by Shari Lapena
Candice feels that she has been doubly cheated. Denied the happiness that her sisters seem to take for granted, and saddled with the thankless, grinding, demoralizing duty of elder care. It’s not that she doesn’t love her mother. But it’s so . . . hard. And so sad—the dependency, the embarrassing bodily needs, the fact that her mother doesn’t even know who she is half the time. It completely saps her creativity and makes it hard to work. That’s why it’s so important that she take this time away to finish her book.
Her sisters only step up when she’s out of town on assignment, which has been infrequently of late. They have become complacent, depending on her all the time, visiting their mother less and less. Their own families are more important and Candice doesn’t have a family. Candice can do it. She finds herself mouthing the words, silently and sarcastically, automatically, with a snarky expression on her face.
Well. If this book is as good as she thinks it’s going to be—as good as her agent says it is—then they will all have to adjust their thinking. The family dynamic will have to change. She drags her eyes from the swirling darkness outside the window back to the screen of her laptop.
She’s let herself get off track. She ought to write another page before she goes down to dinner. She checks her watch and realizes she’s missed cocktail hour. It’s a sad thing for a writer to miss cocktail hour. She looks again at the screen of the laptop in front of her, regrets that last paragraph. It will have to go. She blocks it out and hits delete.
Candice takes off her reading glasses and rubs her eyes. Maybe she needs a break. She will carry on after dinner. There will be wine with dinner.
She tells herself again that she had to get away from her mother to finish this manuscript—she’s trying not to feel guilty about it. She has to write the last ten thousand words, but she still has to eat.
Candice has a lot riding on this book. It’s the first thing of her own that she’s written in a long time. For almost two decades now she has eked out a living as an author of nonfiction, but more and more often lately she’s been ghostwriting other people’s books—everything from self-help to business books. Except most of these geniuses aren’t particularly successful, so she’s never thought their wisdom was worth the paper it was printed on. As long as they paid her, she didn’t care. When she started out it was a good living. She got to keep her own hours and she met some interesting people. She got to travel—paid—and when she was younger, this was a valuable perk. Now she would like to travel a lot less and get paid a lot more.
She’s hoping this book—her own book—is going to make her fortune.
Closing the laptop, Candice gets up, looks at herself critically in the full-length mirror, and decides she can’t really go down in yoga pants. She puts on a decent skirt and tights and throws a silk scarf around her neck. She brushes her hair into a new, tidy ponytail, applies fresh lipstick, and heads downstairs.
Friday, 7:00 p.m.
At dinner they all move into the dining room. The meal has been set up as a buffet. There’s a long table along one wall, laden with covered silver chafing dishes, platters of salads, and baskets of various breads and rolls. A glittering chandelier provides soft lighting. There’s a scattering of tables in the dining room—some for two, some for four—with white linen cloths. Soon there is the slight clatter of silver cutlery against good china as the guests collect plates and serve themselves.
David Paley slowly fills his plate, lingering over the roast beef, horseradish, and various hot side dishes—he chooses scalloped potatoes and asparagus—wondering where he should sit. He supposes he could sit down with anyone except the engaged couple, who look like they want to be alone, and have already nabbed a table for two in the corner. A woman he hasn’t seen before, about his own age—she must be the writer—has taken a table for two. He supposes he could join her, but she seems rather forbidding, looking pointedly at a magazine on her table as she eats. She hadn’t said hello to anyone when she entered the dining room. He would most like to join the dark-haired woman, Gwen, and her rather jumpy friend.
Gwen and Riley have already filled their plates and are sitting at a table set for four. He walks over and asks politely, “May I join you?”
The two women look up at him, surprised; two pairs of nervous eyes size him up. Riley is glassy-eyed from too much drink too fast, he surmises. Gwen, he notices, is even prettier up close; her face is pale and fine, and she has lovely dark hair. Her features are subdued rather than flamboyant, the kind of face he imagines he could look at for a long time. He’s surprised at himself for thinking this; he’s only just met her. He suddenly wishes that she was here alone this weekend, like him, and that they could get to know one another. As it is, it’s rather awkward, especially as her friend, Riley, looks as if she would prefer not to have company.
He sees Gwen glance at Riley, who shrugs her shoulders; neither yes nor no. Not quite rude, but not welcoming either. Gwen turns to him and says, “Yes, of course. Please do.”
He sits beside Riley, across from Gwen, so that he can look at her.
“Are you here alone?” she asks, and then blushes slightly. He’s charmed by the color coming into her cheeks.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m on my own. I came up here to get away, to think about things.” He’s not sure why he’s telling her this.
“I see,” she says politely.
He feels uncomfortable talking about himself, but he doesn’t want to seem too nosy either by asking her about herself. It doesn’t leave much to talk about, he realizes.
“You’re a defense attorney,” Gwen says, when the silence verges on becoming awkward.
