“So I went over to the Cunninghams’,” he says.
“What?” Charlotte says, her eyes widening. “Why? What happened?”
“I didn’t mean to, exactly,” he says, shoving off his shoes with the toes of each foot. “I just found myself headed in that direction, and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of their driveway.”
“Did you go in?” Charlotte says. “Did you ring the doorbell?”
“No,” he says. “Finch was actually outside. Putting stuff in his car. Tucker was with him. It was really strange, actually.”
“Why? What did you say? What happened?”
He shakes his head like he’s still trying to figure it out. “Tucker was in his lacrosse uniform, and when Finch saw me, he walked right over, and launched into a story about the game and his son’s performance.”
“Of course,” she says, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her stomach growls and she realizes she never ate, that her dinner was a bottle of wine.
“I waved hello to Tucker. I mean, after today, I wanted to punch the kid, and he barely waved back before he slipped inside. I didn’t know what to make of it at first—” I do, Charlotte thinks, guessing what Dayna may have told her husband. “But then Finch walked closer to me and gestured back toward his car. He was putting suitcases in the car.”
“A trip?” Charlotte says. She rubs her fingers across her forehead, feeling a headache coming on.
“No,” Jason says, looking concerned. “No. He said he’s moving out.”
“Moving out?” Charlotte says. “Like out-out?”
“I guess so,” Jason says, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “He made a joke out of it.”
“A joke?” Charlotte says.
“He said Dayna found something on a company credit card receipt.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. But he was laughing, almost like it was nothing new.”
“Wow,” she says.
“He also said too bad about Birdie and Tucker.”
“What?” she says.
“Yeah,” he says. “But he didn’t elaborate. I would’ve asked him what he meant but he said it like I should know, and then all of the sudden, he was waving goodbye and slipping into his car.”
“Huh,” she says. “Well . . .” She mulls it over, weighing whether to say more. “I did get a text from Dayna today.”
“You did?” he says.
“Yeah. She, um . . . She accused me of threatening Tucker, when I saw him at Birdie’s practice. She was really angry. She said she almost called the school.”
“Threatening him?” he says, his eyes widening. “Charlotte, why would she say that? I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t threaten him,” she says, aware of the stutter in her voice. “I just . . . it was right after she skipped practice and they went to his place. I just wanted him to know that it wasn’t okay with us. That’s all.”
“And you worked it out with Dayna?” he says, a slight panic in his voice.
“Jesus, Jason. Don’t overreact,” she says. “I handled it.”
He takes a deep breath.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing,” he says. “You’re just . . .”
“I’m what, Jason? What? What am I that’s so . . . Why do you have that look on your face?”
“You’re drunk, Charlotte.”
“I’m not . . .” She rakes her fingers through her hair. “I just didn’t eat. I need to—” She hoists herself up and staggers, knocking her shin into the side of the coffee table. The pain radiates up her leg but she plays it off as best she can, stepping forward, gritting through it. “I need to get some crackers or something . . .”
A moment later, she hears Jason’s footsteps on the stairs. He doesn’t even say good night.
Fifteen
“So this is your first time in Big Sky?” Leo says, unlocking the door to Charlotte’s suite. She’s not quite sure what she would call him—he’s not exactly a bellboy, given that this is a private home, but butler seems too antiquated a term. Even house manager seems too stuffy for this gorgeous twenty-something in a plaid button-down and jeans.
“Yes, my first time,” she says. Everybody she’s encountered since she arrived on the grounds has been unnaturally beautiful, like genetically perfected robot people. Leo has the kind of olive skin she’s always coveted, piercing green eyes, and hair that hangs down just past his chin in a way that looks unintentionally stylish. He told her on the walk across the grounds that he was born and raised in Montana and never intends to live anywhere else. He’s worked at the ranch for over a year, and he loves it because it provides ample time for him to be outside, skiing and fly-fishing and whatever else Grey Browning likes to do when he’s here.
