by Nancy Bush
Her surrogate’s got to be closing in on her last month.
A clutch to Kate’s heart. She could feel her face set and stretched her jaw before pinning on another smile. “Hi, Layla,” she greeted her.
Her sister-in-law had been staring into the middle distance but now focused on Kate. She’s lost weight was Kate’s first thought, which gave her a pang because that hollowed-out look looked good on her. Her second: only Layla could get away with that jumpsuit. All denim with a rhinestone belt, it was straight out of the 1980s, about as corny and tacky as could be, but ... it suited her somehow. With her hair clipped back on one side by a matching rhinestone barrette that sparkled amid the light brown strands, she looked fetching. Her eyes were huge with her weight loss.
Immediately, Kate did a mental inventory of her own appearance, glad she hadn’t come dressed down like Layla had.
“Hi, Kate,” Layla greeted her. “The painting should really be under a light.”
“Oh. Well, no one’s going to care. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“We have time before the guests arrive. I’ll figure something out,” Layla said.
Kate bristled at her proprietary tone. “I’ll take care of it,” she said curtly. She examined Layla’s ashen coloring. “Is everything okay?”
She immediately pulled in on herself. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re a little pale . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to compliment her on her weight loss. Not that she had anything to worry about herself. She’d gotten rid of the little stomach pooch. It was just that Layla looked like a model, and Kate would have dearly loved if Lyle’s sister had a wart or two, figuratively speaking . . . maybe literally, too.
“No, I’m fine. Where’s Lyle?”
“Oh, around,” she said vaguely.
Where the hell was he?
She left Layla and stepped quickly back across the expansive foyer. There was a podium just inside the massive fifteen-foot-high double doors that would lead the guests inside, where a staff member would check off names. An anteroom lay on the south side, which they’d turned into a spacious coat closet.
“Lyle?” Kate called. Her voice echoed back at her, and she shot a glance toward Layla, who was once again staring into the middle distance. Kate could have been on the moon for all the attention she gave her. “Lyle,” she said again, this time with an edge to her voice.
No answer.
She pulled back one of the double doors, intending to get some fresh air, only to find him pacing across the slate entryway. He was, unsurprisingly, on his phone. His back was to her and he was talking tersely.
“. . . told you not to call me,” he snapped. Then, “You know why!” Another pause, and then, “Not till Monday.” He then yanked the phone from his ear, and for a moment, she thought he was actually going to hurl it down the drive. Maybe things weren’t going all that well with Pat these days.
Sensing her behind him, he whipped around. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Actually, I was looking for you.”
“Well, you found me.”
“Lyle, for Pete’s sake, what’s wrong? You’ve been acting weird for days.”
He started to say something, then looked past her, back at the rambling lodge. A moment later, he asked, “Did you ever think I might have some feelings for this place? Sure, we need to sell it. But it’s hard.”
That was it? “I know you have feelings for this place.”
“I grew up here. The best times I ever had were here. We used to play in the woods. Hide and seek. Layla and Lucy never found me unless I wanted to be found.”
Kate nodded, preparing herself for one of his speeches. She’d learned that Lyle waxed rhapsodic whenever cued by the right word, one you might not even know you were providing. It was like stepping into quicksand with no way out once you started. Nevertheless, she tried. “I know all about it. The lodge is more home to you than anywhere else.”
He wasn’t to be deterred. “We spent the summers here. Made friends. We would go into Glenn River and get ice cream, watch the windsurfers on the river.”
Kate had heard this same thing said the same way half a dozen times or more, a memorized speech. She’d never questioned him, but she knew he wasn’t really feeling anything. It was all just words. And deflection.
“Who were your friends?” she interjected.
It brought him up short, managed to cut into the stream of consciousness he was relating. “What?” He gazed at her blankly.
“Your friends. You said you made friends. Who were they?”
“Oh. Just some people who lived nearby, in the woods.” He waved toward the northeast.
He’d forgotten he’d already told her about them, a family with a daughter who was odd in some way, maybe autistic, maybe just painfully shy. He’d never said. He didn’t like talking specifics about his past to Kate, only in generalities, and now he moved abruptly away from her, which she had expected, physically putting distance between them so she wouldn’t poke too close to his memory.
“Who was on the phone?” she asked a little loudly as he was almost out of earshot. A bold move on her part, because she never pried into his business . . . that he knew of.
“It was just work.”
“You’re meeting with them on Monday.”
Lyle turned to her, unable to hide the flare of surprise in his eyes. “Yes, that’s right. And while you’re eavesdropping, you want to know what the meeting’s about?”
“I sure do.” She smiled.
He blinked, unused to Kate showing him her steely side. But she was fed up with whatever deal he had going with Pat. Maybe this wasn’t it. Maybe this was something else he was keeping from her.
“We have ... several suppliers who want us to keep them on the floor. They can sell online themselves, they say, and I’m meeting with one of them Monday to try to stop their fears.”