“Yes,” he says. Oddly, he can’t think of anything else to say. He finds that he’s tongue-tied. He’s not usually, but he can feel her friend oozing barely veiled hostility, and it’s disconcerting.
“That must be interesting,” Gwen says gamely. “And challenging. Although probably exhausting too.”
“Yes,” he agrees. For a moment there is only the chink of cutlery on fine china as they dine on their roast beef. David finds himself noticing the flickering candlelight reflected in the glass of the windows. “What brings you here this weekend?” he asks finally. Perhaps her friend will go upstairs, and they can sit in front of the fire and talk. He would like that.
Gwen glances at Riley. “We just wanted to get away, for a girls’ weekend,” she says.
“Oh.” There’s not much he can say to that. He can hardly crash a girls’ weekend.
“Riley and I were at journalism school together. She’s with the New York Times.”
He flicks a nervous glance at Riley, inwardly dismayed.
“But I never actually worked as a journalist,” Gwen confides.
“Is that right,” David says, his mind drifting from the conversation. “What do you do instead?”
“I work in public relations for a small firm in New York City.”
“And do you enjoy it?” But he is already thinking of an exit strategy.
“For the most part,” she says. “It can be exciting, but it can also be a grind. Like a lot of jobs, it sounds more glamorous than it is.”
They talk for a while, about nothing much. When they are about to start on coffee and dessert—English trifle and chocolate brownies have appeared on the long buffet table—Riley, slurring her words slightly, turns and looks directly at him and says, “I’ve been trying to place you—what did you say your name was again?”
He looks back at her, refusing to shrink from her very direct gaze. “David Paley,” he says, waiting for it. She’s a journalist, after all. They have no compunction about anything. He knows his weekend is about to be ruined.
* * *
• • •
Beverly Sullivan struggles through her meal. She wonders how it can be possible that after twenty years of marriage there is nothing to talk about. Without the kids t
here, interrupting, distracting, it seems there is little for them to say to one another. They didn’t use to be like this. They used to be good together. All those years of eating with the kids has made them lose the knack of conversation. They should have hired more babysitters, gone out by themselves to restaurants more, she thinks regretfully, like the experts always advise.
Unfortunately, she is positioned so that she is looking directly at the outrageously attractive engaged couple alone together in the corner. They do all the things couples in love do: they look into each other’s eyes, they smile excessively, touch each other whenever they can. Every once in a while, they laugh.
They’re so young, she thinks, they have no idea.
It’s a good thing, she thinks, that the guests at the other tables are so engrossed in each other that no one seems to notice that she and her husband are hardly speaking to each other.
He still seems annoyed about there not being any wi-fi. Unless he’s actually annoyed about something else. She can’t think what it could be. The hotel is lovely. He agreed to come here. Perhaps he’s feeling stressed and guilty about not staying at home and catching up on work. Finally, she says his name to get his attention, and when she has it, she asks quietly, “Is something the matter?”
“What?” he says. “No.” He takes another forkful of the excellent roast beef.
“You’ve hardly said a word to me since we got here,” she says gently, careful not to sound antagonistic.
In fact, she’s a bit surprised. At home they have so little time for each other, but they are not deliberately neglectful of each other, merely too busy. Something’s changed, and she doesn’t know what it is.
“I have a lot on my mind,” he says a bit defensively.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asks. He looks at her, as if considering what to tell her. It makes her feel uneasy. Maybe there’s a problem she’s not aware of.
“It’s just work,” he says, “but I’d rather not talk about work this weekend.”
“Fine,” she agrees, taking another sip of wine and giving him a tentative smile. “We came up here to relax and enjoy ourselves, after all.” She tries to set her uneasiness aside.
She has a nice surprise in store for him that will take his mind off whatever’s bothering him.
SIX
Lauren watches the guests at the other tables with interest. She has always been curious about people, observing them, trying to figure out what makes them tick. Studying what they do. Why does that woman Riley, at the table with Gwen and David, seem so on edge, for instance? She keeps scanning the room as if expecting someone to steal her dinner.
Ian has slipped his foot out of his shoe and now he’s touching her leg under the table with his socked toe.
“Are you flirting with me?” she asks coyly, her attention drawn back to the man sitting across from her. He’s terribly appealing but she’s never been able to focus on just one thing for long. Her quick mind darts all over the place. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s almost as interested in their fellow guests as she is.
“What’s up with that Riley?” Lauren asks him in a quiet voice.
“I don’t know. She looks like she’s escaped from detox or something,” Ian says, his voice a whisper.
Lauren shifts her attention now to the attorney, who’s talking to Gwen. She’s been observing his body language throughout the meal. Something has changed. He’s sitting back now, stiffly, as if someone has said something he doesn’t like. Just a little while ago, he was leaning in toward the pretty Gwen, smiling at her, tilting his head to one side, like a male bird looking for a mate. Perhaps Riley just told him to fuck off.