He opens the door to the suite and when she steps inside, her jaw drops. What she’d pictured during the plane ride over was something rustic and luxurious; Ralph Lauren plaid and Pendleton blankets and handsome wood furniture. The sitting room she’s now standing in is certainly that, but the ceiling is double-height, featuring a round chandelier that must be eight feet in diameter, with dozens of flickering candle lights. The far wall is actually a floor-to-ceiling window that frames a breathtaking view of the Northern Rockies. She takes in the massive, cloud-like white wraparound couch, the elegant paintings on the walls, the impeccably plush rug, the antelope-skin chairs flanking the sleek carbon-colored fireplace, where a fire is crackling invitingly.
He looks at her and laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” he says, and starts rolling her bag down the hall. She follows.
“There’s a small kitchen here,” he says, gesturing toward a room on the left, where Charlotte sees gleaming marble countertops and luminous white cabinets. A bowl overflowing with fruit sits in the center of the counter. “I assume somebody had you fill out the questionnaire?”
“Yes,” she says, remembering an email that came weeks ago with involved questions about her preferences for everything from the type of water she’d like in her suite (still? sparkling? room temp? iced?), to the kind of coffee and tea and breakfasts and snacks she enjoys.
“Good,” he says. “Then the fridge should be stocked with things to your liking, but of course you can call down to the main kitchen at any time, day or night.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” she says, laughing a little at the extravagance of it all. She’s barely going to be here for twenty-four hours.
He flips on the light to the bedroom and she can’t hide it anymore, she gasps. “This is . . .”
“I know,” he says. “Everyone has this reaction when they stay here. But, you know, Montana. And the owner. Everything’s big.” He shrugs.
“I’ll say!” she says, gawking. The bedroom is grand and decorated impeccably. There’s another massive fireplace, this one gray stone, and across from it is a carved-wood canopy bed the size of a boxing ring, set on a pedestal. She has to resist the urge to swan dive into it, the way people do in the movies.
Outside a wall of sliding doors is a patio with a settee, two lounge chairs, and a fire pit. It’s only forty degrees outside—spring in Montana, apparently—but there are gorgeous cement planters teeming with evergreens, trailing ivy, and mountain laurel.
“There’s a robe and slippers your size in the closet,” Leo says, setting her suitcase next to the door. “Please take them with you, as our gift. And the bathroom is just beyond that door,” he says, holding out his arm. “Any of the toiletries you requested should be in there. You sent your toothpaste preference?”
She laughs. “I think so, on the questionnaire.”
“We have more of everything. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks very much,” she says, looking around in a daze.
“Is there anything else I can get you at the moment?” he says.
Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her coat, and she feels a pang in her stomach, thinking of home.
“No,” she says, putting he
r hand on it. “I think this will do just fine.”
“Well, you should have just received a text with my contact information,” he tells her, starting for the door.
“Oh!” she says, pulling her phone from her pocket and seeing the 406 area code. “Isn’t that efficient?”
He smiles. “Well, you know . . .”
“Right,” she says, nodding, thinking of who invited her here. “Of course.”
“If you need anything at all, just shoot me a message. Or give me a call.”
“What I need is to never have to leave this place,” she says.
He smiles and heads for the door. “Enjoy your stay.”
After the door closes behind him, she turns a circle around the sitting room, trying to decide what to do with herself in the couple of hours until the symposium begins. She heads toward the kitchen for some water, perhaps a snack. She woke up at four o’clock this morning, an hour before her alarm was set to go off, feeling nauseous and puffy. Now she has a splitting headache, and she’s sure she’s dehydrated, from last night, and the plane, and the bloody mary she ordered during the flight after she saw a guy across the aisle drinking one, telling herself, as she poured the mini-bottle of Smirnoff into her plastic cup, that it would settle her nerves.
She wanders around the suite, wishing she had somebody to share it with. Jason and Birdie were still asleep when she left the house, and as she drove to the airport along the GW Parkway, the sunrise pink behind the Washington Monument, she felt a sinking uneasiness like she used to feel when she left Birdie at daycare when she was a baby, like she should turn around and call off the trip.
