse to represent someone because of their own squeamishness, or conscience—”
She is listening to him intently.
He shrugs. “Well, without the defense attorney, the system wouldn’t work.” He takes a large swallow of his drink. It all sounds so good. “You have to look at the bigger picture,” he adds. He doesn’t tell them how difficult that can be.
He realizes now that the two women sitting a bit farther away on the sofa are both watching him, listening. He finds the dark-haired one quietly attractive. She looks at him with intelligent, appraising eyes. He would like to talk to her. Perhaps the weekend will turn out to be distracting, after all.
* * *
• • •
Gwen looks at the attorney sitting by the fire. He’s older than she is, perhaps forty or so; his short dark hair is beginning to gray at the temples. He has a good face—attractive and kind—and a sort of rueful smile that appeals to her. She likes the sound of his voice, its timbre—it carries without effort, probably from years of speaking in court. He has a confidence, an ease about himself that she finds attractive. She’s a modern young woman. She considers herself a feminist. But she has never been particularly sure of herself; it’s a quality that she admires—even envies—in others. She wants to be strong and independent, like Riley. Well, like Riley used to be. She glances at her friend. But just look where that got her.
Beside her, Riley guzzles her first glass of wine like water on a hot day. Or as if she were drinking shots with the boys. She was always an accomplished drinker. Gwen’s own drink is barely touched, and now she takes a big gulp. Riley seems to emerge from her semicatatonic state to motion to the young man with the bar cart and says, “May I have another?”
“Of course,” he says, and pours her another glass.
“Thank you,” Riley says. And chugs it right back. Now everyone is silent, watching her, and Gwen is uneasy and embarrassed. She doesn’t want Riley to draw attention to herself. She also doesn’t want her to get drunk; she has no idea what she will do, what she will be like. Riley always used to be a fun drunk, a party girl, but now, Gwen doesn’t know what to expect. She’s so different since she came back from Afghanistan this time. Sometimes she’s withdrawn, and just stares at nothing. Other times she’s irritable and even a bit aggressive. And her occasional displays of nervous energy—her fidgeting, the way her eyes dart around constantly—it’s already beginning to get on Gwen’s nerves. Inadvertently, she catches the attorney’s eye and quickly looks away.
She’s already regretting suggesting this weekend away. Her car is sitting in a ditch miles from here. The tow company said they wouldn’t be able to fetch it until the morning. By then it will probably be so buried that they won’t be able to find it.
She leans in closer to Riley and whispers, “Maybe you should slow down.”
FOUR
Dana slips out from under the covers, slapping Matthew’s hand away as he reaches for her. She smiles at him. “We should go down. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Now that you mention it,” he says cheerfully, and gets out of the bed.
She gets dressed quickly in a simple but elegantly cut dress. Everything she wears flatters her. Genetics has been kind to her, and she now has the money to make the most of what she’s been given.
Matthew is a warm, generous man, and she’s very much in love with him. Of course, the money doesn’t hurt. She thinks often of how lucky she is, of how awful it must be for most women—to marry and have children on a budget.
She’s well aware that she and Matthew have a charmed life. She’s not going to apologize for it. But she’s certainly not going to rub anyone’s nose in it either. She knows what it’s like to want—to want desperately—things that you can’t have. To anyone who doesn’t know who Matthew is, they just come across as a well-heeled, successful couple. But Matthew is from money, and lots of it.
“Ready?” he asks, as she puts in her second earring. She’s sitting at the antique dressing table, looking at him in the mirror as he stands behind her. It feels very romantic.
“Why don’t ladies have dressing tables like this anymore?” she asks.
“I don’t know. They should,” he says, looking back at her in the mirror and gently touching a tendril of her long hair.
“After dinner we can sit in front of the fire here and drink the champagne they’ve left us,” she says. She thinks about how lovely it will be, just the two of them, here, in this perfect room, by the light of the fire, the snow still coming down, silencing the outside world. How far away from their everyday lives it feels.
* * *
• • •
Matthew closes their door behind them and shoves the key into his pocket.
When they come around the landing and view the lobby, he sees a small gathering of fellow guests. The young man who was at the front desk earlier is mixing drinks, chatting comfortably with the handful of people seated near the fireplace.
“Bar’s closed this evening,” the young man says as they reach the bottom of the stairs and approach the group. “We’re missing a bartender and making do. I hope that’s all right,” he says.
“No problem at all,” Matthew assures him, smiling, his hand on the small of Dana’s back. It looks like a cozy enough arrangement. They sit down on a sofa across from a couple close to their age. There’s a slightly older man who seems to be on his own, and a pair of women sharing a sofa across from the fire.
“What will you have?” the young man asks, smiling appreciatively at Dana.