That almost sounded like the truth. Was Lyle that good at dissembling? Maybe. Whatever the case, Kate didn’t for a minute believe he was feeling much regret over selling the lodge. That was just a convenient excuse to give his wife, who was suddenly asking too many questions.
Lyle went back inside without another word.
Kate inhaled a long breath and let it out slowly.
Sometimes ... not often, but sometimes . . . she wondered what it would be like if Abbott were gone and Lyle inherited, and then maybe something happened to him, an accident of some kind ... and she ended up with control of Crissman & Wolfe and maybe the proceeds from the lodge ... sometimes that scenario crossed her mind....
She fingered the red kerchief she’d tied around her neck as a nod to the “denim” side of the event. If that happened, she would be wise with her money, careful ... apart from a diamond necklace and maybe a pair of matching earrings, that is.
* * *
Layla pretended to be staring off into space just as long as it took for Kate to lose interest in her; then she brought her attention back to her painting with a bang. It was good, she thought. Pretty good. She wanted to gnaw at her fingernail and obsess about it, but she wouldn’t let herself go that far.
What the hell are we doing here so early? Another of Dad’s commands we all comply with.
The auction items were spread out beneath the upper gallery, where the attendees would gather to eat. She was hovering near her own painting for reasons she couldn’t quite explain. It was familiar, a part of herself. She wanted to do the same thing at galleries whenever her work was displayed, but she forced herself to stand apart. It just felt too much like begging. Come look at me! Aren’t I beautiful? Take me home! Buy me! Love me!
That wasn’t what she felt about other artists when they stood near their work at galleries and events, but she couldn’t dissociate from herself.
Crazy, she told herself. She’d been told it often enough, or overheard her father speaking in hushed terms about her. Yes, she’d been odd as a child. She’d grown to depend on Lucy, who was strong
er and mentally sturdier, though whenever Layla remarked about it, Lucy fervently denied it. “We’re different, that’s all,” Lucy always said, but it was Lucy who ended up making all the difficult decisions, and Layla was grateful she did.
However ... something had changed when Layla met Neil. Okay, maybe actually before she met him. After a lifetime of following her muse, Layla woke up one day and suddenly longed for a regular life. Nine to five. A suburban, or maybe urban, life, if the neighborhood was upscale. A husband and 2.5 children. Was that still the median number in American families? She’d heard that once, but it could be old school. A dog, or maybe a cat. A home with at least two bathrooms. A yard. Double car garage.
She’d had to shake herself back to reality. What? Hell no! She’d been happy living her strangely fulfilling life in apartments with eclectic furniture and semiworking appliances. She loved painting in a way she couldn’t describe. Lost in her art was what Ian had said to her, when they’d been so in lust at the beginning of their relationship. But after a few years with Ian she’d lost that edge and had found working at Easy Street a soothing, possibly mind-numbing, antidote to her restless artistic muse, and she’d spent more and more time at the bistro and less time at home with Ian and her easel. Even Easy Street’s parsimonious owners had become more favored than an evening with Ian and a smoke-filled bong.
And then Neil . . . A door cracking open to that other world. And he was rich. Not the first thing she looked for in a relationship, but she certainly hadn’t been opposed to being wined, dined, and wooed. Yes, wooed. That was the word. He’d set out to find a surrogate and had zeroed in on her because she was reasonably attractive and intelligent, and because she was a Crissman. She’d been swept into his world, willingly, and hadn’t cared. She’d wanted to be in love. She’d wanted the whole enchilada: love, marriage, and a family. Well, okay, she’d told him marriage was an antiquated institution and she really couldn’t see herself as someone’s wife, but that had been only partially true, a mantra she’d lived by for so many years she hadn’t been able to give it up completely.
And Neil had played along, made her believe in her own fantasy. Looking back, she was aware he’d played her like the proverbial fiddle. She’d wanted what she’d wanted—or wanted what she believed she wanted, which amounted to the same thing in the moment—and so she’d ignored every warning sign that maybe he wasn’t on the up-and-up. She’d thought he wanted the same thing. She should have recognized how he seemed to calculate everything. How he’d taken her blithe dismissal of marriage as a way to have their child and keep himself unbound to her, giving himself full custody of Eddie in the process.
She was interrupted in her musings by a young woman in black slacks and shirt setting down a plate of sandwiches near her. Oh, good. Her father hadn’t forgotten they were bound to be here for hours and getting any kind of food would require a trip off the ridge into Glenn River or an hour back the way they’d come.
The catering staff girl left, and Layla looked over the assortment of sandwiches. The top several were vegetarian: tomatoes, mushrooms, basil, and cheese. The ones beneath looked to be chicken salad with butter lettuce.
She reached a hand out, but then dropped her arm. She should eat, but she couldn’t. She was strung so tightly, she felt almost ill, and she was belted in tighter than she’d expected. Her last meetings with her lawyer hadn’t been encouraging either. He just kept telling her to sit tight and wait, and that thought chased away any appetite she might have had.