She lets her gaze travel to the corner, where the engaged couple is dining. She narrows her eyes. She’d taken a rather instant dislike to Dana while they were having cocktails in the lobby. Perhaps it was simply because of her rather intimidating beauty. Perhaps it was the way she ostentatiously waved that diamond ring around. She didn’t exactly stick it under anyone’s nose and say, This is my engagement ring, isn’t it gorgeous? But she was constantly fluttering her perfectly manicured hands around, just begging people to notice it. The large diamond glittered when she smoothed her hair, when she picked up her champagne glass; her eyes sparkled when she looked at her fiancé. Everything about her was shiny and bright. She has a bright, shiny life, Lauren thinks. Then she directs her attention to the man to whom she’s engaged.
What does she think of him? She thinks he is someone who collects bright, shiny things.
She moves on to the woman who must be Candice White, dining alone at a table for two, pretending to read a magazine. But really, she’s staring at David, the attorney, who is positioned so that he is unaware of it. Lauren wonders why Candice is staring at David. Perhaps she finds him attractive. He certainly is attractive—anyone can see that. Well, good luck to her, Lauren thinks; he’s obviously interested in the younger, more fetching Gwen.
Now Candice has turned her attention away from David and she’s staring rather hard at Dana and Matthew. They are a good-looking couple, but something registers on her face—as if she recognizes Dana from somewhere. Or maybe it’s Matthew she recognizes; Lauren can’t be sure. But it seems now as if her interest is divided equally between the shiny young couple and the understated attorney.
The writer herself is rather austere looking. Dark hair pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail. Strong bones. No-nonsense skirt and sweater, equally no-nonsense eyeglasses. She looks like she might make a competent nurse. The only flourish is a pretty scarf around her neck. Not unattractive but getting on. Maybe pushing forty. Lauren wonders idly about the book she’s writing.
It’s so pleasant here, Lauren thinks, in this enchanting dining room, with the lights low and the wind howling outside, slamming at the windows, like something wanting to get in.
* * *
• • •
Dana takes another sip of the excellent wine, tears her gaze away from Matthew for a moment, and looks around the dining room. How surprising life can be.
She’s just thinking what a small world it is, when suddenly there is a loud, ominous crash.
Dana jumps a little in her seat. She notices everybody else raising their eyes from their meals, startled.
Bradley, replacing dishes over by the buffet table, smiles and says, “Don’t worry—that’s just the sound of snow sliding off the roof.”
“Goodness,” Dana says, laughing a little, a little too loudly, “it sounds like someone fell off the roof!”
“Doesn’t it?” Bradley agrees.
* * *
• • •
Riley has the alcohol to thank for being able to keep herself together. She knows she made a bit of a spectacle of herself in the lounge, knocking back wine and champagne like a sailor. But she’s a journalist; she can hold her liquor. And she’s been self-medicating more than she’d care to admit these last few years, since she started going to the ugly, dangerous parts of the world.
She hadn’t enjoyed the meal. She hadn’t liked the way the attorney insinuated himself into a place at their dining table. He was so obviously interested in Gwen. That bothered her. Riley always used to be the one men were interested in, not Gwen. Riley was the striking one, the one men noticed and pursued. Not tonight. Not anymore. This, perhaps more than anything else, has brought home to her just how much she’s changed.
But it’s not jealousy that makes her wary of the attorney. There’s something about him. Some memory floating around at the back of her brain, nudging at her thoughts. But she can’t grasp it. His name is familiar; there’s some whiff of scandal about it. She wishes that there were an internet connection here; she could have Googled him.
Although Gwen was obviously flattered by his interest, Riley had thrown cold water on their little romance by asking him bluntly about who he was. Judging by
the way he clammed up when he found out she was a journalist, she’s pretty sure she’s on to something. He’d skipped dessert and excused himself, saying that he was going to visit the library. Gwen has been quiet since he left.
She’s sorry that Gwen has to be disappointed like this, but Riley has always been protective of her, from the time they were roommates. This weekend was supposed to be about Gwen helping Riley, but Riley has slipped again into her old role. It feels good, especially for someone who has trouble getting through the most basic aspects of her day.
Riley says, “Shall we go up? I’m pretty tired.”
Gwen hesitates. “I’m not that tired, actually,” she says. “I think I might go stop by the library, get a book,” she adds, averting her eyes.
Riley is annoyed. “I thought you brought a book?” she says coldly. They both know this is true. They both know this is about Gwen choosing to go up with Riley or to spend more time with the attractive lawyer. Riley wants Gwen to choose her. She wonders what kind of friend that makes her—a protective one, or a needy one?
“Are you okay going up on your own?” Gwen asks. “I won’t be too long.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Riley says curtly. “I’ll be fine.”