“A vodka martini please,” she says.
“Make mine a scotch on the rocks, thanks,” Matthew says.
“I’m Bradley,” the young man says.
“I’m David,” says the man by himself.
“He’s a criminal attorney,” the man acros
s from him says. “I’m Ian, and this is Lauren.” Lauren smiles at him.
“I’m Matthew, and this is my fiancée, Dana,” he says.
Ian leans over and indicates the women on the sofa. “And these are Gwen and Riley.” Gwen nods and smiles demurely; Riley looks at them and gives the briefest of smiles before turning away to stare into the fire. “We found them in a ditch not far from here,” he adds, smiling.
He seems friendly, Matthew thinks. Easy to talk to. Easy to like.
Gwen offers, “We’re lucky they came along or we’d probably still be out there, frozen to death by now.” The wind rattles the windows, as if to underline what she’s said. “I’ll have to have a tow truck get my car out in the morning. They couldn’t come tonight, obviously—the roads are too bad.”
“We’re lucky we got here when we did,” Matthew says, “or we might not have made it at all. I think the storm’s worse than they expected.”
“I know,” Bradley says. “Sometimes I wonder about the weather forecasters. My father says it’s more useful to look out the window. He’s got the radio on in the kitchen. The main highway has been closed and they say the side roads are pretty much impassable. Some of our guests couldn’t make it here, but frankly, that’s a good thing. We’re shorthanded because of the storm.”
“Oh, dear,” Gwen says.
“Don’t worry, we can look after you all right,” Bradley says, with a brash confidence.
He’s a good-looking young man, Matthew thinks, and very sure of himself—almost cocky.
“I hope the power doesn’t go off,” Lauren says.
“If it does,” Bradley assures them, “most of the rooms have fireplaces and the woodshed is well stocked with wood and kindling. And we have some oil lanterns if we need them.”
“That actually sounds kind of nice,” Ian says.
Matthew catches movement out of the corner of his eye and looks up. Another couple is coming down the staircase. They’re older than he and Dana, maybe in their late forties. The man looks put out about something, and the woman beside him looks as if she’s trying to make the best of it.
The man joins them and immediately says to Bradley, “I could use a scotch and soda.” He takes the drink from Bradley when it’s offered and stands by the fireplace, leaving his wife alone by the bar cart. Bradley asks her, “What can I get you, ma’am?”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,” she says politely.
“Come sit,” Gwen says, moving over a little and patting the empty spot on the sofa beside her. The woman looks at her gratefully and joins her, sinking down into the cushions.
Ian makes the introductions, and then looks pointedly at the man standing in front of the fireplace.
“I’m Henry,” he says, “and that’s my wife, Beverly.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Beverly murmurs to everyone.
“We were just talking about the storm,” Lauren says. “Bradley was telling us that we are completely snowed in, and reassuring us that we have nothing to worry about if the power goes out.”
“There’s no cell reception up here,” Henry complains. “And no wi-fi. It’s like being buried alive.”
There’s a startled silence at this.
“We’ve never had cell reception,” Bradley says, flushing slightly at the rebuke. “Or wi-fi. It’s in our brochure. Many of our guests come up here to get away from all that.”
Matthew notices the sour look Henry shoots at his wife, as if it’s her fault there’s no wi-fi. Maybe that’s what he’s so annoyed about.
“The scenery is lovely, though,” Beverly says gamely. “And I see there are lots of books here.”
It’s true. Matthew has noticed bookcases around the hotel, filled with books of all sorts.
“I found an old Agatha Christie on my bedside table,” Lauren volunteers.
“That’s me,” Bradley says. “I put books in all the rooms. So much nicer than chocolates on the pillows, don’t you think? Although we do the chocolates, too, of course.” He grins.
“I think it’s refreshing,” Lauren says.
“We actually have a rather extensive library. I can find you something else if you like. I’m very familiar with what’s in there—I’ve read most of them. Our guests like to read in the library, of course, but in the summer they read in the hammock, or by the pool, or in the gazebo.”
“We’ll have to come back up here in the summer,” Matthew says, smiling at Dana, “after we’re married.”
“You should,” Bradley agrees. “It’s lovely here in the summer. But it’s just as lovely in winter. I can light a fire in the library after dinner if anyone wants to sit in there.”
“We’d like to see the icehouse,” Lauren says.
“What is the icehouse, exactly?” Beverly asks.
Bradley smiles. “It’s a little outbuilding made entirely from ice and snow. We had it made into a bar. Everything is carved from ice—the bar, the shelves, the stools, even. And there’s some wicked sculpture. The only thing in there that isn’t made out of ice is the bottles and the glasses and the bar tools. It’s pretty amazing. I haven’t had a chance to clear the path out to it yet, but I’ll get the snow blower out and it will be open tomorrow, I promise.”