And then ... to top it all off, she’d heard from Ian about an hour earlier. She’d answered her phone tentatively when she hadn’t recognized the caller, only to find it was her exboyfriend with a new phone. “Hey, lovely lady,” he’d said in his drawl, the one she’d found so delightful in the beginning, so frustratingly slllooowww in the end. Those last few months she’d wanted to reach in and yank the words out of his mouth.
“Ian,” she’d answered.
“I was wondering what you were up to.”
She’d suddenly felt tears threaten, her nose uncomfortably stinging. She’d had to wait several long seconds to get herself under control.
“Hullo? You there?” Ian asked.
“I’ve been working at Easy Street. Painting some.” And another woman’s pregnant with my child.
“Same old, same old,” he said, sounding slightly sad.
His tone brought her up short. Ian could manipulate in his own way; not as masterfully as Neil, certainly, but he knew how to play games, too.
And she found she missed him, a little . . .
But not enough.
“I’m busy, Ian,” she said, her mind already moving past him.
“Can you spare me some time? I want to come over to talk.”
“I’m not home right now.”
“Where are you?”
“Stonehenge.”
“Stonehenge. What are you doing there?”
“Family stuff,” she said.
“You’ll be back tonight?”
“Yes. I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay. I’ll call you later.” And he’d clicked off.
She’d told herself that she didn’t want to ever see him again, but she found herself looking forward to doing just that.
Don’t let yourself believe in him, she warned herself. He’s not dependable.
She saw John walking across the large expanse of the foyer in her direction and decided she didn’t want to talk to him right then. She felt too raw and unstable. She turned and slipped around the tables of items to be auctioned, down a short hallway, and stepped outside. Green leaves glistening with perfect ovals of sparkling water from the last short downpour and the trunks of fir trees and a copse of oaks met her vision. She gulped in air as if she’d been suffocated. She remembered running through the trees, zigzagging, chasing after Lucy and being chased by their little brother, whom they’d labeled the Monster, a game she and her sister loved and caused Lyle to cry.
Maybe that’s why he wanted to sell.
Chapter Eleven
Lucy stepped out of Stonehenge’s largest suite on the second floor in her red dress and heels. The place was going to seed. The rooms smelled musty, the atmosphere close. They needed a good airing out, and she’d opened the windows for a while and just sat on a dusty bedroom chair for what felt like hours before she’d changed her clothes. However long she’d been gone, it was as long as she dared wait. Someone was sure to be looking for her soon.
She carried her now-empty garment bag and another smaller duffel that held her slacks, T-shirt, and makeup case. She was intent on finding John and the keys to the Audi to put her things in the car. Then she would be ready to play hostess to all the attendees.
Step right up, see the Crissman children dance attendance on their father. Abbott Crissman’s every wish is their command. Do you like the lodge? Guess what? It’s for sale, too!
As she whisked down the grand stairway to the lower floor, she saw Lyle and her father on the upper gallery, locked in an intense conversation. They didn’t see her as she hurried down.
You should confront them. Make them include you.
She’d learned that neither her father nor her brother liked their new offices, which gave her a small, spiteful rush of pleasure. Served them both right. They’d made all kinds of decisions without notifying her until after the fact. They’d told John about whatever plans they’d cooked up before they told her, and she sensed a whole lot of unspoken misogyny fueled their choice to leave her and Layla out of the family loop.
They could just live with their decisions.
Maybe she was just mad at men in general. She’d suffered through her share of assholes. Like a well-oiled machine, her mind again cast back to that night at the fraternity house where she’d slept with the one guy she’d thought was different. She’d willingly had sex with him. Had wanted to make love with him. Had maybe ... maybe ... even initiated it, because he really hadn’t been as interested as she was?
/> She slammed her mind shut on that one, unwilling to go that far. That choice had changed her life so drastically, she couldn’t throw blame on herself. Not completely. And she’d been castigated so much by her father for getting pregnant that she’d been forced to defend herself as if she were totally blameless, which she could admit to herself wasn’t the truth, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her father that. It was all part of the farce she’d played throughout Evie’s life. Someday she would tell Evie about her father. Someday she might even tell Evie’s father about his daughter.
Someday she might even tell John the truth about that one-night stand.
Picturing herself opening up to John left her feeling vulnerable. She shivered. Had they drifted too far apart to make that even a possibility? She saw herself trying to explain:
It was one drunken night at a fraternity party.
I knew his name, but I didn’t really know him.
He wasn’t one of the fraternity brothers. He was older.
I kind of crushed on him, and we had sex.
He seemed nice, but afterward he never called, and I realized he hadn’t asked my name and maybe didn’t care to know it. . . .
No, she couldn’t tell him any of that. She could barely tell herself that. She’d been mad at Evie’s father—and herself—for their complete recklessness, and John would never understand. He was too judgmental, though he prided himself on being fair and compassionate—total bullshit—and a part of Lucy had always sensed he would punish her for the truth.
So, no. He didn’t get to know.
Members of the catering staff and the Friends of the Columbia River Gorge had arrived and were putting the final touches to the setup. Lucy circled around a group of them and nearly ran into her husband. “I need the keys to the Audi to put my stuff in the car,” she said.
