Completing the trail’s loop, she finally made her way back toward the park entrance, where she was greeted by a pack of footfalls and the faint buzz of conversation. At once, they flew by her like a track team: a dozen college-aged girls led by Chase Embers.
* * *
At 2:30 sharp, Sierra waited on the manicured lawn outside of the theater—which was dark tonight. She took a seat beside the stone sculptures of comedy and tragedy masks roughly the size of stallions. A honking horn startled her, and she laughed when she saw the old red pickup truck. “Hop aboard, these flowers ain’t gonna pick themselves,” Ethan greeted her with a smile.
“Awesome, my Uber’s here,” she said, leaning in the open window.
“Nice, right? Mason’s wheels,” Ethan said. Mason was the Chamberlain’s longtime set designer. “Looks just like mine used to, only difference is this one actually runs.”
“They have these in Oregon too, you know.” A wave of nostalgia hit her, a touch of homesickness. They had a green truck at the resort that she would use to drive guests’ luggage to their rooms. “Do you mind if I—?”
“Really?” He sounded intrigued. “So you can take the girl out of the tree house...”
* * *
Windows rolled down, sunglasses on, her hair blowing, Sierra sped into the mountains in search of the farm supplying the wildflowers for the night’s dinner party. Ethan navigated on his phone, and they found the weathered barn in the middle of nowhere, just a half hour out of town. The proprietor, a woman in denim and chambray whom Sierra recognized from her favorite flower stand at the farmers’ market, had gathered bunches upon bunches—black-eyed Susans, New England asters, firewheels, cornflowers, lilies in violet, golden and cherry hues—all bound and nestled in buckets, ready for transporting. Ethan and Sierra simply needed to load them into the truck.
In the distance, Sierra spied the fields where the flowers had been plucked.
“You’re welcome to have a look around,” the woman told them and then went back into the barn.
They had time, so Sierra drove them up the dirt path, arriving at the field of lilies and sunflowers. They ran through, holding out their arms on either side, fingertips grazing the blooms, like athletes low-fiving fans as they rushed into a stadium.
Ethan stopped after what felt like half the length of a football field. “So, I’m generally emphatically anti-selfie,” he called out.
“Same,” Sierra agreed, turning around and stopping herself.
“But...wanna make ’em sorry they’re not here?” He meant Harlow and Alex.
She smiled and pulled out her phone. “Challenge accepted. Act like you’re a narcissist who doesn’t know he’s a narcissist,” she joked.
They snapped themselves with the barn and mountains in the background, and lay on their backs laughing as they took shots in the sunshine, flowers surrounding them.
“You know...” Ethan said, beside her in the field, the sky bright blue with streaks of cirrus like swipes of paint. “I probably shouldn’t say this because she’s your roommate and all...”
“Harlow,” Sierra said to the sky.
“Yeah, I hope you know, she just, she doesn’t think, that’s why she says some of the stuff she does. And I think it’s very...generous of you to not, like, want to knock her out half the time.”
Sierra laughed. “Well, what kind of roommate would I be if I did that?”
“A perfectly justified one.”
For a few peaceful moments, Sierra forgot about auditions or expectations or pressures or falling short.
Before they left, they raced, climbing to the top of the tree beside their truck. Perched on the branches beside him, she could have stayed there all day.
39
WHY CAN’T YOU JUST STAY AWAY FROM ME?
Though she admired Sierra’s initiative dreaming up this fund-raising dinner, Charlie had been actively dreading it all week. The only brief respite in Charlie’s daily misery had come when Chase yanked her into the living room Tuesday morning to watch the Emmy Award nominations live and they had cheered to hear Marlena’s name announced among the contenders for Best Actress in a Drama Series. Charlie had called Marlena immediately, not caring that it had been 5 a.m. in LA, and Chase grabbed the phone right out of her hand to congratulate Marlena himself, whom he hadn’t spoken to in so many moons. They had never been close on set those years ago. Chase had kept to himself while she and Marlena—or Marlon, then—had been inseparable, just like their characters. But she supposed sometimes you didn’t need to have been especially close years ago to feel a kinship when your paths crossed again. To hear the two of them catching up as though no time had passed had warmed Charlie. Even more surprisingly, they had kept talking.
“So she’s in New York taking meetings and wants to come see us,” Chase, hands in the pockets of his dove-gray suit, updated Charlie as they walked to Hathaway House, trailing Danica and Matteo. “Next weekend maybe? She’s working it all out.”
“I think you’ve talked to Marlena more in the past week than I have in the past year,” Charlie joked. She wore the items that had unexpectedly materialized in her closet—black tuxedo pants, lacy camisole, strappy heels—courtesy of Sierra. A welcome find after a tense run in Hopkins Forest with Matteo, who’d dragged her along to keep an eye on her, she knew. Chase had told Matteo of her night on the balcony.
“I had about two decades to catch up on,” he laughed.
“She’s not usually so easy to get a hold of, she’s pretty in-demand.” Charlie smiled, proud.
“I know, good for her.” Chase was pensive for a moment. “She did this all her own way, you know?”