She notices a leather folder placed neatly in the center of the glass coffee table in the sitting room, and realizes her name is embossed on the front, in gold letters. She lifts the front cover and sees the agenda that was emailed to her a few days ago. She’ll speak just before cocktail hour, right after a mega-famous Hollywood actress who has become one of the most vocal proponents of CBD.
When Wendy called her three months ago, screaming into the phone that Grey Browning’s people had called requesting that she give the keynote at this year’s symposium, she thought she was going to faint. She’d read for years about the annual meeting, which brought some of the biggest names in business, politics, and entertainment together for two days of “cutting-edge idea exchange and next-level thinking.” But what really made it so exciting was Grey Browning himself, a former hippie who dressed exclusively in white linen tunics and flowy pants whose venture capital group had funded the biggest things coming out of Silicon Valley, many of them related to healthcare. His people told Wendy that he was interested in Charlotte’s thoughts on happiness and how it might translate to technology, possibly in the form of an app or a media channel. Charlotte and Wendy didn’t quite know what to make of this idea, but they surmised that the speech she would give tonight was a kind of audition.
She walks to the window and steps outside, the wind whipping her hair into her face as she takes a few photos of the view. She starts to send one of them to Birdie but stops herself, thinking it better not to appear as if she’s having a good time away from her, and Instagrams it instead with a simple caption, Northern Rocky Mountain High.
She takes the water glass back to the kitchen and opening the refrigerator to peruse the snacks, she notices a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck, her favorite champagne, chilling on the wine rack. A drink would loosen her up before her talk, she knows, but then she thinks of Jason, the night before, and how she couldn’t even look at him after she stumbled getting out of her chair. She grabs the plastic-wrapped plate of cheese and fruit instead, telling herself she can have a glass later, to celebrate after she’s done.
She sinks back onto the couch, watching the blue flames flicker in the fireplace, and picks up her phone. Only four thousandish likes for her mountain pic so far. She taps on the little red icon notifying her that she’s been tagged in other people’s posts and begins to scroll through them, her confidence for tonight building as she flips through the dozens of pictures of her book set in lovely tableaus: alongside a fresh bouquet of peonies, on a beach towel in the sand, on a pretty café table next to a perfectly crafted latte, on a picnic blanket next to a wicker basket. And then she stops, moving the phone closer to her face to examine one particular post, because she doesn’t quite believe what she’s seeing.
It’s just text, a screenshot of a message, but as she starts to read it, the room begins to shift, the words blurring as she realizes what it is.
You? Little Miss Sunshine? I’d love to see that! Did you actually threaten the kid? . . . I like this side of you! . . . Don’t believe everything you see online . . . gotta keep up the image, you know? . . . being happy is the brand. Gotta do what you gotta do. Waiting on my husband . . . No idea where he is.
She blinks, her exchange with @KGpartyof5 the night before coming back to her. What was she thinking? Her heart pulses in her chest. Don’t believe everything you see is all the woman—Charlotte realizes that she doesn’t even know her real name—has written for the caption, but she’s tagged @charlottemcganley.
She lets out a big breath, trying to settle herself, angry at herself for being such an idiot, letting herself vent to an absolute stranger, knowing in the back of her mind that it never would have happened if she hadn’t been drinking. It’s possible it will just blow over, she tells herself, tapping at the forty-three comments that have appeared so far, some of them questioning what the “threaten the kid” statement means, others saying things like “I always knew she was a fake!”
She’s going to have to fix this, but she can’t deal with it now, not here. She feels the familiar pressure again, the weight settling itself on her chest, and although she knows she shouldn’t—it’s what got her into this mess in the first place, isn’t it?—she needs to relax. It’s a big night ahead. She goes to the kitchen and gets out a glass.