“It sounds cold,” Gwen says.
“You’ll need a jacket,” Bradley admits.
* * *
• • •
The atmosphere in the room has shifted slightly since the arrival of Dana and Matthew. Lauren couldn’t help noticing how the men in the room reacted when Dana joined them. Bradley gawking at her as he served her drink. The older men are better able to hide their feelings; nonetheless it’s impossible to ignore that Dana’s remarkable beauty has affected everyone. It’s as if they are all suddenly sitting up straighter. Even Ian. She gives him a little kick now, irritated, and he returns his attention to her.
Lauren knows that she herself is an attractive woman—and she has no doubts about Ian finding her so. But Dana is in another class altogether. It’s not just her beauty, which is hard to ignore. It’s her glamour. Her awareness of her own gorgeousness. She makes every other woman in the room feel second-rate without even trying. There’s something about exceptionally beautiful women, Lauren has noticed, that makes them think they’re entitled to anything they want.
Lauren finds herself staring at Dana. Suddenly, as if she can feel Lauren’s eyes on her, Dana looks directly at her. The smile on her lovely face doesn’t falter as her gaze lingers on Lauren.
Dana reminds Lauren of someone, she can’t think who. Maybe she just reminds her of all those women who look out from movie screens and magazines, the ones who remind the rest of them of their own shortcomings. Lauren turns away first.
She catches Gwen and Riley watching Dana too.
Friday, 6:45 p.m.
When James emerges from his kitchen and enters the lobby to check on the guests, he sees the cocktail hour is in full swing. The guests are chatting with each other, and everything seems quite convivial. They’ve been drinking for a while already, and there’s something about being snowed in that has a way of bringing people together.
His son glances up at him as he enters the lobby. Bradley is holding an uncorked bottle of champagne—Veuve Clicquot—loosely by the neck. He’s a rather striking young man, and now a lock of his hair is falling forward on his forehead, which lends him a certain rakish charm. He’s tall and lean and athletic, and looks perfectly at ease in his slim black trousers and crisp white shirt. He wears clothes well. And Bradley is so good with the guests. So confident and outgoing, like his mother had been. James is more at ease behind the scenes, in his kitchen wearing his apron, or looking over his accounts. Still, he has his concerns about Bradley. He worries about him stepping over the line. He’s still young and impulsive. He has to remember that he’s a server, not a guest. There are boundaries to b
e observed. Bradley hasn’t always been so good at observing boundaries.
All of the women are now drinking champagne out of old-fashioned coupe glasses. Occasionally a fussy guest will request a flute, but most enjoy the decadent, twenties feel of the coupes. James loves them, himself. They go so nicely with his hotel.
Bradley makes the introductions. Now James can put names to the faces.
“We’ve switched to champagne,” Lauren says, raising her glass.
“Excellent choice,” James agrees.
“Since we’re snowed in here, we’ve decided we’re going to make the most of it,” announces Dana, a strikingly pretty young woman with a large diamond engagement ring on her finger.
“The ladies are celebrating,” Henry says, standing in front of the fireplace and holding a drink aloft, “but the men are just drinking.”
“Have we met everyone now, Bradley?” Ian asks. “You don’t have any other guests staying tonight in the hotel?”
“No, there’s one more,” Bradley says. “A woman arrived this morning. I don’t think we’ll see much of her. She says she’s writing a book, and wants quiet.”
“A book?” Dana says. “What kind of a book?”
“I have no idea. She didn’t say.”
“What’s her name?” asks Gwen.
“Candice White,” Bradley says. “Do you know it?”
Everyone in the room shakes their head.
“Anyway, that’s it,” Bradley says. “And no more coming, not in this weather.”
FIVE
Candice White sits at the antique writing desk in front of the window in her room and looks out at the wintry landscape, grateful that she arrived early, before the snow. She’s been able to put in a good day of work.
She’d driven up from New York City early in the morning, desperate to escape. She’s a bundle of resentment and raw nerves these days. It’s not that she has a family of her own that needs her—a rumpled husband and adoring small children with sticky hands. She revises—if she’d had children, they’d probably be teenagers by now, and perhaps not so adoring. She does this sometimes—imagines what her children would have been like, at different ages, in different circumstances, if she’d had them. If she’d been lucky in love. But no. She has not been lucky in love. Not for her the happy ending. Instead, as the only unmarried one of three daughters—and the only one who’s gay—she has been stuck with the lion’s share of caring for their widowed and declining mother, because her rather selfish sisters are too busy with their own demanding families who adore them.