“She’s got it all figured out,” Charlie agreed, adding, “Wonder what that’s like.” As they reached the gothic stone mansion—all gargoyles, pointed archways, turrets and parapets—she felt her skin crawl. “This’ll be fun,” Charlie sighed as Chase held open the door.
Inside, they were greeted by the buzz of conversation, pulse of dance music, clink of glasses and crowd of a few dozen of the most generous donors. Chase quickly dissolved into a group of chatty patrons, shaking hands, smiling, patting backs, expertly accepting the compliments they lavished on him. He was good at this.
Years earlier, Charlie would’ve loved to have been here: she and Nick had walked past the building a million times, always speculating about what lay inside. She would’ve marveled at the vaulted ceilings, intricately patterned floor with that crest in the center of the foyer, ornate woodwork in dark mahogany and rooms upon rooms. Now though: not so much. She noted the land mines to avoid—Jasmine circling Nick, Taylor circling them both—grabbed a glass of wine from the bar and slipped out, down a long corridor, to a study adorned with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases.
Alone, she felt a brief calm. She scanned the shelves and found the complete works of seemingly every notable playwright from the beginning of time through recent Pulitzer winners. She had just pulled out A Midsummer Night’s Dream when she heard footsteps.
Nick appeared in the doorway: dark suit, no tie, drink in his hand and a sheepish expression.
She said nothing, eyes back on her book.
“I was hoping I’d see you here,” he said, trying a smile but giving up when it wasn’t reciprocated.
“I’m legally obligated to be here, so here I am.” She glanced up only a moment.
“The Boston Globe called our staging ‘inventive and surprising’ and called you ‘an exhilarating Romeo,’” he said cautiously, an icebreaker.
“That’s nice,” she said flatly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing she cared. Secretly though, she tucked those words away to come back to—as she had that letter from the drama student—the validation sweet and unexpected.
“Look, I need to say...” She turned away and crouched to read the spines nearest the floor. But he knelt beside her. �
��This is not at all what I—”
With a bang, she slammed shut the book in her hands, making him jump, to her pleasure. “I’m not listening to this.” She stood again. He did too.
“But—”
“Not now. I’ll leave.” She walked away, toward the shelves beside the window. “You’re lucky I’m here at—”
“Okay, okay. No talking.” He appeared beside her again, ruffled his hair, the way he did when he was exasperated with her. Which usually made her smile. “What about a tour, then?” he asked. That golden haze of dusk filtered in, giving him a warm glow. “This is a historical landmark, you know.”
“I’m so sick of the past,” she said, almost to herself, even though she had always been curious about this place. The mansion belonged to the university, often serving as an event space, but Grayson used to rent it for the entire summer theater season, rather than staying at the small house in town that the theater owned and reserved for the artistic director.
“Unless you’d rather converse with all those lovely people?” He tugged her by the elbow, leading her out again, gesturing to the crowded foyer. “Which is probably what you should be doing.” He did have a point, unfortunately.
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Tour.”
“Great.” He set off down the corridor. “So here’s where we’re having dinner.” He opened the door to the ornate banquet room, with a long oval table set as though for kings and queens. Velvet drapes, wall tapestries, more tall, narrow windows. And in the corner: Mercutio and Sierra, deep in conversation, holding baskets of rolls. “Ever the devoted apprentices,” Nick said as they quieted.
He walked ahead, looking over his shoulder to be sure Charlie was still there. She opened a door, peering down into a pitch-black abyss. “I think I was wrong about this place. It’s actually creepy.” She opened yet another door: “Yep. That’s where the bodies are buried for sure.”
“Here’s the kitchen,” he continued, tuning her out. “There’s some way to get outside. There’s a fountain out there. But I’m not sure, how to get to it...” He shook a series of stuck doorknobs that opened into closets. “Are you enjoying this at all?”
“Is there a ballroom?” she asked.
“I’m not sure—”
“A screening room?”
“Doubt it.”
“A billiard room?”
“Yes, let’s find that—”
“What are the bedrooms like?”
“I don’t know, I guess they’re up there somewhere.” He gazed up the grand staircase, stopped in his tracks, faced her. “Is that an invitation?” He tried to be funny.
“No. It was a test,” she said, frosty. She had been hoping to trip him up.
“Shoot,” he said. “I was thinking you were letting me off the hook.” And then, understanding. “Ohhh. No. I have not seen the bedrooms. See, I passed—didn’t I? Your test?” He leaned against the banister, arms folded.
“You didn’t fail, I guess,” she sighed, winding her hair into a loose topknot. She had, of course, been subtly trying to find out whether he had visited Jasmine’s bedroom specifically, since she had rented a room for the show’s duration.
“I know you’re angry,” he whispered from behind her, standing very close.
“I am,” she said, with cold certainty. Just as she was angry that his eyes were so iridescent today and his voice so deeply graveled, as it had been in her dream of the harbor. She was angry that when she looked at him she saw their history and worse, the false promise of finding true purpose again, instead of seeing the betrayal and confusion. And she was angry that when he stood this close to her, she still had an impulse to believe whatever he told her.
“You’re allowed to be. Angry. Charlie... I didn’t want her here either. You’ve gotta believe me.”