The glass of champagne that she’d drunk had turned into half the bottle by the time she left her room, but it turns out to be exactly the liquid courage she needs to get through the talk. When she first steps onstage and looks out over the crowd, the faces staring back at her include not just a bunch of overpaid tech geeks but also a legendary national news anchor, a huge Hollywood director, and a former vice president who is rumored to be considering a run for the presidency. For the first time in a long time, she is standing at a podium where she feels out of her depth, like she maybe can’t just charm her way through it. After running through her usual intro, citing the studies on how behavior shapes emotion, she notices some of the faces in the crowd assessing her in a bored way, a few checking their phones. She pauses and fans through her notes, shifting her weight from side to side. She’s buzzed, but she’s going to make it work in her favor this time, like rocket fuel, muting her inhibitions. It feels like permission.
“You know,” she says, grinning out at the crowd. “Forget it. I’m going to lose these notes. The truth is, I have a bone to pick with you.” A few heads in the crowd immediately shoot up, standing to attention, like gophers popping out of their holes. “You know, there’s a lot of research out there now—more and more each day—showing that technology is making people feel more unhappy than ever. Lonelier, more insecure.” She scans the crowd and notices a guy roll his eyes a few rows back. “You’ve read it, too, right?” she asks, pausing to point directly at him. “But you don’t care, or . . .” A few murmurs pop throughout the crowd. “My students sometimes do a tech fast. It’s become quite popular, actually, among the millennial set. And without exception, they feel better afterward. Why do you think that is?” She waits for a response. “Seriously, anyone want to chime in?” The room is painfully silent, until she hears the snap of a phone camera somewhere off to the right. “You’ve seen the suicide rates, right? Among teenagers especially? Don’t you think you have something to do with that?” The news anchor, holding a pen to her chin just like Charlotte’s seen her do during her TV interviews, l
aughs and shakes her head. “All right, well, if nobody’s going to chime in, I will. Earlier today, somebody posted something horrible about me on Instagram. There were, I don’t know, maybe four hundred comments on it before I left my room? It made me feel terrible, like maybe I am a fraud and don’t have any idea what I’m talking about. Sometimes I think, Wouldn’t it be nice if we snapped our fingers and all of the phones and social media and everything just went away?” Shit. She thought a minute ago that she might—Jesus, what was she thinking?—inspire some kind of thoughtful discussion or debate, but clearly she’s gone off the rails. These people—Stanford and MIT engineers, Ivy League grads—must think she’s an idiot. She takes a breath, clears her throat, and finds the place where she’s abandoned her talk. She’ll start over. “Okay, so . . . back to happiness. A study out of UCLA showed that . . .” she begins.
“Phenomenal,” Grey Browning says, golf-clapping, his eyes sparkling behind asymmetrical glasses that remind Charlotte of something she might have seen in an eighties music video but probably cost more than her plane ticket here. “Just wonderful.”
He is standing where the sixty guests he’s invited to this year’s event are mingling for cocktail hour. It’s been just over an hour since Charlotte stepped off the stage, which provided a relief that was almost orgasmic. She completely bombed, and it is all over Grey Browning’s face. She can tell he is faking his enthusiasm. He is probably counting the seconds until he can make her disappear.
He bows slightly in front of her, his hands pressed together in prayer. “You weren’t quite what I thought you would be,” he says. “But it’s always good to be surprised, isn’t it?”
“I hope I didn’t—”
He cuts her off. “Please, come with me.” Grey leads her into the cocktail hour, down a couple of stairs into a solarium, which looks like a botanical garden in outer space. There are palms of varying massive heights, and thick cords of blooms—plumeria, bougainvillea, camellias—strung on some sort of fishing line to make it appear as if they’re floating and swaying in midair. The lighting has been adjusted to cast a golden hue over everything, and the perfume from the flowers hangs heavy in the air. Charlotte hears the faintest hint of music in the background, something that sounds vaguely tropical or tribal. It is a weird choice for Montana, she thinks, but then again, Grey Browning is a weird guy. And she knows from her research that he spends part of the year in Bali. Maybe this is a nod to that.
Perfect Happiness Page 21