“Why have I gotta believe you?” She drained her wineglass and left it perched in the hand of a statue of a naked woman, breaking away from him. She ducked into the first empty room she found.
“Believe me because the lake meant something, London too.” He stepped into her line of vision again, but she averted her eyes. She ran her hand along the smooth marble shelf above the fireplace, studied the black-and-white photos, surprised to see one of her mother and Grayson, arms around each other, circa sometime after Charlie’s summer there; she could tell by the length of her mom’s hair. Nick stopped to notice it too, then looked at her again. “Believe me that I want you here—” He stopped as an apprentice came in, setting up the billiard table. Nick ushered Charlie out again, hand on her back. “I want you here.” He lowered his voice, tried to slow their pace, but now they were being trailed by a pack of guests pretending to admire the art. “And not just for sixty days. And it wasn’t me, it was Taylor who brought Jasmine, unauthorized—”
“Ugghhh, I need another fucking drink for this.” Charlie darted away to the foyer, but he kept pace. “It’s never your fault, it’s never you making the decisions.” She spoke too loudly, grabbed a drink and tossed it back. “You never used to be like that. And I can tell you exactly when—”
“Listen, this isn’t the time to rehash everything.” He tried to quiet her.
“So now he doesn’t want to talk. This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I just meant that the investor,” he whispered, looking to be sure Taylor wasn’t within earshot, “the investor, who you are also right to dislike—” He tried to guide her back to the study, but they had drawn a crowd blocking the way.
“Oh, thank you,” Charlie said, as though it was a news flash.
“She brought Jasmine, before I could stop it.” He sounded vague, which she didn’t like. “I was trying to have that not happen. Despite the trouble this place is in.”
“Why can’t you just stay away from me?” Her voice too loud again, guests now watching.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Now he raised his voice to get her attention. Then quiet again, he said, “I can’t stay away from you. And I think you might feel the same way—”
“Wow,” she cut him off, offended, partly because she thought she had been a much better actress than what he was accusing her of. “Is that right?”
“But that is not what I wanted to say right now—”
“Then just tell me and then leave me alone!”
A hush fell over the house now, just the two of them and the music, everyone listening. Except Taylor, who seemed to think the party had silenced for her. “Welcome! Dinner is now being served in the banquet room!” she announced, as though nothing could be more thrilling.
Some began to clap. Charlie was unsure why until a petite older woman, clasping her husband’s arm, came over and said, “You two were brilliant, brav-o!”
Nick shook his head. “No, we’re—”
But Charlie shushed him. “Thank you, ma’am,” Charlie said with a bow to get rid of them.
“Oooh, is this going to turn into one of those murder mystery nights where you have to figure out who the killer is?” another woman said to her husband as they made their way to the dining room. “I love those!”
“Or maybe it’s one of those escape rooms where everyone is locked in and has to get out?” a gentleman, dapper in a three-piece suit, asked a similarly attired man. “This house would be sheer perfection for that.”
“This whole fucking summer is like an escape room,” Charlie said into her glass, taking a final swig.
40
WE’RE ACTUALLY A LOT ALIKE
Ethan poked his head out of the dining room, exchanging glances with Sierra, who stood across the hallway ushering people in. She fidgeted with that necklace—a shooting star pendant, the center of intense drama—and Ethan felt for her as he turned over in his mind what she’d started to tell him before Blunt and Charlie interrupted them. Apparently the necklace was Harlow’s—but Harlow had left it
in Chase’s room last night. Chase brought it with him, thinking Harlow might be at the dinner, but since she wasn’t, he gave it to Sierra to return instead. And completely ruined Sierra’s night. She still looked shattered.
Ethan wasn’t sure whether it bothered him more that Chase had unwittingly broken Sierra’s heart or that Sierra had enough of a crush on Chase to be upset by this. That afternoon at the farm had felt so comforting to Ethan, it had taken him away from the pressures of this place. Of performing, of being worthy of the part he’d been awarded, of trying to fit in.
One of the caterers summoned him now, pulling him from his thoughts and his station outside the dining room. “We need you washing dishes, stat.”
* * *
For some reason, once Charlie got outside, she wished to be back inside. Not so much at the torturous dinner now in progress, but she itched for another take of her scenes with Nick. She sat on the front steps of the mansion. She couldn’t bear going home, alone, waiting for her housemates to return with stories of what had transpired after she’d left.
If only they could’ve just had a show tonight. That made sense to her, that she could do, there she felt at ease. The hours onstage were the only hours she could be sure she was navigating her life properly, doing what she should be doing.
Fireflies sparking in the air around her, night descending—soon the fireworks would begin in the distance—she tried to place this sensation gnawing at her. It had been a long time since she had felt she was missing out on anything. You have to care about something to miss it. She walked around the side of the mansion to the wall of stones sealing the perimeter of the backyard and the iron bars of the gate. She tugged: locked, of course. It wasn’t terribly high, six feet maybe? So she slipped off her heels, tossed her stolen book through the gate and grabbed the bars, climbing up. The crosshatch pattern in the ironwork offered easy footholds, so she made it over without too much difficulty—she had always liked doing her own stunt work.
The Summer Set Page 18
